“You don't say.” Dr. Flores smiles at Sam as if seeing him anew, and then raises one carefully plucked eyebrow again. “You said you were going on a walk, Samuel. How'd you even find your half-sister?”
“That's my fault,” I say. “I heard he was in the hospital, and we were headed over there when we saw him on his walk. We should've insisted that he return to his room right away. I know he’s recovering, but I've never seen the ocean, and he said he felt good enough to walk us down there. It's so beautiful in the moonlight.”
Dr. Flores presses her lips together and glances at Wesley again. If she saw Sam kiss my head, she's struggling to process how we all fit together. I can't say I'm pleased Sam never mentioned me, but this is where we are. I notice a man in a beanie, and a woman with a blue scarf glancing in our direction, and I think about Edward slumped on the ground. As soon as Adam checks in and realizes we're gone. . . We need to get moving pronto.
“I'm so glad Sam's alright,” I gush. “But we'd never have made it all the way down here to find him without my darling Wesley.” I take his hand in mine and pull him close.
He looks around in confusion, but when I squeeze his hand, he catches up. “Anything for you, sunshine.”
Wow, he's really enjoying this. He leans down and I realize he's about to kiss me. In front of Sam.
“Gross you two, I don’t think I can handle any more PDA.” Sam practically growls.
“Oh, mílagro, let them kiss. Young love is a beautiful thing.” Dr. Forbes bats her lashes at Sam and smiles.
Wesley's a cat with an entire bowl of cream. He pulls me close, and I whisper, “You said your lips were locked.”
He smiles. “That was before I saw you with Mr. Soap Star himself. I'm declaring my mouth open for service again.”
He dips me, bringing his lips to mine slowly, so slowly I feel every heartbeat pounding like the beat of a drum. When his lips finally touch mine, my heart skips a beat, just like it did during our second kiss. Wesley presses my lips open, but before he can do anything more, Sam swears.
“I can’t watch some stick figure maul my baby sister, okay? I think that's more than enough.”
Wesley stands back up, pulling me up under his arm. “Relax, man, she's an adult. And believe me, it's consensual.”
I roll my eyes. Enough idiocy. “Sam, we need to get going.”
Dr. Flores clucks, “Going where, Samuel? You aren't cleared to leave, not yet.”
Sam reaches his hand out for the stunning doctor, and takes her fingers in his. It doesn't look like the first time he's held her hand, and I can't help wondering whether he's kissed her.
Now's not the time to worry, Ruby. Drop it.
Sam says, “You know I'd love to stay, but Rhonda and Wesley need me. Rhonda thought I died, but once she got word I was alive, she made Wesley bring her straight here. They need my help. The Marked are attacking our town back home. I lead the Defense Path there, and without me, Port Gibson's falling apart.”
Dr. Flores sighs prettily, her lips drawn into what looks like a practiced pout. “Samuel, you can't leave yet. Not until I can get the proper approvals. You know that.”
I hate the way she says Samuel, in three evenly spaced syllables, like she’s saying a prayer, or something.
Sam pats her face and I force back a snarl. “I appreciate all you've done for me, you know I do. You've bent the rules to let me go for walks, which I can't thank you for enough. You and I both know that God's worked a miracle, and I'm healed up. Please do me this one last favor. Let me go without waiting on all the paperwork. That could delay us days, if not more. You said yourself that while I couldn't let on how much I healed or how fast, I was entirely back to normal. You know I'll be fine.”
“You're my mílagro, Samuel. I'll never forget it. You were my first answer to prayer, but sneaking away is a mistake.” Dr. Flores shakes her head and her hair shimmers in a waterfall down her back. “You should all stay here where King Solomon will protect us.” She frowns at Wesley and me. “All of us.” Her voice goes flat, “Even your never-before-mentioned sister.”
Sam tilts his head, his eyes pleading with her silently. A moment later she sighs. That I understand. I’ve never been able to resist that look, either.
“Fine. If you insist on leaving, I won't stop you. Please take better care of yourself this time. There's no guarantee of a second miracle, Samuel.” She leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek and I fume, but I don't move from where Wesley's arms hold me.
Sam steps away, and bobs his head down the way we were headed. “Thank you, Claudia. I'll take better care of myself, I promise.”
Wesley uses the weight of his arm around my shoulder to drag me down the street toward Sam. “Close call,” he whispers in my ear. “It’s a really good thing not everyone here recognizes your royal countenance or we'd be toast.”
I roll my eyes, but I don't pull away. Sam doesn't even notice, practically jogging ahead of us. Wes and I pick up the pace and still seem to fall further and further behind.
Sam's given up the pretense of us taking a stroll. His eyes scan the streets as he moves from one corner to the next.
Wesley drops his arm as our jog transitions to a run.
“Does he always move this fast?” Wesley huffs when he speaks, and I don't blame him. We've gone nearly a half mile since the good doctor left, and we aren’t Sam. Normal people can’t run flat out for a hundred miles without breaking a sweat.
I moan.
Wesley groans right back at me. “I don't know how much longer I can keep up this pace before people start to wonder whether I'm about to pass out in the street. I'm pretty sure if they call a medical alert, our cover will be blown.”
“I think he's worried about how much time we have left. That conversation with Claudia took awhile, and drew too much attention our way.”
“Yeah, girlfriends are a real drag.” Wesley wheezes. “If you weren’t so hot, I might dump you.”
Sam scowls at Wesley from way ahead of us. I forget how good his hearing is.
I whisper to Wesley, “Stop baiting him.”
Sam glances back and motions for us to catch up.
“Short legs, remember?” I mutter under my breath, “We can't all have legs that never end like Doctor Flores.”
Wesley rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Are you jealous?”
I refuse to answer.
“Rubes, he was cozying up to her to get out of here. He used her to get out for his walk earlier, the one he took over to the prison to rescue you, remember?”
“I know that, duh. It doesn't mean I have to like her, though. Especially if he kissed her as part of this ruse.”
“You'd be pretty hypocritical to be upset, since we kissed too.”
I scowl at Wesley. He doesn't realize Sam can hear every word he's saying. “No, and I'm sure he won’t be mad about that. It's his own doctor girlfriend's fault that we had to kiss.”
Wesley shakes his head. “I'm not talking about that kiss, Rubes. I'm talking about before we even came here.”
Sam stops dead in his tracks.
I glare at Wesley.
He throws his hands up in the air. “Umm, why'd Sam stop?”
“He heals fast, Wesley. And he's super strong, and guess what else?”
Wesley scrunches up his nose. “Super hearing?”
“Bingo.”
When Wesley and I turn to face Sam, I feel like a truant child whose dad is angry she stole a cookie.
Before I have time to explain anything, a red dot appears on Sam's forehead.
“Ruby, darling, do you see that little red dot?” Solomon steps out from behind a parked car. “That's from the laser sight of a sniper rifle. Both your boyfriends have several well-trained snipers aiming at them right now. I can't tell you how delighted I am that you slowed down to argue over who you’ve been kissing so we could line up their angles.”
Solomon turns to face Sam. “I'll take your gun, if you don't mind.”
&n
bsp; Sam growls, but he hands Solomon the gun he took from Edward.
Solomon lifts one hand. “Men, please. Come on out.”
I watch in horror as a dozen men surround us, handcuffing Sam and Wesley.
One of the men glances at me questioningly.
“No, not her,” Solomon says. “My daughter adores her boyfriends. Unless she's got a third I haven't met yet waiting in the wings, I'm sure she'll be quite polite while we've got them in custody.”
16
Maybe if Solomon had been there for my tantrums as a toddler. Maybe if he'd been there for my stubborn refusal to eat anything other than Cheerios at the age of three. Maybe if he'd seen me devolve into the Tasmanian Devil when anyone else tried to tie my shoes for me before I left for pre-school. Maybe if he'd packed my lunch and put my hair in pigtails before sending me off to kindergarten. Maybe if he'd been there to clap at my kindergarten graduation, or to kiss my forehead before my first date.
Maybe if David Solomon had been there for these typical father-daughter moments, he might not have felt the need to lock Sam and Wesley in shackles in a cinder-block walled interrogation room at the back of the prison we just left, dismissing the guards so he could punish me without accountability.
Maybe he’d have loved me like a father should. Maybe, but I doubt it.
Solomon doesn't strike me as an average father in any sense of the word. There's no doubt in my mind that he's seething right now. Even though he has cause to celebrate, because he's not wearing a crown, and his forehead is Mark free. Even though his errant daughter stands next to him, cowed and penitent. Even though he rules half a million people, and flies to Mexico to eat decadent chocolate cake while the rest of the world has gone to hell.
Even with all of that, he's still not happy.
“Sit.” Solomon points at a wooden chair he's placed between Sam and Wesley's shackles on the wall. I wince at the sight of their ankles and wrists bound by steel bands.
When I don't immediately move, Solomon glares at me. He's holding a gun, so I shuffle over to the chair and sit down.
“You should be celebrating, Your Highness,” I say. “My blood has cured you.”
His fingers fly to his forehead.
“Aren't you at least a little relieved?”
He frowns. “You don't seem the least bit penitent for breaking loose and running away. Again.”
I drop my eyes. “I am very sorry, Your Royal Highness, I really am. If I wasn't sure you were cured, I'd never have dreamed of leaving Galveston, but there are so many other people who need my blood. They’re all waiting on a cure, and with as advanced as their cases are, we don’t have much time.”
He shakes his head. “They don't need your blood. They're Marked and they're dying, but you didn't infect them. It's not your fault. Why should you be a guinea pig, or worse, a walking blood bank in Baton Rouge for a bunch of rabble? You're a princess, the heir to my throne. Royalty doesn’t open her veins for the common folk.”
My eyes fly to his. “Did you ever intend to release me?”
“Ah, now you see. You're my daughter, my only heir. I have great plans for you, for us actually, but none of them include sending you to slit your wrists regularly for a bunch of deformed, sore-covered, perma-children.” He spits on the ground and begins to pace.
“They aren’t deformed, and they aren’t children,” I say. “And they don’t need to be removed.”
“How would you describe someone who should grow, but doesn’t?” He shakes his head. “The Cleansing wasn't born of fear, or hatred, darling, but from compassion. Those poor things are like mangy dogs, eking out an existence they never should have been condemned to maintain. The Unmarked scientists didn't do those children any favors when they developed the suppressant. They’ve forced them to suffer for a decade instead of dying as God intended, that’s all.”
I think of baby Rose, and her sweet mother. I imagine Todd’s competence, one of Solomon's own former guards, and sweet Sean, with his scarred face and haunted eyes. Rafe’s face rises in my mind, his mohawk bobbing in the sky, the rebellious act of a kid whose dad left him alone, and his mom and aunt died when he was far too young, leaving him to fend for himself in a horrifying world gone haywire.
They created something from the ashes of the world. Rafe protects his people, and he's made communities, and homes for them.
Solomon thinks they’re deformed? He thinks they’re mangy dogs? I shake my head. “What you don't get is that family isn't about blood. You think it is, but it's not. It's about choices.”
He raises one eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”
A door opens and Josephine slips through. “Oh, you found her. I'm so glad.” She sighs and presses her hand to her chest.
She's glad he found me? Why? So he can punish me more? So he can beat me into the shape he prefers, like he's done to her?
I didn't want to hurt her when I was stuck in a cell, but now I do. “You shouldn't be glad he found me. I'm not. You aren't my parents, and you never were.”
Her eyes widen, full of pain. “How can you say that?”
“Because I don't choose you, either of you.”
Solomon scoffs. “You’re such a baby. You can’t choose your family.”
“Maybe not usually, but my Dad gave me a chance. He knew the kind of person you are, and he stole me away. I’m grateful he did what I couldn’t.”
Solomon’s face flushes. “You are my blood, you ungrateful wretch.”
“I’m nothing like you, and I don't want to be. I want to be like Donovan Behl, and his twin sister Anne, and her husband Dan. I want to be like their kids, Job and Rhonda. I want to be like Samuel Roth, and Wesley Fairchild. They're my family in a way you never will be.”
Solomon's nostrils flare. “You will not insult your mother or me anymore. We’ve given you a lot of leeway, and I've tried to be calm about your attitude and your behavior, but that ends today.”
“It does? How?” I ask. “Tossing me in a cell again?”
He shakes his head. “You've earned quite the punishment, and I’ll pair it with a teaching moment. Today's lesson will be on consequences. When you misbehave, your punishment is the consequence. You can't blame me for administering it, when you caused me to do this by your own actions.”
He grabs the back of my chair and swivels it around, shoving it a few feet away from the cinderblock wall so I'm looking at Wesley, Sam, and Solomon simultaneously.
“Let's talk about cause and effect. It may be the most important lesson I'll ever teach you. See, I could spare the Marked like I have for a decade, and they'll continue to plague me and my people. They hinder the repopulation and development of New America. Your mother has encouraged me to spare them, calling it mercy, but God has opened my eyes.”
I have no words.
He continues. “It's not mercy to spare them, but it would be mercy to end their suffering. God clearly Marked them, and they deserved to suffer, but the term of their suffering has been fulfilled long since.”
“I'm sorry,” I say, “but I don't quite understand. What exactly did hundreds of thousands of young children do to deserve this suffering?”
Solomon grins. “That's an astute question, darling. I despise your attitude, but your wit, at least, does you credit. You see, unfortunately the sins of the fathers often fall to the children. The Bible's rife with examples of this, but Deuteronomy 5:9 springs to mind. 'I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, and on the third and fourth generations of those who hate me.’”
I shake my head.
“You disagree?”
I shrug. “I don't know the Bible, which I'm sure disappoints you, but I do know that a child isn't to blame for what her parents do.” I stop short, blinking quickly. The words I spoke sink into my mind like sugar sinks into tea.
For the first time in my life, a weight lifts from me, like a spotlight shines directly on my heart. Those Marked children don't need to p
ay for their parent's mistakes, if their parents even did anything wrong, because they were children. They aren’t culpable. The light fills me up inside, lifts me up, and I feel free, clear, and buoyant.
I wonder whether this is what God feels like, because in this moment, I know it truly wasn't my fault, any of it. My dad made some bad decisions and trusted the wrong people, but those people made the wicked decisions that led to his death, and to the subsequent release of Tercera. I didn't kill my dad, and he doesn't want me to carry that misguided guilt around anymore.
So I let it go.
Because Solomon's wrong. I'm not to blame for either of my father's actions, not his, and not Donovan Behl's. I'm not responsible for Josephine's mistakes, either. We've all been handed a world our parents broke, and we're stuck repairing the damage as best we can. That doesn't mean it's our fault, and if God exists, and if he's the light I'm feeling, he'd never punish a child for the mistakes of their ancestors. The Bible got it wrong if it says otherwise.
Solomon, oblivious and uncaring about my epiphany, says, “There's passage after passage that says the same, from Jeremiah 32, to Isaiah 65. I'll be sure to show them all to you. Lucky for you, your father's a man of God, so you have very few sins of mine to atone for.”
I don't roll my eyes, but I want to.
“Those children, however, their parents were part of a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah that was consuming the world like a snake eating its tail.”
That's when it hits me. “No matter what I said or did, no matter what things you promised me, you always planned to move ahead with the Cleansing, didn't you?”
Solomon smiles. “Now you understand. I'm not a monster, you know. Children need discipline and rules, they excel in a stable environment. I can eliminate the suffering of the Marked, while providing those things for more than a half million of our people. They deserve a world free of the blight of Tercera. Do you understand?”
Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set Page 44
