Dualed (31 page)

My Alt is somewhere in here. This one place where she can hurt me the most. Dread’s a beast now, its teeth and claws and stench already deep inside me. Its face is the look in his eyes as he went under, a blend of love, panic, betrayed trust.

Chord, no. Not this way. It can’t end like this
.

I take a step, another, then another, and with darting, fevered eyes scan the deeply shadowed front room on my right.

Empty, just as I left it that morning. The couch with my blanket tossed on top, the pillow still creased with the restlessness of my plotting. The coffee table with the med kit sitting on top, dangerously close to falling off. The mirror over the fireplace, where I can see the reflection of my shadow.

And her shadow moving in behind mine.

Only reflex borne on a shot of pure adrenaline has my left leg snapping outward to kick the front door back against the wall, keeping her stuck between both. Where she was hiding, waiting for me. Where I didn’t even think to look.

Mistake number three.

I kick it again, snapping her head once, twice, against the wall. In between the sounds there’s a sharp clatter. Her gun, falling to the floor and careening toward the kitchen.

Both hands freed now, she shoves hard at the door, and my leg can’t hold her or the weight of her rage. She springs loose and lunges at me. We crash to the ground, hitting the edge of the coffee table. My left shoulder convulses, its fire rekindled with each pound of my pulse. The med kit slams down next
to us, scattering its contents. Silver tools and bandages go flying—along with my gun, breaking free of my slick grip with the impact. Like my Alt’s gun, it glides over the hardwood and hits the far wall before coming to a stop. Too far for me to possibly reach. It’s gone.

Mistake number four.

She’s a fireball of hate and desperation and broken flesh as she reaches for my eyes, fingers clawed. I can smell her blood like fresh sweat, all copper and salt as it streams from her neck. The fact that she’s bleeding so much sparks hope inside me. It’s not too late. Maybe.

Both of us gasp as we struggle. There are no words that need to be said.

She’s on top of me, but all I can see as I’m trying to get a grip around her neck is a flurry of narrowed, twisted features, long black hair twisting everywhere like gothic ribbons, her blood soaking into my clothes. In this instant, we look nothing like each other, but we are one and the same, both of us crazed with the need to live beyond the next breath. This is the worst kind of battle; it’s come down to muscle against muscle, will against will, whose synapses and neurons fire the best.

Her hand reaches for something on the floor next to my head. Then sheer fire burns the side of my face as she drags the tipped point of the med scissors from my temple to my chin.

I scream. Bring one hand to my face, instinctively trying to ward off any further injury. The other swings blindly at her and makes hard contact with the side of her throat, where she’s already hurting from my bullet. I swear I feel the heat of her damage along my own neck, as if I’m wounded there, too.

A short burst of a word from her throat—maybe a plea, maybe a name, whose I can’t tell—and the hair rises on my arms at the sound. It’s garbled and thick with blood, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard it, but I know it just the same. Her voice—the way I must sound to someone else.

Then she’s on the move. Staggering wildly across the floor, going for her gun, only inches away from her fingers. I’m left watching, waiting, a lick of pure terror unwinding in my gut, filling my mouth with the sharp taste of it—

I drag myself to my knees. My right hand dances and skitters along my thigh, looking for the groove of the pocket of my jeans. Finding it, digging in.

Only a second now.

One last chance.

Be the one, be worthy
.

She’s barely turned around, her gun pointed at me, when my switchblade spins free from my fingers, smoothly and deftly. With zero hesitation, it drives into her chest.

A long, airless second. Breaths hold, eyes lock. The moment stretches between us, my Alt and me, full of understanding.

Then she’s no more than a heap on the floor. A burst of icy heat shoots through my eyes and I know they’re clear again, my assignment number dissolved into nothingness. Her life ending so I can have the rest of mine.

But I’m also falling. So incredibly tired, drained, stretched thin. I land hard. Close my eyes as I curl over, curl up. Only dimly aware that nothing hurts anymore. Not my face, not my shoulder, not any other part of my body that’s fought so hard.

How long I lie there before sound breaks the silence, I don’t
know. The click of a switch and new, brighter light floods through my eyelids. Halting footsteps come toward me.

I open my eyes. Just a crack. Too heavy, still.

Chord, finally safe.

“West?” His voice is groggy, confused.

I’m
finally safe.

“West!”

And I open my eyes all the way, as wide as I can. Because I don’t want to miss anything, not anymore, not ever again. Because it’s Chord I see rushing straight toward me now … and no one else.

My fingers weave through Chord’s, holding on tight. As we get closer to the classroom, I can’t help but squeeze his hand. I’m nervous.

“Ouch,” Chord says, laughing. “West, the hand. You’re going to bust it.”

“Sorry.” I loosen my grip without letting go. It feels good to be so close to him without being scared.

Suddenly Chord’s guiding me to the side of the hall. We cut across the flow of students, all rushing to get to class before the final bell rings, and duck into the shadowed doorway of an empty classroom. Almost alone as bodies continue to stream past. A few faces turn to look at us, but I ignore them, too caught up with Chord. The fact that we’re both here, alive and together.

He pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Are you sure you’re ready?” he asks. “You know there’s no hurry. He did say however long it takes before you’re better.”

I lift my left shoulder to show him. “No, it’s okay. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Liar.”

I scowl. He knows me too well. “Fine, but only sometimes. Like when it rains.”

“It rains three-quarters of the year around here.”

“Chord, it’s fine, really. I’ll rest it when it acts up, okay?”

He leans down, his dark eyes simmering, and kisses me until neither of us wants to come up for air. Only the ringing of the bell tears us apart.

“Damn bell,” he says softly. He places his hand along the scar that rides my face from temple to chin. A slash of purple, it’s never going to disappear. But it doesn’t bother me. When I look at it, I only think of how I won.

“And this feels okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s good.”

“Good.” His hand moves to the back of my head and tilts my face up for another kiss, but I dart to the side with a laugh.

“Chord. The bell.
Go
.”

He sighs and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Only if you’re sure. It’s been a while, you know.”

It has. It’s no longer winter but full-fledged spring now, and months after the completion of my assignment.

And it’s time. My injuries are pretty much healed, and I want to know what it feels like to grip metal and steel again—without knowing I have to kill.

I hold both sides of Chord’s face and gently pull him down. If we were truly alone, my sleeves wouldn’t be pulled down, and I could feel his skin next to mine, but we both know there’s no choice about me keeping my marks covered. I will always have to do it, for the rest of my life. I press a brief kiss on his
mouth, which has to be enough for now. I need to get going before my nerves start jumping again.

“Meet me right after class?” I ask him. “I told Dess we’d help him shop for a new cell. He still can’t find his.” Dess, who ended up completing on his own after all, and with more than a week to spare. Dess, who has somehow carved out his own special space in my life, one that helps me think of family without hurting as much anymore.

“Where? Someplace in the Grid, then?” Chord asks.

I nod.

“Yeah, of course,” he says. “We’ll pick him up from school, if he wants.” He reluctantly lets me go to lift his bag back over his shoulder. “But about this … you’ll be great, West.”

“I know.” I say it with a smile and hope it hides how nervous I am.

I adjust my new bag, smoothing my hand over the soft camel leather. Overloaded as always, but not like it is on Saturdays, when I cram it full of supplies for my internship at the gallery in Leyton.

Chord bends down for one more kiss, faster and more fleeting, but no less felt by either of us. “Love you. I’ll see you soon.” He gives me a slow grin that makes my chest ache. “And don’t hurt anyone.” Then he’s off, walking down the hall, late for his own class.

The class waiting for me is right around the corner. When I reach the door, I take a deep breath and nudge it open.

Baer is at the front of the classroom, looking just as tough and surly and brusque as I remember him. He’s balancing the point of a switchblade on the tip of one finger.

“So it’s not just about learning how to properly use a weapon, but also understanding the weapon itself, the properties of it, why it works the way it—”

Thirty pairs of eyes leave Baer’s face to see who is at the door. All of them are idles. Their expressions, full of innocence and inexperience, make me feel very old. So many questions behind those stares, and I can feel my face get hot, my mouth dry.

Baer turns his head at the intrusion. When he sees me, he makes the motion to come in, his pale blue eyes as warm as I will probably ever see them.

Without saying anything or giving even a hint of warning, he tosses the switchblade toward me.

My hand catches it exactly where I want to, as if it hasn’t been months since I’ve held a blade this way. But it feels lighter than I remember, no longer such a weight. Just a knife. No more life or death … at least not for me. I’ve got a different job now.

I look down at the switchblade in my hand. A perfect catch—because the tip of it is pointing straight at Baer.

There’s an actual smile on his face as he turns to the class and says, “Everyone, please welcome West Grayer—our new weaponry assistant.”

Baer turns back and gives me a brisk, satisfied nod. With that, I know he’s never doubted for a second.

That I am the one. That I am worthy.

ELSIE CHAPMAN grew up in Prince George, in British Columbia, Canada, before graduating from the University of British Columbia with a BA in English literature. She lives in Vancouver with her husband and two children, where she writes to either movies on a loop or music turned up way too loud (and sometimes both at the same time).
Dualed
is her first novel, with its sequel,
Divided
, to follow. Visit Elsie at
elsiechapman.com
.