Ghost Heart (The PSS Chronicles #3)

by Ripley Patton

  “I’m afraid the reports of my daughter’s demise were greatly exaggerated,” Mr. James said, his eyes flicking to Jason for a moment. “Thankfully, the shooter wasn’t as proficient as he could have been. Her wound was only a graze to the ribs, not a shot to the head.”

  “She’s okay?” I pushed back my chair and stood up, glaring at him. “Then why did you tell me she was almost dead?”

  “That bit of untruth was for the sake of Mr. Holbrook and his new council, I’m afraid,” Mr. James explained. “I needed them to think I was at their mercy. That I wouldn’t act against them. With Samantha fatally injured and immobile, they believed exactly that. But she was already here, safe and sound, when we found you two. My apologies that you had to take part in my little subterfuge.”

  “She’s upstairs?” I asked, still in shock, barely believing it was possible. “Are Renzo and Juliana here too?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “They’re somewhere else, but safe.”

  “And Samantha—she’s fine? Can I see her?”

  “Of course,” Mr. James said, gesturing to the stairway behind him.

  I circled the table and hurried past him, barely holding myself back from a run. I bolted up the steps, taking them two at a time, my heart in my throat. She was here. And she was okay.

  At the top of the stairs, I paused, wondering if I should go right or left. To the right was a shorter hallway, leading to one door. I was pretty sure that was where they’d put Marcus. The left had a longer hall with several doors off of it and one at the end.

  Just as I stepped off the landing to head left, I heard Mr. James’s voice from downstairs, a low subdued rumble. “You did well,” he said. “You’re as good as Bruce claimed you were. And no one saw you, you’re sure?”

  I couldn’t make out what Jason answered in response. He was too far from the stairwell. But I recognized the timbre and cadence of his voice. He answered Mr. James and they both laughed.

  I had never heard Jason Williams laugh.

  I stopped stock still, straining to hear more, but they were moving away from the stairwell, their voices fading.

  As far as I knew, Jason and Mr. James had never met before today. So, why had they become buddy-buddy the second I’d left the room? And what had Mr. James been talking about? What had Jason done so well that no one had seen?

  I looked down the hallway.

  Whatever it was, I would deal with it later.

  Samantha was in one of these rooms, and the one on the end would be the largest, so she was probably there. I ran down the hall, but stopped just outside the door, suddenly shy and terrified to see her. What if she was still angry about the things I’d said at the Eidolon? Was I still angry at her? No. I reached down and turned the knob, stepping into a brightly lit room filled with old fashioned furniture and dominated by an out-of-place hospital bed with Samantha propped up smack in the middle of it. She was wearing a downy white robe and reading a book like she’d just had a day at the spa.

  She looked up at me and a smile blossomed across her face. “What took you so long?” she asked, as if I’d arrived late to some high school party, instead of barely escaping a massacre. “I’ve been hearing all three of you since you came in.”

  Of course she had. Samantha heard PSS as music.

  “You’re alive,” I said like an idiot, feeling strangely angry. Even with the happy PSS orchestra playing in her head all the time, how could she smile after everything that had happened? Did she know Marcus might have brain damage, or that Olivia had been taken? Did she know Yale and Nose were gone? How could she be here, practically unscathed, when I felt like the walking wounded, like damaged goods that could never be restored to their former state?

  “So are you,” she pointed out. “And your PSS has changed.” She furrowed her brow and turned her good ear toward me, listening. “You have a power,” she said, smiling.

  “I do? What is it?”

  “I have no idea. I can’t hear what they are, only that they’ve manifested.”

  So, the Eidolon had worked on me. But what good was a power if I had no idea what it was or how to use it?

  “Don’t worry,” Samantha said, as if reading my mind. “It will show itself when you need it. Will you come sit by me?” She patted the edge of the bed. “I want to see you. I need to know you’re okay.”

  I crossed to the bed and sat down, painfully aware I was filthy and stinky and probably looked like something the cat dragged in.

  “I should have listened to you,” she said, and I could see the pain and guilt swimming in her eyes. She hadn’t gotten away from the Eidolon unscathed. Not by a long shot.

  “What happened up there wasn’t your fault,” I told her.

  She threw herself into my arms, or I threw myself into hers. I’m not sure which and it didn’t matter. We held each other, and she cried, and her hair smelled like shampoo and sunshine. Her hands crawled up my back and clung to me, as if she would squeeze what she needed right out of my body. My hands rubbed and soothed in return, stroking her back, feeling the thick bandages under her shirt where the bullet had skimmed her ribs.

  God, thank you.

  “Lay down with me,” she whispered, and I did, curling myself around her and pulling the covers over both of us. She was so warm and soft, my breasts pressing into the curve of her back.

  “Um, is that something in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” she asked, sounding amused.

  “Oh, that’s my eight ball,” I laughed, pulling the camo jacket out from between us and digging the thing out of the pocket. “See?” I handed it to her, using it as an excuse to drape my arm around her. “I found it along the river bank.”

  She took it, turning the ball and waiting for an answer to float to the top.

  “What did you ask it?” I whispered into her hair.

  “If everything is going to be okay,” she said.

  7

  MARCUS

  Cold.

  Pain.

  Water.

  Darkness.

  Time runs through me like a river of death.

  I move in eddies and swirls of nothingness, going nowhere.

  Dying isn’t supposed to take this long.

  I should know. I’ve done it so many times before.

  But it has never been like this.

  Something is wrong.

  The deep water moves around me. Tugging. Lifting.

  A dark sphere descends, flashing answers that mean nothing.

  It falls into me.

  Light pulses.

  A moment of life.

  It passes through me.

  I’m underwater oh my God I’m stuck can’t move can’t swim can’t think can’t live where is she fuck this.

  Help me. I am Marcus.

  Cold.

  Pain.

  Water.

  Darkness.

  * * *

  I float through wordless dreams for days. How many days? What are days?

  I wake. Sometimes in light. Sometimes in darkness. In a room I’ve never seen before. With people I don’t know. In a hospital bed, but not in a hospital.

  I think I’m drugged.

  Words are so hard.

  Remembering is even harder.

  Something about a girl, though, lingers like an echo. Like a ghost. Her hand touches me, reaching right into my chest and clutching my heart until it feels like it will burst.

  I dream that a lot.

  It is terrifying.

  And I like it.

  * * *

  The door to my room creaked on its hinges, and I opened my eyes to bare slits, feigning sleep even though I was more awake than I’d been in days. My head was finally clear, words and ideas colliding together like magnets of meaning. The light streaming between the curtains was dim. Either it was morning or overcast, I couldn’t tell which. The house was quiet, the only sound the girl’s bare feet as she padded to my bedside, peering down at me.

  She was not the girl
from my dreams. She was blonde and taller, and her clothes were rumpled, as if she’d been sleeping in them. She did not look happy.

  She sat down at my bedside, pulling her legs up into the chair and resting her chin on her knees. She glanced at the door nervously, then back at me, and whispered, “I wish you could hear me. I’m not supposed to be here, but I’m tired of waiting, Marcus. We need you.”

  I focused on keeping my breathing steady. If I showed her I was awake, she’d expect me to respond. To talk. To answer her need. And there was no way I could do that. I didn’t even know where I was or how I’d gotten there. Then again, I was used to waking up in some weird situations after a reboot. The girl sounded desperate, and she’d called me by my middle name, which was odd. Did that mean something? Maybe she could be an ally. Maybe we could help each other.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she went on. “Jason has been acting strange. He spends most of his time out at the shooting range. It’s like he’s suddenly become one of them. I think he’s avoiding me and then there’s the thing I heard your uncle say to him. It just doesn’t make sense unless they somehow knew each other before. And if they’re working together, I don’t even know what that means, but it can’t be good. I’m such a chicken. I haven’t told Samantha what I heard. I don’t want to make her mad at me again. She worships her father. Actually, everyone here pretty much worships him.”

  My uncle. And Samantha. What the hell? They were here in this house? They were the ones holding me? Why? How?

  “Then this morning, I woke up and felt Olivia,” the girl said, her voice cracking on the name. “After days of nothing, I got a flash of her so clear it was like she was in the same room with me. She was touching the tags, brushing her fingers over them, but it wasn’t good. She’s in pain. They’ve been hurting her. They’re doing something awful to her. And I feel so bad because I was glad it was only a flash. If it had been constant, I don’t think I could have taken it. I don’t know how she can take it.” The girl was crying now, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking. I wanted to reach out and touch her. I wanted to comfort her and help her, except she sounded a little crazy. That, and I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

  “No one has even mentioned rescuing her,” the girl said, her voice growing hard and angry. “It’s like they don’t care. I know the CAMFers took her west. I could probably lead us right to her if she keeps touching the tags. But I don’t think anyone else would go.”

  CAMFers? My heart raced at the word. They were the enemy. They’d hurt my sister. They’d handcuffed me to a car while they made her scream. The memories were right there, open and raw and alive. My wrist felt the cut of pain as I yanked against the cuffs, metal ripping into flesh. They had her. It was my fault. I had to save her.

  “Danielle!” The word exploded from my lips as I sat up, grabbing the girl sitting at my bedside.

  My hands were on her shoulders, digging in.

  My face was in hers, but she didn’t resist or try to get away.

  “The CAMFers have Danielle,” I said, the words slightly slurred, but words. Real, understandable words. “We have to get her back.”

  “Marcus,” she said gently, her voice quivering. “Danielle is—they don’t have her anymore. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “They took her. They have her.”

  The door flew opened and a petite woman and a burly guy rushed in, followed by my uncle.

  “What are you doing in here?” Uncle Alex demanded of the girl. “What did you say to him?”

  The woman was moving toward my IV, a look of determination on her face, and I knew what that meant. More drugs.

  “Don’t,” I said, shoving myself off the bed and yanking the IV out of her reach. My legs were wobbly and I clung to the IV pole just to hold myself upright, my body between it and her.

  She stared at me, our eyes locked. “That was very clear,” she said, surprise in her voice. “Your language faculties are coming back quickly.”

  “No drugs,” I said, still a little slurred. “They—make it—harder.”

  “Okay, but you need to get back in bed before you fall down.”

  “Promise,” I said. I knew it didn’t matter. She would probably lie to me, and as weak as I was, I wasn’t going to make it out of this bedroom on my own. But the power of speech had returned to me and it felt damn good to use it.

  She glanced at my uncle and he nodded.

  “No more sedatives,” she agreed. “But there are other drugs that will help you heal without clouding your mind. Now, please get back in bed before you fall on your face.”

  “What happened to me?” I asked, leaning back against the bed.

  “You experienced a traumatic event,” she said, “and we’re all here to help you recover. My name is Reiny and this is Pete,” she gestured at the big guy. “We’re both EMTs and certified nurses.”

  “What traumatic event?” I pressed her.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Pete asked, a look passing between the three adults.

  I didn’t want to tell them. My uncle was a man I hadn’t seen for ten years, and last time I’d seen him he’d killed my parents and left me for dead. Reiny and Pete obviously worked for him and had kept me sedated against my will. But at the moment, it looked like I was at their mercy. And my uncle might be a psychotic bastard, but he was a powerful psychotic bastard. I had no idea what he was doing here or what he wanted from me, but if anyone could help get Danielle back, he could.

  “Danielle and I went out in—a car.” I spoke slowly, the words like pieces of a puzzle I had to find just the right spot for. “Some men stopped us. They were—cops—bad men—CAMFers. They hurt her.” I tried to block the memories out of my mind this time, just focusing on the words, but the images kept rushing at me, jumbled and confused. “We fell off—we fell down—and they took her. I don’t know—the rest. I think they left me in the water. I remember a lot of water.”

  “And that’s your most recent memory?” Reiny asked.

  “Yes.”

  I heard the girl behind me make a noise, a tiny moan as if she’d cut herself. I’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “Okay. That’s fine,” Reiny smiled, taking my arm and helping me back into the bed. I didn’t resist. I was suddenly exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open, my legs like noodles.

  “Let’s go,” Pete said, leading the girl from the room, her expression haunted and hopeless. I’d disappointed her somehow, and it made me feel sad.

  The last thing I saw before I shut my eyes was my uncle standing over me.

  8

  PASSION

  I walked away from Pete down the hall, trying to keep my disappointment from crushing me to the floor.

  “Hey,” he said, “wait.”

  I turned and looked at him.

  “It’s short-term memory loss,” he explained, sympathy written across his face. “This kind of thing is common in cerebral hypoxia patients.”

  “Short-term?” I said, the words sticking in my throat. “He doesn’t remember the last eight months. He doesn’t remember his sister is dead. He doesn’t remember Olivia, or Jason, or the Eidolon. He doesn’t even know who I am.” I had seen it in Marcus’s eyes twice now—that complete and utter lack of recognition. It was like being erased. We were all being erased. First Nose and Yale, then Olivia, now Marcus, and with him, the rest of us. He had been the backbone of the PSS Campers, the hero who had rescued us all and knit us into some sort of weird PSS family. And I had been waiting for days for him to wake up and tell me what to do.

  “Look how fast he’s recovered his speech,” Pete said. “We never expected him to improve this quickly. That means his brain is healing, his nerve cells are rerouting themselves around the damaged areas and making new connections. If his speech has come back, it is likely his memory will as well. It’s just going to take time.”

  “How long? How long will it take him to remember?” I
didn’t want to cry in front of Pete, but seeing Marcus like that, seeing him helpless and confused, it had been horrible.

  “There’s no way to know for sure. Based on his rate of recovery already, I’d say a month. Maybe less.”

  “A month before he remembers anything, or everything?” It was too long, either way. Olivia didn’t have that kind of time. Whatever the CAMFers were doing to her, it was bad. I’d never felt her like this before. It was as if she were shrinking deeper and deeper into herself, as if she was shriveling and burying herself behind some kind of wall. And there had been pain, not just physical. She wasn’t okay. She was dying inside. And the CAMFers had only had her for a few days.

  “Every recovering brain is different,” Pete was saying. “Sometimes memory comes back in pieces; other times all at once. And I want to be honest with you, sometimes it doesn’t come back at all.”

  That was not what I’d wanted to hear.

  The door to Marcus’s room opened, and Mr. James came out, shutting it carefully and quietly behind him.

  “What were you doing in there?” he demanded of me again. “I thought I’d made it clear he was not to be disturbed for any reason.”

  “He’s my friend.” I raised my chin and glared at Mr. James. “I was worried about him.” And you aren’t the boss of me.

  “It’s okay,” Pete said, coming to my defense against his boss, which surprised me. “That was a significant breakthrough for your nephew in there, and her presence seems to have triggered it. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to have her and Sam spend a little time with him every day. If nothing else, it will help facilitate his speech recovery.”

  “Well, if you think it would help,” Mr. James said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “But didn’t you say it could be dangerous to jar his memory? What if the conversation strays to things it shouldn’t?” What was Mr. James afraid I’d tell his nephew? That he and Jason had secretly been working together?

  “It is best if it comes back on its own, yes,” Pete said. “Dumping the last eight months on him all at once would do more harm than good. His brain knows exactly what he can handle both physically and psychologically. It will mete out memories as he’s ready, but I’m sure the girls will be sensitive to that, won’t you?” he asked, turning back to me.