by Bella Jacobs
I’m not mad at Kite anymore. Not at all, which is crazy.
It doesn’t matter that the helicopter gave me a case of bad vibes unlike anything I can remember, or that I believe Kite’s intentions are good. He still kidnapped me and took me away from my family and may have signed my death certificate.
I’ve missed the procedure for certain, now. Even if I manage to get home soon and put all this madness behind me, there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to score another appointment.
You might not need it. Can you remember the last time you felt this good? This awake and alive? And this is after you’ve missed two doses of your meds. You should be on the floor, too tired to lift your head up, but you’re not.
I chew the edge of my thumb, not liking the suspicions these thoughts set to reeling through my head. There could still be another explanation. I could have been having a negative reaction to the meds my doctors didn’t understand, or this could be the calm before the storm—my body surging back to life before it recovers sufficiently to return to attacking itself full time—but the constant snarling of my stomach is a nagging reminder that Kite might be telling the truth.
It’s unfathomable, this idea that my parents might willingly poison me, but…
I shake my head. “No. They wouldn’t. Never.” My voice is thin and soft, barely audible over the distant rush of cars pulsing past on the highway miles away, but it does me good to hear it.
I saw the devastation on Mom and Pops’s faces at the memorial service for Scarlett. They were shattered, every bit as broken by the loss of my sister as if she had been their biological daughter. They loved her, and they love me. They’ve gone into tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of debt to treat my condition and put themselves through incalculable amounts of heartache.
My symptoms match the list for the Devour virus almost exactly. And I know better than to think that furry people are real.
So I had a crazy dream last night, so what? I was delirious and in the middle of withdrawal from my meds after being driven off a bridge and almost drowning in a freezing cold river. It was probably all a fever dream.
And my parents are no doubt worried sick about me, and not because they can’t wait to get back to poisoning me. By now they will have realized I’m not in my bed, and that something terrible must have happened to me. They’ve probably already called the police and activated a movement positive-energy circle and are sitting by the phone, praying for me to reach out and let them know I’m okay.
There hasn’t been any chance of getting to a phone until now—Kite has been watching me like a hawk, and we’ve been wandering around the middle of nowhere—but the storage facility might have a front office and someone on duty willing to let a girl in muddy sock feet use the phone.
I hesitate, guilt flashing through my chest as I contemplate breaking my promise to Kite to “sit tight” and how pissed he’s going to be about me reaching out to the people he thinks are responsible for making me sick. But then I come to my senses and slip out from the tree line, scurrying around the closely shorn lawn that surrounds the rows of bright orange lockers toward the front of the complex.
Kite is a good guy, yes.
Kite is also someone I could see myself coming to care about—a lot—even if he is a radicalized kidnapping conspiracy theorist, but my parents are my parents.
Hank and Abby have been there for me almost every day of my life—good times and bad, happy and sad, miserable and silly and everything in between. My loyalty belongs to them, to the family we created together when they chose to rescue two hopeless kids and bring my sister and me into their home.
By the time I reach the entrance, I’m out of breath, but not nearly the way I would have been twenty-four hours earlier. My heart is beating faster, but I still have enough air left in my lungs to curse as I realize the front gate is controlled by remote and there isn’t a sign of human life inside the rows and rows of identical orange boxes on the other side.
I’m about to give up and jog back to my hiding place, hoping I’ll get there before Kite, when something catches my attention across the narrow county road running past the facility. It’s a call box, one of those emergency phones that used to line highways before the proliferation of cell phones. My parents stopped to use one when our car broke down on the way to a camping trip when I was a little girl, after Pops realized he’d forgotten to charge his cell and Mom had left hers at home.
If I’m lucky, this one might still be functional.
Glancing both ways down the utterly isolated road, I trot across the graying pavement and pry open the plastic box protecting the device inside. The puce-colored phone is coated with dirt, the cord connecting the receiver to the control box is cracked with age, and it looks like no one’s serviced this sucker since long before I was born.
I expect to be disappointed, but when I lift the receiver, I hear a dial tone on the end of the line. It’s distant and grainy, but there.
My heart leaps into my throat, frantically pulsing, as several soft clicking sounds are followed by ringing.
The phone is ringing! I’m about to make contact with the real world, to talk to someone who can help me get in touch with my parents and put this crazy night behind me.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a faint voice asks, summoning a sob of relief from deep in my chest.
“I have to get in touch with my family. They’re probably scared to death.” Words spill out in a jumble as my brain tries to think clearly over the rush of excitement. “I was taken last night. From my house, I—”
“What’s your name, ma’am?” the faint voice demands. “And are you in need of medical attention?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, my head still fuzzy from shock and hunger. “I think I’m okay, and my—”
Something blurs past my face and a second later an unfamiliar male hand snatches the phone from me and slams it back into the cradle, abruptly ending the call.
I reel around, stumbling backward. I’m about to fall into the weedy ditch at the side of the road when the man grips my elbow and draws me back onto solid ground. The second my feet are on the pavement, I wrench free and back away, watching the stranger warily.
He’s only a couple inches taller than my five eight, with a slim but solid build, and slender fingers he threads together in front of his midsection. He’s wearing expensive-looking gray suit pants that fit like they’ve been custom-made, a white button-up rolled at the sleeves to reveal surprisingly tan forearms for a guy who looks like he works with money, and a thin red tie that furthers the vintage vibe.
All things considered, he would be a fairly nonthreatening figure if he hadn’t just put an end to my call for help with the whip-fast moves of a striking cobra.
And if he weren’t so arresting to look at…
Broad shoulders, a shock of brown hair falling over a noble-looking forehead, and piercing gray eyes set in a face blessed with perfect masculine symmetry all contribute to the overall Wow effect. And then he opens his mouth and says in an accent that’s pure smooth and sexy Mark Darcy, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t allow you to complete that call.”
“Who-who are you?” I take another step away, my admiration turning to trepidation as I wonder if this man is one of the people hunting us, one of the KB people Kite was talking about, one of those hate-filled things I could feel seething at us from the helicopter.
But he doesn’t feel filled with hate, this random Brit seemingly spit out onto the pavement here in the middle of nowhere Washington. Presumably via a TARDIS?
No, he seems almost…familiar. Something about his eyes, his voice, and the particular sweep of his top lip, like the body of a priceless violin, all elegant curves.
“I’m a friend,” he says, watching me with an intensity that’s unnerving. “At least, I hope I can be again. We have a lot of lost time to make up for, you and I.”
“Lost time,” I echo, my chest filling with a strange swelling sensation as
my body makes the connection seconds before my brain. But surely it can’t be, this tall, powerful-looking man…
This clearly healthy person, who has probably never suffered through a sick day in his life…
There’s no way this is… “Dust?”
A grin streaks across his face, revealing familiar, slightly crooked front teeth. “You remember.”
“Of course I do. Oh my God, it’s so good to see you, I can’t believe you’re here,” I mutter, stepping toward him with my hands outstretched, only to check myself and back away again, snatching my hands to my chest. I’m instinctively drawn to Dust and dying to find out where he’s been all these years, but even half starved and stupid with hunger, I know the odds that this meeting is a coincidence are slim to none.
Wasn’t I just thinking of him yesterday, when I was trying to figure out who was responsible for that creepy phone call?
Forcing my arms to my sides, I ask, “Why did you do that?” I motion toward the call box. “I was trying to get help.”
“I know.” His smile fades. “But help’s already here, and more is on the way. I trust Kite’s done well by you.” His gray eyes darken as he casts a glance over my shoulder. “Or as well as can be expected, considering he decided to drive you off a bridge less than half an hour after rescuing you from captivity.”
“I did what I had to do, asshole.” Kite’s voice comes from behind me. I turn to see him hurrying across the road, now dressed in jeans and a simple white shirt that emphasizes the wedge shape of his torso, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. He stops behind me, putting a protective hand on my arm. “You okay, Bird Girl? Is Ghost creeping you out?”
This is Ghost? Dust is the person on the other end of the phone, the one Sierra was begging to send help? The one who hung up on her and left us all hanging?
I shrug Kite’s hand off and step away from both of them. “No, I’m not okay. So you two know each other. You’re friends?”
“Friends isn’t the word I would use.” Dust’s voice is as crisp and politely cutting as it was every time he dressed down a bully on the playground when we were kids.
“Me either, Prince Charming.” Kite smirks as he props his hands low on his hips, glancing my way as he jerks his chin toward Dust. “This one’s royalty in our world; too good to get his hands dirty. Prefers to stay above it all, letting the rest of us risk our necks.”
Dust sighs and rolls his eyes, seemingly bored. “That’s such a preposterous misrepresentation of the truth, I’m not sure where to begin correcting you, Pooh-bie.”
“Don’t call me that,” Kite growls.
“But sadly, we don’t have time for a history lesson at the moment,” Dust continues, adjusting the already impeccable fold of his right sleeve. “Kin Born forces were spotted less than ten miles from here, in the air and on the hunt.”
“Yeah, we already ran into them,” Kite says. “And gave them the slip. Last I saw the chopper was headed south, following the river.”
“Helicopters are capable of reversing course,” Dust says. “And so should we. The Church of Humanity activated reclamation protocols a little after nine p.m. last night. They’ve been looking for Wren for over twelve hours, and their resources are considerable. The sooner we get to the safe house and out of sight, the better.”
Kite curses. “They called it in right after we took her? Sierra said she didn’t think the old man got a good look at her. At least, not good enough to see that she had Wren slung over her shoulder.”
“Apparently Sierra was wrong.” Dust glances up at the sky, where storm clouds are beginning to gather, promising rain before afternoon. “Where is the trash panda? Celeste is worried.”
“I…I don’t know,” Kite says, his chin dropping closer to his chest.
“You don’t know?” Dust echoes, his voice cold.
“We lost her in the river. Wren was still out of it, withdrawing hard from the meds. I had to get her out of the car first, and by the time I did…”
“You shouldn’t have gone into the river in the first place.” Dust steps closer to Kite, his hands curling into fists as he moves. “Help was on the way. If you’d waited five damned minutes before you flew off the handle, we—”
“And how the hell was I supposed to know that?” Kite shouts. “You fucking hung up on us.”
“I didn’t hang up on you, the call was disconnected when—”
“Sure the hell sounded like it, and we were out of time, Mr. Perfect.”
“Will you two, stop?” I say, raising my voice to be heard. “This isn’t—”
“And we didn’t have five minutes,” Kite barrels on. “I had to make a call to try to save our skin, so I made it. And if you’ll notice, Wren is here in one piece.”
“And on the verge of alerting the authorities to our presence,” Dust snaps. “If I hadn’t stopped her, the movement would know exactly where she is right now.”
“Seriously, stop it.” I step between them, lifting my hands as if to hold them apart. “You’re both—”
“And authorities are certainly on the way to this location right now,” Dust cuts in, his manners not nearly as lovely as I remember. “So we should cut the shit and—”
“Hey, I’m talking, too!” I shout as Kite starts in with something about logistics. “Don’t you know it’s rude to talk over your kidnap victim? Especially when she’s trying to tell you that she’s not going anywhere with either of you until she gets some answers and is allowed to call her parents and tell them that she’s not dead at the bottom of the river.”
Dust gaze softens as it shifts my way. “I know how hard this is for you. Believe me, I do, but we can’t allow you to stay here exposed. It isn’t safe. Explanations will have to wait.”
My lips part and I’m on the verge of using a few expletives to inform him how very tired I am of being told to wait for answers—he lost the right to be the leader of our merry band when he left town without saying a word and let me think he was dead for years—when a whip-ping sound whistles past my ear, so close it makes me flinch.
“What the…” I lift a hand to my ear, but before I can touch my fingers to the stinging place on the side of my head, the sharp whip comes again and again, three times in a row and a sensation like the worst bee sting in the world cuts into my chest, so close to my heart that for a moment I think I’ve been stabbed.
No, not stabbed…
Shot, I realize as Dust knocks me to the ground, rolling on top of me, while Kite pulls a gun from his backpack and takes aim at the field on the other side of the road. He fires again and again, not pausing a second, even when he’s hit and red blooms across the virgin fabric of his white T-shirt.
Virgin, you’re going to die a virgin, a voice in my head mumbles in a traumatized monotone as I watch Kite continue to fire and my chest fills with rocks—giant heavy rocks that weigh me down, cementing me to the warm pavement beneath my shoulders.
I try to pull in a breath, to call Kite’s name, to tell whoever is out there firing on him to stop. But all I can manage is a wheezing gasp as Dust tucks his head close to mine, shielding me with his body.
I can’t stand this—the senseless violence.
Our planet is already drowning in humanity’s mistakes, the rising sea and resulting climate chaos putting all of us at greater risk of violent death and disease than our ancestors even just one generation ago would have believed possible. The only way we’re going to survive as a species, as a planet, is to work together, to talk to each other, to empathize and share and remember the lessons we learned in kindergarten and forgot somewhere on the way to pretending to be grown-ups.
Seeing Kite shooting to kill—even knowing he’s only shooting to protect the three of us—makes me physically ill. He is so gentle and good.
What kind of world do we live in where good people are forced to become monsters in order to survive?
But I want to survive, I realize.
Desperately. Frantically.
&nb
sp; I don’t want to die here in the road with so much left undone and unknown, with all the dreams I never let myself dream locked away inside me, and all my unanswered questions seething through my brain. There is so much left to discover, and for a moment it felt like I was on the verge of something new, something terrifying, but also thrilling and hopeful and freeing.
What would it be like to be free? To finally cast off the shackles of this disease that’s dragged me down and fenced me in every day of my life?
Dust has done it. Somehow.
In the shock of seeing him for the first time, I didn’t connect the dots right away, but now, as he lifts me with seeming effortlessness, cradling me in his arms as he stands and runs across the road, through the grass, into the shelter of the trees, it’s clear. The boy who was my partner in sick-kid crimes—whatever innocent infractions we could get away with, considering our finite energy reserves—is now a full-grown man.
A healthy man.
A man in command of himself and his surroundings, who doesn’t hesitate to bark orders. “There’s a car waiting for us at the edge of town. Run ahead to the corner of Pine and Fifth. Tell the driver to get the first aid kit out of the trunk and be ready to move.”
“Is she okay?” Kite asks, his face bobbing above mine as he pulls even with Dust.
“No, she’s been shot,” Dust snaps. “And so have you. So move your ass, Kite. If we lose her, I’m holding you personally fucking responsible.”
Kite’s dark eyes flash with anger—then pain, guilt, shame, and so many other emotions he shouldn’t be feeling. It isn’t his fault that I was shot. It was the fault of the person who pulled the trigger.
I want to tell him that, but I’m beyond words.
Nearly beyond breath.
The rocks in my chest have multiplied and spread, rolling out to fill every inch of my body, dragging at my hips, my limbs, my head, my eyes—now far too heavy to remain open with boulders balanced on my lids, demanding I rest.
