Whispers in Autumn (The Last Year, #1)

by Trisha Leigh

  Without any idea of how to accomplish this, I reach out and grab her shoulders as tight as I dare. She meets my eyes, terror widening her pupils until all I see is black.

  “You know what they’ve done, don’t you? What are you?” She whispers the words so softly there’s no way Mr. Morgan hears. For a moment I’m too stunned to move. The need to question her overtakes my fear, but then Mr. Morgan gets up from his chair again, moving toward us with uncertain steps. Before he gets close enough to ask what I’m doing or what she’s saying, I shove her.

  Hard.

  CHAPTER 12.

  The crack of her head against the door makes me sick, and my hands fall from her shoulders. Mrs. Morgan’s eyes roll back in her head and flutter shut as she slumps to the floor at my feet.

  Mr. Morgan stares over my shoulder, looking down at his Partner with his mouth hanging open. “What happened?”

  He’d seen the entire thing. Hadn’t he?

  “She, um, collapsed. Get her to the couch. I’ll call the Healer.”

  He scoops Mrs. Morgan off the floor and disappears into the living room. Disbelief crowds my mind as the back door holds me upright. I knocked someone out. My fake mother, no less. Giggles threaten to erupt, out of place and inappropriate. I’m probably in the process of Breaking.

  Stalling any longer will do nothing except arouse suspicion. The communication console is in the den, down the dimly lit hall behind the third door on the left. A standard fifty-two-inch screen hangs suspended on the wall to my right. Mr. Morgan’s desk sits across from it, a twenty-inch model mounted to the top. The large screen is for connecting with his work supervisors. Mr. Morgan works in Travel. His days have to be boring, given that few people travel except the Others, and they don’t need people like Mr. Morgan. They come and go as they please.

  The smaller screen on the desk is for contacting the Others. Healers are human, but we aren’t allowed direct communication with one another. We have to go through them.

  There’s a red button on the lower right-hand side of the screen that connects me to an operator of sorts. I push it, and after a second an Other pops up, sitting behind a large desk. His blond hair is grown out past his ears and shines like the sun is pouring onto it. The empty, glinting black gaze threatens to swallow me whole.

  I avert my gaze, his stunning features sparking a sharp, persistent ache behind my eyes. I look to the side of the screen so I can see him, but not directly.

  His voice matches his expression. Exquisite but bored. “Yes, how can I help?”

  My features rearrange into a pleasant expression. “My mother collapsed. We need a Healer.”

  “Very well.” He taps a few buttons on the screen in front of him. “One has been dispatched. Estimated arrival time: three and a half minutes. Good day.”

  He clicks another button without waiting for a response and the screen goes black. Lingering in the darkness for a minute helps me calm down, but my skin heats up again when the front door buzzes.

  I drag myself out of the den and back toward the living room. Mrs. Morgan lies on the couch with Mr. Morgan kneeling on the floor beside her. His face betrays keen interest but no worry, lacks even a touch of concern. Even an evening this out of the ordinary can’t get under his skin.

  A middle-aged man, presumably the Healer, hovers over them both. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Standing in the shadowy hallway, my presence still undetected, I hold my breath and wait. My legs ache with unspent energy, ready to take off running at the first whiff of trouble.

  Mr. Morgan rubs his face, the first chink in his armor since the episode began. “She…well, we were eating dinner. Then she started shouting funny things and went to the back door like she was going to run outside. Then our daughter, Thea…Thea, where are you?”

  I slink forward, still with a clear path to the front door.

  “Ah, there you are. Anyhow, Thea suggested we needed a Healer because of how Angie looked—her eyes were rolling around and wild. Then she just fell down on the floor. I carried her in here and Thea went to call you.”

  Utter disbelief pours through me at Mr. Morgan’s version of the story. He didn’t even mention my outburst. The air around me, previously sticky and hot, drops a few degrees. Something thick and oily drips in globs between my fingers. When I jerk my hand off the wall, its imprint remains melted into the paint.

  Oops. Good thing the hallway is dark.

  The Healer’s eyebrows, thick and reddish brown like his hair, scrunch together. He rubs his generous waistline with one hand and considers this information. He places a hand on Mrs. Morgan’s chest, then touches her forehead. “Go grab a wet towel, please, girl?”

  I don’t want to go, but I don’t refuse. Enough rules have been broken for one night. And this way I can rinse the white paint off my hand.

  The kitchen light is still on, the scene a blaring reminder of what transpired. Feeling guilty, I right my chair and return it to its place at the table. I grab Mrs. Morgan’s from where it’s scooted near the door and reposition it as well. The custard burns on the stove with an acrid, sweeter-than-candy smell. I dump it in the sink and fill the pot with water. The rags are in a drawer by the stove. I wet one down, fold it, and return to the living room.

  The Healer takes it from me and places it on Mrs. Morgan’s forehead while I resume my post by the front door. My mind races, attempting to make some sort of sense out of what’s happening. How after all these years Mrs. Morgan finally saw me, recognized me for what I am—whatever that is.

  The Healer looks thoughtful, his jewel green eyes studying his patient. “I believe, based on what you told me, that your Partner is going to be fine. Her vital signs are strong but she meets several criteria. I’m going to have to take her with me for observation.”

  “Criteria? What criteria?” My mouth races ahead of my brain. Luckily, the Healer doesn’t seem to think it’s odd.

  “If an injury or illness has certain symptoms I’m required to have the Regional Healer examine her before she returns to her life.”

  “What’s a Regional Healer?”

  His eyes narrow on mine. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, um. I’m about to get a Career at the end of the year and I’m interested in healing, that’s all.”

  He laughs, loosening my anxiety a bit.

  “Don’t set your sights on being a Regional Healer, girl. He is Other.” He turns to Mr. Morgan. “Where is the communicator?”

  “Down the hall. Thea will show you.”

  I retrace my earlier steps as the Healer’s words echo in my mind. The Regional Healer is Other. He might be able to tell what really happened to Mrs. Morgan.

  I do my best to stay calm with the Healer trailing me into the den. After he sits behind the desk, he waits for me to leave the room before turning on the device. I linger outside the door, hoping to overhear the conversation.

  The same voice that greeted me spouts out a moment later. “Yes, how can I help?”

  “There is an illness here that needs to be reviewed by the Regional Healer. Please send transport.” The Healer’s voice booms confidently, even though he probably doesn’t have to do this often. The term Regional Healer is new to me. One more thing they never told us about.

  “Describe criteria met.” The voice remains flat and unimpressed by the staggering events of my evening. Imagining the handsome face doesn’t hurt like looking at it does.

  “Talking oddly. Attempting to run away.” The Healer ticks the insane events off like a list of homework.

  “That is Acceptable. Transport is on its way. Estimated arrival time: four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Good day.”

  The sound of the Healer’s muted footsteps approaching the door gets me moving. I sprint down the hall and shut myself in the wasteroom before he walks past. The sound of my erratic breathing fills the dark silence until I hear rider doors slam shut outside.

  Back in the living room, two Others march through the open fr
ont door, some sort of bed suspended between them. The sight of the technology catches me off guard; it’s not something the Others share with us. Seeing it stretches the gulf between our species so wide that their side is no longer visible from mine. The fluffy-looking mattress floats waist-high beside the couch, proving their superiority without a word.

  The Others stand at each end, not dressed like any Wardens I’ve ever seen. The realization stops me short. Besides Wardens, I’ve never seen Others in person. These two wear identical white shirts with short sleeves, pants, and pristine white sneakers. Besides their clothing, though, they look the same. Longish golden hair. Black eyes. Symmetrical features. Intimidating. Painful.

  My gaze slides to their necks. It’s there. The mark shaped like the star of my locket.

  They lift Mrs. Morgan, one grabbing her head, the second scooping up her feet. It takes me back to the afternoon when the Wardens did the same to Greg’s body. These two take more care with Mrs. Morgan as they settle her among the bed’s white folds. Leather straps, invisible until now, snake up and secure her feet, hands, and forehead without help. One of the Others flicks his long, tanned finger and the cot floats toward the door. The Healer acts like he’s seen this before, but Mr. Morgan’s eyes are as wide as mine.

  As one Other follows the cot outside, the second turns to Mr. Morgan. “You and your daughter will come with us.”

  CHAPTER 13.

  Mr. Morgan nods and stands without a hitch. I have no idea what to do. To hesitate will make it clear they should be suspicious of me. To go with them could mean being found out. They don’t wait, expecting me to follow without protest, since everyone does what they say.

  The Other ushers Mr. Morgan out the door and turns back, watching me through keen eyes. My brain urges my feet to step forward and my face to remain blank. Neutral is all that’s manageable right now, which must be Acceptable at a time like this.

  If only he would move. The doorway grows narrower as I approach, constricting the path past him. He won’t miss the heat pouring off me or the swirling scent of jasmine.

  A quick, focused attempt at calming down does little good. I walk the remaining half of the room and the heat in my face and palms, where it’s always the worst, heightens. The smell I can’t help, can’t turn off. Hopefully he’ll assume what Lucas did—that the fragrance is some sort of perfume.

  I draw in a breath and hold it as our bodies draw near enough to touch. My mind screams in panic, and the odd voice that doesn’t sound quite like my own spreads words of comfort through my head.

  He’s waiting for you to pass. He did the same thing with Mr. Morgan. Stay cool. Literally.

  It works, or at least he doesn’t knock me down and drag me away. I hug my side of the door frame to avoid touching him. A breeze blows his shiny blond hair back a bit, the close-up sight of the scar battering my frayed senses.

  The cool night air ruffles my sweaty hair, a welcome respite from the stuffy, oppressive house. My lungs pull in great gulps as I head toward the rider hovering at the curb. Without years of practice controlling my expression I’d be a goner already. A few short moments alone with Others for the first time in my life and I’ve already noticed how they see me. They don’t look through me. I don’t confuse them.

  It’s terrifying.

  Sixteen years on Earth and riders are still a rare sight, even considering they’ve been in Danbury twice already this autumn. The sight of the transports normally tighten my chest, and the idea that I’m about to get inside one makes me feel ready to explode. The Others’ impatience at my uncertainty outside the open door wraps around my body like a glove. Realizing how a normal person would act in this situation makes it that much harder, since it goes against my every instinct.

  They would trust the Others.

  I take a deep breath, plant a foot on a little bar six inches off the ground, and leap inside. The Other slams the door behind me, then crawls into the front seat beside the driver. I wedge into the smallest of spots between Mr. Morgan and the Healer, my hips smashed against theirs and my arms crossed in front of me.

  Across from where Mr. Morgan, the Healer, and I crowd on a bench, Mrs. Morgan lies immobile on her floating bed. In separate seats facing forward, the two Others operate the controls. They each have a set in front of them and it appears they both play a role in making the transport go.

  As soon as the door clicks shut the rider takes off. At first it’s not too impressive. I’m more focused on trying to keep the temperature inside the cramped space from broiling everyone than on the view, or the mechanism of the transport. Keeping control gets harder as our rider approaches the boundary and slows down, rolling to a stop a few feet from the electric fence. From my spot in the middle, facing front, the entire scene is crystal clear.

  I wish it weren’t.

  When we pull to a stop, the Warden sitting on the left side swings his door open and climbs out. He walks up to the boundary, then makes a sharp left into the trees. After about twenty seconds a gate opens in the fence. I’d never have guessed it was there if it hadn’t happened right in front of my eyes.

  The Other climbs back into the rider and we pull forward through the gate. It closes behind us, trapping us in the Wilds. Trees of all shapes, types, and colors surround the rider as we move along. Our speed increases outside the boundary, the world blurring until nothing is distinguishable.

  An attack of claustrophobia hits me as we slip farther and farther from the familiar and enter a place I know I’m not meant to be. I’m sure we’re all about to suffocate in the tight quarters, and panic rolls over me in waves. It washes out of me as heat and before long, the rider is sweltering.

  First the Healer, who’s a bit heavyset, starts fanning his face.

  Then a sheen of sweat appears on Mr. Morgan’s tall forehead.

  By the time the Others feel the heat wave, I’ve lost control. My panicked attempts to rein it in, to staunch the fear, only make the rider hotter. The driver glances toward his counterpart and I strain to make out his words. I think he says, “Too many bodies in here.”

  Without warning a window in the roof cracks open and autumn air rushes through the transport. Sweet relief courses through my body, causing my knees to go weak and tingly. It’s short-lived, though, as the rider eases to a stop.

  The doors open and the Others stand, waiting. “Please get out.”

  We oblige. After all, they did say please. The Others have impeccable manners.

  We all do.

  The night is opaque, oppressive even, as I step out of the transport and squint. Mr. Morgan climbs out behind me, followed by the Healer. One of the Others beckons the floating bed with one long finger and it also obeys his command to exit the rider. My eyes start to adjust to the darkness, and I glimpse the outline of a tall building towering above us. It’s as black as the surrounding night, but moonbeams glint off its surface. The structure reaches so high it’s impossible to make out the number of floors in the milky moonlight.

  Perhaps I couldn’t see the top even if it were day.

  One Other starts into the building, where the doors slide apart like the ones at the Administrator’s office. We all follow, and without checking, I know the second Other brings up the rear. Though my mind races at breakneck speed, it doesn’t land on how to get out of this nightmare. Instead I follow the Other in the lead, docile and obedient. Choices stumble through my head, even though my gut says nothing can help me now. I could fall down and pretend to be ill, too. I could run. I could stay and play along, praying they don’t notice anything odd.

  Right.

  Running is not an option. They’ve driven us outside the boundary. The location is unfamiliar and the sheer number of animals between here and town ensures I’d never get back alive. And if I did, they’d be waiting. Acting hurt or sick would get me Broken for real.

  Playing along is the best choice. The Others have no reason to expect a fight, no reason to suspect someone like me exists. People report the
Broken, if that’s even what I am. The Others don’t spend much time considering humans any kind of threat. They don’t spend much time considering us at all, as far as I can tell.

  At the end of the lengthy hallway, along which we’ve passed not a single door, the Other stops in front of a solid wall. I’m convinced we’re walking straight into a tomb—fitting since we’ll probably never walk out of this place alive. He presses his hand into the material, leaving an imprint behind, and within seconds the wall starts to go transparent. I blink, and the wall is still gone. We walk through the gap into a huge room. If this is a tomb, it’s big enough for everyone in Danbury.

  The room is vast and intimidating; the ceiling could be non-existent and the walls to the left and right are barely visible from where we stand. Dozens of tables, piled high with tubes, metal boxes, glass jars, and more vaguely menacing machines, clutter the floor. None of it is recognizable. It’s dusty and unused, and somehow old compared to the rider and the building and that floating bed.

  For some reason the sight of it ramps up my fear enough that I worry about my hands lighting something on fire.

  The Others lead us through the tables, keeping to a path that winds its way among them. We reach the back of the room and stop at a glossy black desk littered with notebooks. Two flat screens sit back-to-back, one facing us, the second turned toward the chair.

  The Other seated at the desk is a woman dressed in business attire. Another first for me on this night of unprecedented events.

  Maybe this is an actual nightmare. Perhaps I’m about to wake up in Iowa at the Clarks’, and it’ll be winter. Squeezing my eyes shut, I give it a try. When I peek again, the blazing beauty of the female is the only thing in my range of vision. Pain stabs behind my eyes. Her star mark is redder than the men’s.

  She speaks in a voice as intoxicating as her face. “Please enter your names.”

  The screen facing us lights up, glowing a soft blue and illuminating the Healer’s paunchy features. An entry bar appears. He states his name and the letters type across the screen. The computer accepts his declaration, replacing his name with another blank bar. Mr. Morgan follows the Healer’s example, then it’s my turn.