The Ward

by Frankel, Jordana

  I open the envelope, count the money. It’s all there, neatly paper-clipped together. A sum that would amount to my winnings if I hadn’t thrown the race. Stuffing the green into my bra, I relax a bit. Whoever he is, he seems decent. More decent than most of the Derbies or dragsters. Far more decent than the DI.

  “You’ll get the extra.” He eyes the scarring across my temple and with a nod adds, “Depending on whether or not you tell me what you found.”

  He seems so sure I found something. . . .

  A rap on the bathroom door cuts my thoughts short.

  “Occupied!” I shout back, while I replay the last thirty seconds in my head. The way he nodded to my cut—there’s no doubt about it. He believes the two are connected.

  To Justin, in a whisper: “It’s not just freshwater, is it?”

  Someone is still banging their fist against the door. “Ren? You in there?” Ter’s voice calls from the other side, a sharpness that I’m not used to. Like he’s afraid.

  I reach for the knob, but Justin blocks it with his body.

  “It’s Aven,” Ter shouts, and now the sharpness makes sense. “She’s not feeling well . . . something’s wrong. You should come out.”

  No . . . I think. She was fine not ten minutes ago.

  I reach for the knob again and look up at Justin, expecting him to try and stop me. I’ll fight him if need be. But his clear, baby-blue eyes drop, concerned. There’s worry there. Without hesitation, he slides out of the way. Even opens the door. He’s letting me leave?

  Again, his decency is a shock, but there’s no time to wonder at it.

  Immediately, Ter drags me by the arm. Cuts straight through the dance floor rather than walking the long way around. The way he grips my wrist, his speed, how he pushes people aside—he wouldn’t be rushing like this if . . . if something weren’t wrong. Really wrong.

  Panic clenches my stomach, the slow fuse of a bomb, waiting, waiting. Combined with the heavy beats pounding away, my heart’s pace rises too many notches, too fast. I have to force myself to breathe.

  We reach the other side of the Tank, and I spot her. She’s crouched against the glass wall, head hanging low. Her near-white hair glows, a purple halo draping around her shoulders, hiding her face.

  I drop to my knees, clutch the tiny bones of her ankles. Using the back of my hand, I push the long, pale strands over one shoulder. Tipping her chin, “Feathers?”

  “Renny, you’re back,” she mumbles, breaths heavy. A feeble smile. “I’m okay. . . . It’s nothing. Just a little weak, that’s all.” She leans her head on the wall, glances from Derek to Ter. “See, guys? I’m fine.”

  Fine. She’s definitely not fine . . . but maybe it’s not as bad as I thought. Of course she’s weak, she’s been in bed for months. Her muscles ain’t used to any of this. It was too much, too fast. Still, the panic ticks in my gut.

  Gently, I wrap my arms around her, lift her to her feet. “Let’s get you home.”

  She sways, falls against me. Two years younger, my sister is still a few good inches taller. I stumble backward, catching both of us. A hand low on my back, firm, steadies me. From over my shoulder, Derek yells for Ter to help and rushes to grab her waist.

  Aven’s knees buckle; she collapses onto Derek’s side. I watch as her eyes roll back in their sockets, leaving only white behind.

  “Aven?” I choke out.

  The panic in my stomach detonates. Shock waves rock my body. I can’t breathe, there’s nothing for me to breathe. It’s like I’m back in the Strait, ice water flooding my lungs, numbing every muscle and bone from the outside in.

  No, it’s worse.

  That I could control. I could swim up, I could find air. This, now . . . There’s nothing I can control. I can’t help her—

  Her limbs stiffen; she starts trembling, shaking. Convulsing. It’s too much to watch.

  What have I done? How could I have let her stay?

  My fault . . . this is all my fault.

  At the realization, my brain pixelates. Turns to static. A blank, gray-white screen with nothing on. Somewhere else, a world spins in its orbit without me. The club funnels into darkness. Distant, faraway music wails in my eardrums, liquid metal spilling into a mixing bowl with computers. Notes drag, everything skips.

  Even in my mind, only one image skips, stuck on repeat: Aven’s eyes rolling, rolling, rolling back into her head.

  I can’t stop it.

  “Your shirt!” a voice yells from behind me, right at my ear.

  The closeness of the words, their strangeness—it draws me out of my stupor. Grafts me to the present. A shirt? Why? I don’t understand. How is any of this happening?

  Then Terrence’s top is off, and I’m back in real time, still watching, still not able to stop anything. Aven’s body writhes on the floor.

  She’s on the floor? How did she get on the floor . . . Your sister is on the floor and you didn’t even see it happen?

  Ter tilts her head to the side. He holds up his T-shirt while vomit falls from her mouth. Drips down her cheek. She’s blank faced, irises invisible. She doesn’t even know that she’s just thrown up. Her mind’s not there, she’s not there.

  She is, though—I let her come down. I said it was okay. Only an idiot would’ve done that, I never should have agreed.

  But she was better.

  This whole time I’ve been blaming myself for allowing her to stay, when there’s so much more. Fresh guilt floods my face with heat—I let her drink from my canteen. What kind of a sister am I?

  Who would let anyone—much less their sick sister—drink untested water?

  “What should I do?” I think I ask. No one hears me, and I realize the words never made it past my lips. Everything feels so heavy, my limbs, the air, the music. There’s a lump, a brick, in my throat, but I’m too ashamed to cry. I want to move to her, to push her hair away, or rest her head in my lap like I do at home when the headaches get real bad, but my feet are anchors. I don’t move. Can’t move.

  Go to her, I tell myself. She needs you. This may be my fault, but she’s still my sister. . . . I have to force my guilt to take the backseat, and I do. But when I try to take a step forward, I realize that someone’s been holding me up this whole time.

  In my ear, Derek whispers, “You’re back. . . .” and unfolds one arm from my waist.

  I can only assume he’s talking to me as I stagger forward. I can’t reach her, though—one of the Bouncers pushes me to the side. He doesn’t even push, not really. One moment I occupy the space, and another it’s his. Like displacing air.

  The Bouncer pulls out his scanner and lifts her arm. Anytime someone falls sick in the Tank, it’s standard protocol for Bouncers to take their VEL, even though they already did. The scanner flashes green: NOT CONTAGIOUS.

  He shakes his head—the brackhead isn’t even bothering to hide his disappointment as he calls into his cuffcomm for an ambulance. To him, the fact that she’s sick at all is irrelevant. He’s not making any money on her.

  He’d probably be happy if she turned up contagious.

  Red, molten anger bubbles to the surface.

  “She’s going to Ward Hope. Step aside,” he says, motioning for me to move as another Bouncer wheels over a stretcher. When I don’t budge, he places his two huge hands on my hips, like he’s going to move me by force.

  “Don’t put your grubby hands on me,” I spit, fighting back a slow, swelling rage. “She’s my sister—I’m going with her.”

  He laughs, his grin uneven, like one side of his mouth got caught on a fishing line. “Sure she is.”

  I can’t help it—all the fear and guilt and shame of the last fifteen minutes wants an outlet. It needs a new home, and it lands on a perfectly good target. Instinctively, my hand balls up. It also instinctively pulls back and flies into his arm.

  Okay, if I’m being honest with myself . . . this is more about poor anger management than about instinct. And the moment my knuckles make contact with the sh
ining nylon black-and-yellow fabric of his jacket, it occurs to me that this was not entirely well thought out.

  I barely feel bone. It’s all mush and muscle under there.

  The Bouncer, he don’t even flinch. Not a dent, a scowl, a sign that yes, my fist did in fact make contact with his body. Nothing.

  He’s ignoring me.

  He can’t ignore me—I have to go with her. He has to let me go with her.

  He’s lifting her onto the stretcher, wheeling her away. I rush after, bodychecking him to the side.

  With him out of my way, I lean over Aven. I hardly see the Bouncer behind me as his knee buckles and he staggers backward.

  When he holds on to the stretcher for balance it rolls out of his grip, and then I see him. He’s right behind me—

  We collide.

  He elbows me in the ribs at first, tries to push me to the side, but I’ve got Aven’s hand in mine now, and I won’t let go. Then I feel the bulk of his elbow like an anvil as it connects with my temple.

  I go down hard and heavy, hearing a chorus of curses with the use of only one ear. In the way, way back behind my eyelids, starlike fish swim in the void. And I’m underwater, and I’m underwater.

  15

  A ding-ding-ding-ing brings me back to the world.

  I open my eyes to a blur of light so thick, every other shape is reduced to haloed shadows. My palms dig against these hard silver dots, a floor that looks like bubble wrap, if bubble wrap were metal. I don’t know exactly where I am, but the space is small, and I’m moving up. And that rhythmic dinging—I’m in an elevator. Not for the average partygoer, either. It’s the Tank’s service elevator, I think.

  Then I remember getting elbowed in the head, and the rest of it comes back. My lungs prove that they’re in working order, and I start heaving, making myself dizzy.

  “Slow breaths,” a voice says, standing over a stretcher. Aven’s stretcher.

  Too quickly I rise to my feet, stumbling into the side of the elevator.

  She’s not moving.

  My gut hurts, and I’m not sure if it’s from the feeling of everything coming to pieces or from that blow to my head. Both, probably. I push the hair from her forehead, wishing we were both back at the ’Racks, curled up in bed, telling each other stories. I’d rather her sick like she was yesterday. Not sick like she is now.

  “Is she going to be okay?” I ask, watching her stillness. Then I realize, I’m not even supposed to be here with her. Aven and I ain’t family, not by blood anyway. How am I allowed here?

  I look up, and it’s Justin’s face I see. “What—?”

  “Am I doing here?” he finishes, eyes glued to another, more complicated-looking VEL scanner. Then he leans over Aven, tilts her head with one hand to examine something.

  The tumor. It’s back, visible again. Not as large as before, but I can see it. We both can. I stifle a gasp, shaking my head. Not possible.

  “She’s stable, for now. I’ve given her an anti-inflammatory and a heavy dose of Dilameth for the pain. No longer contagious, I presume?” He doesn’t say it the way the Bouncer did. The way his brow furrows, his jaw tenses—it’s like he cares. Dangling from his neck, a blue dog tag with the hammered image of a snake coiled around a rod.

  A doctor.

  “Who are you?” I ask, gripping Aven’s hand. She doesn’t grip back. Her hand is limp, which just makes me hold on tighter.

  “My name is Callum Pace,” he answers. “And I’m sorry to have mislead you.”

  “You don’t work for the Blues.”

  He sighs. Looks around the elevator. I guess he decides it’s safe enough, ’cause he says, “Not anymore, no. We had a sort of . . . falling-out. I now go by the name Justin Cory, Dr. Justin Cory,” he says pointedly, and I get the hint. Call him Dr. Cory. “After you left the bathroom, I saw this young girl collapse. I knew the Bouncers wouldn’t provide her with the medical attention she needed, being that she’s probably not contagious. So I stepped in.” A pause. “I hope that’s all right with you?”

  Of course it’s okay. . . . A doctor helping my sister, not asking for pay.

  “When did you first notice her symptoms?” He wraps his fingers around her wrist to take her pulse.

  “Three years ago . . .” I mumble, avoiding his eyes.

  “And she’s still able to come to parties at the Tank?” Then, when he looks at me, something like understanding dawns on his face.

  I don’t answer. All I can do is look at Aven’s face, watch and imagine movement there.

  Then I’m no longer imagining it. Her eyelids flutter, just barely. I’m sure of it—

  “Feathers?” I say, bending closer.

  A tiny smile grazes her lips. “I ruined your night.” Her words are so quiet I have to lower myself inches from her mouth to hear.

  “Shhh,” I whisper, and I kiss her knuckles.

  “Are you mad?”

  “No, no, no. Of course not,” I tell her. Even though I am. At myself.

  “Ren?” Aven tugs at the hem of my shirt, her breathing thin. I shush her, but it doesn’t matter. “You think T-Bone could like me again?” she asks seriously, like her very life depends on the answer. “Even though I’m going to . . .”

  “Hey, you’re not going anywhere. And yeah, I think you and Ter would make an adorable couple.”

  One final ding, and we’re at sea level, the ground floor. Callum wheels Aven out of the elevator, into a shock of cool night air. I follow. Terrence and Derek wait for us there, pacing and arguing with each other.

  “Finally!” Derek calls out, covering the distance between us in only a few strides. “It’s been forever.”

  “Service elevators,” Callum replies curtly, even though Derek wasn’t talking to him. Looking at me, he says, “We’re going to Ward Hope. Hop in.” He gestures to the hulking red marine transport that waits at the edge of the dock.

  We jog together—two of my steps matching one of his.

  Callum lifts the hatch, but Derek calls out, “Wait!” just as I’m about to jump in. He runs to catch up, and when he’s close enough, he leans toward me. “Ren, I want to come with you.” His eyes flick to Callum. “Aren’t you suspicious? Why is a West Isle doctor hanging around these parts?”

  Why, indeed. I thought I knew who he was. Now he could be anybody.

  I look down the hatch into the red emergency-transport sub. There’s barely enough room for Aven, much less Callum, me, and Derek. “I don’t know why he’s here,” I answer, speaking the truth. “But . . . trust this guy or not, I’m going with. So is Aven.”

  Derek shifts his body slightly, covers the hatch of the submarine with his arm to stop me.

  “Derek,” I plead, and my voice breaks. “I don’t think you understand. I won’t leave her again. For three years I’ve been leaving her, and this last time, she almost . . .” I don’t finish the sentence. Never before did that reality seem so close. “I never shoulda left her, not ever.” The words tumble out too fast, and then silence is the only thing to listen to. I’m about to cry—the muscles in my throat burn, I’m holding it back so hard.

  Derek brings his hand to his forehead, runs it through his hair, worry all over his face. Then, almost as though he needs it as much as I do, he folds his arms around me, resting my head against his chest.

  I’m too shaken by everything that’s happened tonight to think about it, but dim recognition dawns that this feels natural, comfortable in a way it wouldn’t have yesterday. I curl up against him, allowing myself just a few moments, and breathe him in.

  I also allow myself to believe that maybe he was telling the truth. About Kitaneh.

  I pull away before the thought lasts too long. No time to waste on me. “See you at the hospital?”

  The smallest movement—his fists balling up at his sides—makes it clear he doesn’t like my leaving. But it also shows he’s fighting to keep quiet, which means he understands.

  I hop down into the transport sub behind Callum, and
when I lower myself into the cabin, the doctor’s hands steady me by the waist.

  “Your file didn’t say you had a sister,” Callum notes as the sub sails through the underwater city.

  Always knew I had a file. But I don’t like that this guy thinks he knows me ’cause some lights on a screen gave him my stats. “We’re not blood. And anyway, it ain’t your business,” I say quietly, watching Aven. “Bet the file didn’t say a lot of things.”

  My tone smarts in my ears—I’m being too harsh on him. It’s just, small talk hurts more than silence. “I’m sorry,” I say into my hands. “I’m sorry. Thank you. You know I mean thank you. I’m just . . .” I cut myself off, choking the rest of the sentence by biting into my fist.

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  So I don’t, and the only noise comes from the soft whooshing of the steam engine and Aven’s air flowing in and out. As I press my forehead to hers, she reaches for my shoulder, clutches it tight.

  Too tight.

  “Where are you?” she rasps, too sudden. “Ren? Where’d you go?”

  I get closer, leaning in so my face is clear in front of hers. “Right here, I’m right here—”

  “What’s going on? Why can’t she see me?” I ask Callum, all the fear racing back.

  “Her brain is swelling,” he answers. “I gave her all the anti-inflammatory medication that the Tank had on hand, but she needs more, soon.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell it to that guy?” I cry, waving my arm toward the driver.

  Callum pushes a red button on the side of the sub, which obviously means “speed the hell up,” because the driver suddenly grows a pair and we’re really moving.

  Aven smiles. It drops away too quickly. Her eyes roll back into her head again, and then fix on me. “Can we fly home now? I have wings, too. Just like you. See?” She lifts her arms; this isn’t one of her games.

  “Why is she saying that?” I’m trying to stay calm, but my heart becomes a wild animal. Starts slamming against my rib cage like it wants out of my body, fast. My vision even goes black around the edges, and soon I’m looking at everything through a funnel of darkness. Breathe. You’re no good to anyone if you pass out too.