by Ellery Kane
“Good evening, sir.” Edison was so smooth.
“Where are you kids headed?”
“A hot date,” Edison answered. I grinned as I imagined him winking at Elana when he said it.
“All three of you?”
Edison chuckled. “I guess I can’t be trusted. Her big brother here is our chaperone.”
“That’s right,” Max said. His voice started a little shaky, but grew deeper and stronger as he spoke. “I’m here to keep this guy in line.”
Edison jumped in. “These days you can’t be too careful. Right, Officer? With EAMs and all … ”
“Mind if I take a look back there?” My body stiffened when the back door opened.
“Sure. Knock yourself out. Just a few supplies for our romantic afternoon picnic.”
“Romantic?” Max sounded every bit the protective brother. “You might want to rethink that word, buddy. Or you’ll be getting romantic with this.” There was a smacking sound, probably Max’s fist against his palm.
Right on cue, Elana began to cry. Her sniffling building steadily to a wail. “Officer,” she sobbed, “can’t you tell them to get along? Puh-lease.”
“Young lady, I don’t have time to get involved in domestic disputes.”
“But, but—” Elana was blubbering.
“Enjoy your date.” The back door shut, and the van lurched forward. Quiet, I waited, still uncertain if it was safe.
At Elana’s laugh, I lifted the tarp. Max was shaking his head, smiling at them as Elana eyed Edison. “So, big shot, how come we’ve never really had a romantic picnic?”
The house was waiting for us, its shuttered eyes half open, as if nothing had happened. But as we neared the door, I began to feel queasy. It hung loosely from its hinges, barely pulled to. On it was a typed notice marked United States Military. WARNING: Illegal emotion-altering medications discovered at this location. Property may be subject to seizure.
Scooter snapped a picture of the notice with his phone. “Mr. Van Sant will want to see that.” He tapped the door with his boot, and it swung open wide, rattling a little. Inside it was cold and dark and different somehow—defiled—as if all the unfamiliar hands had left more than fingerprints behind. In the kitchen, a cup of coffee sat, cold, on the table, still waiting for Carrie’s return.
“Let’s check your mom’s lab first,” Edison suggested, sending my stomach into a free fall. I couldn’t bear the thought of her things rifled through, violated, left with a tangible stain. Reluctantly, I trailed behind them.
As we entered, Elana gasped, and I braced myself. It was worse than I feared. Broken glass covered the floor. Crunching under my feet with every step were the remnants of my mother’s career—pieces of her equipment, broken beakers, papers strewn everywhere. No one spoke. They were waiting for me.
I walked to the corner of the lab, positioning a stool under the shelf. Without a word, I climbed up and balanced on its center. Only two boxes remained, neither marked Dishes.
“It’s all gone.”
“What’s gone?” Elana asked, extending her hand to me. I didn’t take it. Just stood there. From here, the damage was visible in its entirety. I was flying over the battlefield, surveying the casualties.
“All of it. The Crim-X files. Her Resilire research. Her laptop. Everything.” I reached for one of the remaining boxes. Its taped seal was already broken, a thick layer of dust disturbed by unfeeling hands.
“It’s heavy,” I warned, passing it down to Elana. She and Edison hauled it to the counter wordlessly, and I followed. With the precision of an archaeologist, I opened the box. Before thought, before feeling, the tears came. I didn’t try to stop them—you can’t hold back a river. And that’s what it was. With a current so strong, it bowled me over.
“Lex?” Elana stayed a step back, but I felt her hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”
I held it out to her. It was a picture of my mother. She had shown it to me before, a very long time ago when my dad was still around. “This was a few years before you,” she’d said. “My first day in my own lab. The one your father built for me.” She was giving that slightly irritated smile of hers to whoever was behind the camera, probably my father. It was uncanny how much she looked like me.
“Why did you print it?” I’d asked her. Most of my parents’ photos were stored on her computer.
“It was a special one.” That was all she said.
Elana took a cautious step toward the box, gingerly placing her hand on the flap, as if asking my permission. “Are there more inside?”
I nodded. “Lots more.” I wiped my cheeks with my jacket sleeve. “But I can’t look.”
“Why don’t you and Max check the house?” Edison offered. “We’ll look around in here.”
I slipped the photo inside my back pocket. “I think I’d rather go alone, if that’s okay.”
Scooter handed me a radio. “Call us if you need anything.” I headed out the door without a second glance. There are some things you don’t want to remember. Unfortunately, those are usually the things you can’t forget.
CHAPTER FORTY - FIVE :
DEATH’S FACE
I made quick work of the house, calling for Artos as I went room to room. I pretended I was a robot—a methodical, mechanical machine. It was easy to spot what was missing. Nothing. Aside from my father’s office—ransacked—most of the house was untouched. I saved my room for last.
The door was shut as I had left it. Business-like, I opened it without feeling, systematically scanning the room. The curtains were drawn. My Columbia T-shirt hung loosely over my desk chair, which was pushed all the way into my desk, the way I always kept it. My things were in order. The bed was neatly made. The bed. My eyes stopped moving and considered it more carefully. At the edge of the covers, there was a slight indentation, as if someone had been sitting there.
“Artos?” I dropped to my knees and peered underneath. Only a box of my old clothing and … I reached my hand toward it. It was a crumpled piece of paper I recognized instantly. I unfolded it anyway, eager for the message inside. My heart was human again, beating faster than I would’ve liked.
Nothing false and possible is love …
—Q (and e.e. cummings)
Quin had secreted it under my pillow last year. We read the poem together in his mother’s poetry book, having already practically memorized all the verses in mine. It must’ve been one of the notes I’d balled up in my hand nights ago. But how did it get here? I opened my bedside drawer and removed my mother’s book. I turned to the dog-eared page, letting the other slips of paper fall to the bed. Beneath her handwriting was Quin’s.
1-23-43. Another Chicago.
“Lex!” Scooter’s gruff voice barked at me from the radio. “Gotta go. We’ve got company.”
In an instant, I was on my feet and moving, sweeping the notes into the drawer and securing the book inside my jacket. I pulled back the edge of the curtain, just enough to glimpse the driveway. I expected to see a military convoy, the police, Xander, Valkov—anything but what I saw. There were two armed men approaching the front door, both of their faces covered with black bandanas. Satan’s Syndicate!
A current of fear gripped me—I was electric. Buzzing, I skirted out of the bedroom and into the hallway, just as the first of them stepped inside. I made no sound, took no breath. Still, he seemed to sense me, turning immediately in my direction.
“It’s her.” His voice was strange, possessed.
There was a flash, then an explosion—gunshots! I backtracked, fumbling with the door as a bullet lodged in the frame. He was coming. Fast. Firing his gun without pause, without aim. The cracking cut the air like a whip and seemed to come from everywhere. I lunged for the window, thrusting it open. As I hit the ground, it shattered behind me.
“Go, go, go!” From here, I could hear Scooter. He was crouched behind the Syndicate’s car—so close, but too far away for me to reach—waving Max, Elana, and Edison up the street to safety. Only
his thinning gray hair and a gun were visible over the hood as he dodged bullets coming from the direction of the lab. I crawled toward the side of the house, planning my escape route. The backyard. That was my target. From there, I could slip through the fences to the street where our cars were parked, a block away.
Suddenly, the gunfire stopped, but the silence was eerie. Remembering my own trigger-happy mania on Emovere, I wondered if the Syndicate was out of ammunition. And Scooter? I couldn’t see him anymore. I tried not to think about what I couldn’t see, like those twin-inverted pentagrams I imagined were close by. Hunting.
I picked up a shard of glass, a jagged piece of my window, and held it tight in my hand. When I reached the gate, I crouched down low and slipped in, the neighbor’s fence in sight.
Then I froze.
One of the Syndicate was on the ground a few feet from me. His body was still but broken, a gaping wound on his neck. His head twisted unnaturally, his eyes so wide. I had seen enough death to recognize its face. I turned away and pressed myself against the side of the house, listening.
The wind gusted and moaned a little, playing tricks on me as it whipped around the corner. Closer, there were my own sounds, a frenetic orchestra of breath and beat. Closer still, there was something else, so delicate it was barely discernible, like a feather settling on a stream. The soft, measured padding of boots on grass. I focused hard, until I heard only that—the crunch and rustle of each tender blade. I was being stalked.
Even though I knew it was coming, his dark hand shocked me. So strong, so quick, so intent. I stabbed at it with the glass, slicing a gash between his fingers. I winced at the way it felt to tear flesh, to draw blood, but he didn’t pull back, didn’t even cry out in pain. He kept reaching, planting his rose-red palm against my shirt, and pulling me around the side of the house.
I dug my heels into the ground and swiped at him again, cutting a deep chasm in his cheek and another in his arm. Still, he didn’t let go. Instead he reeled me toward him. As I raised my hand for another strike, he grabbed my wrist, and for an instant, we were deadlocked, the glass shard suspended between us.
His lips curled in a devil’s grin as my muscles weakened. “I’m going to enjoy this.” If his voice was a color, it would’ve been black. Black as the ash of a funeral pyre. Black as a stone set upon an unmarked grave. Onyx-black. I watched the tendons in his hand contracting, strangling, directing the glass back to me.
Under the weight of him, I fell to my knees, then onto my back. The length of my arm, roughly two feet, was all that separated us—me and him, me and Onyx, me and a razor-sharp knife of glass. My arm was already shaking, my hand bleeding from my unrelenting grip. I wriggled my legs, willing them to move, but I was pinned. Surrender seemed certain. Death, inevitable.
It wasn’t at all what I expected. I felt anesthetized, resigned. I let my mind go somewhere else. Anywhere else. And it went to Shelly. I could see her on the bedroom floor, Valkov standing over her, murdering her again and again. Fourteen times. Once would’ve been enough. She would’ve pleaded with him, knowing the first time that cold edge slipped through her how it would end. She would’ve clutched her stomach, shielding the baby inside her. It was the last thing she would’ve done before her world snapped shut, closing her somewhere no light could touch.
The glass was poised above me. I squeezed my eyes tight. I didn’t want to see it coming.
The growl was the first sign I wasn’t dead. It was low and deep. Guttural. Artos had never growled like that before, not even at Augustus. He was sprinting, charging, ears down, teeth bared—and so much sharper than I remembered. When he clamped down on the Syndicate’s upper thigh, Artos was nearly unrecognizable. Only his collar gave him away. The dark cave of his mouth opened, the edges frothed with saliva. His eyes were wild and wide.
As Artos pulled, yanking the man away from me with fierce determination, I struggled to my knees. I pushed against his arm until I was back on my feet.
“Get off!” he yelled at Artos, still gripping my wrist with one hand. He shook his leg back and forth and pounded Artos’ body with his other fist, but the teeth only went deeper. His nose scratched and bloody, Artos maintained his focus, snarling with primal conviction.
I knew I had one chance, and it was now. I opened my fingers and let the glass fall to the ground. The Syndicate watched it with excitement, with desire. He thought my chance was his. But he was wrong.
I reared back and hit him in the throat, stunning him. Paused but not stopped, he doubled over, still reaching for the glass. Artos briefly released his leg, only to take another harder bite. Before he could recover, I secured the shard and plunged it into him. I’m not sure where—I was already running.
“Artos! Let’s go!”
I kept my eyes straight ahead, kept my legs turning, all the while expecting the bullet—the blow, the sudden jerk that would end me. Halfway back to the van, I met Edison. He was hurrying toward the house, gun in hand.
“Lex! We thought you made it out before us.” He immediately reversed course, jogging alongside me. “But you weren’t here and … ” He didn’t finish the sentence, but I could hear the leftover panic in his voice. Over his shoulder, I saw Elana in the passenger seat, recognized the relief in her eyes. That was the second sign. I was still alive.
CHAPTER FORTY - SIX :
YOURS
“Where’s Scooter?” Out of breath, my voice sounded more like a gasp.
Edison pointed to the back of the van. “He’s wounded. Get in!” I slid into the backseat, making room for Artos. Next to me, Scooter laid on the tarp, clutching his shoulder. His fingers were wet and red, his face pale white.
“We have to get him to a hospital,” I said as Edison revved the engine and floored the accelerator. “Marin General is about ten minutes from here.”
Scooter was shaking his head. “Too many people. Not safe.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I’ll just wait in the van.” Even as I said it, I doubted I was safe anywhere.
“What happened back there?” Max asked, looking at the gash on my hand. He ripped his shirt at the edge and wrapped the soft cotton around my palm. I hardly felt it until now, but it was starting to burn. Artos was sitting at Max’s feet, panting. I rubbed his head, trying to soothe us both.
“Satan’s Syndicate happened,” Edison replied. He glanced at me in the rearview. “Since I’m pretty sure none of us are part of the Oaktown Boys, I’m guessing they were there for you.”
“No coincidence, I’ll bet.” Max said the words that were already blaring in my brain. I nodded, shuddering a little. Xander sent them for me.
“Artos … he just came from nowhere,” I said. “He saved me.” Leaning back against the seat, I inhaled slow and deep. Then I giggled. There was something about skirting the precipice—a near miss—that made me strangely giddy.
Edison slammed the dash with his palm, sobering me instantly, as he sped toward the hospital. “I should’ve known better,” he muttered, his voice biting with vitriol. “Finally, my dad trusts my judgment and look what happens.” Elana reached for his arm, but he shrugged her away.
“You couldn’t have known this would happen,” I said. “No one did. Your dad will understand that.” Edison shook his head, unconvinced, and drove even faster.
Elana sighed, conceding defeat for now. “Did you find anything?” she asked me. I’d almost forgotten.
“Yes.” I reached in my jacket for my mother’s book. Opening it to the dog-eared page, I passed it to her. “It’s from Quin.”
She read it silently, frowning, as Edison screeched to a stop in front of the hospital. “Help me get him inside,” he said to Max. Partitioned between them, Scooter could barely stand. He was mumbling words of protest, still insisting we take him back to the house.
After they passed through the doors, Elana turned to me, somber. “We found something too. It … ” She pursed her lips together, blocking the rest of the words before they could
escape. “ … maybe we should wait to talk about it.”
“Seriously? What is it?”
“Promise you won’t freak out.”
It seemed like a dangerous promise to make, but I was exhausted. Hardly capable of a proper freak out. “I promise.”
Elana held out her hand, a photograph pinched between her fingers. “We found it in your mom’s box, buried at the bottom.”
I took it from her and held it carefully by the edges, close to my face, already rethinking my vow. My mother looked radiant, eyes shining, the way they always did before my father left. She was wearing a white lab coat, Knightley embroidered on one side, United States Government, Crim-X Program, on the other. There was a man next to her, outfitted in military garb, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. He was the same height as my mother with a receding hairline and a thick beard. I didn’t recognize him right away, though he really hadn’t changed that much. It was the soft expression on his face, the way he regarded her adoringly that made him so alien to me. I had seen it before—Quin looked at me that way sometimes—but never on that face. It was as if there was only one star still burning in the universe, and it was her.
I lifted my eyes to Elana. She was watching me for signs of implosion, but I gave away nothing. Gently, she tapped the back of the picture, encouraging me to turn it over. There was a date in the corner—2025, Crim-X Test Group Release—and a handwritten inscription.
Congratulations, Victoria,
Your achievements continue to astound me. Though I must confess, it’s not fair for someone so smart to look so lovely.
Yours,
Jamison