“We thought we couldn’t trust the Curatoria and now—”
“And now we have no other choice. Don’t forget that the only reason we decided to put even an ounce of faith in the Curatoriates is because they have the tools you need to help you figure out the virus and whatever else is going on with you.”
I rise from his lap and fold my arms across my chest at the phrase whatever else is going on with you. The hell does that mean? My brain injury? “I do realize that and—”
“I hope so. And I hope you remember,” he says with an emphasis I definitely don’t like, “that it’s because of the Reduciata that the virus exists in the first place. If this guy is a member, then you should stay away from him.” Logan looks up at me and only now seems to sense the change in my mood. The anger brimming at the surface. “For your own safety,” he adds, quieter now, but not backing down.
“He changed his mind,” I mumble, realizing that I believe at least that much of Benson’s story. “He’s the one who told Daniel about the painting that helped us resurge.”
Logan hesitates now. “So he’s on our side?”
“Absolutely.” I don’t say that what’s more accurate is that Benson is on my side.
But Logan’s not convinced. “Then why is he a prisoner?”
“It’s complicated.”
“That’s all I get?”
I’m silent. Answer enough.
Logan sighs loudly and runs his fingers through his hair. “Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll back off. But let me just say this. Be careful.” Before I can interrupt, he adds, “I trust you. But if you go back to see him—talk to him, whatever—I hope that maybe you’ll bring me along.” He says it lightly, almost casually, but I can feel how strained his voice is. How worried he is.
At least he says he trusts me. After a long moment, I nod and give him a weak smile.
He studies me for a long time like he wishes he could read my thoughts. I’m just starting to squirm when his face relaxes. “Your hair is cute.”
I stare in horror—his words are so similar to Benson’s, and right after arguing about him? Could he have . . . I stop mid-thought, remembering that I let down only one side of my Dutch braids and that I probably look pretty funny. I self-consciously tuck the loose waves behind my ear, shuddering as I inadvertently brush against the scar.
Logan reaches his fingers up and lightly touches the crooked line across my scalp. “Why don’t you just get rid of it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you can transform things, it seems like you could just transform your scar into regular skin, right?”
I feel simultaneously excited and repulsed by the idea. “Feels like . . . cosmetic surgery.”
He shrugs. “I guess it is. But it’s hardly a bad boob job. I mean, it obviously bothers you. At least, it bothers you when other people see it, or touch it.”
I shiver at the memory of Alanna’s fingers on my scalp.
“Think of all the people you would never have to explain it to. Ever. It might help you to . . . move on, I guess.” He pauses, then adds, “There’s just no reason to keep it if it makes you unhappy.”
He’s not wrong. But it feels like closing a door on a part of my life. Not a good part, but am I ready for that?
“Come here,” Logan says, pulling me toward him as he rises from the chair. “I’ll help.” We stand in front of the mirror, and Logan sweeps my hair carefully to the side and holds it back. It’s strange to let my scar be so exposed in front of anyone else. Even Logan.
“Do you hate it?” I whisper.
“How could I hate any part of you?” He bites his bottom lip, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “It’s just that I think it reminds you of everything that went wrong in your past. Maybe without it you could turn more fully to your future. Our future.” He leans forward, and I can see him peering closely at my skin. “But the scar itself.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t care less.”
That makes up my mind. My brain may be broken. I may be more human than goddess. But no one else has to know. I draw in a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, picturing a new kind of skin. Flat, pale, filled with tiny hair follicles. I open my eyes and feel for the scar. “It’s gone,” I say to Logan.
“Like it was never there,” he replies, giving me a kiss on the side of my neck that makes the skin there tingle. Then his lips move lower, pushing my shirt away to trail along my shoulder.
I nod my head in silent agreement. But an hour later my fingers still search for my nonexistent scar.
• • •
“I forgot to ask you how things went with Daniel today,” Logan mumbles, already nearing sleep. We both worked today—me on science, him on spying—we’re both tired. We’re both trying to deal with lives that have changed so much, so fast. I lay tucked against his shoulder in the darkness, my hair flowing around my shoulders in waves from the braids I may never wear again.
“Slow,” I say. “And difficult. Science was never my forte, and I’m essentially having to catch up via CliffsNotes.”
“I know you’re going to get it,” Logan says, and I’m surprised by the intensity in his voice. “You always manage to do anything you set out to do. Even when I would tell you it was impossible—you’d find a way. I know you can do it again.”
Everything inside me melts as I realize I can borrow some of his confidence to make up for my own. I’d been so focused on what I had to do that I forgot Logan is as wrapped up in this as me. And I haven’t been making it easy for him. Especially with piling the Benson stuff on top of everything else.
I think of our argument about Benson and feel a little silly. I’m causing Logan so much stress, but in the end, he still trusts me. Still loves me. He may not be with me every moment of the day, but wherever I am I can carry his love and confidence with me. I wrap my arms around his chest and squeeze as hard as I can in a silent thank you for his never-ending belief in me.
It makes me want to be with him, to be part of him. To show him how much he means to me. In moments I want him so badly I can hardly hold back enough to not hurt him as I claim his mouth with mine. Aching, needing, taking his strength as my own.
I need him.
Need my partner.
With our flushed skin pressed together along the length of our bodies I abandon myself and wonder how I ever could have forgotten him.
This other half of me.
“I love you,” I whisper, then smile when the words ring with truth.
TWENTY-ONE
“There you are,” Daniel says after I spend ten minutes donning a hazmat suit, being doused with disinfectant, and traveling through two air-locked chambers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sliding onto the stool I made very good friends with yesterday. I neglect to tell him the reason for my tardiness: too much time spent dawdling with Logan. Okay, kissing Logan. I’ve realized that I can’t face the virus without him.
“Don’t be.”
I dismiss his words as polite niceties until he lays a gloved hand on my arm and says, “Really, Tavia. I know you’re taking the need for a vaccine as seriously as I am, and if you feel that you need an extra hour or two of sleep, I’d rather wait than miss something because you weren’t alert enough. I trust you to be the judge of your own state,” he says, then turns serenely back to his microscope.
“I had to get breakfast,” I blurt, needing some kind of excuse that doesn’t have anything to do with sleeping. I’ve committed myself to curing the virus, but I won’t let Daniel tarnish the minutes I spent drawing strength from Logan’s arms. “Daniel?” I ask, not only to change the subject but because it’s been bothering me. “Why do they keep bothering to redecorate the atrium every day?”
In the process of grabbing some breakfast—which was the truth, or at least partially—I took a few moments to check out the new decor as I a
te a warm sesame bun coated in sugar. The theme today was ancient China, and beautiful golds and reds filled the towering walls in the form of paper lanterns and dragons and butterflies. Painstakingly painted scrolls at least eight feet long hung from one wall, and enormous vases graced nearly every corner. A huge dragon’s head arched majestically over the biggest alcove.
Instead of being filled with amazement and appreciation, it all made me angry.
“It doesn’t matter what kind of fantastic world the decor of the main atrium mirrors,” I say hotly. “We still exist in the real world. The world where people are dying by the thousands. Why are we wasting our time and resources on interior decorating?”
Daniel smiles in a way that manages to be both kind and patronizing at the same time. “What do you suggest they do, Tavia? Go mop sweaty brows of doomed patients and risk catching the virus themselves? We’re all waiting for you before we can act.”
I turn my face away, hating that I should have realized that.
“And in the meantime, what does it hurt to instill a sense of normalcy and keep everyone busy? Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I mumble.
We work silently for a long time before Daniel says, “I heard you went to go see your old friend last night.”
My head shoots up. “Are you watching me?” Again I wonder if I really am free here. Even if they are letting me roam about of my own volition, is it truly freedom if they also monitor my every move?
“I watch everyone, Tavia.”
“Not me,” I say without really thinking.
“Everyone,” Daniel says, and his voice is hard for several seconds before his eyebrows arch and he smiles. “Actually, if it makes you feel better, even though I can watch anyone, it was him I was keeping an eye on last night. Your Portsmouth friend.”
My heart pounds at his words. I’ve never mentioned Benson to Daniel and hoped I wouldn’t have to. I don’t know that I really thought I could keep him a secret—he’s Daniel’s prisoner, after all—but I did hope I could at least hide our past relationship. “You know about us?”
Daniel nods. “Since we raided the prisons you were being held in. I was glad they brought him back once I realized just who he was.”
“Who is it that you think he is?” I ask, not sure why I’m suddenly on the defensive.
Daniel hesitates, studies me. “I don’t know everything,” he says, as though not sure what he should tell me. “I do know he was your friend, that he helped you find out who you are. But I also know that he’s a Reduciate.”
“Was.”
Daniel just tilts his head. “Maybe. But I’m not willing to risk the headquarters on his word.”
“He gave you the painting.”
“Not exactly. The painting was hardly in his possession, but yes, he did bring it to our awareness.”
I’m silent for a long time. There’s something bothering me about Daniel’s story, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. “You didn’t tell me,” I finally settle on. “Even when I specifically asked where the painting came from.”
“I didn’t think it was necessary. You were with Logan. That’s what you wanted.”
“What else are you hiding from me?” I don’t bother to hide the accusation in my tone.
He stands, and the stool scoots back and almost falls. “Tavia, I put my entire organization in danger to get you here. I think that what secrets I know and don’t know should be far down your priority list.”
“What do you mean?”
He slumps onto his stool, and all the steam seems to rush out of him. “We’ve had another outpost attack, closer this time. I’m afraid I may have compromised our location by bringing you directly from the Reduciata compound to here. I was in too big a hurry.” He sighs and stares at something just over my shoulder. “I should have taken you to several decoy locations to throw them off. But I needed you and quickly.”
Guilt swirls in my stomach, but I remind myself that I did not make that choice for him. Even if it’s linked to me, it’s not my fault.
I rephrase my question. “Is there anything else you know about me that I ought to know?”
He smiles wearily now. “I have forgotten and remembered so many secrets in my lifetimes, I could tell them until we were both old and gray and still there would be more. And I suppose it’s possible that some of them have to do with you.” He smiles, but there’s a heaviness in his eyes that speaks of years of exhausting leadership. I think of the weighty responsibility I feel to prevent another disaster like the one in the South Pacific and realize that Daniel feels the same way.
But for the entire world.
For lifetime after lifetime after lifetime.
And he doesn’t have a partner to help him bear it.
Of course he knows secrets—knows things I don’t know, will never know. He won’t tell me everything he knows any more than I’ll tell him everything I know. Our secrets don’t matter, nor do our pasts.
“It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him, you know. About what we’re doing here,” Daniel says after about an hour of near-silent work scrutinizing strands of RNA on the electron microscope.
I stare at Daniel, completely uncomprehending. “Of course I tell him what we’re doing. I tell him everything.”
“Not Logan. Benson.”
“Benson?”
“The Reduciate boy.”
I give an annoyed sigh and turn back to my screen.
“Seriously, Tavia. I can’t tell whether he has truly changed his loyalties or not, but while he is in our cells, he’s harmless. He won’t talk to me, he won’t talk to my interrogators, but maybe—if he knows anything at all, and he might not—he’ll talk to you.”
I start to retort that of course he doesn’t know anything, but his final words to me echo through my mind. You’re immune.
For the first time I wonder just what kind of technology they have in that cell. Does Daniel already know what Benson told me? Is this some kind of a test? Or does he really think I can get Reduciate secrets out of Benson?
And can I?
“Maybe I will,” I say softly.
“Might help you sort out everything with him too,” Daniel suggests.
I nod, and in unspoken agreement we both turn to the same box of samples we were working on yesterday.
“Oh,” Daniel adds, “and probably best not to mention it to Logan.”
TWENTY-TWO
At least he’s got a shirt on this time.
The security team, in their matching off-white outfits, looks at me funny, but they let me into Benson’s cell. They seem hesitant, but then I invoke Daniel’s name. It’s kind of magic around here. The two people who came to my room probably would have let me in without question, but I don’t see them here tonight.
I take just a few seconds to watch Benson unawares as they unlock the heavy door. Watching him through the glass gives me that same guilty feeling as eavesdropping, but I can’t help it. This is him. No masks or disguises, no lies or half truths. Not trying to impress me or give me careful smiles. Just Benson, bored to tears, in a Curatoria prison.
He turns as though he can feel my eyes on him, and I look away—even though he can’t see me. Our table is still there. Not that it matters, exactly. But it makes everything feel like the past. When things were still good.
I wonder why they let him keep it. He could use it for . . . I don’t know, something. But then, he’s human. I believe the words the woman used when she came to my room were “very containable.”
And what chance does a human have against a team of Earthbound security guards, really?
The woman finally gets the door unlocked, and I walk in. I want to look confident, assured.
Unaffected.
But acting isn’t one of my better skills. All I can hope is that I don’t look as terrified as I feel. r />
I’ve been sent.
And I came alone.
Truth is, I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’m not Daniel’s errand girl to be ordered out to fetch information. And after last night . . . well, let’s just say that even as the door opens I almost pivot and run back to Logan.
Maybe I should. He was wonderful last night. And he did ask nicely for me to bring him along next time. Once he got done blowing off steam.
But Daniel said . . .
I shake the doubts from my head. I’m here now—there’s really no backing out.
I stand silently as I hear the bolt click behind me. Locking me in. The lock is for Benson’s sake, not mine, but that doesn’t help mitigate the sense that I’m also a prisoner.
We stand silent, avoiding each other’s eyes for at least two minutes. The longest two minutes I’ve ever known. Finally, I raise my chin. “Let’s be clear: I believe your story, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Hello, Tave. It’s nice to see you too,” Benson grumbles, walking forward and slouching into a chair.
I run my fingers through my hair nervously.
“Wait.” Benson stands back up, and I put my hands out in front of me as he gets closer.
He stops at my gesture. “What happened to your scar?”
I should have known he would notice. “I got rid of it.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “There was no reason to keep it. It made me unhappy,” I add, parroting Logan’s words.
“Did he tell you you should?”
“Does it matter?”
“So you got rid of it because he disliked it?”
“No!” I protest, almost at a yell. “He didn’t care.”
“It’s part of who you are, Tavia. He wants you like you once were—whole and perfect—not the real person you are now.”
I point a finger at him, and I’m so angry it shakes. In my mind I see an image of Logan from last night, as he told me he trusts me, that he could never hate any part of me. That he believes in me. Why am I here? “You have no idea what he’s like,” I almost spit at Benson. He backs up several steps, looking defeated.