House Immortal (23 page)

A shadow broke the light beneath the door and she shot a look over her shoulder.

“Please,” she whispered, the image of her shaking as a tear slipping down her cheek. “Save him. And if she's still alive,” she bit her lip, and even more quietly said, “save my daughter, Matilda.”

The screen went blank.

I wiped the back of my hand over my cheeks, drawing away my tears. I'd never seen her so terrified, so desperate. I wish I could have done something for her. Wish I could have hugged her and told her I was fine. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn't. I'd signed myself into House Gray, Grandma might be in trouble, and Quinten was missing.

How had my life fallen apart so quickly?

I pried the drop out of the indent and the image of my mother faded away. I tucked the drop in my duffel, then dragged the duffel up to the top of the bed with me, crossing my arms over it.

I needed a plan. A way to find Quinten, a way to see that Grandma really was okay and that Boston Sue wasn't lying to me about missing Quinten's message.

I'd seen the surveillance cameras when we'd driven up to this place. I knew there was no chance I could sneak away.

Yet. I had promised I'd give Abraham time to see if House Gray could do anything to help Quinten. I had promised I wouldn't do something foolish to ruin my chance of staying with House Gray. And I would follow through on both those promises if I could.

I rubbed at my eyes again and pressed my back against the headboard, inhaling the lavender scent of the room. I closed my eyes.

I didn't want to sleep.

Turned out I didn't get any say in that.

A knock on the door woke me.

“Matilda,” Abraham said. “Are you awake?”

I pushed up, rubbed my eyes, and stared into the dim light of the room. How long had I been sleeping? No clocks. I smoothed my hair then walked over to the door and opened it. “What time is it?”

“About nine. You've been in here for two hours. Everything okay?”

“Relatively?”

He smiled slightly. “Did you watch it?”

“Yes. It was. . . .” I didn't know what to say. “Thank you for bringing it.”

His moss green eyes went soft as he studied me, and I promised myself I was not going to cry again. “Are you okay?”

“She was scared, but it was. . . . I'm glad . . . to see her again, it's just. . . .” I stopped, unable to trust my words for fear that tears would follow.

He paused, watching me for a moment while I tried to
smile. Then he pulled me into him, wrapping his arms around me.

I shouldn't do this. I shouldn't want this comfort from this man, but I didn't want to pull away. I pressed my forehead against the hard muscle and warmth of his chest, wishing I could stay there forever. He held me while I gave in to quiet tears. Then he held me a little longer. Finally, he kissed me gently on my temple and I drew away.

“Can I help?” he asked, wiping my cheek with his thumb.

“No,” I brushed the rest of my tears away and took a deep breath. “It's old pain. There is no cure.” I pulled together a smile. “I'd like to think about something else. Anything.”

“Dotty put some tea on and there's dinner if you're hungry.”

I was starved. “Food sounds perfect.”

“Good. Then come on out. The first game is up and I need a partner.”

“Game? There are nine people out there. Ask one of them to be your partner.”

“I did. They say I cheat.”

“Do you cheat?”

“Of course. But, then, so do they.”

“Bram! Do we need to come back there and save you?” someone, I think Loy, yelled from the other room. “Did she kick you again?”

The mingling of voices, good-humored arguments, and laughter filtered down to us. Sounded like a party out there.

“Promise I'll cut you in for ten percent of the take,” he said.

“Ten percent? What do you think I am, a rube?”

“Naw, you're all upstage. But you are also hiding in your bedroom,
darb
.”

“Darb?”

“Sorry—I was around when that slang was new. It means excellent, top-notch, desirable.”

Oh. That was nice.

“Well, aren't you all charm and a half?” I asked. “Also? I'm not hiding in my room. What kind of game are they playing?”

“Probably cards.”

“Fine,” I said. “Sixty percent.” I stepped out and closed the door behind me.

“Thirty.”

“Sixty-five,” I said.

“Thirty-one,” he countered.

We walked down the hall. “How about I cut you in on ten percent since you admitted there is no one else who will play with you?”

“Thirty-two,” he said. “You wouldn't be playing without me either.”

We had passed through the far side of the sitting room, and the full, delicious smell of fruit pies and something savory wrapped around me.

“There you are,” Dotty said. She pulled a pie out of a high oven using two towels as hot mitts. “Wondered if you were going to sleep the whole evening away. Abraham said you needed some rest.”

“I just didn't want to be in the way.”

She set the pie down and turned to me. “Nonsense. Have you eaten?”

“Not for a while.”

“Help yourself.” She waved at a pile of fried chicken, a bowl of cooked greens, and a pot of buttery grits.

“I think there's a game . . .” I started.

“Oh, sugar pea, there's always a game,” she said.

“There you are, Matilda!” a voice I didn't recognize called out.

I glanced across the room and froze. Welton Yellow, the head of House Yellow, Technology, stood beside the long wooden table in the main room, his galvanized, Foster First, looming behind him.

They say those were the peaceful years. Houses and galvanized worked together to create a united front, to settle the unrest, to rebuild the world. The first gathering was held, displaying the prowess and advancements achieved by the Houses and their galvanized.—2175

—from the journal of L.U.C.

W
elton wore a yellow T-shirt, this one imprinted with the image of a snail with laser beams coming out of its eyes, torn blue jeans, and a smile.

“Saved you a seat at the game, Bram, my friend,” he said, “and I plan to rob you blind.”

“How did that plan go last year?” Abraham asked.

“Poorly. You cheated.”

“You couldn't prove that.”

“This year,” Welton said, “I will be winning back my money. Plus interest.”

Abraham must have noticed my discomfort. He reached over and gently squeezed my arm. “He's family.”

“Mostly because we can't get rid of him,” Dotty said, setting a plate of pie and a mug of tea down on the kitchen counter for me. “Annoying boy that he is.”

“Please,” Welton said. “You love me most of all.”

“Well, you have your moments. Like when you're losing at poker.”

Welton's gave her a self-satisfied smile, then looked back at me. “Matilda Case. How was the coffee at Jangle?”

“Fine, thank you, sir.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up and he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, his smooth dark bangs falling to the edge of his heavily lidded eyes. “Here I'm a friend. I suppose you should address me by
sir
anywhere else. But not here. Not at all.”

“All right, thank you . . .” I didn't know if I should use his first name.

“Welton,” he said slowly, as if I hadn't heard him the first time. “And you . . . you are the mysterious new old. The modern stitched. I've heard more than a few things about you. Come”—he patted the table—“have a sit. Let's talk.”

“I promised Abraham a game,” I said.

“No rush,” Abraham said.

Manners, Matilda,
I reminded myself.

I picked up the pie and tea and walked over to the table. I took a seat across from Welton. At the other end of the table, Helen was shuffling cards, but not dealing, and watching me like I was something she might need to tackle.

Vance and Bede were curled up on a couch, talking quietly and Clara, January, and Wila sat on the other couches, rolling dice and scribbling on paper. Beyond them, Buck and Loy were arguing over something that involved throwing coins into shot glasses.

But the figure who drew my eye was Foster First, who moved to stand at the far side of the room, his back to the window, staring at me, or maybe at Welton's back.

Even in this large space, he towered over everyone. From his complete stillness, one might just assume he was dead. But his eyes flicked as he took in all those in front of him, his stony expression unchanging.

“If House Gray hadn't found you first, I would have offered you a place at House Yellow, you know,” Welton said.

I drew my gaze away from Foster. “Oh?” I took a bite of pie: apple, cinnamon. Delicious. “I am happy to be with House Gray.”

“Why?”

“It seems like a good choice.”

“So you can find your brother?”

I was surprised he knew about that. But, then, he was Technology. If anyone could find information, it would be him.

“I saw the message he sent,” he continued a little quieter. “We're working on tracking it back. Oscar Gray is a personal friend of mine. I am helping find your brother as a personal favor. You won't owe my House anything.”

“There are always debts,” I said.

“True,” he said. “Some debts are worth getting into, don't you think?”

“Do you have any idea how long it will be before you find something?”

“If we don't have it cracked before the gathering, I'll hang up my hat and hand the House over to my cousin.”

“Which one?” Dotty asked, sliding pie down for him, herself, and an extra, then sitting at the table. “Libra?”

“Yes.”

“You are a terrible man, Welton,” she said as she scooped up a bite of pie.

“Come on, now,” he protested. “She has a set of morals. More or less. And her utter love of chaos would make things a little less . . . boring.” He grinned at me, and I got the impression he was always on the lookout for things that would keep his life interesting.

“As for settling any debt between us, personally,” he said. “I'd like to ask you a few questions. Is it true you have sensation of touch?”

“Yes.”

Abraham had walked over to Foster and offered him a mug with what looked like marshmallows floating on top of it. I caught a whiff of rich chocolate. He was giving Foster hot cocoa.

Foster took the mug and his mouth hooked up into a smile. “Thank you, Abraham.”

His voice was gravel down a canyon, but his smile contained a humanity I had glimpsed only briefly in him.

“I am curious about the thread that's holding you together,” Welton said around a bite of pie. “And most everything else about how you came to be.”

Abraham smiled and shook his head. “I thought you wanted to lose some money.” He crossed over to the table. “Not grill Matilda on private matters.”

“Are these details you don't want to share?” Welton asked.

“No, it's fine. Truth is, I don't know much about the thread. I think my father invented it.”

“May I?” he asked, wiping his fingers on his pants then holding out his hand to touch the stitches across my left wrist.

I hesitated. Then put my hand in his.

He gently drew his finger across my stitches and a shiver of goose bumps rippled up my arm.

“Amazing work,” he said. “Do you know who made you?”

Here it was, the question of where I'd come from. I'd told Oscar, but I didn't know if he'd told Welton.

If I lied, would it put my claim to House Gray in danger? If I told him Quinten had stitched me together and saved my life, would it put my brother in more danger than he might already be in?

“I don't really know.”

Welton tipped his head to one side. “You don't remember?”

“I was young.”

“When you were stitched?”

I nodded.

“That's . . . unusual. Very unusual,” he said. “There is another thing I'd like to know. Abraham tells me when you touch him, his sense of touch is restored.”

“He's told me the same.”

“Would you please touch Foster? I'd like to know if
certain . . . modifications I've implemented are as pain-free as I'd intended them to be.”

“That is not necessary,” Foster said in that low growl of his. “I have no complaints.”

“For me,” Welton asked. Then, with all the maturity of a seven-year-old: “Please?”

Foster sighed and walked over to me, his boots loud and heavy on the floor. He stood in front of me, and I had to tip my head up to meet his gaze.

“Thank you, Matilda Case,” he said. He offered his hand, and I took it.

His shoulders stiffened and he sucked in a hard breath. The skin around his neck pulled against the thick yellow threads there, and he moaned softly.

I quickly drew my hand back.

“Does it hurt?” Welton asked, immediately on his feet and moving toward him.

“Not pain,” Foster said, as Welton pressed his fingers at different points on Foster's hand, arm, chest, and back. Foster caught the slighter man's hand in the ham fist of his own. “Peace.”

“I might ask you to do that again, Matilda,” Welton said, not looking away from Foster. “Maybe after the gathering and under more controlled conditions.”

“Unnecessary,” Foster rumbled.

“That regulator shouldn't be popping like that,” Welton said. “And it's something easily adjusted so it won't cause you pain, whether you feel it or not. After the gathering, we will see to it. Please,” he added kindly. “For me.”

“You are my House,” Foster said. “If it is your wish.”

“It is my wish.” He patted Foster's arm.

“So, what do you think this means, Welton?” Dotty asked. “I suppose a genius such as yourself has more than one theory on Matilda's effect on us.”

“And you would be right,” he said. “We know each of
you lived at the same time, in the same area, before the Wings of Mercury event occurred.”

“I've heard of that,” I said. “Wings of Mercury. Abraham mentioned it.”

Welton nodded. “We have stories passed down from person to person, town to town, or the occasional line in a diary or footnote in a published journal. A scientist searching for the secrets of immortality built a great machine to control time. When that machine was engaged, every living creature in a fifty-mile swath was struck down dead.

“Except for twelve people. Six men, six women. They still breathed, though it was as if they had been sent into a deep sleep. There was also rumor of one child who never woke from that sleep and did not age.”

He stopped and watched my reaction. Everyone in the room was watching me.

“I'm that child, aren't I?”

“We can't be sure,” he said. “We don't know where any of the pieces of you came from. But all signs point to yes.

“If, however,” he went on, “the event was an experiment to control time, the theory goes that it is the reason galvanized brains have survived all these years. Only galvanized brains resist every strain of disease on earth; feel no pain; and are inhumanly strong, adaptive, and infinitely repairable. Only galvanized brains show no sign of aging or decline. Only galvanized are immortal—cheaters of time.”

He spread his hands. “The experiment was a story, a legend. The sleeping immortals who would rise and bring about great change. Save the world. Or end it, depending on which story you preferred. Monsters. Saviors. And like all good legends, it had just enough clues and small truths to lead curious people to concoct theories and exhaustive hunts.

“Eventually, the sleeping immortals were found.
Taken in by the scientists of the early twentieth century, and the experiments began.”

Foster First made a low, quiet sound that was almost a moan.

Welton shifted in his chair and patted the big guy's arm fondly. “Things that will never happen again. Great mistakes were made. But galvanized are strong. The First endured, survived, and eventually fell into much kinder hands.”

Foster First turned his head to stare down at Welton, and his expression was grateful. It made me rethink their relationship. Maybe Foster was happy to be with House Technology. If there were any advancements that could make being galvanized more tolerable, House Technology would be on the leading edge of it. And it did not look like Welton wanted Foster to suffer.

Welton pointed at Foster's face. “Cocoa on your cheek.”

Foster lifted his huge hand and wiped at the side of his face.

“Right.” Welton turned back to me. “The galvanized were brought in, reawakened sometimes decades apart, since there was some shuffling of who really had the claims to the brains and bodies, who had power to do certain procedures, a rise and fall of medical and technological advances, and, of course, the Restructure that set the world under House rule, kicked off the downfall, the Uprising. History—blah, blah, blah.

“But the machine that created the galvanized, if there ever was a machine that altered time, was never found. It has long been assumed the records were destroyed, lost. They've certainly never turned up. And once certain people saw the value in having such powerful creatures on their side”—he lifted his hands to indicate all of us in the room—“everything that could be done to figure out how they were made or how to re-create them was done.”

He tipped his head down. “Unsuccessfully. No one
has been able to immortalize a brain, nor come up with a fully repairable body. No one. Or so we've thought for many, many years.”

He glanced around. “Did I cover it pretty well?”

Dotty tapped the edge of a deck of cards on the table. “Not bad for a kid.”

He slid her a grin. “Now do you understand why you are so sought after, Matilda? No one has made a galvanized or discovered a galvanized in a couple hundred years. And if Abraham hadn't pulled you in when he did, you would have had more than one House at your door, claiming you as their own.”

“Including you,” Loy muttered, as he walked over and took a seat at the table.

“Of course including me,” Welton said, his eyes half-closed like a sleeping cat's. “But it only made sense that a galvanized who enjoys conversation and doesn't frighten small children be the one sent to talk to her about her choices. Which ruled me out.”

I glanced up at Foster. That stony, almost inhuman expression hardened his face again. I thought he might not really be angry; he just looked that way. All the time.

“Since House Gray and I work very well together . . .” He shrugged. “So little energy and resources from me, and I still get a chance to talk to you. How is that not a brilliant outcome?

“But that thread,” he said, staring at the stitches on my wrist. “It isn't anything I've seen in biomodification. Do you have more of it?”

“Yes. On the farm.”

I still didn't want to reveal any secret I didn't have to. Like the laboratory beneath the pump house out on my property.

The only reason Neds knew about the lab was because I'd been skewered pretty badly by the pony, and had to have him fetch me the threads since I was losing blood too quickly to do much good for myself.

“What would I have to do to get a length of it from you?”

“Well, you'd have to let me go home.”

“I can arrange that.”

“Can you?” I glanced at Abraham, who rolled his eyes.