by Trisha Leigh
Flicker represents the larger question of why. Why they are doing this to her, why they used her to lure us here, what exactly they are going to ask us to do—but if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that no one does favors and asks for nothing in return. I didn’t need my so-called friend-turned-CIA-spy Dane Lee to tell me that, even though he did, repeatedly.
The Olders definitely want something. But what?
“See you later,” I whisper to Flicker.
I heave a sigh, then peer through a crack in the door to make sure no one is in the dark hallway before I slip out and down the steps, emerging from the stairwell near the cafeteria in the musty old basement. The church and grounds were built in the mid-seventeenth century and have been crumbling to dust for almost as long. All of the windows and at least a quarter of the exterior face are gone, and the Olders can’t exactly fix it up since their cover is that it’s abandoned. There’s a dimly lit, barely working bathroom that a well-meaning preservation company installed when they tried to get historic property status for Saint Stephen’s, and I duck inside to put my game face on—one that promises the Olders we don’t know they’re shady, and that we’re still blissfully unaware the real Flicker is upstairs.
I’ve managed a few deep breaths under the shuddering fluorescent lights when Pollyanna bangs out of a stall, scaring the bejesus out of me. Her sharp eyes find my blue ones in the mirror, and she watches me for a second while she washes her hands.
Irritation curls my fingernails into my palms, but I can’t be sure if she’s using her emotive talent on me or not since I’m always a little bristly after leaving the lab, after another frustratingly one-sided conversation with Flicker.
But I can usually tell when Polly’s forcing me to feel one way or another. She’s not big on hiding things like how skilled she is at controlling her mutation, so I figure this time my irritation is due to her general presence, not because she’s inside my head.
“What are you staring at?” Polly’s reflection snaps at me. Her long blond ringlets combine with her wide blue eyes and button nose to make her appear sweet, innocent even, but the wrapping is a big fat lie.
No matter how much I love Pollyanna, I’ve never really liked her.
“When was the last time you washed your hair?” Pollyanna’s pretty enough that she’s never had to take too much care with her appearance, but since we’ve been at Saint Stephen’s she’s taken it to the extreme. If I wanted to get all psychological on her, I’d suggest it’s the only thing she feels as though she can control.
“Who am I trying to impress, you? Not happening.”
I roll my eyes and walk into a stall, figuring I might as well take care of business while I’m here. The water turns off before my toilet flushes, and my fellow Cavy is leaning against the chipped porcelain sink when I emerge, her arms crossed over the college logo on her chest. It’s a strange thought, Polly somewhere as normal as college, even though she’s smart enough to do something like that.
We’re all smart. The government engineered us that way.
“Gypsy, I swear your bladder would be more at home in a mouse.”
I snort. “Maybe. Could you recommend a good physician?”
That makes her smile. We’ve hardly known anyone but doctors our whole lives.
Polly waits until I soap up my hands and turn on the water, then leans in close and pretends to pick at a nonexistent pimple on her chin. “Any change?”
“No. I can’t get close enough to get a good read, either.” Is Flicker dead? Alive? Going to die? I’m the one with the ability to give us at least a clue, but without being able to touch her, I haven’t been able to help at all.
As usual.
At least she doesn’t call me out on being useless. The old Pollyanna, the one confident in her abilities and her place in our little Cavy hierarchy, never missed a chance to criticize me. Her empath mutation is considered Substantial. It’s not a Lethal categorization—the Holy Grail as far as the Philosopher and the other doctors at Darley were concerned—but not even in the same embarrassing realm as my Inconsequential.
Polly breathes out, her eyes locking on mine in the mirror, full of questions without answers. We may not know everything about the older generations of Cavies, but we do know they’re liars.
Kidnapping, drugging liars.
The bathroom door swings open again before either of us says anything else, and a girl with corn silk hair, dark brown eyes, copper freckles, and a slender, pale frame pokes her head inside. She looks exactly like the girl I left suspended in goo and attached to all those wires four floors up.
Fake Flicker.
We don’t know which of the Olders is the shape-shifter because she or he is so wicked fast we can’t figure it out. During the confrontation in the warehouse when the Olders got ahold of us, whoever it is impersonated both Dane and Flicker without anyone catching on.
“You girls are about to be late for lunch, you know.”
Pollyanna strides out of the bathroom without responding. Fake Flicker raises her transparent eyebrows at me, and I give her a tight smile, squeezing past her and out into the cafeteria. Even though our Flicker started disappearing around the time we were ten, I remember her as fun-loving. Quick to laugh. Not a rule follower.
But the impersonator has no way of knowing any of that.
Cavies, old and new, are gathered around tables throughout the room, plates loaded with grilled chicken and leafy green salad. I get in line behind Chameleon, the Older who freaks me out the most. Maybe it’s because of the way he can completely blend in to the world around him, or maybe it’s because he’s kind of the unofficial leader of the Olders, which means he definitely knows what’s going on in the lab. Either way, he’s too involved in his conversation with Goose to pay me much notice at the moment, thank goodness.
I watch my friends, my Cavies, while I pile lettuce and vegetables next to my chicken, then absentmindedly douse it all in Italian dressing. Pollyanna’s still in line, along with Goose, but the rest of them sit around one of the Formica tables, faces blank as they pick at their food.
Haint looks angry, stabbing at a limp chunk of salad too forcefully, glaring when it sloughs off before she can get it into her mouth. She’s started to care less about her appearance, too, her black hair in unkempt snarls and a permanent sheen to her coffee-bean skin. Athena has already wolfed down his entire plateful and stares mournfully at his empty dish, picking at tufts of red eyebrows. His despondency could be because of the “no second helpings before everyone’s had a first helping” rule and not our current predicament, but who knows.
Geoff—who prefers we not use the nickname Vegetable because it’s just too cruel now that he’s kicked that pesky lifetime coma—takes small bites of grilled chicken, eating them plain. There’s more shine to his mouse-brown hair, more pink in his pale cheeks, every day. The simple fact that he’s sitting upright still amazes me. He smashed himself in the head as an infant, before our Darley Hall caretakers even knew about his telekinetic abilities, and he hadn’t functioned on his own basically our whole lives. The Olders and the serum they inject us with daily did what the Philosopher couldn’t accomplish in more than a decade of trying, and I know Geoff’s grateful to them. It’s hard to blame him for being content and happy for the first time in his life, even with the rest of us wondering if the Olders are bad news.
I look around the table at each face. We’re missing a couple others besides Flicker, and my chest aches from the loss. Prism has never been stable enough to be with us in any sense of the word, but like Flicker, she’s still one of us and her absence is palpable. Her ability is the opposite of Pollyanna’s, which means she feels everything the people around her are feeling, often in a deluge she’s never been able to control. She’s in some kind of mental facility in Charleston.
And now—or any time, really—isn’t the time to think about Reaper and her recent betrayal, but it’s hard not to. Just like it’s hard to believe she sided with the CI
A when they tried to bring us all in by force or that she chose to work for them, to leave us. Her family.
Mole’s blind, pea-green eyes find me across the room as if he can read my thoughts and knows I’m nearing a meltdown. He waves me over. I smile automatically, even though he can’t see it, and his lips play with a tiny smirk of their own. The sight of his familiar face, his sandy hair, and broad shoulders, forces a deep calm through me. My hands, which I hadn’t realized had taken to trembling, relax their grip on my plate as I cross the room and slide into the chair next to him.
Our knees touch under the table, and my heart slows down for the first time since Fake Flicker popped into the restroom.
“Hey. Any trouble?” he asks.
I shake my head, glancing around to see if we can be overheard, but none of the Olders are close by. Despite the fact that they went to plenty of trouble to get us to Saint Stephen’s, none of them actually seem to want us here. They don’t go out of their way to talk to us or get to know us or generally make us feel better about the whole situation.
“No. You? Anything strange at mutation practice?”
He grimaces. Mole can incinerate pretty much anything with a simple glance. That’s what makes him a Lethal, and Reaper’s ability to manipulate blood—even while still in a person’s veins—plants her squarely in that category, as well. Haint, Flicker, and Goose are considered Operational, since their gifts are useful but not deadly, while Athena joins Pollyanna in the ranks of Substantial. I’m not sure what Geoff is anymore, since he and Prism were classified as Unstable all these years. Regardless of what they call us or what we were raised to believe we’re able to do, the Olders insist we work on exerting more control over our varied talents.
The green tinge to Mole’s skin suggests that I don’t want to know what’s been set on fire lately. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
There’s not much we can talk about in a room that includes over a dozen Olders, which is why we’ve been meeting in secret every other night.
We’re meeting tonight, but not until late. Which is why, even though I know where my priorities lie, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I’m going to Charleston.
Read more!
Also By TRISHA LEIGH
THE LAST YEAR
Whispers in Autumn
Winter Omens
Betrayals in Spring
Summer Ruins
THE CAVY FILES
Gypsy
Alliance
Buried
THE HISTORIANS
Return Once More
Adult titles written as LYLA PAYNE
WHITMAN UNIVERSITY
Broken at Love
By Referral Only
Be My Downfall
Staying On Top
Living the Dream
Going for Broke (published in Fifty First Times: A New Adult Anthology)
LOWCOUNTRY MYSTERIES
Not Quite Dead
Not Quite Cold
Not Quite True
Quite Curious
Not Quite Gone
Not Quite Clear
Quite Precarious
Not Quite Right (April 26th, 2016)
Mistletoe & Mr. Right
Sleigh Bells & Second Chances
SECRETS DON’T MAKE FRIENDS
Secrets Don’t Make Friends
Secrets Don’t Make Survivors (March 15th, 2016)
Acknowledgements
It’s been over a year since my last young adult novel, and wow, how many things have changed! What hasn’t changed is how many people it takes to make these books come out as well and professional as they do, though, which means I’ve got people to thank!
First, my developmental and line editor, and friend, Danielle Poiesz. You and I have worked on so many projects together now, but I continue to be amazed and energized by both your insight and your delivery. I hope we work on many more projects to come, because I can’t imagine doing this without you. Thanks to Lauren Hougen, who does wonderful work and keeps me on my toes with her smart and cheeky copyediting. Mary Ziegenhorn (hi, mom!) is a fantastic proofer with an eagle eye for mistakes that comes in handy in this particular situation.
Nathalia Suellen makes the prettiest covers in the business, and working with her continues to be a delight. Eisley Jacobs handles my graphic and website design, which means fielding lots of annoying questions and requests, all with a smiley face and a laugh. I appreciate you.
My early readers, whose opinions and friendship are priceless—Amalia Dillon, Leigh Ann Kopans, and Julia Swank—I am, as always, in your debt. Denise Grover Swank is my friend and critique partner, and a hundred things in between that are irreplaceable.
My family is, as always, the best thing about me. Even when they do nothing to further a book, they do everything. Because I am the person capable of writing a story because of them.
Last, but not least, to my boyfriend Paul who puts up with me with more patience and love than I deserve.
About the Author
Trisha Leigh is a product of the Midwest, which means it's pop, not soda, garage sales, not tag sales, and you guys as opposed to y'all. Most of the time. She's been writing seriously for five years now, and has published 4 young adult novels and 4 new adult novels (under her pen name Lyla Payne). Her favorite things, in no particular order, include: reading, Game of Thrones, Hershey's kisses, reading, her dogs (Yoda and Jilly), summer, movies, reading, Jude Law, coffee, and rewatching WB series from the 90's-00's.
Her family is made up of farmers and/or almost rock stars from Iowa, people who numerous, loud, full of love, and the kind of people that make the world better. Trisha tries her best to honor them, and the lessons they've taught, through characters and stories--made up, of course, but true enough in their way.
Trisha is the author of THE LAST YEAR series, THE CAVY FILES, the WHITMAN UNIVERSITY books and the LOWCOUNTRY GHOST stories. She's represented by Kathleen Rushall at Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
To learn more about Trisha Leigh, please visit her at http://www.trishaleigh.com and sign up for her newsletter for access to news and exclusive content.
If you enjoy New Adult books or a good contemporary romance, please check out her pen name, Lyla Payne, at http://www.lylapayne.com.