The Hunt

  “You don’t have to look so smug,” she grumbled as I set the kit down and washed my hands.

  “Are you kidding? I think that’s the only argument I’ve ever won with you. I’m going to put it on my college applications in the Special Accomplishments section,” I said.

  “Funny,” she said. “Besides, you didn’t win. I quit. There’s a difference.”

  “Uh-huh. Whatever lets you sleep at night.” I dried my hands on one of the threadbare white towels on the counter.

  “How are you with blood?” she challenged, unzipping her jacket and shrugging it off her shoulders.

  “I play lacrosse. I think I’ll be fine,” I said dryly. “Plus, my dad comes from the school of ‘rub a little dirt on it and get back out there,’ so I’m not going to faint on you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  That, for some reason, seemed to convince her, though she didn’t seem happy about it. “Deliberately rubbing dirt in a wound seems foolish.”

  “It’s a saying. A sports thing,” I amended, since people did more than say it. They actually did it.

  She raised her eyebrows and shook her head, dismissing it, no doubt, as one of the many things we did that made no sense.

  Gingerly, she pulled her arm out of the jacket sleeve, and though I’d been expecting signs of injury, this was far worse than I’d imagined. Her shredded left sleeve was plastered to her skin with dried and drying blood.

  I inhaled sharply. “Shit, Ariane.” I knelt in front of her for a better look, the uneven floor tiles digging into my knees.

  The tattered fabric had adhered to the entire underside of her arm, wrist to elbow. I couldn’t even tell where her injury was. But I knew there’d be no pulling her sleeve up without breaking open the wound that had caused all this bleeding.

  “Are you, uh, wearing something under that?” I gestured awkwardly to her shirt.

  “Are you trying to talk me out of my clothes?” she asked, her jaw tight and her gaze fixed solidly at a point over my head.

  “No! I just…” I paused, looking at her tense expression and the way she was very deliberately avoiding looking down at her arm. “Do you have a problem with blood?” I asked, amazed.

  “In this quantity? Just my own,” she said in that cool, detached tone that reminded me, of course, she likely wouldn’t have a problem with anyone else’s blood. She’d been trained to—

  I pushed that thought away before I could finish it. “The problem is, I don’t want to make it worse by just yanking your sleeve up.”

  She flinched.

  “So I want to try to wet it and then peel it away from your arm. But I think that would be easier from the other direction. Like this.” I mimed the action of pulling my shirt over my head and down my arm.

  She nodded reluctantly, her tangled hair sliding in front of her pale face.

  “But if you’re not wearing—”

  “It’s fine.” She wiggled her right arm into the inside of her shirt and hitched that side up to her shoulder.

  Realizing belatedly that I probably didn’t need to be six inches away for this part of the process, I stood and turned my back. I could give her some privacy, at least.

  I grabbed a couple of the small towels from the counter and soaked them in warm water, working very hard to concentrate on that, blocking my worst impulses that were urging me to watch her undress in the mirror.

  “Okay,” she said a few moments later, and I faced her.

  Her injured arm was carefully balanced on her leg, her discarded shirt piled on top of it. A white sports bra covered her breasts. Her hair was more tangled and mussed than before, and her shoulders were curved inward, her free arm wrapped around her waist protectively.

  The tattoo on her right shoulder—I had been right about that all along, though also very, very wrong—was just visible.

  I’d seen cheerleaders wearing little more than what she had on. But somehow it mattered more now that it was Ariane wearing it. I snagged one of the bath towels from the rack above her head and draped it over her shoulders.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah.”

  I cracked open the first-aid kit and pulled out antibacterial cream, packages of gauze bandages, and tape.

  “Gloves,” she said sharply.

  I froze. “Is that necessary?” Even with the evidence right in front of me, I kept forgetting that she was more—and less—than just the girl who’d sat in front of me in Algebra II last year.

  “I don’t know. They always wore gloves in the lab.” She lifted her chin, meeting my eyes defiantly. She was going to fight me on this, I could tell.

  So I dug out the gloves and put them on before grabbing one of the wet towels from the sink and kneeling in front of her once again.

  Slowly, inch by painstaking inch, I soaked the fabric and gently pulled it away from her skin.

  She held very still, preternaturally silent. I didn’t want to think about what had happened in her early life at the lab to teach her that kind of stoicism.

  Several angry slashes and ugly bruises decorated her wrist at intervals, but the worst was a thick gash across the meat of her arm, just up from her elbow. Her jacket should have protected her, but it was about ten sizes too big and had obviously fallen down or been pulled away by stray branches. “I really think you should have stitches, Ari,” I said, carefully tilting her arm toward the light.

  “And somehow I think going to a hospital right now would be more dangerous,” she said, sounding slightly strained.

  “They can’t have someone at every hospital and urgent care clinic,” I pointed out.

  She shook her head. “It’s not worth the risk. Just patch me up. I’ll be fine.”

  I disagreed, but short of bodily removing her from the room, which I doubted she’d allow, there wasn’t much I could do. I wiped away as much of the blood as I could, smeared the antibacterial cream on gauze pads, and applied them carefully, taping the edges to keep them in place.

  “It’ll heal fast,” she said softly. “I promise. I’ll be better before you are.” She reached out and touched my face, her fingertip lightly tracing my stitches from the other night. “Not such a pretty boy anymore.” She gave me a sad but teasing smile.

  I started to protest that that label had never applied to me, but then her thumb brushed the corner of my mouth and the air went electric. I turned my cheek into her caress, pursuing it. And when I pressed a kiss against the center of her palm, she caught her breath.

  Her eyes were dark behind the blue-tinted lenses and seemed to be growing darker. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, and she bit her lip.

  I swallowed a groan, and with my heart pounding too hard, I leaned in.

  But then she dropped her hand and turned away.

  Confused, I pulled back. “What’s—”

  “I should…I want to shower. Get the GTX off of me,” she said with a forced smile, not quite looking at me.

  My face flushed. “Sure, yeah, okay.” I stood up hastily. “Sorry.” I peeled off the gloves and tossed them in the garbage can beneath the sink.

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” she said, pulling the towel tighter around her shoulders.

  Except, clearly, there was. I backed out of the room, tugging the door shut after me.

  Had I pushed too far? I didn’t think so. She’d been right there with me up until the end, when she’d withdrawn.

  I shook my head, and walked the few short steps to the bed and flopped down on my back.

  It would make perfect sense that she would want to clean up, after GTX, after the woods, after the Dumpster.

  I made a face. I probably didn’t smell so great either.

  But it was more than that. I was missing something; I could feel it. I just didn’t know what it was.

  That was maybe the most frustrating thing about all of this. Ariane could hear what I was thinking at any time, if she wanted to. But I was stuck trying to puzzle her out with only the barest clues. I’d thought I’d
had her figured out before, and I just kept discovering new facets and shadowed corners, previously hidden to me.

  Though, honestly, if pushed, I’d have to admit that I actually kind of liked it, moments of complete and utter bewilderment aside.

  Or maybe it was just that I really liked her, enigmas and all.

  THE SHOWER HAD GONE COLD a few minutes earlier, but I couldn’t convince myself to move. Hunched at the far end of the tub, with the spray hitting between my shoulder blades, I had my injured arm stuck out from behind the curtain to keep the bandages dry.

  I should have been crying. Sobbing, even. But instead, my eyes were burning dry. I felt numb, empty. As if a protective shell had formed over all my wounded feelings and now there was nothing.

  I wanted to be relieved, but I knew it was only temporary. Eventually, days from now or maybe just hours, that shell would break and everything would flood in, throbbing and angry, inescapable.

  Zane wanted to kiss me. I closed my eyes. Oh God, even after everything, even after what he’d learned, he still wanted me. Me. The freak made in a lab. The science experiment. The nonhuman. Or, the not-completely-human, anyway.

  But none of that seemed to matter to him.

  I opened my eyes and looked at my arm, his careful work on my wounds, the straight lines of the white tape against the indistinct edges of the dark bruises.

  He was protecting me, taking care of me the best way he knew how. And I was endangering him. Every second I stayed with him brought him closer to death.

  And yet protecting him in return would mean leaving him, the only person I had left in my world.

  I felt the first crack in the shell.

  I stared up at the black-mold-speckled ceiling, shouting in my head at the supposedly benevolent force that controlled the universe. How am I supposed to do this? Why do I have to? How is this fair? I hadn’t done anything to deserve this—nothing except survive in the twisted and messed-up world that had created me.

  And maybe that right there was proof that the supposedly benevolent force didn’t exist at all. I was on my own, truly alone for the first time in my life. Yet somehow it was not the blissful freedom I’d always imagined.

  My teeth were clacking together now in a steady but uneven rhythm. I had to move, get out of the shower at least. Eventually, Zane would come knocking, wondering if I was okay. Not to mention there was also the distinct possibility of hypothermia if I kept this up for too much longer.

  I knew what I was doing—hiding. In here, I could hold on to the illusion that the world had stopped, that I could avoid making decisions.

  But it was just an illusion. While I shivered in here, Dr. Jacobs had teams out there looking for us. And once Laughlin and St. John heard about my escape, there would be three times as many people looking for us, if there weren’t already.

  I had a mental image of black vans pulling silently into the motel parking lot, vomiting out retrieval teams, while I sat in the bathroom, too focused on my feelings to hear them approach.

  That was enough to motivate me to get out of the tub and shut the water off.

  Shaking with the cold, I wrapped one of the thin bath towels around myself, struggling a little with securing it, thanks to my injuries.

  Zane had been right; it would have been tough to bandage my own arm. I could have done it, but not nearly as easily or well as he had.

  I opened the bathroom door. “Sorry it took me so long,” I said, my throat dry and tight. “I just—”

  I stopped short at the sight of a pile of clothes, neatly folded, at my feet.

  Zane. He’d pulled them out of the bag for me so I wouldn’t have to cross the room in a towel and dig through the bag for them.

  Taking care of me again.

  Looking to the left, I noticed something else. A ragged but thick phone book wedged under the room door. It wouldn’t keep someone out forever, but maybe long enough for us to get away through the window, assuming we could manage the drop to the ground.

  Smart. I wasn’t sure where Zane had learned that trick. Maybe something he’d discovered to keep his brother out of his room? It hadn’t been a technique that I’d been taught, but it would be effective.

  He wanted me to feel safe.

  My lower lip started to shake, despite my best efforts. The initial fracture in my shell spiderwebbed out, weakening the entire structure.

  I stepped out into the room, to find him and say thank you. If I could speak without breaking into tears, that is.

  But Zane was asleep on the bed, his breathing slow and even. His feet would have hung off the end, so he’d curled up on his side, facing me. His hands were tucked under his arms, as if for warmth. He’d taken off his shoes, one white-socked foot resting on top of the other. The cuts and remaining smudges of dirt on his face showed up even more clearly against the white of the pillowcase.

  He seemed so much smaller. So vulnerable.

  So human.

  The sight of him like that hit like a punch, and the protective shell around my heart shattered, breaking my heart along with it.

  Tears welled hot and fast, pouring down my cheeks and dripping off my chin. I wanted to crawl in behind him and curl up as tightly as possible, like maybe if I could get close enough we’d disappear into each other and the rest of the world would just fall away.

  The ache in my chest radiated outward, taking over my whole body. But I made myself scoop up the clothes from the floor and retreat into the bathroom.

  I scrubbed my hand over my face, pushing away the tears even as they kept flowing. How could I live with myself if something happened to Zane because of me? Because I’d been too selfish and kept him with me? Because I’d stayed when I should have gotten as far away from him as possible?

  I already knew the answer to those questions: I couldn’t. It would kill some part of me if he were hurt, or worse, because of my choices.

  Which meant only one thing—I couldn’t stay.

  Something inside me wailed at the idea, but that didn’t change the facts.

  It’s safer for him without you. And you’ll be able to move faster on your own, said the cool, logical inner voice. My alien heritage speaking.

  I hated that part of myself more than ever right then. But I couldn’t deny the truth it espoused. I might have been willing to take on more risk for myself, but not for Zane.

  Besides, what were mere feelings compared to his living or dying?

  Everything! My emotional—human?—side insisted. They make life worth living; they give you something to fight for. And it’s not your choice; it’s his.

  But that voice.…It sounded too good to be true. I couldn’t trust it.

  With trembling hands, I pulled on my clothes—a plain, long-sleeved T-shirt and nondescript jeans that I hadn’t noticed missing from the dozens just like them in my room—before bending down on wobbly legs to put on my shoes, a blue pair of imitation Chucks that I thought my father had thrown away months ago for being “too ratty-looking.” He’d been relentless about anything that might draw attention to me. All part of an act, it turned out.

  And yet seeing those shoes, being reminded of my old life and the lies, brought on a sharp stab of longing. Made me wish I could somehow step back into the last moment I’d worn them, before all of this had happened, when everything was still a possibility. When I’d still have a chance to make this end differently.

  But I couldn’t.

  So, I had to go. Now. Before they caught up with us. Before Zane woke up and my resolve faltered. Before I threw caution to the wind and did what I wanted instead of what I knew was right.

  I WOKE ABRUPTLY, WITH A startled jump into alertness. Like I’d been dreaming about falling off a cliff and something snapped me out of it right before I hit the ground.

  It took me a second to orient myself, to remember that I wasn’t in my room at home. I hadn’t intended to fall asleep. I’d just kicked off my shoes and closed my eyes to wait for Ariane.

  Ariane.
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  I sat up. Light slanted out of the partially closed bathroom door, and though the shower was now off, the smell of it—a flowery, soapy humidity—still filled the room.

  So I hadn’t been asleep for that long.

  The clothes I’d put on the floor were gone. She was probably getting dressed.

  I lay back against the lumpy pillows and relaxed.

  Or tried to.

  I frowned. Something wasn’t right.

  Eventually it dawned on me that there was a strange, empty quality to the silence in the room. At first, I thought it was just the absence of the water thundering through the pipes and pounding into the tub. No pressure issues here.

  Then I realized that it was both more and less than that.

  I could hear a dog barking in the distance. Cars passed with a quiet whush-whush on the road in front of the motel. But nothing closer, nothing in the room. No rustle of fabric, no bare feet slapping against the tile floor.

  Ariane was quiet, definitely. She’d moved through the forest preserve tonight like a ninja, with me blundering on behind her.

  But even she couldn’t be completely silent.

  Unless…

  I bolted upright. “Ariane?”

  No response.

  …unless she wasn’t here.

  I looked immediately to the chair in the corner where she’d put her emergency bag. It was gone.

  Maybe that didn’t mean anything. She hadn’t let it out of her sight since we’d recovered it. I could easily see her deciding to haul it with her if she went to get ice or hit a vending machine or something.

  I was still rationalizing when I saw the note on the dresser, a small square of white pinned down by a lone roll of cash like the world’s most expensive paperweight.

  My heart fell. I knew what this was without even reading the note.

  And yet that didn’t keep me from scrambling, half falling off the bed to get to it.

  Zane, I’m sorry.

  The words crushed something hopeful and fragile in me, something I hadn’t even known still existed until it was gone. My mind immediately flashed back to a very similar note I’d found on the kitchen counter the morning after my mom left. Clearly I was doing something wrong, to keep getting these things.