The Isle (14 page)

W
ill he do it? Will he hit her?

Eye-to-eye in a standoff, neither Sipu nor Lucas shows any weakness.

Lucas lowers his hand.

When Sipu turns away, I catch her wiping the corner of her eyes. They're red from tears she won't allow, but her face is feral. Wild, unforgiving.

“I'm getting our prisoners some water so they don't die before we kill them,” she says abruptly, shutting the door behind her.

Lucas returns to his chair, but the press conference is over. He fumbles with some buttons on a remote, and it plays again from the start. I wish I didn't have to watch. I don't like seeing that man, even when he's made of pixels and light.

Groggily, Ter lifts his chin. He shakes his head and forces his eyes open, then winces. Glancing around, he asks, “We're really still here?”

“We are,” I say under my breath, wiggling my new half hands. The snake wire is too tight—it's cutting off my blood. I rotate them around but have to stop a moment later as Sipu walks back into the room.

“Kitaneh's asking for you on the wall comm upstairs. She wants to talk,” Sipu says to Lucas, canteen in hand. “Something to do with . . .” Her voice trails off and she nods in our direction.

“I didn't miss any messages,” Lucas says, checking his cuffcomm.

Sipu shrugs.

He crosses the room, watching her. “I have the water. Don't forget that, Sipu,” he says.

Lucas leaves the door open behind him.

Kneeling in front of Ter and me, I spot the knife she's holding behind her canteen. She brings one finger to her lips. “Get in the Omni,” she whispers, taking the blade to my wrists first, then to Ter's. The wires burst open and blood rushes back to my hands, numb by now.

Under Lucas's desk, Sipu reaches for a button. Ter meets my eyes—we share one second of hesitancy and reach the same thing. The steel door gasps open.

We rush for the airlock.

Upstairs, Lucas crosses noisily from one end of the floor to the other, stampeding for the stairs—
he's caught on.

Sipu races behind us, spinning the airlock's wheel closed.
I hop into her mobile first, followed by Ter. Sipu is last. She jumps into the front seat, and as the moonroof closes, she lowers the Omni underwater.

Red lights flash all around us, but the airlock's filling up—the door can't open, or the basement will flood.

Lucas is too late.

Sipu steers the Omni through the strait without even turning on the high beams—she knows the waters by heart. We veer through underwater alleys and parks, slowing down only when she's sure we aren't being followed.

“I'm sorry,” she says as she lowers the Omni onto the Hudson's muddy bed. She flips on the lights inside the pit. “When I brought you there, I thought I had no other choice. I was wrong—I had two choices and liked neither.”

Outside, seaweed dances in the current. As it grazes the windshield, I lean closer to her. “Why did you decide to help us?”

Sipu sighs. “Is guilt an answer when it doesn't change anything?” she says, leaning back against the headrest. “There are things I wish I never knew. For years I did nothing, when the water was right there . . . right under my feet. And I would have continued, had Lucas not raised his hand to me. I could have waited for him forever. Now I see, he belongs with Kitaneh.”

Her answer is too vague to understand completely, but the word
guilt
is clear—she wishes she'd done something with the water.

Sipu pauses and lifts her head, as if remembering she's
not alone. “Where should I bring you?” she asks. A current gently sends the Omni sideways, and both bags of water roll over my feet.

My promise.

It comes beating back to life inside of me.

“What if there's something we
can
do?” I say, and both Ter and Sipu pause. “The FATE Research Center. We wanted to get the cure to the prisoners in Quarantine.” I hold up a bag of water for them both to see.

Sipu takes the bag from me, turning it around as she inspects it. “Leftover stolen goods,” she says.

I shake my head. “Callum, Ren's friend, made more.”

“You're mistaken,” she says, passing the bag back. “The spring's ecosystem is impossibly delicate. It would take years of trial and error to re-create it artificially. I know. We tried. We gave up.”

“Okay,” I say. “Then this must be apple juice.”

She takes the bag again, this time inspecting it even harder. As if it could speak to her and prove what I'm saying.

“Look,” I say, showing her my hands. “Voss cut them off . . . at the
wrists
. Now see?” I wiggle all ten of my half fingers.

That must be proof enough—Sipu laughs into her palm, brushing aside a few blond strands. “You were going to bring it to the prisoners?” she asks, when something else occurs to her. She narrows her eyes at the bag. “But there isn't enough. Four people, maybe. Not hundreds.”

Of course, she doesn't know about Ren's blood—and I don't know if I should tell her. “Callum found someone who's immune,” I say instead, “and he added their blood to the
water. It works in one dose now. It's the same cure Ren and the other racers got out to everyone in the Ward.”

Ter leans forward, elbows resting against his knees. “With all the doctors and scientists invited to the gala, the lab
will
be half-staffed,” he says. “But . . . it could also be doubly guarded because of your escape.”

“These prisoners . . . ,” Sipu says.
She's actually considering
—I bite my lip. “They were arrested for transmitting the virus?”

Ter and I nod.

“And they wouldn't be in there if they themselves hadn't contracted it?”

More nodding.

“You're sure?”

I don't know why she doesn't believe us
. “I was in there with them. . . . I'm sure.”

“If that's true,” Sipu says finally, “I want to help you.”

I bite my cheeks to keep from grinning too hard—she wants to help
me.
I'm not just asking her for help . . .
she's asking me to let her.
Like
I'm
the mastermind. I feel brighter than a dozen roof-garden fireflies.

“Wait,” Ter says, deep in thought. I whip around to find him eyeing me warily. “Ren expects me to keep you safe, not hand-deliver you to the same people responsible for doing
that
.”

I flush, angry and embarrassed, hiding both hands from him. “Well, that's your problem. Maybe I don't need to be kept safe. And even if I did, there are more important things to worry about. Like this. Getting a cure to Mrs. Bedrosian
and everyone else. You know Miss Nale's in there too?”

Ter exhales and drops his eyes. I think he agrees, he's just afraid. “So, do we have a plan, or are we gonna wing it? 'Cause I vote plan,” he says, raising his hand.

“I have a way in.”

“Really?” Ter and I say together.

We're sitting in a DI Omni . . . of course she does. This can't be the only trick up her sleeve. She nods and smiles weakly. Helping us hurts. She's lost her family for us,
for this.

“Yes. I know how,” she says at last.

My promise beats louder. It's so loud, it's a hundred heartbeats in one. Hundreds of heartbeats trapped in a prison cell made out of ribs. They're in there, waiting to be let free.

We're getting them the water
.

“
D
on't need to see you, child, to know you're there.”

I curse from my hiding place, silently (or not so silently) punching the armchair.
How'd she know?

“Closer,” Emilce Voss says, exhaling. “Come closer.”

I should make a run for it—things just got a whole lot trickier now that I've been found. And yet I don't run. I push the chair out of my way and walk toward the woman on the cot. I watch her black veil rise, and then fall against her face. Her dark, clawlike hand trembles as she lifts it away. But the lace is too heavy. With one weak tug, it falls to the side, and I can see not just her features, but the outline of her entire skull.

Ashen, papery dark skin. Dark freckles. The smattering
of spots along her cheeks stands out like dirt. Veins line her neck like waterway maps. Her insides may as well be wrapped in brown plastic.

I try to hide my disgust, but I don't know that I can. In the one day since I saw her at the lab, she's turned into the walking dead. “How—” I stammer.

“Time, it seems,” she says weakly, “is finally catching up with me.”

I can't help myself—I glance at the serum.

“You know about that, do you?” Emilce nods. “Then you know it's not the
real
stuff. It's a serum my husband
retrieved
by some means or another. But it's been altered. It's effective against the virus, of which I have been cured, blessed be.” She brings her hands together in fake prayer. Even in her condition, she's managed to keep a healthy dose of sarcasm. I can't help but laugh a little.

“Its other properties, however, are . . . diminished. Nonetheless, he keeps pumping the stuff into me. Nothing can turn back the clock. Even the unaltered water is merely a pause button. I would like to remove the batteries.” Here, she laughs. It's an unnerving sound. Like hearing Death laugh at his own joke, but he's the only one in the room.

“If you wanna die so bad, why not just kill yourself?” I ask, calling her bluff. It's a harsh question, but I'm curious to know just how serious she is.

“Give me something sharp, and strength enough to pick it up, and I will.”

I swallow. “So he's just keeping you here? Like this?”

“I'd call him a monster,” Emilce says, her voice full of nails, “if I hadn't loved him for so many years. He claims to love me in return—that's why I'm still alive, if you were to ask him. So he can find the spring . . . for
me
.” She rolls her cloudy eyes. “But it's not for me. I'm his last connection to humanity, that's all. He's afraid to lose himself.”

Emilce wavers between anguish and hard-edged anger, like she can't decide which should win.

“So he puts the water into your IV?” I ask, eyeing the plastic bag at her bed.

Emilce squeezes air between her fingers. “Tiny drops. Enough to keep me alive. The rest, he saves for himself.” Her hand falls, exhausted from such a small motion. She looks at me like I'm the last person on earth and she's already gone.

Glancing back toward the door, my hands instinctively turn to fists. The more I learn about Governor Voss, the more I understand the word
hate
.

“I had no idea what he'd become, how finding the spring would affect his mind. We've been married over a hundred years, you know? Once, he was a good man.
This
is how he loves me now: he damns my body, though I've damned my soul.” Now she's rambling, in the way old people do. They'll tell you their life story when you haven't asked for it.

Emilce Voss pauses. Narrows her eyes, focusing on me. “So you're one of the Tètai girls. Here to murder us, I assume?” Blinking, she shakes her head, just barely. “No, you're not. My husband and I would both be dead by now if you were. You're not here for me. Who are you, then?”

For a moment, I consider the truth. Saying my name. I want to tell her the many ways her husband made my life hell. From contracting me to be a mole in my own city to stealing the serum to kidnapping and torturing my sister. All of it. I want her to know.

Before I can say a word, her face goes bloodless.

“You're her. . . . You're Renata,” she whispers. Her old eyes grow wide, watering a little. “From the Wanted notices—you worked for my husband. He told me about you. He said you'd found the spring. Your friend, the girl—he took her, I know. You are Renata, yes?” Emilce reaches for my hand, gentle at first. Nodding, I stiffen, and she feels it. She grips my fingers anyway. She doesn't let go. She only clings harder. She holds on to me like she's falling. Like I'm falling too. I swallow, confused. I want to pull away.

“My husband has hurt you and your friend in unimaginable ways,” she acknowledges, wiping her eyes. She loosens her grip. “I tried to stop it, but it seems fate cannot be avoided.”

Fate had nothing to do with it
.

“So, child. Is it revenge you're after? Or . . . perhaps you're bigger than that. You're saving the world from a greater evil?”

This woman is good. Too good
.

“Both.”

Emilce sighs. It sounds like giving up. “Good.” She points feebly toward the library behind her. “Over there is a book with no title. Bring it.”

I cross the room toward the bookcases, confused. Still, I scan the shelves like she's asked. Never before have I seen so
many books. Dozens of sizes and shapes and colors. A few are so ancient, their leather bindings have chunked off into pieces on the shelves.

Bottom row, smack in the middle—I find the book with no title.

It's black. I pull it from the shelf and see immediately it's not actually a book. It's made of wood. Finely carved too. With a shiver, I remember the aboretum. The governor whittled a miniature Trojan horse for me to give to the Tètai. It was a message. A threat. And, as it turned out . . . a trick.

The book is a box
, I realize.
And Voss made it.
On the black-painted “cover,” carved in script, I read two words—
Bellum Pestilentia—
and my gut twists. The Trojan horse . . . it had similar writing:
Bellum Exterminii
, “War by extermination” in Latin. That's what Callum had said. Tracing the carved letters, I translate easily this time, no help needed.

Bellum
: War

Pestilentia
: Pestilence. Disease.

War by disease . . .

“Bring it to me.”

Unable to breathe, I walk the box back and place it in Emilce's lap. She tugs at something under her collar. A gold chain necklace falls over her shoulder, a melting halo. A key dangles from its end.

“Open it.”

I rotate the box and search for a lock. Between its hinges, I feel a sliver of empty space just wide enough for a key.
Reaching for her necklace, I fit the key into the keyhole—the box unlocks.

“Murder isn't the only way to destroy life,” she whispers.

Then she lifts the latch.