The Isle (2 page)

A
voice whipcracks in my ear. “She's waking.”

Am I?

It feels more like I've been dead, and now I'm bringing myself back to life. My nose is the first thing that works. I'm not at Ward Hope anymore, I know that right away. The room smells different. Emptier. The other room smelled like life, and plants, and the color yellow. It smelled like puppy love—that was Derek's crush on Ren stinking up the place.

He was there when I woke up.
He woke me up.
He gave me the special water. The same stuff Renny found, but way more of it, he'd said. So much that I wouldn't get sick again. It made me feel better, a hundred times better. Stronger too—like I could carry the world on my shoulders and not strain a muscle. And when I fell asleep, it smelled like Renny.

It doesn't smell like her now.

So where am I?

I risk a glance toward the voice, blinking a dozen times. This room is so bright, you'd think someone had plucked the sun from the sky and pushed it into a lightbulb. Except there's no warmth. The walls, the floor, the ceiling—everything's dull and gray. It's a prison. Worse: a hospital prison.

A bubble of panic pops in my throat. I try to talk—
Why am I here?
—but my tongue feels all rubbery. They gave me something. My voice comes out as a gurgle and that's the next thing to scare me.

Standing over me is a lady in a white dress and a white cap. She looks at me like I'm not human. That's not new. When you're sick—even if you're not contagious—people don't see you as “normal” anymore.

Except . . .
I'm not sick.

I can just tell. My head is full of Hudson fog, still slow from what they gave me, but it also feels empty. Like there's no tumor inside weighing it down. I don't hurt, not even the smallest bit. I want to believe what Derek said, that I'd only need one dose. But pain has a way of coming back.

The woman stares down at me over her beaky nose. Her black hair won't move. It's like she's wearing a soldier's helmet, and she's going into war. “Good morning, Aventine,” she says, her words clipped and angry as though I've done something wrong. She uses my whole name too, just like my mama did when she really was mad at me.

Then, looking down at a clipboard, she says, “How do you feel?”

“Athena made it out alive,” I mumble, still coming back to life.

“Come again?” The lady looks up from her clipboard. Her eyebrows are two scrunched, confused caterpillars.

If Ren were here, she'd understand.

I close my eyes. The drugs are pulling me under again. “Never mind,” I murmur.

I'm back in the abandoned school where I found the book. It told me about Zeus, the lightning god from Greece. He gave birth to a girl out of his head, Athena, and she grew up to be a goddess. She was good at wisdom and war. When I first felt the thing in my head, I had hoped I was Zeus and it was Athena inside, not a tumor. I kept pretending even after we found out the truth. It helped, imagining I was hurting so something good and strong could be born into the world.

“Child,” the lady snaps. “When I ask you a question, you're to answer it directly. Do you understand?” She shakes my jaw side to side until I open my eyes for her.
She shakes me.
I can't believe it. . . .

Even back at Nale's—in a crummy orphanage—we were never touched, or shaken, or anything like that. I touch the skin at my neck, confused. Then a shiver tunnels down my back and it burrows far into my chest.

I've been taken
.

Derek giving me the water, Ren being on the run from the Blues . . . that's why I'm here. Wherever “here” is.

My throat gets tight and I swallow. And swallow. And swallow again, until my spit is as dry as those crumbly yick protein bars Ren makes me eat.

I push aside the paper neck of my hospital gown and, out of habit, I reach for my penny necklace. Ren has one too. I made it for her. I wonder if she's touching hers. I wonder if she'll look for me.
Of course she's looking for you. She wouldn't let anything happen to you.

“One more time: How do you feel?”

That question. I hate it.

What doctors really want to know when they ask this question is, how does the sickness feel? Not
me
—
I'm
afraid. I don't know why I'm here, and I don't trust her.

But she doesn't care about that. She cares about the tumor. The sickness.

Defeated, I answer her. “My head feels fine. No pain.”

“Wonderful,” the lady responds. She doesn't say it like it's wonderful. She says it like she knew, and she isn't surprised.

“What's this?” I ask, scratching the inside of my arm and finding a tube stuck there. It's an IV. I had one of these in Ward Hope. I hate seeing tubes poking around in my body. It makes me feel like a machine, or like that monster with snakes for hair. “Do I need it?” I raise my arm slightly.

“What caused your recovery, Aventine?” the woman asks, ignoring me.

I bite my lip.
Is the water a secret? Ren never said. I only know she found it for the Blues before we realized what it could do. It made me better, but then it made me worse. I ended up comatose in the hospital because I didn't drink enough for it to fix me for good. And I stayed that way right up until Derek came and woke me.

“You were given a very special liquid. Almost like water. Am I correct?”

The woman says all this without looking at me. She's at the foot of my cot with her back turned, arranging sharp tools on a tray. I'm scared. I've never been this cold in my life. Not even when I was running from sickhouse to sickhouse after the Blues nabbed Renny. Fear makes everything colder. I push myself back into the cot as far as I can go. She's going to do something to me. Something sharp.

I shake my head. “I don't know.”

“I don't believe you're telling the truth.” Sweetly, the lady smiles and tilts her head, but it doesn't look real. “We have video footage from your stay at Ward Hope. A young man brought you something.”

“Flowers,” I tell her. I'm not trying to lie; I just want to remember the flowers and nothing else right now. . . . They had a yellow, trumpeting smell I liked.

“That's not all,” she singsongs
,
like I'm an infant.

“I woke up, and he was there—I swear.”

The woman sighs.

“I didn't see him give me anything, really.”

“It was through your IV, then. Obviously,” she says, shaking her head. “Did he say anything about it? Did he tell you what it was? How strong it was? And what about your friend, Renata Dane? Didn't she tell you anything about it?” The questions come like cannonballs.

“Ren isn't my friend. She's my sister,” I interrupt, but the woman just snorts. It looks ugly on her. “Parents can adopt
children, can't they? Then I'm allowed to adopt a sister. And no, my
sister
didn't tell me anything. Neither did her friend.” I'm raising my voice now, though I'm smart enough to know that's not a good idea. Not with the tools over there.

“Nothing? Really?” The woman raises one brow as she stands. “So you know nothing about what happened that night?”

I meet her eyes. Ren said she was going to do something impossible, but that's all she told me. “What happened?” I ask quietly.

“Governor Voss is a hero!” She gawks at me in disbelief. “That night will go down in history as the night he eradicated the Blight.”

“He what?” I croak, staring back, wide-eyed. “How?”

“I only heard the radio transmissions, like everyone else. But you can ask him about it yourself, if you wish. The governor will be here tomorrow to oversee the procedure.”

My heart retreats far into my chest, like it's going into hiding. “Procedure? W-what procedure?” I glance around the room, eyes darting from floor to ceiling for some way out. There's the door they must have dragged me in through, but I can't use that. A bathroom tucked in the far corner is no help either. I'm thinking, thinking . . . but nothing turns up.

Narrowing her crow eyes at me, she says, “Governor Voss believes that while you were in Ward Hope, you were given something very powerful by that young man. It cured you of the Blight, but the governor feels it's capable of more.”

What do they think it can do?
Looking down at my skin-covered body, I try to see through to the bones and the blood
and the muscle underneath. No, I do not understand.

I understand those sharp tools, though. They sit there, waiting.

“Some Dilameth, to keep you calm.” The lady fills up a syringe with clear liquid.

I tighten my forearms against the sheets.

“Now don't be difficult.” She rips my arm away, stretching it across her lap like I have doll bones inside me. “Make a fist.”

Ren—
she'd make a fist, but it wouldn't be the kind this lady's expecting. Ren wouldn't let anyone stick her with a needle. She would fight. And then she'd escape, all on her own.

Am I smart like that?

I don't know
, I realize. I make the fist she asked for.

“
H
ow much longer?” I ask Derek for the hundredth time. My voice carries too loud through the miles of unused track that'll lead us to the lab. A rat squeaks in the darkness.

We lost our flashlights for good reason—any one of Derek's centuries-old, assassination-happy family members could be following us. The delightful Kitaneh could be hanging back in the black right now, waiting to make her move.

“Soon.” He stops. The rope leash around my wrist slackens—that's how I can tell. “Sooner than the last time you asked, at least.”

“Brack—”
I curse, bumbling backward under the weight of my waterproof pack. I've just flat-tired Derek, walked
straight into him, nearly pulling his boot clean off. “Why'd you—”

He grabs my elbow, first to steady me. Then, like it's some sort of road map, his hand travels down to find mine. The hairs on my arm prickle, standing tall as he brings my fingers to his lips. Between my knuckles, he whispers a soft
“Shh.”

I shut my trap and freeze all my bones, listening.

We stand in the pitch-black for what seems like hours, our hands welded together. Another rat squeaks, and Derek exhales. Releases me from his grip. I feel him step away and the rope that's tied between us grows taut again.
He's moving.

We fall into a quicker pace this time.

“You sure the Blues don't know about this route?” I ask in a low voice, worried that maybe Derek was wrong about that bit. We don't need unforeseen trouble; the Tètai are trouble enough.

He stops short and a puddle splashes under his sole. “The DI knows the PATH exists. They're just under the impression that it's still flooded.”

The PATH. He hadn't called it that before, but now that he's using the tunnel's old, pre–Wash Out name, my DI training kicks in—his information is good. As a former Blues mole charged with scouting the UMI for freshwater, I had to study maps galore: underwater, above water, geology, topography, history, too. This route travels under the Hudson River, now a strait. It connected Manhattan with New
Jersey, now the Ward and the West Isle.

Then the asteroid hit. Screwed everything up.
Big-time
.

Sea levels rose. Ground water aquifers turned too salty to drink. Couldn't even desalinate with an underwater power plant upriver. Upstate was left with the only good, clean water on the East Coast, streaming down from the mountains. And those brackheads bolted once they saw they could make a quick buck. Didn't want to be the sole supplier of fresh on the eastern seaboard no more. So they seceded.

Left New York City high and dry, literally. Leftover landmasses banded together—including a few Jersey towns. They renamed themselves the West Isle. Together, we became the United Metro Islets.

Since we had no army, the police force became the Division Interial. Or the Blues, if you ain't the fancy type. And without funding, routes like the PATH stayed out of commission. People from the West Isle weren't exactly clamoring for a way in once the Blight took over in the Ward either.

“So you and your family—the six of you—you just went ahead and drained an entire underwater railroad system? Like fixing a clogged pipe?” I whistle, ducking around the puddle that he'd missed. “Impressive.”

Derek chuckles. “Lower your voice,” he says softly. “And no. It was just Kitaneh and me, her sister, Sipu, and Lucas—they're also married. My other brother Pietr and his wife weren't there.”

“And where were they while you four were off doing all the heavy lifting?”

He doesn't answer, not right away. Maybe I'm imagining it,
but the thick dark of the tunnel starts to feel oppressive, like I've asked something that doesn't have a good answer.

“They died that day.”

Dammit, Ren, why you gotta go and ask so many questions?
I kick myself, about to say how sorry I am, but he goes on—

“It was supposed to be a simple recon mission: learn how much water Voss had in his personal supply. That was all. We knew he'd found one of the spring's locations back before the Wash Out. What we didn't know was just how much he'd made off with, and he'd been evading us for years. All our attempts at assassination failed. Somehow . . . Voss knew we were following him. He was ready for Pietr and Takhi when they came.”

“But . . . I thought you guys couldn't die?” I ask, unable to stop myself. I've been wondering that since I found his photo album.
From the 1800s.

“There are ways,” he tells me. “Humans have basic needs: Fresh water. Air. The spring's unique properties don't change that.”

“I'm sorry, Derek. About . . . everything,” I say, but the words sound so limp once they're out of my mouth. As we continue in silence, I wonder if he's hurting now, still, after so many years. I'd hurt every day for the rest of my life if I lost Aven.

“Something else has me confused . . . ,” I start, needing to break the uncomfortable quiet.

“Go on.”

“You guys have a zero-tolerance policy, so when Voss finds the water, you try to off him. Don't matter what he'd use the
water for—you've also tried offing people who'd do good with the spring, like Callum. And me.”

Derek's discomfort at the reminder runs like a line of electricity through the rope 'round both our wrists. It's taut with guilt. “So here's my question: Why not just bomb the hell out of the spring? Destroy it. Why go through all this trouble to keep it hidden in the first place?”

Derek answers on an inhale. “We've tried. We can't.”

Behind us, something crumbles. Derek raises his hand as the dull racket of a rockslide echoes down the tracks.

“Structural damage, right? Your people would never be so clumsy.”

Derek don't answer immediately. Waits for the tunnel to fall quiet again.

He grabs my hand, harder this time. Our soles hit the ground. Rubber squeaks against the metal rails, and we're running, giving every step away.