Fury: Book One of the Cure (Omnibus Edition)

  I don’t know if that’s horribly twisted or completely amazing.

  Luke says, right out of the blue, “Your hair makes me mental. Why don’t you just brush it for once?”

  I look over my shoulder at him, indignant.

  “Seriously, Josi—there’s like fucking rats’ nests in here. Look at this!” He holds up a chunk that isn’t far from becoming a dreadlock.

  I jerk my head out of his reach. “For your information, asshole, my scalp gets really sore so it’s hard to put a brush through it.”

  “Well I’ll help you when we get home because I can’t look at it for another second.”

  “Jeez, what’s up your butt today?”

  Luke looks like he’s about to say something and, for just a moment, I think he seems irritated with me. But that’s impossible. Unless his cure is malfunctioning. God I hope so. He closes his mouth with a snap and his eyes are completely clear of emotion. Guess not then.

  “Nothing. Now that you’re sufficiently distracted from the memory, we can get going.”

  “Ah, so that was your game. Insult me so that I’ll think about killing you instead of someone else.”

  “Worked, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I always think about killing you.”

  “Great, then let’s go home and log today.”

  I groan. Luke likes to log things. He puts everything in tables and journals and logs, and then stares at it all for hours at a time. Weird details, too. Stuff that I’d never give a second thought. But hey—he must do stuff like this for a living, so I don’t question it. Over the past couple of weeks when he’s not at work we’ve been doing a lot of research. Police records, protocol for the cure, digging up dirt on my old foster families and social workers. None of it has helped at all, but Luke insists that it will all come together somehow so he logs it, all of it. He’s a bit of a nerd, actually. I think I like it.

  September 13th, 2065

  Anthony

  “So this vision …” I start.

  “Memory,” Josephine interrupts.

  I gaze at her sternly. “What you had is called a hallucination.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I am quite aware of what a hallucination is, doc: a sensory experience of something that does not exist outside the mind, caused by various physical and mental disorders, or by a reaction to certain toxic substances, and usually manifested as visual or auditory images.”

  “Exactly,” I agree, trying to hide my discomfort. It’s not a nice feeling to know that your patient is a thousand times smarter than you are. Josephine’s IQ is so high that it classifies her as beyond a genius. It’s because of her memory, as is often the case in those with eidetic memories. Her knowledge is almost out of her control—her brain simply retains everything she has ever seen or read. Psychological or emotional disorders are perfectly normal responses to such high intelligence. It’s my job to ensure she doesn’t feel isolated because of her intellect.

  “Therefore, by definition, what I experienced was not a hallucination, because it actually happened.”

  “We have yet to establish that as fact.” She gives me such a filthy look that I spread my hands and add, “Give me some proof then.”

  “I will,” she snaps. “If we’re both still alive next week I’ll make sure it’s my first priority to find you some.”

  November 21st, 2063

  Luke

  When we get home from our little romp in the wilderness, Josi heads straight for the shower and I sit down at my computer to log the day’s information. I’m creating a timeline of locations and crimes to fit corresponding dates. I want it all laid out with crystal clarity so that Josi can see it all for herself.

  So far we have a collage of violence, pretty damn high on the gruesome scale. I have detached the words on the screen from the girl in the shower. I simply can’t see Josephine as the woman who committed these crimes, or else I’m likely to lose my mind. I think Josi has had to do the same.

  Her memory loss is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it means we’re having trouble proving her crimes because we can’t get a good enough insight into what they are. On the other hand, it’s saving her sanity. If she had picture-perfect memories of killing people, I’m pretty sure that would make her a deranged serial killer.

  If there is any hope—however slim—of preventing the transformations then I need to help her figure out what’s causing them.

  For the one-thousandth time I hack into the government child protection database and pull up Josephine’s information. She was passed around foster homes for the whole first half of her life. This is listed as due to ‘behavioral problems and emotional instability’. In other words, the shithouse foster families who took her in solely to get paid for it couldn’t handle that she was a passionate, clever child, and bailed on her repeatedly. There is a picture on her file, and it flashes up on the wall when I tap it.

  Looming above me, larger than life, is Josi as a five-year-old. She is horribly skinny, her eyes way too big for her face and full of a strange, hollow sharpness. She has a beanie pulled down to her eyelashes and she looks like she wants nothing more than to disappear.

  She is angry; even at five, she is angry. She’s a hurricane of it, and I know in one glance at this photo that she’s been abused. I’ve seen it repeatedly in children who’ve been removed by child protection. No less since the cure.

  We humans are violent. We’re savage, no matter what you do to our brains. No matter how you fiddle around in our heads. There will never be a future in which we don’t hurt each other.

  And sitting here in the living room of my ridiculous, empty apartment, surrounded by things I don’t need or want, staring at a photo of a beautiful little girl, the truth—my truth—comes bubbling to the surface, and for a few long minutes I can do nothing to hide it.

  I have a secret, one that Josephine can never find out. I must guard it with everything I have, every piece of training I’ve ever undergone.

  It’s very simple: sometimes, in moments like these, my whole body is a flame of pure, unadulterated fury.

  I was never given the cure, and I’ll die before I ever am.

  Josephine

  When I emerge from my shower Luke is wielding a comb like a weapon. “I’m getting it now while it’s wet,” he threatens.

  “Don’t you have things to log?”

  “Already done. I’m a whiz.”

  “Well, we didn’t learn much.”

  “Sure we did—we now know that one of the victims from ’59 was a woman and we know exactly where it happened. Makes a difference. No more excuses. Sit down in the living room and hold onto a pillow, ’cause this is gonna hurt.”

  I reluctantly sit down in front of the couch and brace myself, but it barely hurts at all. Luke sits on the couch behind me and is so careful with the long tendrils of black hair that it doesn’t pull against my sore scalp. After a few minutes he relaxes his legs on either side of my body. My heart starts to thump—this is closer than Luke and I have been since the night of the Furies. Ever since then he has kept himself at a clear distance—which has suited me fine, because when he is close I find it difficult to keep my thoughts straight.

  Behind me he is big and warm and smells strongly of amazing things like spice and mint, and dirt and soap. He touches my head gently, like a caress, as he untangles each new lock. If I lean back just the slightest bit he’ll be holding me, and we’ll be like two normal people who touch each other. But I don’t, because I know that he’d just push me away and keep brushing my hair.

  My stomach flips over in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. I want to get as far from him as possible, or else I want to stay here within the space of his body for the rest of time. I’m confused and aggravated and he’s nothing, just calm.

  “What else?” he asks softly, leaning close to my ear. “What else hurts?”

  I want to tell him the truth. That everything hurts. That nothing hurts. That I
can’t breathe. Instead I turn my head slightly toward his and say, “The bruises. They hurt the most.”

  “Show me.”

  My hands are trembling as I lift my shirt up at the back and lean forward so he can see. I don’t know why I’m doing this—the last thing I want is for him to see me like this, damaged and ugly and vulnerable. But I know that with him sitting so close, there’s no way I could deny him anything.

  “Shit,” he breathes out softly when he sees the awful black and purple bruises that have gotten steadily worse over the weeks. Normally by now they’d be starting to fade, but this year they’ve stayed longer. I don’t know why and I don’t want to think about why. I feel his large hands against my skin and it makes me start. He runs them all over my back, along the worst of the marks on my spine. It doesn’t hurt because his touch is so light, and I feel myself being gentled like a wild horse.

  Almost in a trance, I lean back against him, resting my head on his leg. He freezes and I brace myself, but he doesn’t push me away. He slides his hands around to my chest and holds me against him, turning his lips to brush along the edge of my hairline. I can feel his heartbeat through his thin cotton T-shirt. It’s beating against my back, a steady, strong rhythm. A lot stronger than my own.

  “I want to stop you from being hurt like this,” he murmurs, frustrated.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about,” I reply sleepily. He must hear that I’m half dozing already, because he pulls me up onto the couch with him and we both lie down, and he’s still wrapped around me, and I’ve never felt safe until this moment.

  Luke

  Josephine is rude and rash, sarcastic and angry. She is emotionally unstable. She’s too young and she’s too difficult. She’s inexperienced, frightened and loud. At any moment she could fly away. But as I lie on the couch with her sleeping in my arms, I think I’m already in love with her. I think I love every one of these things about her. I think maybe I was in love with her from that first moment I saw her eyes, brown and blue and sad. And I think maybe I made a big mistake, talking to her in that bar.

  *

  I don’t sleep. I listen to Josi breathing slowly and I think about how badly I’ve fucked up as I wait for her to wake.

  In the beginning I didn’t care about lying. It came as easily to me as breathing. I could convince anyone of anything, no matter how absurd. Now it’s all I think about.

  It’s around three in the morning when she finally stirs. She wriggles a bit and yawns, then rolls over so that our faces are less than an inch apart.

  “I haven’t had any night terrors since I’ve been living here.”

  I start to speak then have to clear my throat. “That’s good.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Not sure. Late. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “What do you feel like? Name your desire. Lobster? Steak? Pâté?”

  She smiles. Up close her lips look perfect. “What would you say if I asked for a grilled cheese sandwich?”

  “I’d say thank god,” I laugh. “If I tried to make lobster we wouldn’t be eating until sunrise.”

  In the kitchen, Josi sits on the bench and dangles her legs while I make us both cheese sandwiches. I sit beside her to eat them. Melted cheese dribbles all over her chin so I reach out to wipe it off for her. She freezes, and I freeze, and our eyes meet.

  Abruptly she says, “I think maybe I should move out.”

  “Why?” I can’t help but feel panicked, my hand dropping away.

  “You know why.”

  “I won’t touch you again. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I know you didn’t. It’s not you, it’s me.”

  “Good line. Did you come up with it yourself?”

  “Luke, listen to me.” She searches my face and says heavily, “I feel weird. I feel … different to how I should feel.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you. How I feel for you. And you don’t … I mean, we can’t … I just have to move out, all right? I can’t live in a house with you. It’s too hard, and it’s only going to get harder.”

  “Josi, what—hard in what way?”

  She slides off the bench and faces me. She looks sleepy and bedraggled, but her hair is long and smooth and clean, and her eyes are as beautiful as they always are. “Luke, I want you, okay? I want you all the time. I want to kiss you and touch you and be with you, and that makes me feel sick because I shouldn’t ever think about anyone like that… And a drone? I absolutely can’t ever want a drone, okay? Is that clear enough?”

  I stare at her, stunned.

  “That’s why I have to move out.”

  My mind is scrabbling. She can’t move out.

  “I—”

  “I know,” she quickly forestalls. “I’m too young, and it’s not like that for you anyway. It’s good, Luke. I’m a lunatic for even thinking it, for so many reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  “I’m a monster. I’d never drag anyone into that sort of mess.”

  “I’m already in that mess.”

  “No you’re not. We’re friends, and even that’s too much. The closer we get the worse it’ll be when …”

  “When what?”

  She drops her eyes to the ground. It makes me nervous. “When what, Josi?”

  “When I kill myself.”

  The floor drops away and I’m falling into pitch black. All color is gone. I can’t believe I’ve heard her right. She couldn’t possibly …

  “I’ve tried before,” she admits so softly I barely hear her. “Before the moon. But whatever my curse is, it healed all the drugs in my system.”

  “You tried to overdose?”

  Josephine nods. “But I timed it wrong. This time I’ll do it sooner.”

  Oh god, I feel sick. She’s eerily matter-of-fact, and I think I might throw up. “Josi …”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to die. But I can’t hurt anyone else. It’s … worse than being dead.”

  “So you’re saying that if we don’t fix this before the next blood moon, you’ll just commit suicide?”

  She looks at me funny and I realize I need to get control of myself. I close my eyes and try to breathe through my rage. When I look at her again I have a firm grip on the emotions blazing under my skin. I am calm and deadpan. “I don’t ever want to hear you say anything like that again.”

  Her eyes flash dangerously. “Oh? And I do exactly as you say, do I?”

  “When I say things like that you do.”

  Josephine slaps me hard across the face. “You don’t control me,” she snarls. “You don’t get to control when I die. It’s the only choice I have left, and no one will take that from me.”

  And then she goes into her room and locks the door, and even though I bang on it and shout at her for hours, she doesn’t come back out. I think maybe my bones might be shattering. My perspective is suddenly so clear.

  Until now I have been unsure. Unsure what my part in Josephine’s life is, unsure how I should be with her and what I should be trying to achieve. I have a life that does not fit with hers. I’ve lived twenty-six years without her, and I have been perfectly fine.

  But now. Now it’s simple and clear.

  I will find a way to solve this problem. I’ve never been so sure of something—I realize now that I’ve never actually been sure of anything.

  Josephine Luquet is the strongest person I’ve ever met. She’s brave and honest and sweet and kind. She is too caring, too brash, too clever, too talented. Her music makes me imagine a life that’s not this one, a life that’s not missing pieces, a life with her and without cures. I will save her. I will.

  *

  Close to sunrise she has her first night terror since she’s lived with me. I’m sitting outside her room, leaning against her door and rehearsing what I want to say—a speech that will make her want to live. A loud, horrific shriek comes from her roo
m and I sit up in shock. It’s a scream so full of terror that I’m instantly sick with it. It goes on and on, even when I bang on the door and shout her name to try and wake her.

  I can’t handle it anymore and override the controls to unlock it. I sink onto the bed and try to avoid her violent thrashing. It’s so awful seeing her like this. Beyond awful.

  “Josi!” I try, then reach out to touch her. She struggles for a moment, screaming and crying and all I can think of to do is to climb into the bed with her and hold her as tightly as I can. She shouts something, jerks in a weird way and then freezes.

  I stay as still as I can, unsure what’s happening, and then I hear a soft voice whisper, “Luke?”

  “I’m here,” I murmur into her ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  But if she ever learns the truth she will hate me, and she will be far from safe.

  November 22nd, 2063

  Josephine

  I wake up in Luke’s arms for the second time in twenty-four hours. My skin and my bones hurt. I feel stretched and sore and when I realize that he’s wrapped around me I feel frightened by how happy it makes me.

  I sit up and try to extricate myself without waking him, but he stirs quietly and mumbles, “You okay?”

  I’m so tired. I want to lie back down and spend the rest of my life in his arms, but I’ve got images in my head, dark things that would destroy him like they’ve done me, and I can’t let that happen.

  “I’m not happy,” I say simply. “I need to leave, and I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  He lies there, and he looks broken. I leave before he can ruin me entirely.

  Chapter Seven

  September 13th, 2065

  Josephine