Earthquake (13 page)

“What?”

He runs both hands through his hair. “That’s how I got into this whole thing in the first place.”

“How long have you known?”

“Technically, it started when I was eight. Not that anything seemed weird at the time. As far as I was concerned I had a great life. Mom, dad, annoying older brother, but I couldn’t really do anything about that. And then one day my dad came home looking really, really weird, and he told my mom he had to go find the woman he loved, and he left.”

“He just left?”

“Didn’t take a single thing with him.”

“He must have done something that triggered his memories,” I say softly.

“That’s what they figured too.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The Reduciata.”

I furrow my brows. “I don’t understand how we jumped to them.”

“Well, I’ve since learned that Reduciates often prey on what you might call the ‘victims’ of Earthbounds. Families that get left behind. Lovers, children, people who don’t matter anymore,” he finishes in a bitter grumble, and I clench my jaw at those words. First the woman at the Reduciata prison, then Daniel, then Logan, now Benson. I don’t
ever
want to hear about people ceasing to matter again. “The Reduciates search for them just like they search for Earthbounds.”

“Why?”

Benson lifts haggard eyes to me. “Because they can feed their bitterness and turn them into
weapons
. They’ve been doing it for ages. When some people in fancy suits came to my mom and told her they knew where my dad was and that they could help her give him what he deserved, she jumped at the idea.” Benson waves his hand vaguely. “At first it was promises of child support and stuff, but eventually they told her the truth.”

“And she believed them?” I remember how hard it was for me to believe it myself, even when I had proof sitting in front of my face.

“Not at first, but she did believe
me
.”

I’m silent, waiting for him to go on, not understanding any of this.

“After the Reduciates told her what my dad was she backpedaled big time. She was sure she’d almost fallen for a scam. But then they pulled out a bunch of cards and asked both me and my brother what we saw. My brother didn’t see anything. I saw a bunch of shapes in what looked like sparkling paint.”

I can hardly think enough to get the words out. “But you’re not . . . you’re not . . .”

“I’m
not
an Earthbound,” Benson says with fierce determination—like it would be so awful if he were. “You can’t just
make
a new Earthbound. But the children of Earthbounds sometimes have latent—watered down, I guess—abilities. Most commonly, seeing the Earthscript.”

“Earthscript,” I echo. The name sounds right now that I say it.

“I suspect the fact that I could see something she couldn’t is the reason my mom decided to listen. And that’s when my life really ended. Even more so than when my dad left. My mom became obsessed with her role in the Reduciata. They kept telling her that surely he had gone to the Curatoriates, but they could never find him. For years she worked for the Reduciata—doing anything they wanted—in exchange for them continuing to look for my father.”

“Doesn’t she know what they do? What they have planned?”

Benson shrugs. “As much as anyone does.” He leans forward, his forearms braced against the table now. “You don’t understand how it is, Tave. They feed your hatred and anger until you’re blind to everything else. It’s how she was. How she
is
,” he amends. “So tunnel-visioned by her hate and desperation for revenge that nothing is more important than that. If she’d been allowed to just take time to heal and mourn and all of the things that normal people do, I think she would have been fine.” He shakes his head. “But the Reduciata got a hold of her and they’ve . . . they’ve twisted her until she’s almost unrecognizable.”

“What about your brother?”

Benson cringes like I’ve slapped him. “They—they made a soldier out of him and . . . I don’t even want to know what he’s doing now. They probably tell him he’s looking for Dad. I imagine after this long he’d actually kill him if he saw him.”

My throat is tight, and I’m having trouble swallowing. “And what about you?” I finally choke out.

Benson’s gaze is fixed on the desk. “I guess I was always a bit of a rebel. I didn’t like what I kept hearing from these people. And they always wanted to use me for my ability to see the Earthscript. I started to lie and tell them I didn’t see it after all.” He gives me a pained smile. “I was little; I thought it was a good idea. I never considered that it would be painfully obvious I was lying. But things were at least bearable until we actually moved into a Reduciata compound. Before that I’d go to the library every day after school and stay until dinnertime. Hiding, basically. But once we moved I couldn’t go
anywhere
without the Reduciata and everything it stands for being thrown in my face.”

“But you still chose to become a member, eventually,” I say, reminding myself of the important part. “You have the tattoo.”

He chuckles dryly. “You’re so fixated on that mark.” He’s silent for a long time, and I don’t push him.

Though I want to.

“When I was twelve, my brother was fifteen and had just been sent on his first ‘real’ mission—I didn’t
want
to know anything about it. He decided it was time that his wimpy little brother became a true Reduciate. He went to the tattoo artist and told him that I’d said my vows, but that I was afraid of needles. He and couple of his buddies held me down, and I got my mark. End of story.”

“He tattooed a twelve-year-old boy while he was being held down?”

“The world of the Reduciates is nothing like the world you know.”

“Okay, fine . . .” My voice trails off. “But no one was holding a gun to your head when you met me.”

Sob story aside, that’s the crux of the issue. I can forgive him for getting involved in an organization he’s been tangled up in since he was a kid. But everything he did in Portsmouth, he did of his own free will.

“They might as well have.”

I scowl at him and wait.

“When I was seventeen they let me get my GED, and a few weeks later I was shocked but pleased to get into New Hampshire, despite a late application. Not that it mattered; I didn’t think the higher-ups would let me go. I should have realized when they
did
that they had something in store.” He leans his forehead on his clasped fists. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they got me accepted to begin with.”

“When was this?” I ask warily.

“A month after your plane crash,” he says bluntly.

A pit forms in my stomach. I remember Benson asking me—just a few weeks ago—how far I thought this whole conspiracy idea went.

I don’t think even
he
knew at the time.

“So they gave me a taste of real life, of freedom. Of everything I ever wanted, really. And three months later they brought me in. To Marie.
Marianna
they all call her there.” He lifts his head, his eyes lifeless. “As soon as the message arrived I knew I’d stepped into a trap. So I went in to see Marianna, and she told me about you.”

“Told you
what
about me?” I shoot back, more a knee-jerk reaction than anything.

“Just the basics. That you were important; that they needed an inside agent to facilitate your memory-retrieval process. The plane crash,” he adds in a mumble.

“You knew.
Everything
.”

He nods, his eyelids squeezed shut.

“Why you? Surely they had dozens of people who could have done it.”

“I was young. I was ‘fresh,’” he says with quotey fingers, “as Marianna put it. I wasn’t a Reduciate—not truly—and she thought I would be more convincing.”

“She was right,” I mutter half under my breath.

I don’t know if he heard or not, but he doesn’t respond. “And, of course, I can see the Earthscript. They wanted someone who could really know
exactly
what was going on with you. And so they decided I was the man for the job.”

“And you said yes.”

“I said no,” he whispers.

I sit, stiff, staring at him.

“And then they reminded me that my brother and mom were both under their control and that they could make their lives inconvenient. Or simply short.”

I turn to the side so I don’t have to look at him, and wish I had a curtain of hair to hide my face. Would I have turned a stranger over to an evil establishment to save my parents? I push aside the little voice on my shoulder that says yes.

“So I made a deal with them. I told them I would do this for them—help some brain damaged, crippled girl get her memories back—and in exchange they would let me go. Forever. And I would keep their secrets.”

My mind latches onto the words
brain damaged
and
crippled
and I’m shocked by how much it hurts to hear them come out of his mouth.

“Problem is it wasn’t just someone—it was
you
.”

His voice sears like boiling water that feels warm for one instant before the agony sets in. “Benson—”

“I know, I know, none of that matters. . . .”

“But you kept going. Even after you met me.”

“I had to. You saw how Marianna was—now you understand why she hovered so much while we were studying at the library.” He fidgets in his chair and then adds, “I was watched every second by someone. If it wasn’t Marianna, it was . . . Johnston. You called him Sunglasses Guy.”

I want to throw up. More even than I have in the last half hour.

“I had to think of my mom and brother. Of my freedom. And then when . . . when you became more important than all of those things put together, it was too late. I was already screwed. I tried . . . I tried to get us away but—” His words cut off and he shivers. “You don’t understand how powerful they are. How fully they were integrated into every part of my existence.
Your
existence,” he adds in a whisper. “I tried.”

“Why do they want me?” I say, and even though he’s lied to me a thousand times, I feel guilty asking him a question I already know the answer to, guilty testing him. But I can’t afford to believe every word that falls from his lips. That’s what I did before, and look where it got me.

Does he know the secret that I’m a Transformist? Because I sure as hell know the Reduciata does.

“That’s why I kept following you,” Benson says, his face taking on a sense of purpose that makes him look more like himself. More like my Benson. “They didn’t tell me originally, but based on the little bit I was able to hear while they had me in custody, Jay—or, you know, Mark—he was right, it
is
about the virus.” He pauses. “Tave, you’re immune.”

I glare hard at him, his words taking me completely off-guard. This doesn’t have anything to do with transforming. Doesn’t have anything to do with
anything
. “What?”

“You’re
immune
. That’s what Marianna said.” He sounds excited now, and his features are so animated that I can hardly draw breath at the sight. “So I’m figuring they wanted me to help you provoke your memory process so that you could remember why you’re immune so they can replicate it. She said they needed to find you and pick you up and start testing you.” He suddenly sobers then continues, “That’s why I begged the Curatoriates to take me with them, even if it was as a prisoner. Why I told them about the painting and the Earthscript. I had to get to you. So I could find a way to tell you. We—we have to stop this before it kills everyone.”

I rise to my feet, pushing the chair back with a loud squeal. “I am
not
immune. I guess I just have to decide if
you’re
lying to me or if they were lying to
you
.”

“Tavia, wait, please! Don’t go.”

I’m not sure what makes me stop. The pleading in his voice? The fact that my heart aches at the thought of leaving him again? Of walking away for good?

But I can’t make myself do it.

“Tavia, I know I’ve done so many things wrong. But I swear to you, I will never,
ever
lie to you again. Never.” His face is so open, his eyes begging me to believe him.

But I’m not sure I can.

I’m not sure I can believe any of it.

“I know that I’ve destroyed any chance of being
with
you again,” Benson says softly. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I did—earning your forgiveness—if that’s what it takes. And even if what I overheard
is
a lie, it’s got to be somehow useful to know what Marianna is
saying
about you. I don’t know how to convince you I’m sincere, but whatever it takes, tell me, I’ll do it.”

I pause at the door. “I fell in love with a history nerd who liked bad puns and pastel clothes and hated math. Does that person even exist?”

Benson looks down at the desk and is silent for a long time. “From the day my dad left I never got the chance to be the person I wanted to be,” he says, his voice hollow. “I planned to major in philosophy, not history; I do have a fondness for really bad puns; and I never want to wear Reduciate black again. Maybe
that
Benson wasn’t quite what you would call the
real
Benson, but it’s the person I always
wished
I could be.”

After that I can’t take it anymore. My heart is tearing itself to pieces, and if I don’t get out of this room, I’m going to throw up or cry . . . or possibly both. I pull on the doorknob, desperate to escape, but the door is locked.

Of course
it’s locked.

I’m sure if I wait fifteen seconds someone will unlock it, but I’m too frantic. I transform the space around the door handle into a puff of air and shove my way out, staggering into the hallway.

“Sorry about that,” I mutter to the people surrounding the door, but I don’t stop to answer questions.

I slam the
door to my room behind me, realizing vaguely as I turn the new bolt—one that I just made using my powers—that now Logan can’t get in. With my back wedged against the heavy door I hold my breath and look around, finally releasing it when I see that I’m alone. No Alanna pounding the door behind me, no Logan lounging in the room in front of me. A few moments to myself, that’s all I need.

Just a few moments.

I go to the bathroom and turn on the lights, staring at myself in the mirror. How can I look so familiar and yet feel like a stranger? I thought my life turned completely upside down when I found out I was an Earthbound two weeks ago. But now?

What am I, truly?

I’m an Earthbound; my powers make that clear. But even so, I have
unique
powers. Is it
possible
I’m also immune to this raging virus? Despite everything else? Isn’t that too big a coincidence?

I am the most powerful Earthbound in the world. I am the
only
Transformist in the world. I’m also the only person who’s immune? It seems like too much.

Unless . . .

Unless they’re all tied together somehow. If one leads to the other, though I don’t see how. Is that what my secret is about? But how could it be—I wasn’t any of those things when I was Rebecca.

Was I?

I pause with the cold water running over my hands. What if the secret is bad? What if the reason I didn’t tell Quinn wasn’t for his safety, but because I was afraid? I hadn’t considered that. Maybe it’s a terrible secret.

I wish I could just remember!

I groan and let my hot forehead fall against the cool mirror. If only I had my backpack. By the time I woke up in the Reduciata cells, they’d already taken it from me. Surely they threw Sonya’s braid away, dismissing it as nothing. I wish, wish,
wish
I had the braid now that Logan and I have resurged and I know that I can safely use it without wasting my final death.

That braid was the only key to her life in this entire world—the only method I could have used to figure out my dreams of her.

I wish now that I had used it, even though rationally I know I couldn’t have taken the risk without having first made sure Logan and I wouldn’t die forever.

And now it’s gone. Despite my brief dreams—which may or may not reflect reality—whatever Sonya knew is dead with her.

I splash water onto my face as I think about what Audra told me. About how limited my brain is for an Earthbound—even though I seem pretty normal for a human.

But my memories? They’re so inaccessible I may as well not have them.

Without my memories does it matter that I had past lives? Does it matter that there’s an immortal soul somewhere inside my body? Maybe that soul will do nothing but lie dormant through this life as I stumble through it being
Tavia the Human
 . . . plus superpowers. How much better is that than being, say, Audra the fully awakened Earthbound whose powers are still temporary?

I freeze, my hand on the faucet. I don’t want to forget myself.

The last year of my life has been filled with so much joy and pain. There were days I wasn’t sure I could survive. There were times my brain literally ached with the weight of the facts and feelings I threw at it.

But I wouldn’t take them back.

Not even . . .

I look up and see my own haunted eyes and whisper, “Benson.”

Not even him.

Yes, my heart rips in two all over again every time I think of that final night in Portsmouth—of that mark on his shoulder. But would I trade the pain of that moment for the memory of his heartbeat when I lay against his chest in the cheap hotel in Maine? I watch myself shake my head in the mirror.

I don’t want to lose memories of love.
Any
kind of love.

But apparently I don’t get a choice, because my brain can’t put stuff in long-term storage. All my memories from this life. Of everyone.

Gritting my teeth, I slowly undo the tight braid on the right side of my head. I’m not used to my hair being bound so tightly, and it’s making my scalp ache. But I’m safe here. I startle when someone fumbles at the doorknob, and for a second I’m afraid Alanna has decided to come by for a visit.

Then I remember I’ve locked Logan out.

“Sorry,” I murmur when I open the door. “I changed the lock.”

“It’s okay,” Logan says, smiling nervously. “As long as I can get to you, you can do whatever you want to the door.”

“I was afraid you might be Alanna,” I say, closing the door behind him. I avoid his eyes. I haven’t actually talked to him since I wouldn’t explain myself last night. Now I feel even
less
ready, but I know I have to tell him something.

Logan lets out a loud noise of disgust and kicks off his shoes. “Everywhere I went, they were
there
! Alanna and Thomas. I couldn’t shake them. What’s their problem?”

“Thomas seems nice enough,” I say, pulling at my own shoelaces. “And
quiet
. I’m not sure how he stands her.”

“Because she lets him grope her all freaking day long,” Logan replies, sinking into a chair.

“What?” I ask, head shooting up.

“It was
awful
,” Logan says, pulling me down onto his lap once we’re both barefoot. “They were seriously making out every time we stopped walking.” I fold my knees against my chest, and he wraps his arms around me—all of me—his chin resting on my head so his voice reverberates in my ears. “I mean, I certainly wouldn’t mind having my hands on
you
every minute of the day,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice, “but I have a degree of self-control. And some inkling of what’s socially acceptable,” he adds, sounding pissed now. We definitely agree on this topic.

“You should have seen the way everyone here avoids them,” Logan says, rubbing his fingers in random circles down my spine, like he has to work out his frustrations. “They physically make way whenever the two of them come around. It’s practically a shield the way they all scatter.” A dark chuckle. “If I thought they were even
remotely
trustworthy, we could use that to our advantage.” He shakes his head and leans back against the chair, his arms falling onto the armrests.

“Were you able to find anything out?” I ask, my eyes closing a bit sleepily as I lean against him. I didn’t realize until now just how much working with Daniel today wore me out.

“The basic geography of this place. I’ll draw you a map later. It’s actually pretty cool—it’s an underground pyramid, as far as I can tell. Like someone created it and then buried it in the sand.” His head cocks to the side. “Actually, that’s probably exactly what they did. But I couldn’t really scope out anything with those two hanging around. I don’t know what to do about them.”

“Be mean,” I suggest, only half-kidding. “Shout at them to get the hell out of your face?”

“No joke.”

We sit in silence for several minutes, me listening to Logan’s heartbeat, Logan thinking thoughts I can’t predict as he rubs at my knotted spine.

“So, are you ready to tell me who that guy in the cell was?” he whispers. “You seemed pretty shaken up about him.”

My whole body tenses, but I don’t pull away. “His name is Benson,” I say cautiously.

“How do you know him? From this life, or another one?”

“Oh, this one,” I say quickly. “He’s human. He’s from Portsmouth. From before.”

“Was . . . he your boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.” I push up from Logan’s chest and look down at him, trying to keep my face unreadable.

“He has a Reduciate mark.” Logan’s voice is steady, but there’s a tense undercurrent.

“He does,” I answer tentatively.

“So I assume you’re going to have nothing to do with him.”

“Well, I think I should . . .”

“Tavia!” My name explodes from his mouth. “You know as well as I do that the Reduciates are dangerous. They killed my family, captured us, and trapped us in a cell. And that’s just in
this
life. You can’t trust them.”

“We thought we couldn’t trust the Curatoria and now—”

“And now we have no other choice. Don’t forget that the only reason we decided to put even an ounce of faith in the Curatoriates is because they have the tools you need to help you figure out the virus and whatever else is going on with you.”

I rise from his lap and fold my arms across my chest at the phrase
whatever else is going on with you
. The hell does that mean? My brain injury? “I
do
realize that and—”

“I hope so. And I hope you
remember
,” he says with an emphasis I definitely don’t like, “that it’s because of the Reduciata that the virus exists in the first place. If this guy is a member, then you should stay away from him.” Logan looks up at me and only now seems to sense the change in my mood. The anger brimming at the surface. “For your own safety,” he adds, quieter now, but not backing down.

“He changed his mind,” I mumble, realizing that I believe at least that much of Benson’s story. “He’s the one who told Daniel about the painting that helped us resurge.”

Logan hesitates now. “So he’s on
our
side?”

“Absolutely.” I don’t say that what’s more accurate is that Benson is on
my
side.

But Logan’s not convinced. “Then why is he a prisoner?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s all I get?”

I’m silent. Answer enough.

Logan sighs loudly and runs his fingers through his hair. “Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll back off. But let me just say this. Be careful.” Before I can interrupt, he adds, “I
trust
you. But if you go back to see him—talk to him, whatever—I hope that maybe you’ll bring me along.” He says it lightly, almost casually, but I can feel how strained his voice is. How worried he is.

At least he says he trusts me. After a long moment, I nod and give him a weak smile.

He studies me for a long time like he wishes he could read my thoughts. I’m just starting to squirm when his face relaxes. “Your hair is cute.”

I stare in horror—his words are so similar to Benson’s, and right after arguing about him? Could he have . . . I stop mid-thought, remembering that I let down only one side of my Dutch braids and that I probably look pretty funny. I self-consciously tuck the loose waves behind my ear, shuddering as I inadvertently brush against the scar.

Logan reaches his fingers up and lightly touches the crooked line across my scalp. “Why don’t you just get rid of it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you can transform things, it seems like you could just transform your scar into regular skin, right?”

I feel simultaneously excited and repulsed by the idea. “Feels like . . . cosmetic surgery.”

He shrugs. “I guess it is. But it’s hardly a bad boob job. I mean, it obviously bothers you. At least, it bothers you when other people see it, or touch it.”

I shiver at the memory of Alanna’s fingers on my scalp.

“Think of all the people you would never have to explain it to. Ever. It might help you to . . . move on, I guess.” He pauses, then adds, “There’s just no reason to keep it if it makes you unhappy.”

He’s not wrong. But it feels like closing a door on a part of my life. Not a
good
part, but am I ready for that?

“Come here,” Logan says, pulling me toward him as he rises from the chair. “I’ll help.” We stand in front of the mirror, and Logan sweeps my hair carefully to the side and holds it back. It’s strange to let my scar be so exposed in front of anyone else. Even Logan.

“Do you hate it?” I whisper.

“How could I hate any part of you?” He bites his bottom lip, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “It’s just that I think it reminds you of everything that went wrong in your past. Maybe without it you could turn more fully to your future.
Our
future.” He leans forward, and I can see him peering closely at my skin. “But the scar itself.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t care less.”

That makes up my mind. My brain may be broken. I may be more human than goddess. But no one
else
has to know. I draw in a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, picturing a new kind of skin. Flat, pale, filled with tiny hair follicles. I open my eyes and feel for the scar. “It’s gone,” I say to Logan.

“Like it was never there,” he replies, giving me a kiss on the side of my neck that makes the skin there tingle. Then his lips move lower, pushing my shirt away to trail along my shoulder.

I nod my head in silent agreement. But an hour later my fingers still search for my nonexistent scar.

• • •

“I forgot to ask you how things went with Daniel today,” Logan mumbles, already nearing sleep. We both worked today—me on science, him on spying—we’re both tired. We’re both trying to deal with lives that have changed so much, so fast. I lay tucked against his shoulder in the darkness, my hair flowing around my shoulders in waves from the braids I may never wear again.

“Slow,” I say. “And difficult. Science was never my forte, and I’m essentially having to catch up via CliffsNotes.”

“I know you’re going to get it,” Logan says, and I’m surprised by the intensity in his voice. “You always manage to do anything you set out to do. Even when I would tell you it was impossible—you’d find a way. I know you can do it again.”

Everything inside me melts as I realize I can borrow some of his confidence to make up for my own. I’d been so focused on what
I
had to do that I forgot Logan is as wrapped up in this as me. And I haven’t been making it easy for him. Especially with piling the Benson stuff on top of everything else.

I think of our argument about Benson and feel a little silly. I’m causing Logan so much stress, but in the end, he still trusts me. Still loves me. He may not be with me every moment of the day, but wherever I am I can carry his love and confidence with me. I wrap my arms around his chest and squeeze as hard as I can in a silent thank you for his never-ending belief in me.

It makes me want to be with him, to be part of him. To show him how much he means to me. In moments I want him so badly I can hardly hold back enough to not hurt him as I claim his mouth with mine. Aching, needing, taking his strength as my own.