Harmonic (7 page)

C
HAPTER TEN

W
e slam into a cluster of twenty-something bar hoppers, who immediately swear and shout. “Sorry!” I call, and keep moving, ignoring the slurs and the beer-scented air hanging around them like smog.

We're home. We're
visible,
which means people will notice us running through the streets of Lakeview. I force myself to stop, listening for any sign we've been followed, but the coast is clear. The pivot pulses, its edges rippling, and seals shut, disappearing as if it was never there to begin with. If we'd been twenty seconds later, we would have been trapped.

“Thank God,” Laurel pants, leaning against a nearby bus shelter, hands on knees. “You know running a marathon isn't one of my life goals, right?”

“That wasn't a marathon. That was four or five blocks, max.”

“Blocks, miles. Too much either way. These shoes are not made for running.”

I glance down. She's wearing silver oxfords, so shiny they reflect the neon from the bars lining this stretch of Southport. She shrugs. “Next time I'll wear kicks.”

“There isn't going to be a next time,” I snap. The fear has died down, anger rushing in to take its place. “We're not doing that again.”

Laurel straightens. “The hell we're not!”

I start walking back to her apartment, a few blocks away.

After about ten steps, I realize she's not with me. I turn to see her standing, hands on hips, lower lip pushed out in full sulk. I'm too mad for it to work, though, so I keep moving.

“We can't stop!” she calls, and chases after me.

I don't break stride. “You can. This is my assignment. I'm the one who gets the reward. There's nothing in this for you.”

“You think I'm here for career advancement?” The stairs to her apartment are around the corner, and she pushes past me, silver shoes flashing. “Of course you would. That's your constant, isn't it? The job. Hope it keeps you warm at night.”

“Laurel, wait.” This is sliding out of control. We should be relieved. I should have held onto my temper, saved it to unleash on that Free Walker girl, the one who tried to cleave us. Garnett and Lattimer aren't the ones she needs to worry about, not anymore.

I follow Laurel up the wooden steps, where she's jamming the key into the door. Over her shoulder she says, the words like a flight of daggers, “You're such an idiot, Addison. Does it ever cross your mind that maybe Walkers aren't the be-all, end-all?”

“They are, actually. They literally are the be-all and end-all of the multiverse. If we don't protect the Key World—”

“I've heard the argument,” she snaps. She can't get the lock to work and I clench my fists, trying not to take over. “The training's the same no matter where you grow up. But what's the point of saving the world every day if we can't enjoy it, too? You've got to have someone to save it for, Addie.”

“That's what I'm doing!” I shout. Someone on the fourth floor sticks their head over the railing and yells at us to shut up.

Maintaining the Key World isn't theoretical to me. I've seen the difference a single choice can make, how easy it is for a world to go wrong. Life is capricious. People are lost every day, to illness or age or indifference. I can't protect against the infinite small threats that can transform a world. But I can guard against the greatest one, and I do. I keep the Key World safe, and by extension, everyone I care about.

“This isn't for me,” she replies. “You aren't working yourself to the bone to make me happy or to keep me safe. You're doing it to prove you're the best Walker around, that nothing else matters. Congratulations, Addie. You proved it.”

“
You
matter,” I say, fighting the urge to tear my hair out. “You could have been killed because I didn't do my job. I didn't follow procedure and call in Enforcement. Echoes are
dangerous
. I know that, but because of you, I forgot it.”

She starts to speak, but I run over her protests, furious now, unable to stop.

“You almost died because I was so happy to be with you, I ignored the risks. And then I was so worried, I could barely think straight enough to get us home. They were going to cleave us,” I say, and the words come out a whisper, harsh and broken. “They were going to kill you.”

Tears spill over her lashes, shining in the porch light. “They didn't.”

But they almost did. If we had died there, I wouldn't have noticed her shoes ever again. I wouldn't have seen her dimple, or the sweep of her hands. I wouldn't have smelled the summery warmth of her skin, or felt the softness at the back of her knee and the base of her throat.

“Almost,” I say.

“Addie,” she says softly, her voice pulling me in.

“I almost lost you.” I reach for her, the curve of her hip so familiar, even through her coat.

“You didn't.” Her breath makes small, frantic puffs in the cold night air. “You haven't.”

“I won't.” The words are a promise, and I trace the curve of her cheek, sliding my hand along her neck, feeling the warm flutter of her pulse like a hummingbird's wings. My fingers catch and tangle in her hair and she tips her face up, and I close the space between us.

The kiss is a promise too.

A promise and a memory, past and future twining together. She tastes like cocoa and the ocean, and I drink her in, her arms sliding over my shoulders as I press her against the door.

“Key,” I whisper against her mouth.

But now that I'm touching her, I don't want to stop, my mouth sliding down to her neck, to the place below her ear I know is ticklish, and she giggles, pushing me away and drawing me back again.

“Door,” she squeaks, and turns away to fight with the lock one more time. It springs free and we're stumbling inside her tiny kitchen, shedding coats and bumping into furniture. She's rearranged things, and I bang my shin on a side table where a wing chair should be instead.

“I liked that chair,” I say, rubbing my bruised skin.

“Needed a change,” she says, toeing off her shoes.

“I hate change,” I say, and pull her back to me. She's all graceful limbs and soft curves and I want to memorize every single one of them, rediscover every inch, an explorer too long away from home.

“I know,” she says, and touches her lips to my cheekbone, nips at my earlobe, slides her hands along my skin like she, too, is remembering. But I'm not satisfied with reminiscing, even when it's this delicious.

She breaks away and I'm left gasping.

“Is this a one-time thing?” she asks. “Are you going to wake up tomorrow and say this was an adrenaline-fueled lapse in judgment?”

The words are light, but her mouth trembles as she continues. “Because
you hate change
. I'm trying, I swear. But if it's going to be like before . . . I can't. I won't do this if it's like before, Addie, and one day you're really sorry and you break it off and you just . . . leave.”

“I won't leave. Not again.”

She reaches for the wall like she needs help standing upright.

“You say that
now
.”

“I screwed up,” I say quietly. “I will fix it. That's what I do.”

“You cut away worlds,” she says. “And you cut away people, too.”

My hands are shaking, and with an effort, I steady them. “I protect the Key World. I protect what matters.” My eyes meet hers. “I protect what I love.”

The only sound is a quick, indrawn breath. Then she recovers. “By cutting me out?”

“By keeping you close.” I chance a smile. “Just because I hate change doesn't mean I'm incapable of it.”

She presses her fist against her heart, weighing my words. Then she steps away from the wall and pulls off her bulky teal sweater, sending her hair into static-filled disarray. I start toward her, but she holds up a hand, warning me off.

Every part of me turns heavy and molten. I can see the fine, sharp line of her collarbone and the swell of her breasts beneath the thin white T-shirt and the gentle curve of her waist, and I can barely breathe. But I stay rooted in place, because as much as it hurt me to leave, it hurt Laurel more. Letting me back is her choice, and I'll wait as long as she needs.

She watches me watch her, and her eyes glitter with amusement.

“Laurel,” I whisper. “Please.”

She tips her head to the side.

“I'm cold,” she says.

“I can fix that,” I reply, and go to her.

•    •    •

Later, our limbs tangled together, buried under piles of down comforters, she nestles her head under my chin and yawns hugely. “Pretty good day, considering.”

“Considering the Free Walkers tried to kill us,” I say.

She props herself up on one elbow. “I'm not sure they did.”

I slide my hand along her leg until I reach the ticklish spot behind her knee. She laughs and pushes me away, saying, “If they wanted to kill us, why did they let us get to the pivot?”

“They didn't let us. We outran them.”

“Hardly. They had people coming at us from every direction—except the pivot. They could have surrounded us completely. Captured us, or let us die. Instead they pushed us in the right direction.”

“They were herding us?”
You're like sheep,
the girl said.

“You have a better explanation?”

“Why that pivot?” I ask. “If they were trying to make us leave, why not let us cross through the first one we saw?”

“They did it with the other teams too. Forced them back through their entry pivot. Don't you think it's weird that they've never killed one of the Cleavers? They've barely injured our people.”

“It's not something to complain about.”

“If Free Walkers are so dangerous, why aren't they hurting the Walkers they fight? Why are they finishing cleavings? The Consort's saying they're terrorists, but nothing they've done backs that up, except the anomaly.”

I don't want to tell her about Simon's anomaly. It's a story full of endings, and ours is beginning.

“No more shop talk. There's more to life than the Walkers, remember?” I kiss her shoulder, hoping to distract her.

It works.

C
HAPTER ELEVEN

T
he bed is empty when I wake up the next morning. I squint at the old-fashioned alarm clock and groan. Late.

I stumble to the kitchen, where Laurel is standing in a peach silk robe printed with watercolor blossoms, humming lightly. She turns and kisses me with an enthusiasm I can't help but return.

“Coffee?” I plead.

“About to make some,” she says, pulling out the grinder and dumping in the beans. She opens a small glass jar and tosses something else in too.

“What's that?” I ask over the whirring of the blades.

“Cinnamon sticks,” she replies. “Good for the blood.”

I cross the room and wrap my arms around her waist, inhaling deeply. The spice tickles my nose—and the back of my mind. “Monty used to get coffee like that.”

“I thought he had a sweet tooth.”

“He did. Does, I guess. But sometimes he would take us out Walking to a park we liked—they had a carousel and a bunch of food carts. Monty would give us quarters for the carousel, and he'd get himself a special coffee while we rode around and around. Del always snagged the unicorn.”

“And you got a boring old horse?”

“I got the mermaid.”

“I like mermaids,” she says, and kisses me again. When we come up for air, she smiles. “I'm glad you have at least one good memory of him.”

I don't want good memories of Monty. “I haven't thought about that in ages.”

When I close my eyes, I can picture it perfectly. The vintage carousel, with hand-carved creatures and mirrors catching the sunlight, endlessly piping old-fashioned music. The scent of fried dough from one of the carts, roasting meat from another, and rich, spiced coffee. Monty, lounging against the coffee cart, watching us fondly while he chatted with the owner.

“Sal,” I murmur.

“What?” Laurel says, handing me a mug.

“Sal's Cinnamon Coffee,” I say. “The name of the cart.”

The tickling at the back of my mind spreads through my body.

“Salvatore.”

“Addie? You look like you're going to pass out.” Laurel pushes me toward a chair and pries the coffee from my grip. “Put your head between your knees.”

I'm too stunned to argue. Laurel rubs my back in wide, comforting circles.

“It wasn't the coffee that was special.” I straighten and she sits in the chair opposite mine, taking my hands in hers. “It was Sal.”

“I don't understand.”

“Court Salvatore was Monty's Second Chair,” I say. “He killed himself rather than be captured by the Consort. At least, that's what the report says.”

I'd shown it to Garnett and tossed it aside to focus on the present.

“You think he opened a coffee cart in an Echo? That's kind of a stretch. How could he have survived the frequency poisoning?”

“He must have figured out a way around it,” I say. “The only thing Monty ever cared about was finding my grandmother. He never visited the same Echo twice. But we went back there all the time.”

“To ride a carousel. He was letting you and Del have fun.”

“He was keeping us occupied while he talked to Sal.” Classic Monty: using kids to serve his own purpose.

“You think he was Monty's contact?”

The Free Walkers cut Monty off after his first arrest. If Sal was a Free Walker, he wouldn't have been meeting my grandfather for coffee every other month. They must not have known he had survived. Court Salvatore had faked his own death to escape Consort and Free Walkers alike. Court became Sal, and started fresh.

But starting over doesn't mean forgetting the past. Two men, each carrying a history they couldn't share with anyone else. Friendships had formed over less, I suppose.

Despite the Consort's interrogation, Monty has managed to keep the Free Walkers' secrets. Sal, on the other hand, has nobody asking him questions—and I'm willing to bet he has answers.