by Tahereh Mafi
“Hell,” he says. “I’ve finally found hell.”
ELLA
JULIETTE
I wake in waves, consciousness bathing me slowly. I break the surface of sleep, gasping for air before I’m pulled under
another current
another current
another
Memories wrap around me, bind my bones. I sleep. When I sleep, I dream I am sleeping. In those dreams, I dream I am dead. I can’t tell real from fiction, can’t tell dreams from truth, can’t tell time anymore it might’ve been days or years who knows who knows I begin to
s
t
i
r
I dream even as I wake, dream of red lips and slender fingers, dream of eyes, hundreds of eyes, I dream of air and anger and death.
I dream Emmaline’s dreams.
She’s here.
She went quiet once she settled here, in my mind. She stilled, retreated. Hid from me, from the world. I feel heavy with her presence but she does not speak, she only decays, her mind decomposing slowly, leaving compost in its wake. I am heavy with it, heavy with her refuse. I am incapable of carrying this weight, no matter how strong Evie made me I am incapable, incompatible. I am not enough to hold our minds, combined. Emmaline’s powers are too much. I drown in it, I drown in it, I
gasp
when my head breaks the surface again.
I drag air into my lungs, beg my eyes to open and they laugh. Eyes laughing at lungs gasping at pain ricocheting up my spine.
Today, there is a boy.
Not one of the regular boys. Not Aaron or Stephan or Haider. This is a new boy, a boy I’ve never met before.
I can tell, just by standing next to him, that he’s terrified.
We stand in the big, wide room filled with trees. We stare at the white birds, the birds with the yellow streaks and the crowns on their heads. The boy stares at the birds like he’s never seen anything like them. He stares at everything with surprise. Or fear. Or worry. It makes me realize that he doesn’t know how to hide his emotions. Whenever Mr. Anderson looks at him, he sucks in his breath. Whenever I look at him, he goes bright red. Whenever Mum speaks to him, he stutters.
“What do you think?” Mr. Anderson says to Mum. He tries to whisper, but this room is so big it echoes a little.
Mum tilts her head at the boy. Studies him. “He’s what, six years old now?” But she doesn’t wait for him to answer. Mum just shakes her head and sighs. “Has it really been that long?”
Mr. Anderson looks at the boy. “Unfortunately.”
I glance at him, at the boy standing next to me, and watch as he stiffens. Tears spring to his eyes, and it hurts to watch. It hurts so much. I hate Mr. Anderson so much. I don’t know why Mum likes him. I don’t know why anyone likes him. Mr. Anderson is an awful person, and he hurts Aaron all the time. In fact— Now that I think about it, there’s something about this boy that reminds me of Aaron. Something about his eyes.
“Hey,” I whisper, and turn to face him.
He swallows, hard. Wipes at his tears with the edge of his sleeve.
“Hey,” I try again. “I’m Ella. What’s your name?”
The boy looks up, then. His eyes are a deep, dark blue. He’s the saddest boy I’ve ever met, and it makes me sad just to look at him.
“I’m A-Adam,” he says quietly. He turns red again.
I take his hand in mine. Smile at him. “We’re going to be friends, okay? Don’t worry about Mr. Anderson. No one likes him. He’s mean to all of us, I promise.”
Adam laughs, but his eyes are still red. His hand trembles in mine, but he doesn’t let go.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “He’s pretty mean to me.”
I squeeze his hand. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll protect you.”
Adam smiles at me then. Smiles a real smile. But when we finally look up again, Mr. Anderson is staring at us.
He looks angry.
There’s a buzzing building inside of me, a mass of sound that consumes thought, devours conversation.
We are flies—gathering, swarming—bulging eyes and fragile bones flittering nervously toward imagined destinies. We hurl our bodies at the panes of tantalizing windows, aching for the world promised on the other side. Day after day we drag injured wings and eyes and organs around the same four walls; open or closed, the exits elude us. We hope to be rescued by a breeze, hoping for a chance to see the sun.
Decades pass. Centuries stack together.
Our bruised bodies still careen through the air. We continue to hurl ourselves at promises. There is madness in the repetition, in the repetition, in the repetition that underscores our lives. It is only in the desperate seconds before death that we realize the windows against which we broke our bodies were only mirrors, all along.
KENJI
It’s been four days.
Four days of nothing. J is still sleeping. The twins are calling it a coma, but I’m calling it sleeping. I’m choosing to believe J is just really, really tired. She just needs to sleep off some stress and she’ll be fine. This is what I keep telling everyone.
She’ll be fine.
“She’s just tired,” I say to Brendan. “And when she wakes up she’ll be glad we waited for her to go get James. It’ll be fine.”
We’re in the Q, which is short for the quiet tent, which is stupid because it’s never quiet in here. The Q is the default common room. It’s a gathering space slash game room where people at the Sanctuary get together in the evenings and relax. I’m in the kitchen area, leaning against the insubstantial counter. Brendan and Winston and Ian and I are waiting for the electric kettle to boil.
Tea.
This was Brendan’s idea, of course. For some reason, we could never get our hands on tea back at Omega Point. We only had coffee, and it was seriously rationed. Only after we moved onto base in Sector 45 did Brendan realize we could get our hands on tea, but even then he wasn’t so militant about it.
But here—
Brendan’s made it his mission to force hot tea down our throats every night. He doesn’t even need the caffeine—his ability to manipulate electricity always keeps his body charged—but he says he likes it because he finds the ritual soothing. So, whatever. Now we gather in the evenings and drink tea. Brendan puts milk in his tea. Winston adds whiskey. Ian and I drink it black.
“Right?” I say, when no one answers me. “I mean, a coma is basically just a really long nap. J will be fine. The girls will get her better, and then she’ll be fine, and everything will be fine. And James and Adam will be fine, obviously, because Sam’s seen them and she says they’re fine.”
“Sam saw them and said they were unconscious,” Ian says, opening and closing cabinets. When he finds what he’s looking for—a sleeve of cookies—he rips the package open. He doesn’t even have a chance to pull one free before Winston’s swiped it.
“Those cookies are for our tea,” he says sharply.
Ian glowers.
We all glance at Brendan, who seems oblivious to the sacrifices being made in his honor. “Yes, Sam said that they were unconscious,” he says, collecting small spoons from a drawer. “But she also said they looked stable. Alive.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing at Brendan. “Thank you. Stable. Alive. These are the critical words.”
Brendan takes the rescued sleeve of cookies from Winston’s proffered hand, and begins arranging dishes and flatware with a confidence that baffles us all. He doesn’t look up when he says, “It’s really kind of amazing, isn’t it?”
Winston and I share a confused look.
“I wouldn’t call it amazing,” Ian says, plucking a spoon from the tray. He examines it. “But I guess forks and shit are pretty cool, as far as inventions go.”
Brendan frowns. Looks up. “I’m talking about Sam. Her ability to see across long distances.” He retrieves the spoon from Ian’s hand and replaces it on the tray. “What a remarkable skill.”
Sam’s preternatural a
bility to see across long distances was what convinced us of Anderson’s threats to begin with. Several days ago—when we first got the news about the kidnapping—she’d used both data and sheer determination to pinpoint Anderson’s location to our old base at Sector 45. She’d spent a straight fourteen hours searching, and though she hadn’t been able to get a visual on the other supreme kids, she’d been able to see flickers of James and Adam, who are the only ones I care about anyway. Those flickers of life—unconscious, but alive and stable—aren’t much in the way of assurances, but I’m willing to take anything at this point.
“Anyway, yeah. Sam is great,” I say, stretching out against the counter. “Which brings me back to my original point: Adam and James are going to be fine. And J is going to wake up soon and be fine. The world owes me at least that much, right?”
Brendan and Ian exchange glances. Winston takes off his glasses and cleans them, slowly, with the hem of his shirt.
The electric kettle pops and steams. Brendan drops a couple of tea bags into a proper teapot and fills its porcelain belly with the hot water from the kettle. He then wraps the teapot in a towel and hands it to Winston, and the two of them carry everything over to the little corner of the room we’ve been claiming for ourselves lately. It’s nothing major, just a cluster of seats with a couple of low tables in the middle. The rest of the room is abuzz with activity. Lots of talking and mingling.
Nouria and Sam are alone in a corner, deep in conversation. Castle is talking quietly with the girls, Sonya and Sara. We’ve all been spending a lot of time here—pretty much everyone has—ever since the Sanctuary was declared officially on lockdown. We’re all in this weird limbo right now; there’s so much happening, but we’re not allowed to leave the grounds. We can’t go anywhere or do anything about anything. Not yet, anyway. Just waiting for J to wake up.
Any minute now.
There are a ton of other people here, too—but only some I’m beginning to recognize. I nod hello to a couple of people I know only by name, and drop into a soft, well-worn armchair. It smells like coffee and old wood in here, but I’m starting to like it. It’s becoming a familiar routine. Brendan, as usual, finishes setting everything up on the coffee table. Teacups, spoons, little plates and triangle napkins. A little pitcher for milk. He’s really, really into this whole thing. He readjusts the cookies he’d already arranged on a plate, and smooths out the paper napkins. Ian stares at him with the same expression every night—like Brendan is crazy.
“Hey,” Winston says sharply. “Knock it off.”
“Knock what off ?” Ian says, incredulous. “Come on, man, you don’t think this is a little weird? Having tea parties every night?”
Winston lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’ll kill you if you ruin this for him.”
“All right, enough. I’m not deaf, you know.” Brendan narrows his eyes at Ian. “And I don’t care if you lot think it’s weird. I’ve little left of England, save this.”
That shuts us up.
I stare at the teapot. Brendan says it’s steeping.
And then, suddenly, he claps his hands together. He stares straight at me, his ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair giving me Warner vibes. But somehow, even with all his bright, white, cold hues, Brendan is the opposite of Warner. Unlike Warner, Brendan glows. He’s warm. Kind. Naturally hopeful and super smiley.
Poor Winston.
Winston, who’s secretly in love with Brendan and too afraid of ruining their friendship to say anything about it. Winston thinks he’s too old for Brendan, but the thing is— he’s not getting any younger, either. I keep telling Winston that if he wants to make a move, he should do it now, while he’s still got his original hips, and he says, Ha ha I’ll murder you, asshole, and reminds me he’s waiting for the right moment. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’ll keep it inside forever. And I’m worried it might kill him.
“So, listen,” Brendan says carefully. “We wanted to talk to you.”
I blink, refocusing. “Who? Me?”
I glance around at their faces. Suddenly, they all look serious. Too serious. I try to laugh when I ask, “What’s going on? Is this some kind of intervention?”
“Yes,” Brendan says. “Sort of.”
I go suddenly stiff.
Brendan sighs.
Winston scratches a spot on his forehead.
Ian says, “Juliette is probably going to die, you know that, right?”
Relief and irritation flood through me simultaneously. I manage to roll my eyes and shake my head at the same time. “Stop doing this, Sanchez. Don’t be that guy. It’s not funny anymore.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
I roll my eyes again, this time looking to Winston for support, but he just shakes his head at me. His eyebrows furrow so hard his glasses slip down his nose. He tugs them off his face.
“This is serious,” he says. “She’s not okay. And even if she does wake up again— I mean, whatever happened to her—”
“She’s not going to be the same,” Brendan finishes for him.
“Says who?” I frown. “The girls said—”
“Bro, the girls said that something about her chemistry changed. They’ve been running tests on her for days. Emmaline did something weird to her—something that’s, like, physically altered her DNA. Plus, her brain is fried.”
“I know what they said,” I snap, irritated. “I was there when they said it. But the girls were just being cautious. They think it’s possible that whatever happened to her might’ve left some damage, but—this is Sonya and Sara we’re talking about. They can heal anything. All we need to do is wait for J to wake up.”
Winston shakes his head again. “They wouldn’t be able to heal something like that,” he says. “The girls can’t repair that kind of neurological devastation. They might be able to keep her alive, but I’m not sure they’ll be able t—”
“She might not even wake up,” Ian says, cutting him off. “Like, ever. Or, best-case scenario, she could be in a coma for years. Listen, the point here is that we need to start making plans without her. If we’re going to save James and Adam, we need to go now. I know Sam’s been checking on them, and I know she says they’re stable for now, but we can’t wait anymore. Anderson doesn’t know what happened to Juliette, which means he’s still waiting for us to give her up. Which means Adam and James are still at risk— Which means we’re running out of time. And, for once,” he says, taking a breath, “I’m not the only one who feels this way.”
I sit back, stunned. “You’re messing with me, right?”
Brendan pours tea.
Winston pulls a flask out of his pocket and weighs it in his hand before holding it out to me. “Maybe you should have this tonight,” he says.
I glare at him.
He shrugs, and empties half the flask into his teacup.
“Listen,” Brendan says gently. “Ian is a beast with no bedside manner, but he’s not wrong. It’s time to think of a new plan. We all still love Juliette, it’s just—” He cuts himself off, frowns. “Wait, is it Juliette or Ella? Was there ever a consensus?”
I’m still scowling when I say, “I’m calling her Juliette.”
“But I thought she wanted to be called Ella,” Winston says.
“She’s in a fucking coma,” Ian says, and takes a loud sip of tea. “She doesn’t care what you call her.”
“Don’t be such a brute,” Brendan says. “She’s our friend.”
“Your friend,” he mutters.
“Wait— Is that what this is about?” I sit forward. “Are you jealous she never best-friended you, Sanchez?”
Ian rolls his eyes, looks away.
Winston is watching with fascinated interest.
“All right, drink your tea,” Brendan says, biting into a biscuit. He gestures at me with the half-eaten cookie. “It’s getting cold.”
I shoot him a tired look, but I take an obligatory sip and nearly choke. It tastes weird tonight. And I’m abo
ut to push it away when I realize Brendan is still staring at me, so I take a long, disgusting pull of the dark liquid before replacing the cup in the saucer. I try not to gag.
“Okay,” I say, slamming my palms down on my thighs. “Let’s put it to a vote: Who here thinks Ian is annoyed that J didn’t fall in love with him when she showed up at Point?”
Winston and Brendan share a look. Slowly, they both lift their hands.
Ian rolls his eyes again. “Pendejos,” he mutters.
“The theory holds at least a little water,” Winston says.
“I have a girlfriend, dumbasses.” And as if on cue, Lily looks up from across the room, locks eyes with Ian. She’s sitting with Alia and some other girl I don’t recognize.
Lily waves.
Ian waves back.
“Yes, but you’re used to a certain level of attention,” Winston says, reaching for a biscuit. He looks up, scans the room. “Like those girls, right over there,” he says, gesturing with his head. “They’ve been staring at you since you walked in.”
“They have not,” Ian says, but he can’t help but glance over.
“It’s true.” Brendan shrugs. “You’re a handsome guy.”
Winston chokes on his tea.
“Okay, enough.” Ian holds up his hands. “I know you guys think this is hilarious, but I’m being serious. At the end of the day, Juliette is your friend. Not mine.”
I exhale dramatically.
Ian shoots me a look. “When she first showed up at Point, I tried reaching out to her, to offer her my friendship, and she never followed up. And even after we were taken hostage by Anderson”—he nods an acknowledgment at Brendan and Winston—“she took her sweet time trying to get information out of Warner. She never gave a shit about the rest of us, and all we’ve ever done is put everything on the line to protect her.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Winston says, shaking his head. “She was in an awful position—”
“Whatever,” Ian mutters. He looks down, into his tea. “This whole situation is some kind of bullshit.”
“Cheers to that,” Brendan says, refilling his cup. “Now have more tea.”
