Earthquake (2 page)

I can’t. Logan.
Focus on Logan
.

“You don’t understand, Logan.” I can hear the crazy-laced desperation in my voice, but I can’t stop. I don’t know what else to do. If I don’t pull out something impressive I’m going to lose him.

“They’re coming after you,” I whisper, trying to sound so serious—and
so
sane. “They almost killed me last week and they’re after
both
of us now and I have got to find some way to make you remember and I’ve tried everything and—” I force myself to stop; I’m just babbling. I plead with my eyes for him to believe me.

“Who’s coming after me?” Logan asks after a second, indulging me as one would a very young child telling an obvious lie.

“The . . .” I almost tell him everything—that it’s the Reduciata who are on his trail. That they are going to kill him. Probably in a matter of days, if not sooner. Possibly the Curatoria too, considering Mark and Sammi were hiding me from them. But I know that the specifics will only make me sound even more like I have a couple of screws loose.

His face is a rumpled mess of emotions. Despite my failed attempts at subtlety, he obviously thinks I’m out of my mind.

But there’s something else—that pull that made him ask if he knew me the first day we met. That attraction that makes him
want
to forget all logic and throw himself at something completely unexplainable.

I understand. I felt that way toward him.

We stand there, steeping in the silence, and for just a moment it looks like he’ll believe me. Or at least that he’ll listen. But good sense takes over, and he sets his lips in a hard, straight line. “Tavia, I—”

“I’ll show you,” I interrupt, my hair starting to fall across my eyes in damp strands as sweat rolls down my temples. Even at seven thirty in the morning the heat is so intense I know it can’t be natural. “Watch.” I glance in both directions and then open my hands to reveal a pencil.

I probably should have come up with something more original.

Logan just rolls his eyes and starts to push past me.

“Wait!” I gesture vaguely at the yard to my left and conjure a table and two chairs into existence.
Show
him what I can do: create something from nothing. He doesn’t know it’ll disappear in five minutes.

It’s not just any dining set. It’s the hand-carved oak set we shared as Quinn and Rebecca two hundred years ago. Maybe . . . maybe seeing it will do something. Spark some memory. Maybe not enough for a full re-awakening, but enough that he’ll take me seriously.

I turn back. “They’re after us because we’re
special
,” I say with solid conviction, keeping my voice even. “You can do this too, you just don’t remember. And you
have to
remember. At least
try
!” I wave again, and the table fills with “our” dishes. A rug that used to sit in front of the fireplace. His favorite coat draped over the chair. I’m ready to recreate the entire
house
if I have to.

Each time I make a new item appear, I glance back to check his reaction—to see if I’m stimulating any memories.

But he just looks confused.

Then angry.

Anger does not come naturally to him—never has
. I’m not sure who that thought comes from in my tangled web of memories—which one of my predecessors felt compelled to share this tidbit of information—but I know it’s true. Whatever I’ve done—whatever he thinks of me—this has pushed him over the edge.

“Stop!” he hisses very quietly, but with a harshness that swings me around to face him.

“Please,” I whisper, and somehow I know it’s the last word I’m going to get in.

“No,” he says. “Take your hidden cameras and practical jokes somewhere else. I’m done.”

“Logan—”

But he puts his hands on my shoulders—firmly, not roughly—and moves me out of his way. “Don’t follow me anymore.”

I’m gasping for breath as sobs of failure slam into me, overwhelming me like ocean breakers. I can’t . . . I can’t just—

An unseen force slaps my back and throws me against Logan as the world ripples beneath my feet. The motion tosses us to the sidewalk, splaying us both on the ground. My elbow stings, and blood drips from a cut across Logan’s eyebrows. I’m staring disbelievingly at the vibrant red when a burst of sound reaches us, deafening me even as I scream at the top of my lungs. Logan’s face contorts into a mask of horror, and I whip my head around to follow his line of sight.

All I see are flames.

Flames where Logan’s house used to sit.

We both scramble up and run toward it, our mutual desperation to see what’s happened so intense that I hardly feel the sharp pain jolting up my leg.

His house is
gone
.

A smoking pile of charred rubble sits in its place. Orange flames dance over its remains, staining the sky. If I didn’t already know, I couldn’t have guessed what sort of structure had previously stood there—everything has collapsed. The flames burn so hot that even from several hundred feet away the waves of heat feel like they might blister my skin.

This is a fire meant to kill.

Meant to kill
Logan
.

And I know who set it.

“We have to get out of here
now
,” I say, whirling and grabbing Logan’s arm, trying to drag him with me.

I might as well be trying to shove a boulder. He stares, dumbstruck, at the horrifying destruction.

A column of thick, murky smoke is already rising high. It’s going to attract the attention of everyone for miles around. Reduciata handiwork for sure—subtle is not in their vocabulary. If I have any shot of hiding the fact that Logan survived, I have to get him out of here. “Logan,
please
!”

I don’t hear the sound of tires screeching as a car pulls up beside us, but I smell the acrid scent of rubber a second before something comes down over my head, blocking my sight. I fight and tear against the suffocating material, but a sharp jab stings my arms, burns for a second, then blackness.

I’m not sure
how much time elapses before I haze into consciousness. My head aches and my throat is painfully dry as pinpricks of light worm through my lashes. I throw my arm over my face—my eyes are so sensitive; I must have been out for a while—and struggle to remember where I am.

And how I got here.

The explosion, Logan’s house, the bag over my head.

The stinging pain in my arm.

Drugs.

Logan!
Where is he? My head whips around, making me dizzy even as I fight to focus. There’s something on the floor—a dark lump in the corner, and as soon as I realize what—who—it is I fling myself over to it, to him.

“Logan. Logan!” I roll him over, my head spinning, and he emits a low groan but doesn’t open his eyes. I curl my body protectively around him and throw my hands up to create something—
anything
—to protect us from whatever the Reduciata, or whoever, has in store. But a new bout of sharp pain thrusts through my arm, and again the world swirls in front of me.

I collapse onto the floor, and my cheek falls against chilly tile.

My eyelids close.

The next time I float back to reality I keep my eyes clamped shut and take a few minutes to think. I acted too quickly last time. That doesn’t help anyone. No sudden movements—that’s step one.

Slowly, I lift my eyelids just enough to peer through my lashes at my surroundings. I’m in a stark white room, and I can see a huge mirror on one side that throws my reflection back at me. A two-way mirror, no doubt.

I sniff and smell what I swear is fresh paint. Everything is so neat and new as to be almost sterile. The smooth white walls, squeaky-clean white tiled floor, even the grout between the tiles is scrubbed to a pristine cream color. Like they poured a huge bottle of bleach over this place before dumping us in here. I shudder, wondering just what they had to scrub away.

I’m lying on my side, curled against Logan, and the warmth from his body makes me feel a tiny bit better. Yes, we’re obviously in some kind of prison, I guess, but at least I’m not alone. He’s still unconscious. Last time I awoke I at least got him to groan, but now he doesn’t respond to my touch at all. I wonder if at the same time they injected me they also got him with . . . whatever was in the needle. I glance down at my arm, where I can see two red dots. They make me want to scream in anger, but I’ve got to keep my cool. I focus on Logan instead.

I pull his limp torso halfway upright across my lap and cradle his large frame against my chest. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want him to get too cold lying on the freezing tile floor, but the truth is, after three days of him not letting me get near, I just want to hold him. This is the first time I’ve really gotten a chance to look at him this close. His skin is so tan against the honey color of his hair. I run my fingers through the short strands, remembering when they were long. Remembering
Rebecca
remembering. I scrunch my eyebrows together at that. Close enough.

He has a smattering of freckles along his hairline and across his cheeks that didn’t used to be there. Probably from living in the desert. There’s dried blood from the cut over his eye. I prod it gingerly, but it doesn’t seem too deep. My arms tremble as I attempt to check him for further injuries. I’m not sure where we are or how much longer they’re going to let us live, but at least we’re together.

As long as we’re together, there’s hope. Logan
is
my hope.

An icy spike of fear makes its way through my intense relief, and I force myself to peer around with what I hope is a degree of subtlety. Not that there’s much to observe. The room is bare and small, and the only possible escape is beyond that mirror I can’t see through.

Glancing at my reflection, I curl my shoulders, trying to look both harmless, which isn’t too hard given my pathetic appearance—bad hair, bedbug welts, no makeup, a big red mark across my cheek—and ignorant. The latter is, of course, more challenging. What I
want
to do is scream and yell and demand they let us go, but I have a feeling I’ll have better luck if I try to act submissive. That tranquilizer is nasty stuff. And I have no intention of staying a prisoner for long. Not after everything I’ve done.
We’ve
done. I just need to bide my time for a little while. First things first, I have to get Logan awake. There is no way on earth I’m leaving him.

While I’m waiting for Logan to open his eyes, I feel out the situation. “Hello?” I call quietly. My throat is so parched that only a hiss of a whisper comes out.

A bottle of water appears on the floor in front of me.
Appears
. It doesn’t get pushed through a little door or anything. Just pops into existence. Now I know for sure that there are Earthbounds involved. But whether they’re Reduciata—as I suspect—Curatoria, or something else entirely, I can’t be sure.

I reach for the bottle tentatively and consider the risks. They’ll want me to talk—so this water
probably
isn’t poisoned.

Probably.

I could make my own, but it’ll only disappear a few minutes later; and besides, I have a feeling that would bring about unhappy consequences.

I unscrew the cap and intend to sip—hoping to maintain some semblance of decorum despite my desperate thirst—but as soon as the cold water touches my cotton-dry tongue I’m gulping, and in seconds the whole thing is gone. Trying to cover my embarrassment, I resume my hunched posture of submission and screw the lid back on with as much dignity as I can muster. Then I set the empty bottle in front of me.

It vanishes only to be replaced by a new one.

This time I manage to drink the first few sips more slowly, considering this a test to make sure that this water is safe to ingest. It’s too late for caution regarding the last one, but I’m not taking chances anymore. I begin counting to three hundred, deciding that if I make it through a full five minutes without croaking, then the water
most likely
hasn’t been tampered with.

By the time I reach the 290s, I’m satisfied that the water isn’t poisoned and start actively trying to rouse Logan. This bottle is for him.

“Logan?” I lift his eyelids, first one and then the other. I poke and pinch his arm, shake him back and forth, and pat his cheeks sharply, just shy of a slap. Finally he starts to groan again. I keep prodding, not willing to lose this progress. He rolls to the side and starts to raise himself up to a sitting position, his eyes eerily out of focus.

“Here,” I say, proffering the nearly full water bottle. Even in his fuzzy haze he takes it and gulps it down about as quickly as I did. He shakes his head and rubs at his face as I set the water bottle down. “More,” he murmurs, his lips chalky-white.

Looking up at what I still believe to be two-way glass, I echo Logan’s request with my eyes and am rewarded with a cold bottle a few seconds later. Now that we’re three bottles in, I hand the newest one directly over to Logan without testing it. I’m going to have to trust whoever is behind that mirror one more time. After all, if they
wanted
us dead they would have done it already. Right?

But I think of Logan’s house, and doubt curls in my stomach.

Maybe it is the Curatoria after all. Don’t the Reduciata just want to murder us? Sadly, the thought that we might be in the custody of the not-as-bad guys doesn’t make me feel much better.

Logan is halfway through his second water when his eyes gain focus and zero in on me. “You!” he exclaims. Liquid spews from his mouth as he tosses the bottle down and crab walks backward away from me. His arms crumple beneath him, but he keeps scooting until his back is up against the corner, as far from me as the suddenly claustrophobic room will allow. “You stay away from me!” he shouts.

“Logan, I—”

“You did this!” he yells. “You made—you made all of this happen. Stay the
hell
away from me!”

“I didn’t—”

“My house,” he’s almost talking to himself now, struggling to get to his feet. But his strength isn’t back yet, and he leans against the wall, staggering to the side when he attempts to stand. He covers his face with one hand and lets out an inhuman sound halfway between a bark and a sob. “My family.” He’s nearly hyperventilating, and one arm splays against the wall as though grounding himself against everything.

Against me.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” He sounds like a little boy. But all I can do is give him the honest answer I know in my gut is true. I nod.

His breath is labored, the sound filling my ears. “Oh no. I can’t—they didn’t . . . Did I do something wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything,” I blurt. “It’s not your fault.”

My voice finds its way through his devastation, and his eyes narrow. “You’re right,” his says, his lips curling into a terrible grimace. “It’s
your
fault. Why couldn’t you leave me alone!”

“I was trying to save you,” I reply, my voice barely more than a whisper as I wilt beneath his accusations. My heart bleeds at his revulsion.

“Save me? The only reason I’m here is
because
of you.” He limps but manages to get across the room to the mirror, having clearly also identified it as the place where our captors are hidden. He pounds on it with both fists so hard I’m sure it’s going to shatter beneath his rage. “Please, get me away from her!”

“Logan, stop!” I shout, tears running down my face. I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to.

He’s right. I brought attention to him and in so doing I got his family killed.

I would hate me too.

There’s nothing I can do but crouch there on the cold, tiled floor, the strength drained from my body. It’s been eight months since my parents died, but watching Logan pound on the mirror, my mind flies back to the moment I realized our plane was crashing. Tears stream down my face in a torrent that splashes on the tile and joins the puddle of water that still drips out of Logan’s discarded bottle. For an instant it almost seems like the entire pool could have been formed from my tears.

It feels like hours before Logan relents. Finally, he crumbles into a heap on the floor, his face pressed to his arms, his forehead dotted with sweat.

I can only imagine what the people watching us are thinking.

Are they amused? Satisfied? Is this what they wanted? To watch us be so helpless? So at each other’s throats?

We’ve got to be in the hands of the Reduciata. Surely the Curatoria wouldn’t kill Logan’s family.

Surely.

But I can’t muster up a great deal of confidence to back that up.

My head aches from crying, and my eyes feel like cotton balls. But none of that compares to how my heart feels. Broken, shattered. No, something else. Empty.

After a while I feel my eyelids droop, and I fall into an exhausted, desperate sleep. Logan must as well because when I open my eyes again he’s calm. He’s back in his corner, far away from me, but his eyes are dark and glittering when they meet mine. He’s been waiting for me to wake up.

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice a little hoarse. Whether from screaming or disuse after sleeping I’m not sure. “And don’t lie this time.”

“I never lied,” I say, massaging my aching leg and trying to clear my foggy head. “I’m Tavia, like I said.”

“The whole truth.”

I look him in the eyes. What can I say to make him trust me? “I’m your eternal lover. We’ve been together since the beginning of time—in every lifetime that we could find one another.”

He lets out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Right. I should have known better than to even ask.”

“Then
you
tell me why you feel like you know me,” I say, my voice low. I’ve decided to focus on Logan and Logan alone, not the fact that we’re trapped or that we’re probably being watched by creeps who get their jollies from making us suffer; just Logan and getting through this conversation with him.

“Some people just seem familiar,” he says, brushing off my words. But I can tell, from the tiny creases between his eyebrows, that it bothers him. He doesn’t want to believe. He’s
desperate
not to believe.

“You saw me make that furniture,” I say, even as I wonder why I thought to make something so trivial.

He shakes his head. “A trick. Something to distract me while people were
blowing up my house
,” he says, the words a savage growl.

Okay, he’s right,
that
coincidence is not a happy one.

“Where did the water go?” I ask, and though a slight shake in my voice betrays me, I’m fighting not to let him know how much his mistrust is affecting me.

“What water?”

“The water bottle that spilled on the floor.”

He looks away. “They came and cleaned it up while we were asleep,” he says with total dismissal.

“Are you thirsty now?”

His eyes only dart toward me for a moment, but I can tell the answer is yes. I’m parched myself. And hungry. And I have to pee. But that’ll have to wait.

I take a chance and look directly at the glass, then hold up two fingers like I might to order coffee at a diner. If I have to depend upon my kidnappers, at least I can be sarcastic about it.

Within seconds two water bottles pop into existence on the floor. One within my reach and one within his. His jaw is shaking, and I wonder if I’ve just shoved him over that delicate precipice into insanity.

“I can’t . . . I can’t. No.” He turns away from the water and curls his face against his knees, his whole body shuddering. I don’t know if he’s crying or trying to keep his mind from cracking.

But clearly I’m not going to get any help from him until he figures out who he is. And that likely won’t happen unless I can get him out of here. Not that I don’t empathize. I was pretty much a wreck when all this stuff started happening to me too.

But the timing is . . . less than ideal.

I stand and walk the perimeter of the room, giving Logan as wide a berth as I can. My fingers stray up to Rebecca’s necklace and I fiddle with it as I consider the situation. I think about what happened when Logan pounded on the glass—how the surface rang with vibrations but never cracked. The material must be something stronger than glass. What can I create that could break it? And how could I do so without anyone noticing?