A Need So Beautiful (7 page)

I’m partly relieved, but I know it can’t be true. “I don’t understand,” I say. “It’s not just the gold under my skin. I’m compelled to talk to people I’ve never met. Know things about them. It’s creepy.”

“You’re helping them,” he says.

“You know about that?” My heart rate explodes. Does Monroe know about everything? How can he know? “Are you like me?” I’m suddenly hopeful, but then Monroe shakes his head.

“No, sweetheart. I’m not. You . . . you’re so much more.”

I want to start crying again. My head is killing me and my legs are so sore I want to curl up and die. But I hold the tears back as Monroe watches me. “Stop being so cryptic and tell me what’s wrong with me,” I plead.

He presses his lips together. “I’ll tell you what I can. But I’m confused about something—how, after all this time, you still don’t know what you are. Has the answer never come to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmur.

He leans forward on the couch, putting his elbows on his knees. “Usually by now you would have known. Felt the answer in your heart, maybe?” He looks away as if considering the thought. “Unless . . . you wouldn’t believe?” Monroe seems content with talking to himself but I’m completely lost in the conversation. I can’t figure out what he knows about the Need.

“Monroe, please. I don’t understand. Do you know what this is or not?”

“I do,” he says softly. “And I knew the minute I treated you nearly ten years ago. I saw that you were different when I X-rayed your arm.”

“Wait,” I say. “Is it cancer?” Mercy’s mother died of breast cancer a few years ago and it was awful. Traumatizing. I nearly crumble at the idea of Mercy having to go through something similar with me. In fact, when I was a kid, Monroe used to test my blood for all sorts of things. He said my bones were weak. Is this why?

“No, no,” Monroe says. “You’re not sick.”

“Then what did you see in my bones?”

He smiles to himself. “I wasn’t sure I’d recognize it again—I thought I’d lost the sight. But when your X-ray came back, it showed the break—the light seeping from it. And I knew you.” He pauses. “Not
you
exactly. But your kind.”

A hot streak of terror races through me. “My
kind
? What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s okay,” Monroe soothes. “You’re not dying, Charlotte. You’re just . . . changing.”

I grab on to the counter again, holding myself up. “Changing into what?”

“The Forgotten.”

I stare at him, anger and fear welling up inside me. “What is that?”

“You have a destiny, Charlotte. A purpose. The Forgotten save people, they save souls. You’re like a gift to Earth.”

I can feel the color draining from my face. “There’s no such thing.”

Monroe winces. “Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I’m usually much better prepared.” He rubs roughly at his hair, darting his gaze around the room. “I thought it’d be easier than this,” he says, as if I know what he’s talking about. “I thought since we were close . . .”

“I don’t understand.”

He nods. “I know. But listen to me, this is a wonderful blessing.”

“I don’t feel very blessed.”

“A blessing for
us
. Because you’ve come.” He adjusts his position on the couch to better face me, but I’m barely staying on the stool. I feel like I might pass out. “The Forgotten,” he says. “They lead us toward the light, toward the good. You’re unconditional love, forgiveness. Guidance. You’re here to help.”

“But . . . it’s killing me,” I stammer. “I’m in pain. And now my skin—”

“I’ll help you through the pain and loss. I’ve been helping your kind my entire life, Charlotte. I’ve traveled the world looking for them, studying them, helping them cross over. I’m a Seer. I’m here to lead you home,” he whispers, bowing his head.

“No,” I say, suddenly overcome with loss. I’ve always thought Monroe could solve anything. He takes care of my cuts and broken bones, he helps with my research papers when Mercy has to work late. But now he’s just letting me go when I need him.

I jump down from the stool and dash over, dropping at Monroe’s feet. “Please, help me.” I clench my hands in front of me. “Please.”

His face scrunches with sadness as he reaches out and puts his hands over mine. “It’s your destiny,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop it.”

I suck in a breath and wipe at my tears. Monroe knew all along that I was different, but never told me. It makes me wonder what else he doesn’t tell me. It makes me wonder about him.

I’m not sure what to believe anymore. Still on the floor, I slide back from him. I wrap my arms around my knees and stare, feeling devastated. “What does this mean? Is more of my skin going to fall off?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I whimper, the horror of it nearly too much. “What else? What else is going to happen to me?”

Monroe pauses. “The Forgotten are sent from the light to live among us. And as you save people, continuing your destiny, this body will wear away. The energy will build inside you until you’re gone completely—a brilliant burst of light that’s more beautiful that anything you can ever imagine. You’ll leave us all with your love.”

I gasp. “It
is
going to kill me.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s going to set you free. It’ll let you go from this form so that you can spread your light, your love. You save lives.”

“I don’t want to save anybody,” I say. “You’re wrong. It’s not true.” And suddenly I just want him to leave. To leave me alone so that I can lie down, rest my body. Everything hurts, but it only reminds me of how much I want to keep my skin. Forget the light. I won’t go.

I stand up, flinching as I put pressure on my thighs. “Good night,” I say to Monroe, and walk toward the apartment door. I open it but don’t turn around. I don’t want to see that adoring look he has for the gold on my shoulder. When I don’t hear him move I say good night again, only louder. He gets up.

Monroe Swift—doctor extraordinaire—pauses in front of me, his blond eyebrows pulled together in concern. I used to think he could save the world. I used to think he cared for me.

“Soon you’ll understand,” he says.

I glare at him, angry. Scared. He nods and starts out the door. “Monroe?” I call. He stops and glances over his shoulder. “Why are they called the Forgotten?”

His eyes weaken, like he might cry. But instead, he clears his throat. “You’ll know soon enough, sweetheart.” He looks at the ground and then to me. “Let’s keep this between us, shall we?” he asks.

“Like anyone would believe me.” I touch the stitches, mostly to check that they’re still there. That this is still happening.

I close my eyes, listening to the sound of his shoes slapping on the tiles. And when it’s quiet, I close the door and lean against it.

Even though I’m mad that Monroe has been keeping secrets from me, I want to believe that he won’t let anything happen to me. No matter what he says now, he won’t just let me die. I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s friends with Mercy. He’s friends with
me
.

And he’s the only person who can help me.

Feeling unsteady, I stumble across the room to the couch. Even if Monroe is wrong about my skin, it doesn’t explain the Need. It doesn’t explain why I’m consumed with helping people I don’t know.

I yawn, feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. I’ll get more answers, but not tonight. I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it’s after midnight. I close my eyes, hoping that in the morning things will go back to normal . . . or as normal as they were yesterday. Which, admittedly, isn’t all that normal.

Chapter 7

I
’m startled awake by the sound of keys jingling in the apartment door. As it slowly opens I sit up, the dried tears on my cheeks leaving my skin feeling stiff. Georgia walks in, but pauses. She looks at me and then around the apartment.

“Mercy still at work?”

I nod.

“Cool.” She shuts the door behind her and turns the deadbolt before shrugging off her gray coat. “What are you doing up?” she asks, tossing her jacket over a chair. She drops down across from me and bunches her short dark hair into a ponytail on top of her head with an elastic band she’s been wearing around her wrist.

“I had a rough night,” I say.

“Boyfriends suck.” She sighs. “Especially the cute ones.”

We’ve never talked about Harlin, really, but she did mention once that he was
sexy as hell
. It made Alex and me giggle at the time. Weird that I never asked if she had a boyfriend. “Are you seeing someone?”

She tsks. “I got a guy waiting on me back home. I don’t have time for the fools around here.” She pauses. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“So what did your man do? He find another girl?”

I shake my head. “I was actually hit by a car tonight.”

Her dark eyes widen. “You okay?”

“Few stitches, but I’m fine.”

She seems to think this over, then nods and rests her head back into the chair and closes her eyes. “You’re crazy, girl.”

After six months I feel like this is the most heartfelt conversation Georgia and I have ever had. We don’t fight; barely even talk, really. It’s just that I’m always wrapped up in Harlin or the Need, and she’s . . . doing what she does.

When Georgia first came here, Alex was totally jealous. He’s been with Mercy since he was a baby, and he takes every opportunity to still act like one. So when Mercy gave Georgia driving lessons before him, Alex went berserk. And Georgia, being sort of a badass, told him off. Now they make a sport of it.

All I know is that Georgia’s mom will be out of prison soon, and when she is, Georgia will move back with her. Maybe that’s why I haven’t tried to get to know her.

I feel suddenly guilty, especially after what Monroe told me. I’m supposed to be some sort of angel, and yet I’ve ignored my foster sister for months.

I stare at Georgia, wondering what it’s like to have a mother you could remember, and then lose her. Wondering if she thinks about her mom all day as she waits for her. Georgia’s dark skin is dotted with old acne marks and her multi-ringed fingers start to brush back her hair. When she turns her head, I see it. Her scar.

It’s pink and jagged and it runs from behind her ear all the way down to her jaw. I’d noticed it the first day she showed up here, but no one’s ever asked her about it. I think we all just assumed it had to do with why she was in foster care to begin with. I’m struck by the fact that I don’t know. That I live with her and know nothing about her.

“What happened to your neck?” I ask.

She looks up and stares back at me viciously. “None of your damn business, Charlotte. Did I ask why you were out late getting hit by cars when you’re supposed to be at home?”

I’m stunned, feeling embarrassed. “No. You didn’t. I’m sorry.”

We’re quiet for a minute and I’m about to go to bed when Georgia starts talking, her eyes closed and her head turned away.

“When I was fifteen,” she says, “my mother was into drugs—using and selling. And one time she let the wrong people in.” She sucks at her teeth as if the memory is painful. “Mom got hit a couple of times, but I got the worst of it. Five stab wounds and a broken collarbone. Spent three weeks in the hospital.” Georgia looks over at me. “After that my mom got arrested for possession and I’ve been bounced from house to house. But I’m almost eighteen and my mom’s getting out in a few weeks and we’re starting over. She’s clean now.”

I’m amazed that she told me this, but I’m without words. Georgia had been attacked. Brutalized. Why hadn’t the Need sent me to her? Why didn’t I save her instead of some junkie in an alley or a thug running from the cops? It doesn’t seem fair. Nothing seems fair anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally.

She waves me off. “Now never ask me again.”

I press back into the couch, watching her as she rests, looking too tired to make it to her room. And I wish that I could somehow save her.

But mostly I wish that I could save myself.

There are sounds around me, but whenever I try to open my eyes, I sink underwater again, submerged in the thickness of sleep that won’t let me go.

“I don’t know,” I hear Georgia say. “She was talking about getting hit by a car.”

“Is she dead?” Alex asks as I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders and tug me forward.

“You’re a damn fool. You can see her breathing right there.”

Alex gasps, and there’s a whisper of a touch on my head. “Oh, yeah. Look, she has stitches.”

“Let me see.”

“Right there.”

And then I’m out, surrounded in dark. But in the distance there is a small glow, a tiny light. Suddenly I’m standing alone, the space starting to brighten as the light grows.

“It’s going to hurt, you know?”

I jump at the sound of the voice and look sideways. Standing next to me in the dark is the woman in black. Up close she’s even more beautiful than I thought—icy blue eyes, pale porcelain skin. And her voice has the slightest hint of a Russian accent.

“That light”—she motions toward it—“hurts like hell. Worse than being burned alive.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I’m like you.” She grins widely. “Only more evolved.” She stops suddenly and looks around, as if she heard something that I didn’t. She meets my eyes. “We’ll talk more soon.”

My eyes flutter and I feel a jolt. I’m lying flat in my bed.

“Finally,” Alex says. I turn to see him sitting on the edge of the mattress, pushing my legs. “Thought maybe you did die.”

I swallow hard, startled by my dream . . . by the woman. The smell of bacon is in the air and I’m comforted by home. I’d know the lingering smell of Mercy’s cooking anywhere. Within a few seconds the dream starts to fade.

“No,” I say, my voice thick with sleep. “I’m alive. Got the bruises to prove it.” I reach up to feel my head, the stitches still poking out. “My brain hurts,” I murmur.

Alex chuckles and grabs a cup of water off my dresser and holds it out to me. “Your savior is here,” he says after I take the glass, and he tosses me a bottle of Advil.

“Hallelujah.” I down three pills, and then think better and take one more.