He grazes his finger over my shoulder, sending tingles everywhere. “Because I knew they would just take it away from you. Like they took everything away. Once we figured out that they were erasing your memories, I knew if we did this, it would be gone, too. And I couldn’t bear to think about that. So I decided we should wait.” He paused, releasing a heavy breath. “Until we came here.”
I rest my chin on his chest. His heart is pounding. “Well, we’re here now.”
He looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “Yes, we are.”
“So you can show it to me? Now?” The curiosity is devouring me.
“Tomorrow night,” he says softly, stroking my cheek. “In our woods.”
“Okay,” I reply, trying to hide my disappointment. I lay my head back down against the pillow. He turns to face me, the tips of our noses barely touching.
“Good night, Cinnamon,” he murmurs, and I watch his eyes droop and slowly close.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house. The ghostly creaking of the walls. The scurrying of mice under the floorboards. Owls calling to one another outside the window.
I reach down the front of my nightdress until I find my locket. I pull it out, pensively fingering the clasp.
It was the only thing I had with me when I woke up with no memories in that ocean full of broken airplane parts. The only evidence I had that someone—somewhere—cared about me.
I would later learn that Zen was the one who gave me the locket. He had designed it himself with my favorite symbol—the eternal knot—on the front, and a special engraving on the back.
S + Z = 1609
Forever reminding me of our promise to be together in a time without technology. Without Diotech.
But it was me who would eventually discover the locket’s real secret.
The truth is, should anything happen to me, should they ever find me here, this necklace is my key to escape.
It is the device that activates my transession gene.
My ability to move through time and space.
If I want to transesse, the locket has to be open. Otherwise, my gene is dormant. Useless. And that’s the real reason I insist on keeping it on at all times.
As I start to drift to sleep with the small black heart clutched tightly in my hand, I allow myself to think about Rio.
The man who created me.
He and Jans Alixter were the founders of Diotech. They started the company together. But somewhere along the way their opinions and priorities diverged. After I was created, it quickly became apparent that I wasn’t the obedient, soulless robot they had expected me to be. Rather, I was a real person. With real emotions, real thoughts, a real ability to love. And most important, an ability to rebel.
Alixter considered that an error. A mistake that needed to be fixed.
Rio felt differently.
That’s why he helped me escape. He was the one who gave Zen and me the transession gene. He was the one who installed the special mechanism inside my locket that allowed the gene to be turned on and off. Because according to him, the gene was highly unstable. And not enough tests had been done to ensure its safety. He insisted I have the ability to deactivate the gene when I wasn’t using it. To protect me from any harm that it might do.
He saved my life when he gave me that gene.
And he tried to save it again in 2013 when Alixter found me. But he wasn’t as lucky that time. By then, Alixter had discovered that Rio had betrayed him. And Alixter killed him. Right in front of me.
I can still see Rio’s motionless body lying on the floor of that cave. His limbs tangled. His face contorted in anguish.
And me. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I simply sat there and watched it happen. After everything he’d done for me, I couldn’t return the favor. I couldn’t save him.
One more detail I’m somehow expected to just magically forget.
One more memory I’m not supposed to let haunt me.
One more way I’ll surely fail.
7
STRIPPED
I run through the forest. Pine needles and sharp pebbles slice through the skin of my bare feet but the pain doesn’t stop me. I need to find it. I can hear it calling to me through the trees.
But no matter how hard I search, I can’t seem to locate it. No matter how far I run, the sound only gets farther and farther away.
I stop to catch my breath, wipe my brow, survey my surroundings. Then I hear it again. Closer this time. More desperate.
BA-BUMP!
BA-BUMP!
BA-BUMP!
I look down and finally see it. The sticky, pounding, juicy red heart lying only a few inches away. It’s buried in leaves but still beating. Still alive.
That’s when I notice the large gaping black hole in the center of my chest. The skin around it is ragged and frayed. As though someone ripped me open with a tree branch.
I reach down and gently scoop up the severed organ, hugging it close to me. Protecting it.
A shadow flickers ahead and there’s the snap of a twig. My head whips up and I come face-to-face with him. The man with the white-blond hair, sharp, angled features, steel-blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sera,” he says. “But I’m going to have to take that now.”
“Alixter, please,” I beg him. “Please let me keep it.”
His face remains impassive. Blank. “It doesn’t belong to you.” He pauses, extends his hand, effortlessly pries the slippery heart from my grip, leaving me with empty, red-stained fingers.
Then he smiles—that sickening slithery smile—as he lovingly strokes the still-beating heart. “It belongs to me.”
* * *
With a gasp, I sit up. Panting, choking, battling for air. I clutch my chest, feeling the skin for a fissure. A crack. A scar. I collapse in relief when I find that it’s fully intact.
It’s still dark outside.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and bury my head in my hands, attempting to catch my breath. When I open my eyes, my gaze lands directly on my left wrist. On the hideous razor-thin line that stretches across the crease. The mark that Mrs. Pattinson called Satan’s mark.
My brand.
An ink-black stain on my existence.
It might as well say Property of Diotech.
I feel anger rising up inside me. Deep, uncontrollable rage.
I rise to my feet and march across the room, not caring about the cacophony of creaks and thumps I’m making along the sensitive floorboards. I yank open the door to the bedroom and hurry down the stairs.
Once in the kitchen, I sweep my gaze left and right until I find what I’m looking for. I move hurriedly over to what’s left of the two-day-old bread loaf and draw the serrated knife from its heel.
I exit the front door and head for the chopping block. I crouch down and lay my arm flat against the thick tree stump, palm up. Then I carefully place the tip of the knife against my wrist bone. Small droplets of crimson squeeze out as the blade drags across my skin. My scientifically perfected life force. I curve around the edge of the tattoo and continue up the other side, peeling my skin away in one long, gruesome strip.
The blood flows instantly. I press the hem of my nightdress to the wound, to stanch the bleeding.
I set the knife down, and with the ribbon of jagged flesh in my hand, I stride up the hill onto the knoll where I normally watch the sunrise. As hard as I can, I chuck the tainted, blackened strip into the valley, watching in the darkness as it flutters in the wind before landing by the edge of the wheat field.
Then I collapse to the ground and I wait.
The sun peeks above the horizon an hour later, just as it always does. As though nothing has changed. As though nothing will ever change.
The first glints of daylight illuminate the neatly plowed rows of the wheat field, showing off Zen and Mr. Pattinson’s hard work from the day before.
The sky is gray and overcast this morning, a sign of storms to come. P
robably later in the afternoon. Chores around the farm are always more difficult in the rain. Wagon wheels catch in the mud. Thunder puts the animals on edge. Wet clothes are heavier and harder to move in. And they take forever to dry.
For the first time since I sat down, I take a deep breath and glance at my left wrist, still covered by the cloth of my nightdress, which is now stained red all along the hem. That will have to be explained to Mrs. Pattinson somehow.
I slowly peel back the fabric, cringing slightly at the way it sticks to my skin.
I let out a heavy, surrendering sigh when I see what’s underneath.
Fresh pink flesh has grown back over the wound, merging with the jagged edge of the cut. It will only be a matter of time before it will blend in seamlessly.
The most disconcerting part, however, is not how fast my body healed itself—I suppose that was to be expected based on all the other “enhancements” I’ve been given—but the sight of the thin, black line that looks freshly drawn across the pale new skin.
I know I shouldn’t be surprised. Or disappointed. Zen already told me that the tracking device was a permanent part of my DNA. Like my skin color, or the shape of my nose. No matter how many times I attempted to carve it out, burn it off, or scrape the skin clean, it would always grow back. Exactly the same.
But I suppose I just had to see it for myself.
I had to witness firsthand the one piece of Diotech that I will never be able to fully erase. That I will never be able to escape from.
I run my fingertip across the new tattoo. Now darker than ever.
A shiver runs through me and for the first time, I notice the brisk morning air. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was. Or how little this nightdress does to stave off the chill. Despite my body’s ability to protect itself from extreme weather better than any normal human being’s.
I glance up at the foreboding sky, watching the grayness gather and condense. If I hope to finish my work before the downpour starts, I should probably get moving. Plus, I’m going to have to figure out what to do with my bloodstained nightdress. How will I manage to wash it without Mrs. Pattinson noticing and throwing a fit?
I start to push myself to my feet but my body is suddenly slammed back down to the earth by a wave of dizziness. My head throbs. The air around me feels alive with electricity.
And then, once again from somewhere very far away, I hear it.
A woman’s voice. An ethereal whisper in the incoming storm. A commandment.
“Find me.”
My gaze whips in every direction, as I try to figure out where it could be coming from. Who could be saying it. But just like last night in the forest, I see nothing. I’m alone.
I close my eyes tight and listen carefully for the voice but now I hear only the wind and the morning crows, hungrily circling the newly planted crops.
Finally, I give up. Releasing a frustrated groan, I push myself to my feet again.
This time, nothing stops me.
8
DEPARTURE
When I arrive back in our room, I’m surprised to see that Zen is still sleeping. He’s usually awake with the morning light. Also, the bedroom seems warmer than usual. And there’s a distinctive stale odor.
I scurry over to the window, shoving it open. The crisp dawn air immediately refreshes the room. I stick my head outside and feel the sharpness of the cold oxygen seeping into my lungs.
But when I turn around, I notice Zen is shivering. A prickle of bumps spreading over his bare arms and back. I shut the window.
I get dressed quickly, stuffing my soiled nightdress at the back of the armoire to be dealt with later. Then I walk back to the bed and sit down next to Zen.
He doesn’t move.
I reach out to touch his cheek but recoil instantly when I feel how hot it is. Boiling. I pat the sheets around him. They’re damp.
“Zen?” I shake him lightly.
He rouses, struggling to open his eyes. And it’s not until now that I notice the heavy purple shadows beneath them. The reddish tint of the whites. His irises, which usually sparkle, have an unsettling dullness to them.
I study the rest of his body. His dark hair is matted against his forehead. His skin is pale, with a pasty yellowish hue, and there is no color in his cheeks. His face contorts in pain as he pushes himself up and swings his legs off the bed.
“Are you okay?” I ask in alarm.
He shivers and rubs his arms. “Yeah,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. His knees give out and for a moment he’s falling forward. In a flash, I’m in front of him, breaking his fall, catching him in my arms.
“Zen?” My voice is trembling.
“I’m fine.” He brushes me off, sounding almost on the verge of annoyance. “You know you shouldn’t move that fast inside the house.”
“I…” I start to argue, but my throat constricts, suffocating the rest of the words.
I move back and let him walk away from me. He steps into his breeches, wobbling slightly and steadying himself with one arm on the foot of the bed. “I’m just feeling a bit under the weather. I’ll be okay.”
“Maybe you should go back to sleep,” I suggest.
But he dismisses me with a shake of his head. “There’s too much work to be done.”
“But—” I try again.
Zen cuts me off. “It’s nothing. Really. I’ll have some hot porridge and I’ll be good as new.”
I watch him stagger out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I follow closely behind him in case he falls again.
Mrs. Pattinson is already in the kitchen working on the bread. I’ve always thought the way she handles dough is telling of her personality. Kneading it with violent, forceful thrusts, as though she’s attempting to murder it.
“Have either of you spotted my bread knife?” she says as soon as we appear at the base of the stairs.
I shake my head and avoid her gaze while Zen mumbles a negation, grabs a bowl from the table, and helps himself to the porridge that’s heating on the fire. Mrs. Pattinson takes one look at his face and her hands fall limp to her sides.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks brusquely.
I’m instantly relieved to see that I’m not the only one who noticed.
“Nothing.”
“Are you ill?” she presses.
Ill.
The word flashes before my eyes like a lightning bolt as I scramble to find a definition buried somewhere in my mind.
Ill: being in unsound physical or mental health. Sick.
“No,” Zen replies curtly. “I’m not ill. I’m perfectly fine.”
Mrs. Pattinson studies him, seemingly deciding whether or not to believe him. Zen ignores her, shoveling spoonfuls of steaming porridge into his mouth. I can’t help but notice that his hands are shaking.
Mrs. Pattinson goes back to beating the dough with the palm of her hand. “Well, I sure hope not,” she says with a quiet grunt, “because I’m sending the pair of you into London today to sell the surplus of apples and pears.”
“Us?” I ask in surprise, dropping my spoon of porridge. It plunks onto the table and Mrs. Pattinson gives me a disapproving look. I hurry to fetch a cloth and wipe up the mess.
“Yes,” she says sternly, beating her fist into the dough. “You’ll take Blackthorn and the wagon. It’s only an hour’s ride. You’ll leave straight after breakfast and return for dinner. That should give you enough time to sell the lot of it.”
The way Mrs. Pattinson gives the order, with such finality in her tone, I know there’s no use in arguing.
“We can’t go to London,” I whisper hoarsely to Zen as soon as we’re outside the house, heading toward the barn.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” I repeat, exasperated. “Because it’s a huge city. With people and inquiring eyes and suspicious glares. It’s far too risky!”
He shakes his head to dismiss my concern and lets out a small cough. He seems to be walking better now. Perhaps he did just
need a good breakfast.
“It’ll be fun. Don’t worry, we’ll blend right in.”
“Maybe you will,” I counter. “But I’ve never been good at blending right in.” We reach the post where Mrs. Pattinson has tied up Blackthorn in preparation for our journey. He flinches when he sees me coming and I gesture vaguely at his reaction. “See? Even the stupid horse knows I don’t blend in!”
Zen stops and turns to me, taking both of my hands. “Shhh,” he coos. “It’ll be fine. Besides, we can’t stay cooped up here all the time. We can’t let fear keep us from living our lives. An occasional trip to London now and then won’t hurt. And besides, it’ll be good to have a change of scenery. Get your mind off things.”
I drop my gaze to the ground. I know exactly what he’s talking about. He’s referring to the nightmares. The ones he wants me to forget. I choose not to tell him about my experiment with the knife this morning.
“And it’ll be nice to do something together. Alone.” He tilts his head down to look into my eyes again, flashing me that irresistible half smile that I’ve fallen in love with over and over again. “Won’t it?”
I admit the idea of seeing something besides the walls of this house and that barn is tempting. Thrilling, even. But the hot itchy sensation that crawls over my skin tells me it’s not a good idea.
“We’ll be extra careful,” he assures me, dropping my hands. “Just don’t go bending any iron bars or lifting any oxen over your head.”
I have to giggle, despite the near-debilitating fear that’s coursing through my veins. “I can’t bend iron bars,” I begrudgingly remind him as I follow.
He slaps his forehead. “That’s right. I was confusing you with Superman.”
My forehead wrinkles. “Who?”
He chuckles. “Never mind.”
“Well, what about you?” I ask, giving him a sharp stare. His skin still looks extremely pale. “Are you feeling well enough to go?”
He gestures to his fully functioning arms and legs. “I feel great now. That’s some powerful porridge.”
Zen enters the barn and returns with Blackthorn’s harness, throwing it over the horse’s back. Blackthorn eyes me skeptically as Zen works to attach the harness to the cart.
Unforgotten Page 5
