Altered

  “Took you long enough,” Erik calls out.

  “I stopped for tea—what took you so long?” I respond with a shrug of the shoulders. I can’t help feeling a little full of myself at the moment.

  “Let go,” Erik calls. “I’ll catch you.”

  I stare down at Erik, who’s jogging along to keep up with me.

  “Ready?” I call, and despite my better judgment, I release my grip on the rope.

  It is not an elegant landing. Erik catches me, but he buckles against my weight and we both crash to the ground.

  “Way to stick the landing,” Dante says, looming over us.

  “Shut up and help me,” I say.

  Once we’re on our feet, we survey the situation, discovering we’re not far from the estate.

  “I sent Jax in,” Dante explains. “We shouldn’t show up at the same time.”

  “Let’s not sit around talking then,” I say. “We’ve got an estate to save.”

  * * *

  At first nothing seems wrong, but the closer we get to Kincaid’s, the more uneasy I feel. The first sign that something terrible has happened is a hole blasted in the large perimeter fence.

  “Explosives.” Dante kicks at a pile of debris around the shattered portion of the fence.

  “Guild,” I murmur.

  “It’s probably Remnants, but the Guild might not be far behind. Cormac knows that you’ve been holed up here,” Dante says.

  I’m not prepared for the scene we stumble upon once we reach the main grounds of the estate. Several of Kincaid’s precious statues lie in ruins on the ground, marble heads and arms sown along the brick walkway. As we get closer to the great house, we discover something far more disturbing though—bodies.

  Kincaid left a skeleton crew behind when the mission went after the Whorl, and it had often felt like we were the only three people left on the estate, but now I see how wrong I was. I trip over the legs of a corpse, falling onto a body covered with thick alteration scars.

  “Remnants,” Dante says, helping me to my feet.

  Most of the other bodies scattered across the grounds are Kincaid’s men and a few servants I recognize from mealtimes. My heart leaps into my throat when I spot the corpse of a blond woman, still wearing the face from the play Kincaid put on a few weeks ago. Apparently the Tailors never got around to altering it back.

  “It looks like we missed all the action,” Erik says, but as if to prove him wrong, a blast booms from the main house, sending showers of brick and tile ricocheting in our direction. Erik throws me to the ground as Dante sprints toward the building.

  “He’s not armed,” I cry. “He’s going to get killed.” I rush forward, but Erik grabs my arm to stop me.

  “He’ll be fine. He’s got powerful skills at his disposal,” Erik says. “Let’s stick together, Ad. We don’t know what’s going on in there.”

  Inside a battle is being waged on Kincaid’s ornate carpets and marbled floors. There’s too much smoke to see who is who and we’re only in the house for a few minutes when Erik pushes me into an alcove previously occupied by a statue. Before I can process what he’s doing, he’s grabbed a Remnant. A crack shatters the air and Erik momentarily loses his grip, but then his fingers sink into the Remnant’s flesh with a wet split. The man looses a shrill wail as his shredded skin opens in a torrent of crimson. But Erik doesn’t unwind him. The Remnant turns on his heel to escape, and we rush through the hallway.

  “Where’s Dante?” I call to Erik.

  “Doesn’t matter. We need to get you out of here,” Erik orders me.

  “I’m not leaving him!”

  “Ad, the Guild might be after you, but these Rems don’t have the self-control to capture someone,” Erik argues, shoving me behind him until we’re near the stairway that leads to the upstairs guest rooms. But instead of directing me up, Erik reaches out to press a carved face in the woodwork. A panel swings open like the one Deniel pushed me through when he attacked me. I stare at Erik in wonder.

  “How—” I start.

  “I figured it might come in handy to explore,” Erik shouts over the clamor of gunfire in an adjacent room. “I’m a bad houseguest. I snooped. There’re hidden passages all over this place.”

  “Where do they go?” I ask, unwilling to enter the dark passage.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Erik pulls me into it, and before I can respond, the panel swings closed behind us. The insulation muffles the sounds of battle and I grope along the walls, wondering what terrors lie hidden in the dark. Erik’s hand closes over mine and he guides me.

  Then Erik drops my hand, and suddenly the wall shifts, swinging to reveal another passage. I catch myself against the frame, which is a good thing because behind me a well-lit set of stairs curves down, spiraling toward an unknown destination.

  “Sorry,” Erik says, reaching out to steady me. “I’ll go first.”

  “I’m not helpless, you know.”

  “Never said you were. I just know where the stairs go,” he says.

  The stairs empty into the basement of the estate, and I recognize the passage leading to the cell block. My mother is there, and regardless of everything that’s transpired between us since I found her on Earth, my feet fly toward her cell. Erik follows. The familiar buzz of the electrified bars is absent.

  “The security system is off,” I whisper. I turn to gauge his thoughts and notice he’s holding his left arm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he says, shifting away from me.

  I turn to face him and stare at the blood seeping through his sleeve. “You’re bleeding!”

  “That happens when you get shot,” he says. He tries to smile and fails magnificently, the grin faltering into a grimace of pain.

  “We need to get you medical help.”

  “There are people worse off right now,” he says. “Let’s find your mom and Dante.”

  I start to protest, but he pushes past me toward the cell block.

  There’s no guard stationed outside. The hair prickles along my scalp like a biological alarm, but the sound of Dante’s voice turns my panic into curiosity even as ice fills my veins. I press against the wall and listen, hoping to understand why he’s here instead of fighting with the rest of Kincaid’s men.

  “Meria, I can’t change what they did to you,” he says.

  “Don’t pretend to care, Dante. They didn’t take my memories. I know you left me. Left us.”

  “I am sorry,” he says.

  “Meria might have been once, too. But I don’t care now,” she responds. “Surely you have more important things to worry about than the next prisoner Kincaid is going to execute.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “Why? I’d kill you if it weren’t for these bars,” she says.

  “Would you?”

  My mother lets loose a hollow laugh that’s nothing like the bell-like laugh I remember from my childhood. “I’m not Meria. No matter how much you want me to be. No matter how much she wants me to be. I am not your friend or your lover.”

  “That doesn’t change anything for me,” he says.

  His shoes click against the floor and I suck in a breath, sure I’m about to be caught. Instead a lock snaps open.

  “What are you doing?” Meria asks in a suspicious tone.

  “I’m letting you go,” he says.

  I have to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

  “You want me to prove I’ll kill you?” she says, and I hear the smile in her voice.

  “I’m drugging you first,” he says.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” she warns him.

  “That’s not why I’m doing it. Some things don’t change no matter what’s happened,” he says. “Even things that fade with time and distance aren’t ever really lost.”

  Her shrieks grate on my ears and I know what he’s done before I hear her body hit the floor. This is my only chance to stop him. I take a deep breath and round t
he corner. Erik stands silently behind me.

  “Ad,” Dante says in surprise. He’s hovering over her body. She looks like she’s sleeping—or worse. Dante looks from me to Erik, his hand running through his hair as he takes in our sudden appearance. “Erik—are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Erik mutters.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, unable to dismiss what he’s done to her.

  “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you drugged her and are planning to drag her into the desert and leave her,” I say.

  “Okay, then it’s exactly what it looks like,” he says, a note of confusion in his voice.

  “I heard it all,” I say. Only some of her words stung, but I still feel their vibration on my skin. She isn’t my mother, I remind myself. “You can’t let her go. For Arras’s sake, it’s a war zone out there.”

  “Which makes it my only chance to get her out without suspicion. I never should have brought her here. Once Kincaid returns he’ll blame her for this attack.”

  “She wants to kill you,” I remind him, slowing down my words. “She wants to kill me.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’re okay with that?” I ask him.

  “I would prefer she didn’t want to kill us,” he says. “Adelice, you don’t understand.”

  “I’m trying to,” I say.

  “Kincaid has humored me by keeping her here, but after a raid like this there’s no way he’ll keep harboring her.”

  “Why does Kincaid care?” I ask. “He can’t supply the precious energy to keep the cell electrocuted anymore? He needs it to put on his sordid plays and watch his films? Even if you drop her off hours from here, sooner or later someone will kill her.

  “Why won’t you save her?” I demand. “Alter her back—fix her.”

  “You can’t patch in someone else’s soul,” Dante says, his fingers circling his temples. He leans against the disarmed bars that once held my mother captive.

  “The Guild has the remains of her strand. They have the remains of all the Remnants’ strands. If we could get to them—”

  “There isn’t time for that,” Dante interrupts me. “Whatever happens to her out there can’t be worse than what Kincaid will do to her.”

  I touch one of the bars. It’s not dangerous now that the electricity is off. I need something tangible to hold on to. “What if she kills someone else? What then?”

  “I can live with that,” he says.

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s not up to you. You think what the Guild did was bad, but…”

  “But?” I press. “What will Kincaid do, make her into a doll to play with?”

  “I wish it was something as nice as that,” he says.

  “You brought us here. You told us Kincaid was our best option—”

  “I told you Kincaid was your only option,” he corrects me. “You made a choice, and it brought you here.”

  “You brought me here.” I step forward, wagging a finger at him.

  “I had no other choice.”

  “Really? Or was it simply to satisfy your curiosity?” I ask.

  “Partially,” he admits. “But, Ad, things are happening. Kincaid is coming back. They have information.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t think it is.” Dante hesitates. He stops and lifts my mother onto his shoulder. She hangs limp over him, like a rag doll on a child’s shoulder.

  “And why are you telling me this now?” I demand.

  “Because Cormac is after you, Adelice, and we don’t have time. We can’t stay here much longer.”

  “But what about Jost?” I protest.

  “We’ll wait for him, if he comes back with the others.”

  “If?” I repeat in a hollow voice.

  “When,” Dante says, moving past me toward the corridor. “I can’t explain now. You two need to see to that wound.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “You can do it.” Dante stops me. “Erik can help you. Tell no one, not even Jost, what you saw tonight.”

  He doesn’t bother to wait for our promises.

  THIRTY-THREE

  WHEN WE PEEK OUT FROM THE BASEMENT, we find the halls quiet. Tattered tapestries hang precariously from the ceiling and the paneled walls are marred with tiny holes, but no one is in sight. In Erik’s quarters, I run the faucet until the water is warm, but when I reenter the bedroom, the harsh scent of whiskey prickles my nostrils.

  He gestures to the bottle of liquor on the table.

  “No, thanks,” I say with a shake of my head. “Should you be drinking?”

  “Disinfecting,” he says as he pours some over his bloodied biceps, wincing as it hits his skin. He immediately covers it with the wet washcloth I’ve dropped on the bed.

  “Should I lock this?” I cross to close the door, wanting to be helpful as much as I want to avoid looking at his wound.

  “If the attack is over, security will do a sweep. Might as well leave it open or Kincaid’s goons will break it down.”

  “I wish that made me feel better.” I force myself to go to him and tentatively lift the cloth to examine his wound. A blob of red blood oozes not far from his muscle.

  “Flesh wound,” Erik says in a casual voice, but I catch him wince again as the air hits it.

  “Is there a bullet in there?” My words are strangled with some unrecognizable emotion. I want to cry and kiss him at the same time.

  “It went straight through,” he says. “It’ll be fine once the bleeding stops.”

  “I can fix it,” I remind him.

  “I wasn’t going to ask. I could do it myself, but two hands are better than one when patching,” Erik says. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”

  I stop him. “Walk me through it.” Taking a steadying breath, I pour a little whiskey on my fingers. I’m less convinced of its disinfectant powers, but there’s no harm in trying. Further inspection reveals an exit wound on the other side of his arm.

  “Concentrate,” Erik says. “See the strands.”

  It sounds so serious and profound coming from Erik that I giggle, but he balks at my nervous titter and draws his arm away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can do this.”

  “Once you stop laughing and see the strands,” Erik begins, a bit sourly. “Draw together the damaged ones and connect them. It’s like the loom, Ad. Fix the hole.”

  I close my eyes and focus on the fear pounding its war song in my chest. When I reopen them I can see the strands that weave together to make Erik’s arm and a stream of pulsing red fibers on his biceps calls out to me. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I work at the shrill, off-key notes of the damaged strands until they grow harmonious, knitting together and healing.

  “Not bad,” Erik says when I step back to survey my work, the room resolving into a world of physical objects.

  Suddenly exhausted from the effort, I drop down on his bed. I roll onto my stomach, clutching the pillow to my chest. He wipes the excess blood from the newly patched wound and takes the ruined washcloths to the bathroom. As he goes, I consider what to say to him about Dante and my mother. I don’t have to talk about it, but I want to. I’m just not sure why. To make myself feel better? To talk through it? Those reasons make sense, but one thing holds me back. An unspoken tension that hangs between Erik and me. Talking about my mother and Dante means I’ll have to talk about the issues that he and I are constantly skirting around.

  I mention it anyway.

  “It’s not too late to stop him,” Erik says.

  “Should I?” I ask, confusion infusing my voice. I know I should stop him, but deep down, I don’t want to. I’m not sure why though.

  “No,” Erik says in a firm voice.

  “Why?” I ask, wondering how he can be so certain.

  “Because he loves her,” he says.

  “I know that. But loving someone doesn’t mean you make the best decisions about them,” I point out.

/>   “No. Love can be blinding,” Erik agrees. “But if he believes she’s in danger, he’s already thought through his options. He’s chosen the best one.”

  “Maybe someone who can be more objective should be making the decision,” I say.

  “Perhaps, but someone who is more objective won’t fight as hard as the person who loves her,” Erik says in a low voice. “One man will step aside when confronted while another will die. If you try to fight him, consider that.”

  We aren’t only talking about Dante and my mother anymore.

  “He’ll lose her either way,” I murmur.

  “Doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t try,” Erik says.

  “She loved someone else though. My father, my uncle…” I struggle with putting words to my thoughts, trying to sort out my tangled family tree. “It’s so confusing. Dante isn’t my father, not in my heart.”

  “I understand,” Erik says.

  “My father died for me and my mother,” I say.

  “He was a good man,” Erik says. “A better man than I am.”

  “You’ve leapt more than once for me—and for your brother.” It’s the first time I let it slip that I know we’re talking about the three of us as much as we’re talking about the convoluted love triangle in my family.

  “I’d leap for you again,” Erik says.

  I drop my head onto the pillow to avoid his eyes, and at the foot of the bed I spot a book. My book. I reach for it, running my fingers over the green canvas cover.

  “Sorry,” Erik says. “You left it here weeks ago. I meant to return it, but…”

  He doesn’t finish the thought and I lift my head to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

  “I was reading it,” he admits.

  “What did you think?” I ask, pulling the book of sonnets closer. I trace the gold-foil Shakespeare on the cover.