Stolen (8 page)

“Girls and guys together?”

“I know,” Meredith said. “You wouldn’t expect it here. But I’m not complaining. Sometimes one of them will leave their door cracked. I’ve seen Monte’s buns of steel and even though the doors are ‘frosted,’ they are still glass...”

“Meredith!”
 

Her new friend—friend?—shrugged. “Just saying. Hey, do you want to come to my room later? No one will notice. Well, probably not, anyway.”

“That’s okay. Maybe tomorrow. I’m kind of tired.”

Meredith swung her hair over her shoulder. “You can trust me, you know.”

Of course she didn’t. “I know.”

Meredith’s shoulders slumped; Julia had never seen her look so upset. “I think I know why you don’t. I’m worried that I do. Do I know?”

Julia gave a little awkward laugh. “I don’t know.”

Meredith looked over her shoulder, dropped her voice. “I’m on your side,” she hissed. “I have no real friends here. Well, except for Herbert and Carlin. But Carlin liked to keep to herself. Herbert and I stick together, but he’s a guy. And then there’s Andrew. I love Drew, and he’s a lot of fun…but I was waiting for you.”

“Why?” Julia had that weird feeling again. Like butterflies, but less pleasant.

“We’re going to be best friends. Drew is never wrong.”

Julia tried to smile and failed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Let’s do a re-do tomorrow.” She slipped into her room and curled up on her bed, staring at the middle of the wall, where normally a window would be.

Chapter 8

On their tour of the seniors’ hall, Meredith had pointed out everybody’s rooms. Nathan’s was four doors down from Julia’s, so when she chose a wall to walk through, she picked the one to the right of her bed—the one she felt should have a window. She didn’t want to go to Anise’s room or her bathroom, and she could
not
risk bumping into Nathan in the hall.

She held her breath as she “Floated.” When she felt her feet on solid ground, she waited a full second before opening her eyes.

Finally she did, and she found…linens. Lots and lots of blankets, sheets, and towels. The metal shelves and airy scent of detergent resurrected a startling memory of being in group home—AKA the Haven. The towels there had been small and rough, the washcloths stiff from many uses. All the sheets were stained with sweat and darker things, and when she’d snuggled the blankets around herself…

It didn’t matter now.

It never would again.

She steeled herself, then found the door and stepped into a large, softly lit square room. She saw several women holding— babies? The room was filled with rows of cribs and rocking chairs and changing tables, and whining cries rose to the dappled ceiling.

The Chosen nursery…

Julia had a fleeting thought that this would have been better than the foster system. Then one of the ladies noticed her. Julia didn’t bother with the door. She Floated back into the linen closet—at least that’s where she thought she was going. Evidently she’d Floated through a different wall, because instead of a linen closet, she found herself inside a boxy, shadowy room where someone was speaking Latin, and someone else was crying. She saw a curtain, smelled incense, and then a dark head looked up. It was the crying person—a middle-aged male Chosen.

Julia gasped and jumped back.

But not into the nursery. She found herself in an enormous, dark room. At least, she thought it was a room. If there were walls, they were spaced so wide she couldn’t actually see them; she couldn’t see anything but darkness, but when she looked up to orient herself, the far-away ceiling reminded her of a cathedral. The whole place, from the floor to the glass-and-arches ceiling, was filled with a dense steam, which didn’t make any sense. She was standing in water, but it was cold, not hot. The steam was cold, too.

Julia had the mighty sense that she was somewhere she didn’t want to be. The place didn’t just feel scary—there was more to it than that. She felt something…exciting and unnerving. A kind of energy.

Tingling with it, she edged back, hoping to bump into the wall she came through. Instead she tripped on something. Or maybe she didn’t. All she knew was that in that instant, her head ached terribly, and the pain was so distracting she found herself falling. She opened her mouth to scream as she fell through the chilly fog, but her jaw was locked. She could feel her hair flying out around her shoulders. Her fingers grasped at the fog’s tendrils; her legs
scissored
.

I’m going to die.

And without knowing where she was or what was happening to her.

As quickly as the sensation overtook her, it fell away, taking the awful headache with it. And she found herself…nowhere.

She should have been back in the fog cathedral—or Anise’s. If the walls worked the way she had thought, her legs would have taken her to one of those two places before the freaky headache-falling thing had started. But clearly they didn’t. Julia thought about the trip to her room earlier with Nathan. He’d opened a hole in the floor, and the spot had seemed random. Which meant getting where you wanted to go was probably more about where you wanted to go than actual location.

Standing there, in the bright, pale space that felt and looked a lot like…nothing, she thought about Cayne. She thought about the night she’d cut his hair. The feel of it in her fingers. It was one of her favorite memories.

And she started Floating. Through what wall, she wasn’t sure; it was first her hands and then the rest of her, suddenly corporeal and stepping backwards, Cayne’s dark hair falling around her feet. A piece landed on her toe, and it looked so real, she didn’t want to move her foot.

Cayne
Cayne
Cayne
take me to Cayne.

And, incredibly, it did. Or started to. The weird stone walls knew what she wanted—she
knew
they knew—and the walls were rearranging themselves, taking her there—taking her to Cayne! She could feel him moving closer and closer, and her mind lit up with recognition, not of how he looked but how he felt. She could feel his aura, sans colors. Something more like his essence. Gladness shone through her; she was reaching out her arms, already more relaxed and happy.

“Cayne…”

Then suddenly she felt herself jerked back the other way. She felt walls whizzing by her—or maybe they were possibilities. She felt like she was standing in the center of a rolodex, the little pages flying, cold and windy, around her. She stumbled hard through one of the cold, soft walls into a larger space, knocking her head against…a bed frame?

“Ow!” She looked down, found herself on her hands and knees on the floor of—
Where?
Was this her room? She looked around, startled to realize that if she hadn’t left her towel hanging on the bathroom doorknob, she might never know; all the rooms here probably looked the very same.

She got to her feet and stared at the wall she’d come through.

What had happened? It had felt like someone shoved her.

She put her hands back on the stone wall, tentative at first, then with growing panic. It didn’t give. She ran her hands all along the other walls. Nothing gave.

She’d been so close! She’d
felt
him. God, she missed him. Tears came, soft and warm and silent, as she climbed into the bed.

She buried her head in the pillow and pictured the Cayne she’d known on the train. The mental image started as a daydream of him holding her hand…but somewhere along the way, it changed. It wasn’t the two of them she saw: just Cayne. Not
her
Cayne, but a ghost she didn’t know. The one who’d tried to tell her he was hiding things. The one who had apologized with his eyes.

Tomorrow she would know for what.

*

Tap
tap
tap
.

Tap
tap
tap
.

Something was tapping at the edge of his mind. Not a sound—a feeling. A good feeling. It enticed him, pulled him forward and pushed him up. When he opened his eyes, he saw light and felt…Julia.

Satisfaction spread through him, warming his cold limbs, soothing his aching head. Intention filled him. He was a heartbeat away from rolling over, wrapping his arms around her, when reality intruded in the form of a dull throb in his wrists. He opened his eyes and saw the molded stone walls of the Nephilim prison. The Nephilim prison at the Stained compound.

He remembered what had happened at the museum and felt ill. He’d seen Julia get attacked as he’d fought the Stained that ambushed him. He was beaten all to shit, still bleeding from his head, but he could have fought off the entire crew—had he not been distracted by her.

But another Stained had saved her; he saw it right before he was overpowered. She was here, no doubt. In the hands of people he’d murdered.

Cayne groaned. Why had he taken her to Washington D.C.?

He’d remembered his history, memories that filled his throat with bile. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of it—so he’d told her about his childhood. What’d he done. And when she didn’t run screaming, he’d felt glad. Shamefully so.

So he hadn’t told her any more. He’d planned to tell her—or had told himself he did. He didn’t know the Stained would be waiting for them. He should have. He should have protected her as he’d promised to do. And he should have been forthcoming. He should have told her the truth—the whole dirty bit of it—when he had the chance.

But he’d inadvertently delivered her to them. And now he was here: lying on a stone slab with thick chains around his wrists and ankles, dried blood on his body, and an ache in his chest.

A high-pitched cough startled him, and he sat up, his eyes landing on a slim girl. He stared at her, really stared, and his blood chilled. Something was…wrong with her. Her eyes were hard. She held her shoulders straight and stared at him with what he could only describe as menace. Unless he was losing his mind.

He cleared his too-dry throat. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

Definitely not a little girl. Her voice was young and high, but there was something heavy and dark beneath it.

“I only have one friend among the Stained.”

“Do you?” The girl smirked. “Will she remain your
friend
when she learns the truth?”

Cayne tried to stand, forgetting his arms were chained; when he fell back, he tensed his abs in a half sit-up, unable to lie prone with this…this thing leering over him.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The girl grinned, amused. “Like I said: a friend. One who wants to thank you in advance for your assistance.”

“I’m not here to help you,” he growled.

“But you already have.”

Cayne’s heart tripped. He’d brought her to this…this thing. “If you even
think
about touching her—”

“I’m not the one you should worry about.” Another laugh, this one high and strange. “And you’re in no position to make threats.”

“If you’re my friend, why don’t you help me out of here? I could…repay you somehow.”

The girl ignored him. “Tell me something. Did you ever wonder why you were the only Nephilim born on this earth in almost 2,000 years?”

Cayne hadn’t. For one, he hadn’t known the statistic—at least not with certainty. But even if he had, the net wasn’t impenetrable. “Demons can still slip in.”