Earthquake (6 page)

And in that moment I let my entire body fill with pure, unadulterated joy.

I’m so wrapped
up in Logan I scarcely notice when the lights flicker and then die, plunging us into total darkness.

For a moment there’s silence, and then we both start to laugh. “Did we do that?” I ask, finally getting some control.

“I didn’t do it. Did you do it?”

“Bad timing, I guess.”

“Or extremely good timing,” Logan says, his lips brushing my neck.

A moment later there’s the glow of a candle that wasn’t there before.

“You made that!” I say with a gasp.

He raises one eyebrow, the expression somehow sultry in the dim light. “Of course I did,” he says, pressing a kiss against my brow. “I still want to look at you,” he says, a hint of a growl in his throat. “And kiss you, and touch you, and hold you.” I pull his face back down to mine, and it’s like the weird power outage never happened.

It’s only hours later, when exhaustion overtakes us both, that we slow down. Logan helps me into his discarded T-shirt and kisses my forehead one more time before blowing out the candle. Then he pulls me against him and breathes a long sigh, the kind that sounds like it’s been waiting two centuries to be released.

“We found each other,” I marvel, and even now I hardly believe it.

“You found me,” Logan whispers, kissing my forehead. “Fate needed a little help.”

It’s mere seconds before I hear Logan’s breathing slow, and he falls asleep, his arm draped over me. I’m near sleep myself, but I take a moment to revel in the last few hours in this silent, dark room. Every part of my body feels tender and new, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis for the first time. New, and perfect.

As perfect as I will ever be.

• • •

He’s looking at me when I wake up, and for half a second I wonder why his eyes aren’t blue.

Guilt stabs my chest as the memory of last night comes flooding back. I push visions of sky-blue eyes aside and smile at Logan.

My lover. My
diligo
.

“Good morning, I think. Lights finally came back on,” he whispers in his rough morning voice.

A voice I last heard over two hundred years ago. My mouth curls up at the thought.

“What?” he asks, running the tip of his nose up my cheek and making me feel very awake indeed.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

He tosses his head back and laughs, and I realize I miss his long hair. It’s not a big deal. Hair grows. I, of all people, know
that
. He kisses me soundly and then leans on one elbow and looks down at me, my head still buried in the pillows. “So, Tavia? That’s a funny name.”

A giggle busts out in more of a snort. “My mom came up with it,” I say, a tiny pang making its way into my heart. “No one ever says it right.”

His eyes soften and he kisses me again, and we waste another half hour or so kissing and rolling about on the bed before Logan’s eyes grow serious. “We should probably talk,” he says.

I nod and sober up. I guess the honeymoon is over.

For a little while anyway.

Logan pulls the sheet off me, and I fight the urge to grab it back. Or at least cover the fact that all I’m wearing is underwear and his shirt. But he’s not looking at me that way. His eyes are serious—maybe even sad—as he pushes his T-shirt up around my ribs and looks at the scars from my surgeries. The huge staple-marked scar on my thigh is gone—compliments of the Curatoria med team—but there are plenty others to see. My trach scar, several small marks where ribs broke the skin, the remains of a lesion across my hips from the seat belt on the plane, that sort of thing. Enough that even in the darkness last night, he would have felt them.

“What happened to you?” he whispers, his voice so full of sympathy and anguish it makes tears of joy come to my eyes.

Joy that I found the person who feels this way about me. That we’re together now and can be forever.

Literally,
forever
.

I swallow hard and then take his hand and move it to my head. I angle my neck and sweep my hair away and let him see that scar too. Feel it. Other than doctors, nurses, people I
had
to let feel it, no one else has ever touched my scar.

Except Benson.

He doesn’t count anymore.

“Tavia,” he says, touching the scar very softly. He doesn’t say anything else, but after a few seconds he drops his hand and looks at me. Waiting.

It takes a long time, but I tell him everything that has happened in the last eight months: the plane wreck, the slow manifestation of my powers, Sammi and Mark, the Reduciates, Marie, the virus.
Especially
the virus since we couldn’t really talk about it in the prison.

I don’t mention Benson.

I should. But I can’t. He’s too raw a wound, and I don’t want Logan to know about him at all.

Maybe someday.

I get to the part of my story where I arrive in Phoenix, and we both laugh at how stupid we were.

“Mostly how stupid
you
were,” I say in mock defense.

“
So
stupid,” Logan agrees. “I could have been doing this days ago.”

I sober. “Maybe if I’d found a way your family wouldn’t have died,” I whisper, needing to get that out. To let him know he can talk about it with me. That, having lost my own parents, I’m especially suited to understand.

But he only shrugs. “Maybe. But that doesn’t matter anymore. You’re my family now.”

My eyebrows scrunch together as I stare at him and try to keep the horror out of my eyes as he—likely unknowingly—repeats the phrase the Reduciate woman used. His little siblings, his mother, his father; they just don’t
matter
anymore? I remember very distinctly the months of feeling as though part of my physical body had been cut away when my parents died. How can he act like I could replace his family?

Maybe he’s in denial. I can be patient. Especially with so much going on with us. Later. It takes time—I know that.

He stares off into space, and I take a moment to love the sight of him, the overhead lights reflecting off his tousled golden hair. Between it and his tan skin he looks just like a god should.

“We have to go soon, don’t we?” His voice is full of mourning.

“Yeah.” I choke out that tiny word.

“Meet Daniel. Find out what he wants with us.”

“
From
us.”

“No one ever lets us just be happy,” he says, turning to look at me again with those eyes that paralyze me with wanting. “At least we’ll get to see each other afterward.” He casts his eyes downward, and I understand what he’s not saying—that this time, it won’t be like the night the hooded horsemen came for us two hundred years ago. I nod and he rolls over onto his stomach. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” I admit. “We never did get food last night.”

“Probably because of that power outage. Here.” He snaps his fingers and a wooden breakfast tray appears on the bed between us with a hot French press full of coffee, croissants, steaming eggs perfectly over easy, crispy bacon, and two glasses of cold orange juice.

That’s right. We have
powers
.

And unlike me, he remembered that little fact.

But . . . have we actually resurged? I don’t know exactly what that means—what it requires. Just that it makes our creations permanent and gives us seven more reincarnations. I’m about to say something when I catch sight of the melted nub of candle on the bedside table.

Logan created that last night. It’s still here. Does that mean that we’ve done it, that the clock on our lifetimes has been reset?

A warmth of happiness and accomplishment starts to fill my chest, when I remember Sammi wondering if I was too damaged to resurge. Not Logan, me. All the permanence of Logan’s candle means is that
he’s
safe. And although that fact makes me gloriously happy, I can’t help but fear I’ve saved him only to damn him to seven lifetimes without me.

“Think that’s enough?” Logan asks, looking down at the heaping tray. “Do you want to add anything?”

I force a smile when what I really feel is a rush of fear. “It looks great,” I say. And no, I most certainly do
not
want to add anything. If it disappears—if I’m not good enough—I . . . I don’t want him to know.

As Logan is browsing the tray, I clench my fist, peer at my bedside table—just outside of Logan’s line of sight—and create the first thing I think of.

Now I just have to wait five minutes.

Trying to hide my nerves, I dig into a croissant, only now remembering how famished I am. I was a little . . . distracted before. As I chew, it occurs to me that, at least as long as I’m with Logan, I’m never going to have to worry about not getting enough to eat again. I’ll never wonder if I’m going to pass out before Benson can get me food.

I swallow that thought away along with the bread that suddenly feels dry and wash both down with a long sip of searing-hot coffee.

The pile of food is completely gone in five minutes. Logan pats his bare stomach. “I’m stuffed.”

“You’re a good cook,” I say with a laugh.

“It’s so weird that I could just forget that I literally can have anything I want with a simple thought,” Logan says, and I have to struggle to pay attention. “But boy am I glad I remembered! Serious perks.” He stands, stretching, and all my worries flee at the sight of his bare skin spread out before me with such casual confidence. I don’t think he had that yesterday.

I like it.

“I’m going to go shower,” he says with utter nonchalance. Then he raises one eyebrow. “Join me?”

“Soon as I’m done,” I say, gesturing to the nearly finished croissant in my hand. But it’s just an excuse. As soon as I hear the water turn on, I toss the croissant onto the tray, close my eyes, count to three, and turn and look at the bedside table.

At a tube of ChapStick.

I pick up the tube and rub it with my thumb, then sink back down onto the bed. My hands tremble so badly I can barely keep a hold of the ChapStick.

“I did it,” I whisper.

I’m not broken
.
I created something permanent.

A glow of victory accompanies that thought.

But how am I supposed to feel about the fact that, even after spending the night with Logan, the first thing I thought to make was a memento of Benson?

It’s strange to
suddenly start
making
everything I need. Soap, towels, clothing, hairbrush. I just think of it, and it appears. And even though I’ve known I could do this for a couple weeks now, my creations never felt exactly
real
before because I knew they would only disappear a few minutes later.

Now? Everything is permanent. There are consequences. I mean, advantages too, obviously. But let’s just say I’ve spent a lot of this morning thinking about the butterfly effect.

Honestly, I still don’t
like
using my powers, but I’ve had to sort of come to terms with it. It’s who I am.
What
I am.

Logan, meanwhile, doesn’t have any of my hang-ups. The candle last night and breakfast this morning were just the start of his creations. Since then, he’s made a garbage can, a shoe rack, an entirely new
wall
to set the kitchenette off from the rest of the room, and a full set of some kind of expensive soap plus cologne and deodorant. And he’s done so completely casually. Like it’s his right and he’s been missing out on it for the last eighteen years. Like he has to make up for lost time.

“So, do you think we’re supposed to simply wait here until they come fetch us?” Logan asks.

Fetch?
He speaks just a little differently now. I think it’s a hybrid of modern Logan and his past selves. Rather like his clothes. Which he also made. He’s wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt, but those are definitely Quinn’s comfy riding boots peeping out from beneath, and he just pulled out a gold
pocket watch
to check the time.

And his hair is longer. Not as long as when he was Quinn, but not the short—probably mother-mandated—cut he was sporting before. He has taken to his abilities so easily. Easier than I did.

Easier than I
do
.

I’m still wearing my jeans from yesterday. New underwear was a must, and my shirt was seriously sweaty, so I replaced that too, but it just feels weird.

Elizabeth—my therapist in Portsmouth—did say my memory process would be more difficult. I was worried it would be painful for Logan too, but it didn’t seem to be at all. Watching him awaken was incredible! I could
see
the changes—could see in his eyes how much information was suddenly inside his brain! But it didn’t hurt him. I still cringe at the memory of how agonizing my own awakening was.

I guess that’s not the only difference though. Maybe getting used to my powers is one of the side effects. Thinking of
how
to use them.

Like those doctors. Seriously, wow.

“Yeah, I guess we have to wait,” I finally answer, folding my arms over my chest like I’m cold. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I don’t like being here.”

“I know,” Logan says softly. “But it’s better than being in Reduciata custody.”

“Is it?” I ask. I don’t feel like we have enough information to judge.

“Slightly. I guess it’s the lesser of the two evils.”

I open my mouth to say something like, “Cheerful,” when a pounding on the door interrupts me. We share a long look and then go together to the door and pull it open.

“Morning!” An excited and overly loud voice echoes in our room, shattering my momentary relaxed state. A woman, probably somewhere in her twenties, is holding a tray of something—food, I assume—and she shoves her way through the doorway and sets it on the floor. “I saw this by the door and figured they just left it there once the lights went out. Gave me an excuse to come in and say hi!”

I’ve hardly taken a breath when she straightens and is suddenly standing with her nose about two inches from mine. I stagger and almost fall getting away from her, but Logan manages to wrap a hand around my upper arm and hold me steady.

“Are you
her
?” the woman asks, her eyes childishly wide. To my horror she lifts the hair on the right side of my head to expose my scar, her fingers feeling as hot as fire as they brush across the sensitive skin. I clamp my hand down over my scalp and jerk my body away, but I’m too late. Gods, I wish my hair were longer.

“You are!” she says, letting loose a high-pitched squeal again, and all I can think is that I want to get away from this person no matter what it takes. “Everyone here has been hoping we would find you,” the woman continues, her almost black eyes dark and wide, reminding me very much of Bambi. “Welcome. If there’s ever anything you need . . . oh, look at me, offering my services to someone like
you
,” she says with a laugh, her hands gesturing at me from head to toe as though I were some physical specimen on auction.

“I’m sorry, do I know—”

But the woman interrupts. “Oh, silly of me. I’m Alanna, and this is Thomas.” A very tall man—probably in his early forties—with slightly wavy brown hair whom I had hardly even noticed steps forward and silently offers his hand.

Names are murmured, hands shaken, but inside I’m desperate to get them out of my space. Alanna links her arm with mine before I can protest and turns to view our room. Logan is stuck behind me with Thomas, which I think is the better of the available options. Thomas seems reserved, quiet.

I wonder how he stands Alanna. She looks like she’s quite a bit younger than him anyway, but she
acts
like a ten-year-old. It’s not just that she’s annoying; she’s tainting our space. This is the first real home that Logan and I will share—no matter how temporary—and she’s violating it with her intrusion.

“Oh, it still has the old décor,” Alanna says, studying our neat, elegant room that, oddly, reminds me of Sammi’s room back in Portsmouth.

“You’re both Creators, right? You’ll need some help clearing things out then. Here we go.” Looking more like a little girl than a full-grown woman, Alanna stands on her tip toes and points at the bed. “Poof!” she says, and the bed winks out of sight. “Poof, poof, poof,” and the armchairs are gone.

I’ve never seen destroying in action except for Marie. So watching Alanna make something go away with so little thought makes my stomach sour. I have to remind myself: Destroying is not inherently bad. Both Curatoriates and Reduciates can be Destroyers. It’s just the other side of the coin.

Still.

I stand there with my mouth open at Alanna’s odd, childish enthusiasm as she clears the room of all its furnishings with that silly pointing of her finger.

“There,” she says, hands on her hips. “Now you can set everything up yourselves. Not sad to see it go,” she continues before I can even think about getting a word in edgewise. “A couple of human Curatoriates lived here before. Snooty. Didn’t like to mix much. Mark, I think his name was.” Alanna turns to me, eyes sparkling, “Her name—this is hilarious—her name was Sammi and she was super short and cute with blond hair and all, but she was a hard-ass. All business, no play. I laughed every time someone called her Sammi. Totally didn’t fit.”

I can’t breathe. I look at Logan, silently begging him to help, to remove the woman who just zapped all my former guardians’ belongings out of existence. Fortunately, Logan catches my drift and starts to bodily shove Alanna from the room. “Thank you. You were very helpful. But we’re waiting for someone to come get us.”

“Ooh, are you going to Daniel today?”

How the
hell
does she know all of this?

“Yes, they are,” says a dry voice from the still-open doorway. “And I don’t think he’d be happy to find out you delayed them.”

I never thought I’d be so happy to see the cheerless woman who brought us here last night, but at this moment I could kiss her.

“Run along, you two,” the woman says dryly, and we share a look that tells me this couple is
not
popular around here.

Like I needed an insider to tell me
that
.

The two scurry away much like puppies who have just been caught peeing on the carpet, and the woman looks us up and down to judge our
readiness
. Then she simply says, “He’s ready for you.”

Instantly, the terror is back. Maybe “terror” isn’t the right word. I guess I’m not entirely afraid of Daniel—if the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that I truly am a goddess and—when I keep my wits about me—I can survive just about anything.

But Sammi and Mark didn’t trust him. Went to great lengths to keep information about me from him. Which apparently didn’t work.

And yet, he gave me the painting. And judging by all the stalling after that, he knew what would happen when he did. He gave me the one thing I wanted more than anything else in my life.

Or any other life.

He gave me Logan.

I glance over at my
diligo
, somber and silent beside me. It’s hard not to feel grateful.

Nervously, I run my fingers through my hair and pull my hand back in shock. My hair is down to my shoulders. When did that happen? Wait . . . I remember. When Alanna exposed my scar, I wished my hair were longer.

Did that tiny thought make this happen? That’s more than a little terrifying. I vaguely remember the fear Sonya had of
herself
in my dreams. The surge of power that frightened her. Do I have it too, or is this normal? I hate that I honestly have no idea. I shove my hands in my pocket, pretending nothing’s wrong. I’m going to have to give this some serious thought later.

After locking the door, we follow the woman—who still hasn’t bothered to introduce herself—down the hallway full of doors, in the opposite direction from where we came in last night. A glow of light is beaming from the end of the hall, and as we round the corner my mouth drops as a cavernous space—bigger than any lobby I’ve ever seen—greets me.

But it’s not just the space—everything is filled with color and beauty and décor all reminiscent of ancient Rome. Plaster frescoes cover domes of alcoves, and pillars line the walls. Pillow-laden chaises and low tables are spread about, and a large buffet holds gold plates full of fruits, olives, and nuts as well as pitchers of honey and marble palettes of cheese.

And the paintings! Everywhere are paintings of such exquisite artistry I can hardly breathe as I stare down at them.

My fingers itch for a paintbrush as I take in the gilded frames of oils and watercolors, photographs and lithographs. I see, here and there, familiar paintings, and I can’t help but wonder if
these
are the real ones and if those displayed in museums such as the Met and the Louvre are actually Earthbound-created replicas.

I can barely drag my eyes away from the walls to take in the furnishings resting on intricately woven rugs of every shape and color I could possibly imagine. It’s like a Roman museum. Each enormous alcove is decorated, perfect attention given to details I wouldn’t even think of. Beautiful tables and china hutches and credenzas are placed just so on intricately threaded carpets. Even the landing we’re standing on boasts a mezzanine with gorgeously carved rails. A navy blue stair runner invites me down the eight-foot-wide winding staircase.

“This is wonderful,” Logan whispers. I nod in agreement but find that I’m afraid to go forward.

Afraid to enter this bustling world that feels too big, too advanced, too incredible for someone like me.

Too godlike.

“This way,” the woman says, pointing us through the crowd.

That’s right. We’re going to see Daniel
.

I never got a chance to tell Logan about how Sammi and Mark didn’t trust their illustrious leader. How, as Elizabeth explained, they’d found signs of
corruption
. It was something I’d intended to address before we were
summoned
. But then Alanna shoved her way in and then the woman was there and . . . I wish I could tell Logan
now
so that he’d know that I’m not ready to show all my cards to this man who may or may not be on the same side as us.

But now isn’t the time. Maybe it won’t ever be the time as long as we’re here. Do they bug rooms? Are they always listening? Or is that only the kind of thing the Reduciates do?

“Come on,” Logan gently urges, squeezing my hand. The woman is a good twenty feet from us now, and I hadn’t realized I was still glued to the floor. I force myself to nod, then lift my feet, clinging to Logan’s hand like a security blanket.

We traverse the lobby, and though I expect people to turn and stare at us, they mostly keep to themselves. Small wonder—we may actually be the least interesting people here. Within one hundred feet I’ve spotted people in kilts, a woman in a long, sweeping gown, a man in a toga, and another in what looks like Indian robes. There are individuals in familiar modern dress as well, but they’re far outnumbered by their more diverse counterparts.

“Are they all Earthbound?” I whisper.

“Certainly not,” the woman sternly replies. “I would say that at any given time roughly ten percent of our occupants here are Earthbound. Many,
many
humans work with us. Support our cause. But then,” she says, and her intense eyes swing toward me as we wait for an elevator, “you know that, don’t you?”

My thoughts immediately turn to Sammi and Mark, and I wonder again just how much these people know about me. How much they
think
they know about me.

“The daily staff, however, are dressed to match the theme of the main hall.”

Okay, I do see lots of people in multicolored togas. They look . . . busier than the others. So just what are the Earthbounds here doing? A bubble of anger rises inside me. Don’t they know humans are dying by the thousands—maybe tens of thousands now—while they’re buried all safe and secure out here in the desert?

“Easier that way,” the woman continues as I swallow down my anger. “You know who to ask if you need help. Togas on Friday, Baroque costumes on Saturday, Chinese dress jackets on Sunday, et cetera.”

“Does the hall change too?” I ask, and chide myself for the wonderment in my voice. Logan seems to be taking it all in stride—I’m the only one pestering her with questions.

“Of course,” the woman says.

Of course
. I narrow my eyes at her back. I don’t like her, but I have no one else to ask. “Why are there so many people here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down. I still don’t get it.