Authors: Kate Wrath
Eden (20 page)
"Eden," Celine hisses. "Come
on
. We
need to move." She makes an impatient gesture to her side.
But I shake my head. "No," I murmur. "We're
taking a detour." I take a left, and head off down a familiar-looking
street.
My feet pound out a steady rhythm on broken, crooked slabs
of pavement bursting with patches of slippery grass and weeds. A rusted can
skitters away from my booted toe, loud in the emptiness of the street. The
last of the sun has fallen behind the curtain of buildings. I run through
darkness, chasing a phantom. The alligator slips away between the walls ahead
of me, and though I'm sure it only exists in my mind's eye, it seems so real.
I'm aware, vaguely, that Celine and Apollon are behind me, running to catch up,
but I don't really care if I lose them. This all seems too familiar, too
recent, and I realize that I did something similar—ran off, chasing intangible
things—in Minneapolis. Lily was behind that, too.
I slam to a halt, running into a wall of my own insolence.
I'll be damned if I'm going to let anyone mess with me like that, even if she
is... was... me. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and count backward.
Ninety-nine.
Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven. Ninety-six.
"What the hell, Eden?" Apollon puffs, stopping at
my side.
"What's going on?" Celine asks, suspicious, but
calm.
I open my eyes and look at the dark street ahead. Deep
breath. "There's somewhere I want to see."
Celine's eyebrow cocks. "Where?"
I raise my arm and point. "It's just over there."
She looks me over, frowning, but in the end she nods and
starts walking. She pumps the shotgun first, and leads with the barrel at a 45
degree angle.
"Are we playing pirates again?" Apollon murmurs,
sticking close to my side.
I sigh. "Apparently."
"So you had another dream." He's keeping his
voice low—low enough that Celine, a few paces in the lead, probably can't make
out all his words.
"Alligators," I say. "I mean, really.
Alligators. What is it with the alligators?"
"Maybe you had one as a pet. I mean, you had one of
everything else."
As I whap him, Celine snickers ahead of us.
"What's the—"
Her hand silences me. She motions us back against the
wall. We melt into an alcove in a dilapidated entryway. I'm holding my
breath, wondering what it is, when I hear the footsteps. My least-favorite
kind of footsteps. Metal footsteps. The Sentry strides by on the
cross-street, a ghostly shimmer of aether vapor in the moonlight. We wait a
moment after it has passed, then venture out again. None of us speak. We
place our footsteps quietly, eager to put some distance between ourselves and
the Sentry. We're less than half a block up when someone runs out of the
darkness ahead of us, an axe raised above a violent, tooth-bared mouth. He's
headed straight for Celine. She raises her shotgun reflexively, but hesitates,
drops it, and falls into a defensive fighting stance.
The man staggers, clutching at the blade that protrudes from
his chest. Gurgling, bubbling, he drops to his knees. Celine looks at him
with wide eyes.
I stride forward, grab my blade, and pluck it out, being
careful to step aside as blood gushes freely from the man's wound. He falls
face first into the grass. I crouch briefly to wipe off my knife on his filthy
clothing. "Come on," I say, sheathing the weapon. I take the lead
once again. Celine and Apollon follow without a word.
For a moment, I panic, believing I've lost the trail, the
ghostly reptile guide. But squinting, I catch a glimpse of silver slithering
shimmer. I hurry after it, dodging down an alley and turning onto another
street. Then I'm there. No alligator. Just me, and a building, and a sense
that I've been here before.
After a brief, animal pacing I find a way up—some nearly
invisible handholds in the wall, and then a pipe. Maybe I did have a thing for
scaling pipes. My climbing seems to have improved, and in no time I'm pulling
myself onto a rooftop. I look around and determine that there's no other way
up except for the one I just took.
Celine, and then Apollon, join me on the roof. They stand
there, watching me, deciphering my curious ways, or perhaps just thinking I'm
crazy.
I mostly ignore them. I'm busy circling the rooftop once,
twice, looking for something. Looking for anything. There's not much here to
hide whatever I could be looking for. At last, I kick at some dead leaves, and
there's something scrawled on the roof beneath them. I crouch down and brush
the area clean, squinting to see what it is.
"Hmph," says Apollon, his shadow falling over half
of me, leaving me with a weird, disconnected feeling. My hand is in the
moonlight on the roof. I stare at it as Apollon says, "A playing card.
Go figure."
"Four of spades?" I look up at him, but his face
is in the dark. "Is that significant?"
His silhouette shrugs. "Not that I've ever heard."
Celine silently appears at his side. "...What's going
on?"
"Nothing," I say, rising to my feet and kicking
leaves back over the drawing.
She makes a face, but doesn't argue.
I walk to the edge of the roof, lean against the railing,
and look off over Miami. Most of it is cloaked in darkness, but there are blue
spots of aether here and there, and a strong shimmer to the south along the
coast. That must be Brickell. Apparently, they have tall buildings and lots
of aether—the only other tribe with a plentiful supply. Aside from that, there
are some orange dots. Flickering bonfires and glowing patches of oil
lamplight. There's a quietness, and the breeze is warm and moist, carrying the
salty smell of ocean as it brushes back my hair. A kind of melancholy sinks
into me. Some sort of intensity and longing and wishing for something that I
can't name. There's a quiet, staggered flash in the sky, and a gust of wind.
I breathe deeply of the air, trying to feel, to touch, to name that thing that
haunts me.
"Storm's coming," Celine says casually, arms
folded and hip cocked, as she stops at my side.
"Will it be bad?"
"This?" She shrugs. "Probably really wet is
all."
I breathe in more of the air, holding it deep in my lungs
for as long as I can. Closing my eyes, I can feel the rain on my face, imagine
it running in rivulets, soaking me through. It's so vivid, so real, so
sensual. The memory flickers though I try to hold it. I clamp my eyes
tighter, chasing it, trying to figure out which way it went, but all I hear is
the bark of a dog.
Gasping, I lean over the railing and scan the street below.
Silver in the moonlight, the dog comes running, turns around, runs back the way
he came, and a moment later appears again. He sits down on the street below my
railing and blinks up at me, wagging his tail.
"Hey, dog," I say. "Did you find
Jonas?"
The dog keeps on wagging his tail.
I toss Celine a sardonic smile. "Maybe you should ask
him in Spanish."
She leans over the railing. "¿Encontraste Jason?"
The dog yips and wags enthusiastically.
Celine looks at me. "Yep."
I swallow and cross my arms. "Good." My voice is
a little too light, too hollow. But then Jonas appears, running down the
street, and I'm too happy and relieved to think about which language or which
name the dog understands. I wave at Jonas as he gets closer. "Up
here."
He stops at the base of the building by our canine friend,
panting, hands on knees, eyes tilted up to us. After he's had a second to
breathe, he calls quietly "What are you doing up there?"
Celine makes a face and throws her hands in the air while I
consider how to explain. But then Apollon is there beside me saying,
"Treasure hunt." He leaves it at that.
"Thank god," Jonas says. "I was worried I'd
lost both of you." And he's too distracted by finding us to raise any
more questions. Except... "Should I come up?" He glances doubtfully
at the pipe on the side of the building.
Apollon widens his eyes at me, passing me the question.
"Ah...." There's suddenly nothing more I want in
the world than for Jonas to come up. My heart slams around inside me, sending
rushes to my head and squirminess to my belly. My hand tightens on the
railing. "No. We're on our way down."
Apollon sees through it—a fact evidenced by the quizzical look
he gives me as we disembark down the pipe. My jaw tightens in answer. He
leaves it alone.
When my feet hit the pavement, Jonas is immediately tugging
me into an embrace. I collapse against him, into him, completely unable,
unwilling to separate myself from him. "We were worried about you,
too," I finally manage, drawing back. That tiny little step feels like
someone is pulling my soul out. I choke off something like a sob and draw on
everything inside me to plaster on a calm face.
"Are you OK?" Jonas asks, drawing me back to him.
My hand is on his chest, a barrier between us.
"Fine," I say, turning away and starting to walk. "I breathed
too much of that damned smoke. And this... air... doesn't help." I swish
my hand in a gesture that encompasses all the air of Miami.
The dog is at my side, licking my hand. I want to yank my
fingers away, but there's something so sympathetic and compassionate in the
gesture. I rest my hand on the slick fur of his head as we walk.
Jonas, Apollon, and Celine fall in behind me, murmuring
quietly, catching up on the events of the evening. I'm sinking into deeper
thoughts, so I don't have much attention for them. After I've walked about a
block, I halt suddenly. I've just been walking mindlessly. I could be going in
the completely wrong direction. But no. I'm not. Awareness seeps in,
quietly, then fiercely. We're not all that far off the place with the sewer
and the alligator drawing. This is the same part of the No Man's. So why
here? What does the No Man's have to do with my past? With alligators, and
playing cards, and incredible longing. I close my eyes and sigh a long, long
sigh.
"What is it?" Celine murmurs at my side, resting
her hand on my elbow.
I sigh again, glancing at her face. Half in shadow, half in
moonlight, she's as beautiful as ever. My first instinct is to brush her off,
but instead I say "Everything. Do you know this place? I mean, do
I
know this place?"
Her eyebrows climb a notch. "No," she says.
"I don't think so." There's a sincerity in her words. Truth. If I
do know this place, she knows nothing about it.
I link my arm into hers and start forward again.
"Well, it feels weird. Really weird. Can we get home before it
rains?"
"I'd absolutely love to get home," she purrs, sauntering
along next to me. Vaguely in the back of my mind I tag it as odd that we seem
to be out for an evening stroll now, rather than sneaking about in the
darkness. Even Celine seems so much more relaxed now that Jonas is with us,
and she was completely on top of things before. But no, now that I'm
observing, she keeps her shotgun tucked under one arm, pointed at the ground,
but ready. I try to mimic her casual vigilance.
We pick our way back through a No Man's that is quickly
becoming familiar. I recognize some of the buildings, some of the landmarks.
A particularly huge clump of grass that seems to climb up the corner of a
building. A wooden pole tipped across a section of street with a skinny tree
growing through it. A smell of putrid flesh and swarm of insects around a pile
of rags. The opening to an alley—to
the
alley. I nod my head
surreptitiously in that direction, and Apollon's lips draw out in a line. Our
voices seem to have fallen away, and for a few moments, there's a feeling of
emptiness. A feeling like something might be watching us. Might be behind
us. I want to walk faster. But then there are the lights of Wynwood,
twinkling, and blue, and welcoming. Soon we cross back into our own streets,
Celine calling out to greet the guards before their rifles can point at us.
They usher us safely into the arms of home with smiles and questions and
excited murmurs.
"Have the others returned?" Celine asks a tall man
wearing a bandana on his head.
"All but you." His words are thick with an
accent.
"How many didn’t?"
"Four," he says, his voice dropping, but staying
steady. "Four have sacrificed themselves for our future."
Celine pats him on the arm, then leads us off down the
street.
Jonas snatches up my hand, sticking close beside me now that
we're in Wynwood. His fingers are warm, his grip firm and reassuring. But I
keep thinking about the playing card. The Four of Spades.
Jonas lays propped on his elbow next to me. We've had a day
of rest, of minor victory celebrations, and now we're in our own quiet space.
The blankets are slightly askew beneath us, making a maze of wrinkles that runs
over the surface of the bed between us. My thoughts seem to wind around in
that labyrinth, turning in on themselves again and again, but never finding a
conclusion.
"I'm just saying..." He reaches out and strokes
the backs of his bent fingers down my cheek. "What you have in
here..." He cups the back of my head, his thumb stroking over my temple.
"It can change everything."
My eyes linger for a moment on the long lines of fabric, the
shadow that plays between each wrinkle. Finally, I look at his face—a bad
choice because everything inside me softens at the sight of him. His eyes are
something green and vibrant growing inside me. I want to succumb. But I lower
my gaze back to the blanket, as if I'm not affected, and try not to feel the
incredible, nerve-traveling softness of his touch. I shrug without taking my
face off of my elbow-propped hand. "Yeah," I say. "It could
change everything. Like it could leave me worse off than Jack, or just plain
dead."
He pauses with his lips parted, his eyes scanning my face.
I look at him again, now, full in the face. "Are you
OK with that, Jonas? You don't mind if they scramble my brain for
breakfast?"
His brow furrows, head shaking. "Of course I do,"
he whispers. "Of course. Don't you know that?"
I lift my eyebrows, giving him a doubtful look.
He scoots a touch closer, like the closeness can communicate
his truthfulness. Like it can prove his heart. "Eden, if I thought there
were
any
other way—" He cuts off at my expression, then reasserts,
"Screw the fucking world. If I thought you were safe as you are—but you
don't seem to understand. I've gone over it with Coder seventeen times. I'm
going to go over it with him again tomorrow. He's certain that if the thing
stays in your head—" He cuts off again. This time, he looks ill, and
swallows. I don't like that look at all.
I close my eyes and turn away, rolling onto my back, sinking
into my pillow with a sigh. Mazes seem to form behind my eyelids.
My pillow moves next to my cheek, and warm, moist breath is
on my face. I can smell him, the wonderful, nostalgic scent of him. That
scent is safety, and secret closeness, and longing. It makes tears swell, but
I keep my eyes closed, careful not to allow any to escape. I breathe steadily
until they fade away like phantoms.
Jonas slides his arm over my stomach. It's hotter than hell
in here, and his hand is like an oven, but I don't care. He's at an angle, his
face close to mine, our bodies apart, so there's enough breathing room to be
close like this without completely wilting. A quietness has come over the
room, come over us. We lay still without speaking, and in the long, beautiful
stretch of moments with the aether lamp throwing a shimmering blue cast onto
the ceiling, my breathing grows deeper, slower, and I drift.
I drift, and I dream.
I'm in a maze. A long maze of soft, curved lines. I run my
hand along the fabric wall as I walk. And walk. And walk. I must turn a
thousand times, and I never find anything but the same long lines of fabric.
Part of me wants to panic, but I don't. There's just a flutter in my chest, a
confusion of emotions, a deep frustration. But I don't seem to have the energy
to commit to panic.
I glance down, and in my hands I hold a paper. On the paper
is an 'X'. There are some lines that seem to dance around. Or maybe there's
just the 'X'. I look off into the distance and sigh. Then I realize that I
can't see well, and I touch my face. There's a patch over my eye. I try to
pull it off my head, but it seems to be stuck there. So I walk, only seeing
half of what's there.
For a moment, I'm sitting in the dark in the moonlight, and
Jonas is sitting across from me. I recognize this place as the little enclosed
space behind our shack in Outpost Three. Only it's not. It's somewhere else.
The important thing is the way that the full moon shines on half of Jonas'
face. Such a beautiful face. He smiles at me and raises his wings from his
back, a dark stretch of feathers glowing blue in the scarce light.
And I'm walking and walking and walking down the long
stretch of fabric maze, seeing half. Or maybe I
am
half. It's like an
itch that suddenly becomes unbearable. I claw at my face, tearing, trying to
rip away the patch, but my hands are bloody and the thing clings to my face as
though it's part of me. I drop to my knees, sobbing, certain that I won't ever
rip it off without ripping off part of myself. I place my face in my
red-slicked fingers and weep.
"Eden." It's a whisper, at first, but it grips
me. I raise my face. "Eden." I know that voice. It keeps calling
my name.
Eden. Eden. Lily. Eden.
"Where are you?" I cry, stumbling to my feet,
starting to run. I just know I'm going to keep running and running, the way
I've been walking all along.
A black feather drifts down in front of me, onto the green,
green grass. I look up, and I'm surrounded by trees, lovely and green and
growing and smelling so fresh and familiar and heart-wrenchingly perfect and
safe
.
Longing overwhelms me. But he's there.
Right there.
Oscar-then-Jonas lifts his hand, and in it is a key.
"Here." He raises it toward me. And I see him place the key in the
keyhole in my eye patch. I see myself sigh as he turns the key and my whole
head opens up like a treasure chest. Inside is... a playing card. Jonas
plucks it from my head, tosses it down on the ground. The Four of Spades.
"You have the high card," Jason says, and smiles a charming, crooked,
delicious smile.
Then he's gone. I blink and look around as the ocean wind
picks up my hair and whips it around my face. I'm standing on an island,
completely alone. Four walls spring up around me, closing in. Closing in.
Now I'm panicking as my space grows ever smaller and smaller. I open my mouth
to scream, but no sound comes out. I'm looking down the black pit of my open
mouth behind a set of iron bars.
"Eden," Jonas whispers. "Eden." I sit
up, shivering, sweating, soaked. Jonas draws me closer to him. "It's
just a dream. You're OK. Nothing more than a dream."
I roll toward him and bury my face against his chest,
closing my eyes. "I know," I whisper. But it's not. It's so much
more than a dream.
***
"Listen guys," I say, spreading my palms wide,
"this is getting ridiculous. Why don't you all go find something useful
to do. I'll be fine."
One of my guards, a tall, thick wall of meat with a scar
running across his nose, turns his face to me, but says nothing.
We're on the terrace, still. I've stopped, so they've
stopped. For the most part, I've been phasing them out, but for some reason,
with these things on my mind, the bubble of flesh and steel is really getting
to me.
"I mean it." My voice raises a notch in
incredulity. I point. "Piss off."
Some of them grunt. None of them move.
The scar-nosed guy says, "Sorry, Lily." That's
all. No logical argument. Nothing.
They surround me like stone columns holding up a pavilion.
Between two of them, I spy my salvation. Jonas is just ascending the top steps
to the terrace.
I clear my throat and raise my voice, though even I can hear
that it sounds contrived. "Jason." I wave him over.
His lips press into a tight line as he considers me. He
walks to my side, makes no comment.
My fingers curl desperately around his elbow. "Make
these guys go away. Please?"
He glances around my encirclement, then back at me.
"They're here to protect you."
"I don't need protecting."
"You kind of do—"
"No." I take my hand away. "You try it,
always having a flock of goons breathing down your neck. It's like being in a
box
."
I punch the last word out and clamp my jaw.
Sympathy washes over his face, through those beautiful green
eyes. He reassesses the circle, then says to them, "I don't suppose it
would hurt to give her a little breathing room now and then." He turns
his eyes back on me. "She'll be
careful
."
I nod dutifully.
Scar-nose clears his throat. "Sorry, Jason," he
says. "The guards stay."
Jonas blinks several times, looking stupefied. I must look
stupefied as well.
"But he's
Jason
." I throw out one hand to
gesture to the evidence.
Jonas is scowling. He raises one eyebrow at Scar-nose.
The whole circle shifts under the weight of that glare.
These guys are rocks, and they suddenly look more like puppies.
Scar-nose lowers his eyes, but provides no explanation. His
mannerisms are complete deference, but no one's deferring.
Jonas turns back to me, giving me the half-apologetic head
shake. "I'll look into it," he says. "See what's going
on." He shrugs, placing his hands on my shoulders. I start to make a
face, but he squeezes my shoulders and murmurs, "We have to choose our
battles. You'll be fine for a bit, won't you?"
No. Of course not.
But damn him and those alligator
eyes. I sigh a deep, heavy sigh as though my whole body is deflating.
He scoops one arm around my waist, pulls me close, forehead
against mine, and murmurs, "I'm sorry. I tried. I'll see what's going
on. Really."
If it was possible for me to deflate more, I would. I stand
for a moment, slightly swaying, my forehead pressed against his, my heart
descending a long stairway into my belly. It's not fair to feel this way. Not
fair, for love and longing to be so potent, so consuming.
As if he can read every weakness of my body and soul, Jonas'
hand tips up my face and he kisses me—deeply, sweetly, slowly. In this moment,
I would die for any of it to be true—for him to feel the way that his lips say
he does. But it's all a show for the guards.
He draws away and wipes his thumb over my lips, still close,
gazing into my eyes. Jonas is as good of an actor as I am, his eyes tracing
the lines of my face, then scanning, scanning for something meaningful within
mine.
But playing the part is difficult for me—exposing my raw
self. My gut reaction is to force the emotion down before it can take hold,
and so... I know my eyes don't sparkle like his. My blush might look more like
embarrassment than arousal. My shoulders and jaw have gone tight and stiff.
But I'm careful not to draw away. With any luck, none of the guards will be
watching that closely.
Something flashes across Jonas' face as he withdraws, but
it's there and gone so quickly I can't make it out—probably disapproval at my
lack of effort. Well, he can go screw himself. I'm tired of this charade and
getting more tired by the minute.
"Don't be upset." He throws me a smile, catching
up my hand.
I wave him off. "I'm tired," I say. "It's
nothing."
"Things will get better soon." He slips his hand
from mine and walks away.
I turn to watch him go inside—probably to Spec's—then I head
toward the terrace stairs. My circle of guards is an extension of my body,
following every movement.
I walk with purpose through the streets of Wynwood—past a
market with stalls and cages and peddlers crying their wares. Through
residential blocks with peeling paint in pale turquoise and apartments stacked
end-over-end. Children scurry through the streets, chasing each other under
wash lines, around dumpsters, and hiding behind bendy palms. A woman bounces a
baby on her knee as she reads fortunes in intricately-illustrated cards she
turns over one at a time on concrete steps. Her patron hunches over, eagerly
anticipating the card that will inspire her next words.
The blocks fall away as I march onward, determined to do
this, no matter how unpleasant, no matter how my stomach insists that I stop.
I steer my thoughts clear of graphic memories, violence, panic. Kobee, and
slit throats, and a hacked-off head. I'm fine to do this. I'm fine. Until I
get to that street—that dirty, narrow street with the wall and graffiti, the
teens, the long flight of rickety stairs pushed against the building. If I go
up those stairs, I’ll get to the cell that is my destination. It’s only a bit
further. My footsteps fall short. I swallow, looking down the thin corridor
between the looming buildings to the stairs at the other end. Swallow again.
And again. There's too much saliva in my mouth. The glands under my tongue feel
full of needles, and hard. My throat is thick, and my stomach rolling in all
directions.
I turn away—not to leave. I won't leave. I've seen worse.
Done worse. I just need to gain control of my stomach. That's all. Stop
thinking about things. That guy was my enemy. He tried to kidnap me. He had
it coming. I take a deep breath, whirl on my heel, and march forward. My
guards lurch into motion.
Two steps, and the world slams into my brain, an emulsion of
shaken colors. Disconnected noises explode into my skull like jagged shards of
glass. Everything tips. I throw out my arms. A swarm of darkness claws at my
eyes. I sit quickly before I can fall. Cross-legged in the middle of the
street, I hold my face in my hands, folding in on myself. Slowly, shadows and
blurs subside. The noises of the city filter through the deep throbbing.
Someone is bending over me, hand on my shoulder. With a
great deal of effort, I force my eyes to focus. The nearest things resolve
first, and gradually, the rest follows.
"Are you alright, Lily?" I see his scarred nose
first, then the rest of his face slides into resolution, looking deeply
concerned.
