Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (41 page)

His questions slice me to ribbons, but in the end, there isn’t a choice. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Pain and resignation flicker across his handsome features as he realizes, then accepts, the truth of my statement. He turns his back and walks out of the warehouse into the sunshine, then disappears into the morning. He’s safe, at least for now. On his way home to his dad and his Christmas and his life.

I’ll check on him soon, if I can.

“We need to call an ambulance for Dane.” I jut out my chin. “I’m not leaving until we do.” Maybe it’s stupid to care, but he’s a human being. We can’t be like
the Olders.

“For Christ sakes, he’s already lost half his blood and we’ve already tripped half a dozen alarms. There’s nothing we can do for him that the agents who get here in three minutes can’t,” one of the Olders snaps.

Before I can say another word, we all disappear.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I wake up in an unfamiliar graveyard. For what feels like forever I panic, unable to move a muscle. I’m sure I’m alone, that somehow my worst nightmares have come true and it’s just me and people who are already dead, forever. Then a familiar groan issues from my left and I roll over, every single bone aching as though it’s been shattered into pieces and then pasted back together, and see Mole. The pain etching lines around his mouth and eyes say his bones feel like jagged puzzle pieces, too, and then everyone else comes into focus.

We’re all splayed on the ground among headstones, as old as any I’ve seen in Charleston, mostly rubbed clean of names and dates. They’re crooked, sinking into the side of a hill. Behind them looms a stone church, its most prominent and defining feature a bell tower. Scorch marks blacken the edge that faces us and it’s partially collapsed, but the building as a whole is intact and somewhat gothic.

I don’t see any of the Olders, but as I struggle to sit up, I glimpse a lone figure limping toward us down the path. It’s too much, the pain twisting like tiny knives in my bones, and I stop trying to move. The other Cavies remain still, too, and together we watch the man with the twisted spine as he approaches.

His hair is white, like snow, and matches his longer beard and mustache. The skin of his face is smooth, younger than the rest of him, and when he reaches us he collapses on the top of a full-length sarcophagus. Then he smiles, and it’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Which is saying something, considering the past two hours. And the past seventeen years.

“Welcome to Saint Stephen’s. Or what’s left of it.” When none of us responds, the corners of his mouth tighten but don’t fall. “The pain you’re experiencing will go away. We’re making huge advancements in intentional genetic mutation that allow us to share our gifts, mostly using viral therapy, but there are a few rough edges.”

“How did you do that? Bring us here?” It’s Haint that asks the question, the curiosity in her voice undeniable.

My guess is that one of the Olders has powers similar to hers or Flicker’s and that he or she has figured out how to extend that ability to include other people.

“All in good time, my dear. All in good time. The eight of you—I must admit, I’m disappointed not to find ten—need to rest up and clean up, and then we’ll all get together for dinner and answer whatever questions you might have.”

I have trouble believing he has any intention of answering a damn thing or he would have contacted us last week after we first found Jeannie, or even before that. My gut fills with apprehension. Sweat breaks out on my palms, under my arms, but I can’t find the words to protest.

“How about who the hell you are? Do we get to know that?” The tone of Athena’s voice, half scared, half pissed, says I’m not the only one freaking out a little.

I can’t stop thinking about what Dane said in the cemetery and Saint Phillip’s the other day. That these Cavies, these Olders, would want something in return for helping us. Just like the government. We’ve been assuming that the enemy of our enemy is our friend, but nothing’s that simple.

“I’m Chameleon. Not the most original of monikers, I’ll grant you, but it’s sufficient enough.” He closes his eyes, and the lower half of his body, plus his hands, which are resting on the tomb, blend in with the sarcophagus completely. “I grew up at Darley Hall, like you did, though back then they didn’t keep us there quite so long. I was working for some branch of the CIA by the time I was ten, when they moved us out to make room for Generation Two.”

CIA.
Gills had said they weren’t sure.

“So you’re part of the first generation?” Pollyanna asks, finding a timid version of her voice.

“We’re generation five,” Haint supplies, her dark gaze not leaving Chameleon. “That’s what the files at Saint Catherine’s said.”

“Correct. Although the generations only began counting, or continued counting, until they managed some kind of success.” He smiles again, setting my teeth on edge. “You’re the first one with a full ten successes, though there are certainly some more impressive than others.”

His gaze trails to me, then away. My fingers tremble, so I clench them into fists.

“The important thing is that you’re safe here. The agents don’t know where we’re headquartered, and this church was forgotten long ago. Anyone that remembers, or thinks they might take a little day trip out this direction, is redirected by one of the Olders gifted with mind control.” He struggles to his feet. “Shall we?”

The eight of us manage to stand, and already, the bone-deep pain has subsided. I try to follow him, like everyone else, but my feet won’t move. Even if this is the best place for us, even though these Olders have answers and knowledge and maybe even lives that we could want, something bothers me.

I think it’s the simple fact that I’m tired of being subject to someone else.

“Where are we?” The live oaks and Spanish moss, not to mention the temperature and the ages of these gravestones, say we haven’t traveled far from Charleston. At least, not north.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” the old man replies.

“I want to know where I am. That doesn’t seem so odd,” I insist, choking on fear now.

“The ruins of Saint Stephen’s are in Hunting Island State Park.”

Near Beaufort. I remember seeing the signs when my father drove me to the twins’ house. It relaxes me, at least a bit, to learn that we’re not far from home. My feet finally comply, following the others up the hill to the intimidating ruins of the church.

There are rooms on the second floor—one for boys, one for girls—that are set up with bunk beds with new, soft bedding, and desks with lamps. None of us speak while we examine the empty closets and find our way to separate shower rooms. It’s overwhelming, but more than that, I think we all feel watched. I know I do.

We all change; I choose a clean pair of jeans and my CA hoodie, even though the smell of it reminds me of my dad and my school and that life that already seems as though it was a faraway dream.

If it is a dream, my cell phone has somehow materialized. I cling to it for dear life, shooting Jude a message to ask if he’s home, if he’s okay. His immediate response is
Yes, fine,
but when he follows up with half a dozen questions for me, I turn the phone off, then remove the battery and take apart everything else that will come out. I don’t need Jude here, or my father, or the government or the police. I’ve seen enough movies to know cell phones give people away.

I’ve got enough to worry about with this odd-as-crap situation.

The Olders have dinner set in the basement at two long tables. It’s the first time we’ve seen how many of them there are, and in addition to Gills, three of the others who came for us on Concord Street, and Chameleon, seven others join us for dinner. The Indian woman who stabbed Dane is nowhere to be seen.

There are plates of spaghetti, bowls of red sauce with meat and others brimming with salad, plates of garlic bread, and bottles of dressing. Simple but effective, and despite my discomfort and objections, my stomach rumbles. It isn’t until everyone’s done eating that the woman with the graying red hair stands up, brushing crumbs off her hands.

I’m surprised she’s going to address us instead of the old man, but as soon as she begins to speak—in a much warmer, frank tone—it’s clear why she’s their spokesperson. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re the same age.

“My name is Lightning. I’m a first-generation Cavy, born at Saint Catherine’s in Charleston, raised at Darley Hall with nine other children, three of whom survived to become adults. Two of us are in this room. The government chose my mother, an unwed girl of fifteen who had been raped by her father’s business partner, for a program known as the Cavy Assets because of a specific chromosomal mutation that they believed could be manipulated to genetically enhance the fetus. Me.”

She stops to take a breath and a sip from her glass of red wine. We’re all captivated, even the Olders, who presumably have heard this tale.

“The Cavy Assets program began with my birth in 1957.” She smiles and nods. “Neither Chameleon nor I are as old as we look. It’s a side effect of various experimentation, some the government’s, some our own. At any rate, there are representatives from each of the four generations in this room, including our newest recruits, and their successes have improved as far as mortality rate, but not terribly in the way of enhancements. We’ve taken up the mantle of research in order to better understand what we’re capable of and how to control it.”

“How did you escape? From the CIA? Mr.… Chameleon said you guys started working for them when you were ten.”

Lightning nods in acknowledgment of Mole’s question.

“We did, and there will be time to regale you with our lives as government Assets. Ten years ago, those of us still alive and wanting a different life planned and executed an escape. Darley is nearly impenetrable, but when we learned of your liberation, we took a vote and decided that we should try to help you, as well. To get to you before the CIA did. So that you would not suffer as we have.”

She’s telling the truth, I’m almost sure of it, but once again I hear Dane’s words and wonder what’s in it for them. No one does something for nothing. And there’s the fact that they
didn’t
come for us—not all of them, and not until the last possible moment. They injected us on the street with no explanation, left us no way to know how the inoculations could affect us.

Goose asks the question on my mind, his face red with a desperate desire for answers. “Why didn’t you contact us? Why just shoot us up with a viral delivery on the street?”

“We couldn’t risk it. But the injections—we can talk more about our research later, as well—unlock previously dormant abilities connected to your mutations. They will continue to develop as you do. We hoped they would grow fast enough for you to resist the CIA on your own.”

“How did you know where to find us?” Pollyanna jumps in, as eager as ever and looking more comfortable than she had outside.

Lightning keeps talking, and my mind wanders, getting stuck over and over again on the desire to get up and leave. I don’t know where else we could go, and I know that the others are going to want to stay here, to find answers, to figure out if there’s a way to live the rest of our lives that doesn’t include constantly looking over our shoulders. Leaving the Cavies—
my
Cavies—will never be my first choice, but letting these Olders tell us their version of our history can’t be the only other option.

Haint catches my eye from across the table. Her chocolate skin shines with sweat, and terror bulges her bright eyes. Our gazes lock, and she mouths a single word around a piece of garlic bread.

I tune out the room and the woman still talking, and enter the Clubhouse.

Haint’s standing just inside the door, in the grip of a panic like none I’ve ever seen.
“What? Haint, what’s wrong?”

She gulps air, wrings her hands. Finds her voice.
“I disappeared while I went to the bathroom. Kind of checked out the rest of the house.”

“Yeah…”

“Gypsy, there’s a lab on the top floor.”

“That makes sense.”

She shakes her head, hard.
“No. You don’t understand.”

“Tell me.”
My heart stutters, thumping too fast. Every bad feeling I’ve had since Dane said the Olders have their own agenda screeches, flashes, makes me want to sit down before I fall.

“Flicker’s in there. They’ve got her in some kind of sensory-deprivation tank.”

I do fall down, then.

My knees hit the carpet on the floor of the Clubhouse, and fistfuls of it crunch inside my sweaty palms. My vision goes black before I remember to breathe, but even though my brain kicks into gear, it can’t wrap around the idea that Flicker’s in a tank in a lab upstairs.

Because she’s also in the dining hall, eating spaghetti right next to me.

THANK YOU

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Gypsy
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