by Kat Zhang
The four figures were still about a block away, moving in bursts as police cars passed by, staying to the shadows. A relieved breath strained through our lungs.
“Yeah, I see them,” Jackson said grimly. “I see the police filing in, too.” He extracted himself from our grip, letting us rest against the car instead of him. “You guys stay here. They’ll never find us in the dark at this rate.”
And before anyone could say another word, he rushed off in the direction of Peter’s apartment.
“Jackson,” Addie hissed.
“Shh,” Lissa said suddenly. She grabbed our hand and pulled us away from the car, deeper into the shadows, Ryan hurrying to keep us from falling over. Addie bit back a cry of surprise and pain as our foot knocked against the ground.
We pressed against the wall as another police car passed, going in the direction of Peter and Emalia’s apartments. The same car as before? It parked a little ways up ahead. Two officers climbed out, bearing flashlights.
Lissa’s fingernails bit into our palm. But the police officers weren’t heading in our direction. They moved down the road, the glow of their flashlights growing dimmer in the darkness.
Ryan let out a sigh of relief.
Then, out the corner of our eye, I saw five figures hurtling toward us.
Addie waved wildly, ignoring the pain in our arm. With every step, they became a little more human, a little less shadow. Soon, we could pick out the pale moon of Kitty’s face, the curve of Jackson’s jaw. The glint of a streetlight in Henri’s eyes. The swing of Emalia’s hair. And Peter, Peter hustling them forward.
“Come on,” Ryan said as they drew up beside us. “Come on, let’s go—”
Emalia’s eyes swept over us. “Thank God,” she murmured.
“Where’s Rebecca?” Peter’s gaze locked on ours. “Where’s my sister?”
“I—I don’t know,” Addie said.
There was a flash of something in Peter’s eyes, but he shook it away. “Let’s go. We’ve got to get past the barricade. Then find a car.”
“We’re not going to get past the barricade,” Henri said quietly. “Not now.”
We set off in the darkness, ducking into the shadows whenever a police car passed. Addie and I gasped air through our mouth, our ribs aching. Our arms and ankle burned. Ryan and Jackson helped us along, but it was an uneven, jolting journey.
“Wait!” Kitty said suddenly. Peter rushed to shush her, but she twisted away from him, fumbling for the bag she wore across her chest. Her camera bag, I realized. “It’s gone,” she said. Her voice was high, panicked. “My video camera—”
“Forget about your video camera,” Jackson said.
“It’s important!” She looked desperately toward Emalia. “Tell them, Emalia—”
Emalia hesitated. “She filmed everything,” she said softly. “The police dragging people out of the building. The initial chaos. But . . .”
“But it’s not worth getting caught over,” Lissa said. She took Kitty’s shoulder and ushered her forward. “You—”
“But it’s there,” Kitty said, pointing. We could just see something glimmering on the ground under a streetlight, a block away. “I see it—it’s just—”
Kitty ripped free. Darted back in the direction we’d come. Jackson ducked from under our arm and chased after her.
“No,” Addie gasped. “No. No.”
But we couldn’t even stand without Ryan’s help, let alone run after them, and by the time the thought seemed to cross anyone else’s mind, they were too far away to easily reach. Peter swore.
Kitty was unbelievably fast, but Jackson gained on her. The darkness swallowed them, then spit them out again as they neared the streetlight.
We watched them reach the camera. Watched Kitty bend down and scoop it up. Jackson reached her a second after. Grabbed her. Shoved her back toward us—back toward the darkness. She disappeared.
I didn’t see the officer until he shouted for Jackson to stop.
Jackson did stop. The officer’s flashlight beam swung into view. The light struck him across the face.
Then Jackson ran.
But he didn’t run toward us.
The officer yelled again for him to stop, and now there were two flashlight beams and two officers and Jackson was still running, still running away from us, heading across the street.
The officers pounded after him, flashlight beams crisscrossing the ground, the air, the empty cars. Jackson was fast, but so were they.
Kitty slammed into us, gasping. Addie clutched her against our side, tried to hide her face, but Kitty wouldn’t let her.
They’re going to shoot him, I thought numbly. What if they shoot him?
What if they catch him?
Jackson had almost reached the intersection. If he managed to—
Another police car careened around the corner and screeched to a stop. Two more officers leapt out.
Jackson froze. Turned. He was more than a block away now, but I saw it like I was there beside him—the officers approaching, their skin mottled by the red-and-blue light, the first two breathing heavily, their faces red. We could feel his chest rising and falling. Feel his eyes searching for a way out. Any way out.
We felt the ground biting into our cheek when they knocked him down.
“We’ve got to go,” Peter said. We could barely hear him. We were still with Jackson on the ground, in the middle of that ring of police officers. Peter shook our shoulder. “We’ve got to go. Now. Before they start checking this street for more people.”
“No,” Addie said hoarsely. “No, we—”
“We can’t take this road anymore,” he said. “We’ll have to find another way to reach the shop.”
An officer pulled Jackson from the ground. Shoved him toward the police car. We watched just long enough to see Jackson disappear inside.
Then Peter bent down, took us from Ryan. Picked us up like we were nothing but a shattered child’s doll.
“We have to go,” he said.
FORTY-ONE
We stayed in the attic the whole night. Peter, Emalia, and Henri sat on the couches. Gingerly. Like they thought the frames might not hold their weight. Lissa sat cross-legged in the corner by the usual pile of empty soda bottles, staring at the floor. Kitty curled up against her.
Ryan sat by the window, his back against the wall, our head against his chest, his arms around our shoulders, our fingers fisted in his shirt. For a little while, Addie cried. Almost silently, but not quite.
Police cars passed outside, throwing red-and-blue lights through the curtain into the otherwise dark attic. Ryan whispered it’s all right, it’s all right in our ear, sounding almost as if he believed it.
Addie’s tears dried up, leaving a cracked riverbed of weariness in their place. She pulled herself together. Shifted out of Ryan’s arms so we were holding up our own weight. There wasn’t time, now, to fall apart.
“Are you hungry?” Addie asked when Kitty came up to us. Our voice was hoarse, but didn’t break. “They keep food up here—”
Kitty shook her head and looked away. “We ate. Emalia and me. Before they came.”
I could have, should have stopped this. I could have, should have kept her safe.
“Kitty—” Addie said.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. Her eyes were bright. But she didn’t cry. I realized we’d never se
en Kitty or Nina cry. No matter what happened. “For—for making him go back. For getting him caught.”
“Kitty,” Addie said, “it wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”
Kitty hesitated, then shrugged. She knelt and set the camcorder in our lap. It felt heavier than it should have.
“It was on,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to—but it was on.”
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
Then I did.
Our fingers shook as Addie pried the back of the camcorder open. Took out the cartridge with its bright yellow label. Ryan’s fingers closed around ours.
“I wasn’t pointing it.” Kitty’s voice grew high again. “I didn’t mean—maybe it got nothing.”
“I want it,” Addie whispered. “Ryan, let go. I want it.”
Slowly, Ryan released our hand.
We left the attic after dawn. The streets were nearly empty. Saturday. Everything’s less regulated on the weekends, Sabine had said. Her excuse for bombing on a Friday. Now the Saturday-morning stillness was a strike against us—made us more conspicuous.
But we made it to Peter’s van. We made it through the grid of streets. And finally, when the sun was high and blinding, we made it to a small house at the edge of the city, with a scraggly, unkempt lawn and a dark red door.
I was in control then. Ryan and I were the first to walk up the porch steps, so I was the one who rang the doorbell. I leaned back against Ryan, and waited. I was patient. I knew it might take a while. That walking was hard for him, sometimes.
He opened the door slowly.
“Hi, Eva,” he said.
Jaime Cortae. Thirteen. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Lover of peanut butter. Sometime angel, sometime mischief maker. Always Jaime.
I threw our arms around him.
Everyone filed in. Jaime asked for Dr. Lyanne. There was a quiet moment. I’d been hoping against hope that she would be here. That she would just appear in the foyer, like she’d appeared in the smoke back at Powatt. Like she’d appeared at our door that last night at Nornand to set us free. Dr. Lyanne had, in so many ways, always appeared when I needed her most.
She wasn’t here now.
Because of me.
Peter started making calls. Everyone else just sat around until Henri drafted Lissa to the kitchen to help him prepare some sort of meal. None of us had eaten since . . . I couldn’t even remember when.
“You all right?” Ryan said, and I nodded. We sat on the couch, curled against each other. His fingers tightened around ours. “I still can’t believe you ran into a building with a bomb in it.”
“I had thirteen minutes,” I whispered. “Sabine told me.”
“What if they didn’t believe you and kept you from leaving? What if Sabine had been lying? What if the bomb had gone off early by accident?”
“I knew it wouldn’t,” I said. “You made it.”
He laughed hollowly.
Where was Sabine now? Had she and Christoph gotten away, in the end? What about Cordelia?
“I can’t believe I let it get that far,” I said softly, our head in the crook of Ryan’s arm. I looked at Jaime, who sat at the dining table, staring at the whorls in the wood. Guilt was acid in our veins. It corroded everything. Our heart. Our lungs. Our throat.
“Don’t,” Ryan said. “Eva, don’t. If we’re going to lay blame, I’ve got a hell of a lot more of it than you. I made the thing.”
Lissa emerged from the kitchen and saw us on the couch. She hesitated, then came over and sat down. Ryan pulled her close, brought her into our circle. Her hair whispered against our cheek. “We made food,” she said quietly.
We had to rearrange the meager furniture, pulling the table to the couches, so everyone could have a seat. Henri brought in a pot of something that piped steam into the air. We all sat. All except Peter, who didn’t join us until bowls had been rustled up, soup had been served.
It was then that we heard the car pulling into the driveway.
The room froze. A picture of fear. Peter, the only one standing, was the first to move again. He gestured for everyone to head toward the bedroom, where we’d be hidden from view. Silently, we obeyed. Ryan lingered back to help me walk, but I was the last to enter the hallway.
So I heard when Peter opened the door.
I saw who was standing on the front porch, face pale, eyes weary, lips pressed in a thin line.
“I’ve snapped one of my heels,” Dr. Lyanne said, holding out the offending shoe.
Peter shook his head and laughed. The sound was so foreign, so shocking, so strange. I couldn’t imagine laughing. Now, or ever again. Dr. Lyanne’s eyes met ours. But she didn’t say anything, and neither did I.
Later, when we were all seated again, she explained how she’d gotten away in the chaos. How she’d sedated Jenson once they were almost out of the building, so he couldn’t alert security as to who she was. In the confusion, they’d believed her when she said she was one of the officials who’d come to investigate Powatt. They’d taken her to a hospital, where she checked in under a false name. Eventually, she was able to sneak away. Hide. Then come back to us.
It seemed like Dr. Lyanne always came back to us, in the end.
She told us Jenson would live. Would make a full recovery, most likely. But she didn’t know what he would tell the police when he woke. She didn’t know who, if any, real hybrids had been rounded up in the raid following the bombing. Through his phone calls, Peter had ascertained that many of the ones living in the area were safe at home, still anonymous and hidden. But there were a number who hadn’t answered the phone. Who remained unaccounted for.
Sabine, Cordelia, and Christoph were among them.
Addie and I had run out of pain medication, and after eating, Dr. Lyanne ushered us into her bedroom so she could properly check us over. I sat as she examined our ankle again, then some of our deeper cuts. There was a dark bloom of bruises across our ribs, to say nothing of our legs.
“All in all, you’re extremely lucky,” she said. “I wish I could get that ankle x-rayed, but—”
“It feels better,” I lied dully. We were both seated on her bed, a bottle of disinfectant and a box of bandages between us.
“Eva,” Dr. Lyanne said. “Look at me.” When I didn’t, she put her fingers under our chin, tilted it upward. Her voice was low, raspy. “Months ago, I watched them cut into a healthy little boy. I watched them kill one soul and permanently injure the other. I see Jaime every day and I know—I know that I had a hand in it.”
“You didn’t do it,” I said quietly. “Maybe you couldn’t have stopped them.”
Her mouth twisted. “That’s not what you said back at Nornand. Sometimes we make mistakes, Eva. Sometimes we make mistakes and they’re so terrible the word mistake doesn’t seem big enough to encompass it. But it happens. And the only way to ever make up for it is by cleaning up the mess.”
Addie and I were silent. Dr. Lyanne’s eyes never left ours.
“I think we’ve ruined everything,” I whispered.
“You haven’t,” she said. “I won’t lie—you’ve caused an impressive amount of trouble for someone who’s barely old enough to drive. But you haven’t ruined everything. You think Peter and the others didn’t have plans for something like this? Well, not this, exactly,” she said, taking in the look on our face, “but similar situations. You know how Peter likes to be prepared.”
Somehow, I managed a wan smile. It didn’t feel right to smile. But I suppose it didn’t hurt anyone, either.
“Thank you,” I said.
She shrugged and stood, gathering the disinfectant and the bandages. “For what?” But she lingered at the bedroom door. “I’m serious, Eva, Addie—both of you—forget all this I ruined everything. Focus on cleaning up your mess.”
We nodded.
“Promise me,” she said.
“Promise,” we said.
And we meant it.
Dr. Lyanne came back with a wheelchair. Jai
me didn’t need one, but it was easier, sometimes—especially on his bad days—to have one on reserve.
“I’ll see if I can get some crutches later,” she said as she helped Addie and me into the seat. “But in the meantime, keep weight off that ankle.” She shook her head. “You have no sense of self-preservation, you know that?”
Was it bravery? Or stupidity? Or both?
“I just wanted things to change,” I said, running our fingers along the wheelchair’s padded armrests.
Dr. Lyanne gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Funny. I decided to be a doctor—to specialize in hybridity, to work at Nornand, because I wanted the same thing.”
Peter, Sophie, and Henri were gathered in the living room. Dr. Lyanne went to join them. Addie and I wheeled our way to the dining table. There, Jaime and Kitty sat alone, paging through a comic book. I could hear Devon and Hally murmuring in the kitchen, but their voices were just barely audible over the sound of running water and the clink of dishes.
“Hey, Jaime,” I said. He looked up, taking in the wheelchair. He grinned. “I know, I know. I’m just borrowing it for a little while.”
He made a face. “You . . . you c-can . . . keep it.”
“Do I get to push you around?” Kitty asked.
I rolled our eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. “We’ll see. Do me a favor first. Run and get me a pencil and a sheet of paper?”
“Why?” Kitty asked. “Is Addie going to draw something?”
Kitty scrambled from her chair. In a few moments, she came back bearing a legal notepad and a pencil. She handed them to us, then leaned over our shoulder.
“Me?” Jaime said as we turned to face him.
Addie was the one who nodded. She touched the pencil point against the paper. Made the first light mark to capture Jaime’s face; his short, curly hair; his smile.
We were so absorbed, we didn’t notice Hally and Devon watching us until Hally asked, several minutes later, “Another Addie masterpiece in the making?”
Addie looked up. “I just realized I’ve never drawn him before. I—oh, Devon, don’t—Jaime, if you move, then I can’t—”