Legend Trilogy Boxed Set

by Marie Lu

  When I approach the front door, I see the familiar red X is still there, although now it’s faded and chipped, and several planks of rotting wood are nailed across the door frame. I stand there for a while, running a finger along the dying paint streaks. A few minutes later, I snap out of my daze and wander around to the back of the house. Half of our fence has now collapsed, leaving the tiny yard exposed and visible to our neighbors. The back door also has planks of wood nailed across it, but they’re so rotten and crumbling that all I have to do is put a little weight on them and they come apart in a dull crackle of splinters.

  I force the door open and step inside. I remove my cap as I go, letting my hair tumble down my back. Mom had always told us to take our hats off while in the house.

  My eyes adjust to the darkness. I step quietly up a few steps and enter the back of our tiny living room. They may have boarded up the house as part of some standard protocol, but the furniture inside the house is untouched, different only in that it’s all covered in a layer of dust. My family’s few belongings are still here, in exactly the same condition as I’d last seen them. The old Elector’s portrait hangs on the room’s far wall, prominent and centered, and our little wooden dining table still has thick layers of cardboard tacked to one of its legs, still doing their job of holding the table up. One of the chairs is lying on the ground, as if someone had to get up in a hurry. That had been John, I now remember. I recall how we’d all headed into the bedroom to grab Eden, trying to get our little brother out before the plague patrols came for him.

  The bedroom. I turn my boots in the direction of our narrow bedroom door. It only takes a few steps to reach it. Yeah, everything in here is exactly the same too, maybe with a few extra cobwebs. The plant that Eden had once brought home is still sitting in the corner, although now it’s dead, its leaves and vines black and shriveled. I stand there for a moment, staring at it, and then head back into the living room. I walk once around the dining table. Finally, I sit in my old chair. It creaks like it always did.

  I lay the bundle of sea daisies carefully on the tabletop. Our lantern sits in the middle of the table, unlit and unused. Usually, the routine went like this: Mom would come home around six o’clock every day, a few hours after I’d gotten back from grade school, and John would get home around nine or ten. Mom would try to hold off on lighting the table lantern each night until John returned, and after a while Eden and I got used to looking forward to “the lantern lighting,” which always meant John had just walked through the door. And that meant we’d get to sit down to dinner.

  I don’t know why I sit here and feel the familiar old expectation that Mom is going to come out from the kitchen and light the lantern. I don’t know how I can feel a jolt of joy in my chest, thinking John is home, that dinner’s served. Stupid old habits. Still, my eyes go expectantly to the front door. My hopes rise.

  But the lantern stays unlit. John stays outside. Mom isn’t home.

  I lean my arms heavily against the table and press my palms to my eyes. “Help me,” I whisper desperately to the empty room. “I can’t do this.” I want to, I love her, but I can’t bear it. It’s been almost a year. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just move on?

  My throat chokes up. The tears come in a rush. I don’t bother to stop them, because I know it’s impossible. I sob uncontrollably—I can’t stop, I can’t catch my breath, I can’t see. I can’t see my family because they’re not here. Without them, all this furniture is nothing, the sea daisies lying on the table are meaningless, the lantern is just an old, blackened piece of junk. The images from my nightmare linger, haunting me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t push them away.

  Time heals all wounds. But not this one. Not yet.

  I DON’T STIR, BUT THROUGH MY HALF-LIDDED, SLEEPY eyes, I see Day sit up in bed beside me and bury his face in his arms. He’s breathing heavily. Seven minutes later he gets up quietly, casts one last glance in my direction, and disappears out the balcony doors. He’s as silent as ever, and if him waking up from his nightmare hadn’t roused me, he would easily have left my room without my ever knowing.

  But I do know, and this time I rise right after he leaves. I throw on some clothes, pull on my boots, and head out after him. The cool air washes over my face, and moonlight drenches the whole night in dark silver.

  Even in his deteriorating condition, he’s still fast when he wants to be. By the time I catch up with him at Union Station and follow him through the streets of downtown, my heart is pounding steadily in the way it does after a thorough workout. By now, I already know where he’s going. He’s returning to his family’s old home. I look on as he finally reaches the intersection of Watson and Figueroa, turns the corner, and heads inside a tiny, boarded-up house with a faded X still painted on its door.

  Just being back here makes me dizzy with the memory. I can’t imagine how much worse it must be for Day. Gingerly I make my way over to the boarded windows, then listen intently for him. He goes in through the back door—I hear him shuffling around inside, his footsteps subdued and muffled, and then stop in the living room. I go from window to window until I finally find one that still has a crack between two of its wooden planks. At first I can’t see him. But eventually I do.

  Day is sitting at the living room table with his head in his hands. Even though it’s too dark inside for me to make out his features, I can hear him crying. His silhouette trembles with grief, and his anguish is etched into every single crumpled, devastated muscle of his body. The sound is so foreign that it tears at my heart; I’ve seen Day cry, but I’m not used to it. I don’t know whether I ever will be. When I reach up to my face, I realize that tears are running down my cheeks too.

  I did this to him . . . and because he loves me, he can never really escape it. He’ll remember the fate of his family every time he sees me, even if he loves me, especially if he loves me.

  I FINALLY RETURN, BLEARY-EYED AND EXHAUSTED, TO JUNE’S bedroom just before dawn. She’s still there, apparently undisturbed. I don’t try to crawl back into bed beside her; instead, I collapse onto her couch and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep until the light strengthens outside.

  June’s the one who shakes me awake. “Hey,” she whispers. To my surprise, she doesn’t comment on how red or puffy my eyes must look. She doesn’t even seem shocked to wake up and find me lounging on her couch instead of in her bed. Her own eyes look heavy. “I’ve . . . informed Anden about what you decided. He says a lab team will be ready to pick you and Eden up in two hours, at your apartment.” She sounds grateful, weary, and hesitant.

  “I’ll be there,” I mutter. I can’t help staring vacantly off into space for a few seconds—nothing seems real right now, and I feel like I’m swimming in a sea of fog where emotions and images and thoughts are all out of focus. I force myself off the couch and into the bathroom. There, I unbutton my shirt and splash water on my face and chest and arms. I’m afraid to look in the mirror this time. I don’t want to see John staring back at me, with my own blindfold tight around his eyes. My hands are shaking so badly; the gash on my left palm is open again and bleeding, probably from the fact that I keep clenching that hand instinctively. Had June seen me leave? I shudder as I relive the memory of her standing there outside my mother’s home, waiting at the head of a squadron of soldiers. Then I revisit the Chancellor’s words to me, the precarious situation that June is in . . . that Tess is in, that Eden is in—that we’re all in.

  I splash water repeatedly on my face, and when that doesn’t help, I jump in the shower and drown myself with scalding hot water. But it doesn’t numb the images.

  By the time I finally emerge from the bathroom, my hair still wet and my shirt half buttoned, I’m sickly pale and trembling. June watches me quietly as she sits on the edge of her bed, sipping a pale purple tea. Even though I know it’s pointless to try hiding anything from her, I still give it a shot. “I’m ready,” I say with as genuine of a smile as I can muster. She doesn’t deserve to see this sor
t of pain on my face, and I don’t want her to think that she’s the one causing it. She’s not the one causing it, I angrily remind myself.

  But June doesn’t comment on it. She studies me with those deep dark eyes. “I just got a call from Anden,” she says, running a hand uncomfortably through her hair. “They have some new evidence that Commander Jameson’s the one responsible for passing along some military secrets to the Colonies. It sounds like she’s working for them now.”

  Underneath my tidal wave of emotions, a deep hatred wells up. If it weren’t for Commander Jameson, maybe everything would have been better between June and me—and maybe our families would still be alive. I don’t know. We’ll never know. And now she’s working for the enemy when she’s supposed to be dead. I mutter a curse under my breath. “Is there any way to know exactly where she is? Is she actually in the Republic?”

  “No one knows.” June shakes her head. “Anden says they’re trying to see if anything on her can be tracked, but she must have long changed out of her prison clothing, and her boots’ tracking chips must be gone by now. She’ll have made sure of that.” When June sees the frustration on my face, she grimaces in sympathy. Both of us, broken by the same person. “I know.” She puts her tea down and squeezes my uninjured hand.

  Violent flashbacks flicker through my memory at her touch—I wince before I can stop myself. She freezes. For a second, I see the deep hurt in her expression. I quickly cover up my mistake by kissing her, trying to lose myself in the gesture as I did last night.

  But I’ve never been the best liar, at least not around her. She takes a step away from me. “Sorry,” she whispers.

  “It’s okay,” I say in a rush, irritated with myself at dragging our old wounds back to the surface. “It’s not—”

  “Yes, it is.” June forces herself to face me. “I saw where you went last night—I saw you in there. . . .” Her voice fades away as she looks down in guilt. “I’m sorry I followed you, but I had to know. I had to see that I was the one causing all of the grief in your eyes.”

  I want to reassure her that it’s not all because of her, that I love her so desperately that I’m terrified of the feeling. But I can’t. June sees the hesitation on my face and knows it’s a confirmation of her fear. She bites her lip. “It’s my fault,” she says, as if it’s just simple logic. “And I’m not sure I will ever be able to earn your forgiveness. I shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” My hands dangle at my sides, helpless. Terrible images from our past flash through my mind again—my best attempts can’t stop them. “I don’t know how to do it.”

  June’s eyes are glossy with tears, but she manages to hold them in. Can one mistake really destroy a lifetime together? “I don’t think there’s a way,” she finally says.

  I take a step toward her. “Hey,” I whisper in her ear. “We’ll be okay.” I’m not sure if it’s true, but it seems like the best thing to say.

  June smiles, playing along, but her eyes mirror my own doubt.

  * * *

  The second day of the Colonies’ promised ceasefire.

  The last place I want to return to is the lab floor of the Los Angeles Central Hospital. It’s hard enough being there and seeing Tess contained behind glass walls, with chemicals being injected into her bloodstream. Now I’ll be back there with Eden at my side, and I’ll have to deal with seeing the same thing happen to him. As we get ready to head down to the jeep waiting in front of our temporary apartment, I kneel in front of Eden and straighten his glasses. He stares solemnly back.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I say again.

  “I know,” Eden replies. He brushes my hand impatiently away when I wipe lint off his jacket’s shoulders. “I’ll be fine. They said it wouldn’t take all day, anyway.”

  Anden couldn’t guarantee his safety; he could only promise that they would take every precaution. And coming from the mouth of the Republic—even a mouth that I’ve come to grudgingly trust—that little cracked bit of reassurance means almost nothing. I sigh. “If you change your mind at any point, you let me know, yeah?”

  “Don’t worry, Daniel,” he says, shrugging off the whole thing. “I’ll be fine. It doesn’t seem that scary. At least you get to be there.”

  “Yeah. At least I get to be there,” I echo numbly. Lucy fusses over his messy blond curls. More reminders of home, and of Mom. I shut my eyes and try to clear my thoughts. Then I reach out and tap Eden on the nose. “The sooner they start,” I say to him, “the sooner it can all be over.”

  Minutes later, a military jeep picks me up while a medic truck transports Eden separately to the Los Angeles Central Hospital.

  He can do this, I repeat to myself as I reach the fourth-floor laboratory. I’m escorted by technicians to a chamber with thick glass windows. And if he can, then I can live through it. But still, my hands are sweaty. I clench them again in an attempt to stop their endless trembling, and a stab of pain runs through my injured palm. Eden’s inside this glass chamber. His pale blond curls are messy and ruffled in spite of Lucy’s efforts, and he’s now wearing a thin red patient scrub. His feet are bare. A pair of lab technicians help him up onto a long, white bed, and one of them rolls up Eden’s sleeves to take his blood pressure. Eden winces when the cool rubber touches his arm.

  “Relax, kid,” the lab tech says, his voice muffled by the glass. “Just take a deep breath.”

  Eden murmurs a faint “okay” in response. He looks so small next to them. His feet don’t even touch the floor. They swing idly while he stares off toward the window separating us, searching for me. I clench and unclench my hands, then press them against the window.

  The fate of the entire Republic rests on the shoulders of my kid brother. If Mom, John, or Dad were here, they’d probably laugh at how ridiculous this whole thing is.

  “He’s going to be okay,” the lab tech standing next to me mutters in reassurance. He doesn’t sound very convincing. “Today’s procedures shouldn’t cause him any pain. We’re just going to take some blood samples and then give him a few medications. We’ve sent some samples to Antarctica’s lab teams for analysis too.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I snap at him. “Today’s procedures shouldn’t cause him any pain? What about tomorrow’s?”

  The lab tech holds his hands up defensively. “I’m sorry,” he stammers. “It came out wrong—I didn’t mean it like that. Your brother won’t be in any pain, I promise. Some discomfort, perhaps, from the medicine, but we’re taking every precaution we can. I, er, I hope you won’t report this negatively to our glorious Elector.”

  So, that’s what he’s worried about. That if I’m upset, I’m going to run to Anden and whine. I narrow my eyes at him. “If you don’t give me a reason to report anything bad, then I won’t.”

  The lab tech apologizes again, but I’m not paying attention to him anymore. My eyes go back to Eden. He’s asking one of the technicians something, although he’s speaking quietly enough that I can’t hear. The lab tech shakes his head at my brother. Eden swallows, looks back nervously in my direction, and then squeezes his eyes shut. One of the lab techs takes out a syringe, then carefully injects it into the vein of Eden’s arm. Eden clenches his jaw tight, but he doesn’t utter a sound. A familiar dull pain throbs at the base of my neck. I try to calm myself down. Stressing myself out and triggering one of my headaches at a time like this is not going to help Eden.

  He chose to do this, I remind myself. I swell with sudden pride. When had Eden grown up? I feel like I blinked and missed it.

  The lab tech finally removes the syringe, which is now filled with blood. They dab something on Eden’s arm, then bandage it. The second technician then drops a handful of pills into Eden’s open palm.

  “Swallow them together,” he tells my brother. Eden does as he says. “They’re a bit bitter—best to get it all over with at once.”

  Eden grimaces and gags a little, but manages to wash the pills down with some wate
r. Then he lies down on the bed. The technicians wheel him over to a cylindrical machine. I can’t remember what the machine’s called, even though they told me less than an hour ago. They slowly roll him inside it, until all I can see of Eden are the balls of his bare feet. I slowly peel my hands off the window. My skin leaves prints on the glass. A minute later, my heart twists in my chest as I hear Eden crying from inside the machine. Something about it must be painful. I clench my teeth so hard that I think my jaw might break.

  Finally, after what seems like an eternity, one of the lab techs motions for me to come inside. I immediately shove past them and enter the glass chamber to lean over Eden’s side. He’s sitting on the edge of the white bed again. When he hears me approach, he breaks into a smile.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” he says to me in a weak voice.

  I just take his hand and squeeze it in my own. “You did good,” I reply. “I’m proud of you.” And I am. I’m prouder of him than I’ve ever been of myself—I’m proud of him for standing up to me.

  One of the lab techs shows me a screen with what looks like a magnified view of Eden’s blood cells. “A good start,” he tells us. “We’ll work with this and try injecting Tess with a cure tonight. If we’re lucky, she’ll hang in there for another five or six days and give us some time to work with.” The tech’s eyes are grim, even though his words are pretty hopeful. The weird combination makes a chill run down my spine. I grip Eden’s hand tighter.

  “We don’t have a lot of time left,” Eden whispers to me when the lab techs leave us to talk in peace. “If they can’t find a cure, what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. It’s not something I really want to think about, because it leaves me feeling more helpless than I like. If we don’t find a cure, there won’t be any international military aid. If there’s no aid, then we’ll have no way to win against the Colonies. And if the Colonies overrun us . . . I recall what I saw when I was over there, and remember what the Chancellor had offered me. If you choose, we can work together. The people don’t know what’s best for them. Sometimes you just have to help them along. Isn’t that right?