by Sarah Cross
Jacques steps forward to be identified by the door’s retinal scanner. “This is where the real work is done,” he says as the door beeps in recognition and swings open. “If my mother is serious about him, Nicholas will be here.”
We step through into a stark-white, auditorium-size room, shiny and sterile like a hospital: a supersecret headquarters tacked onto the back of Cherchette’s mansion. The floor is covered with white tiles, and there are no windows—only glass panels that allow you to look into other rooms, like when you’re at the gym and you want to check out what’s going on in the racquetball court or the swimming pool.
And there is a swimming pool. Through the observation window, I see a gray-skinned girl doing laps, what look like webbed hands and feet gliding through the water. Jacques motions for me to follow (actually it’s more of a “stop staring, idiot; we have work to do”) and we hurry across the room to a sort of hub: a main desk equipped with monitor screens and a control panel. Jacques keys in a password, rotates the surveillance screens until we see Nicholas.
He’s alone. A grainy figure in a barren room. Leaning closer, I realize he’s not wearing his trench coat. He’s bare-chested, clenching his fists.
“What’s he doing? His coat is, like, his one safeguard. I don’t understand why he’d—”
“Shall we find out?” Jacques says.
The steel door beeps again and we freeze. Jacques has the sense to close down the surveillance screens, but other than that, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn around. His grip tightens on the mouse.
Please let it be Leilani, I think. Please.
The hospital-style flooring turns Cherchette’s strut into a tap dance. Click. Click. Clickclickclick. Mixed with a defeated sound. Something heavy being dragged along the floor. We’re mostly hidden behind the monitors. I don’t think she’s noticed me yet.
“Jacques,” Cherchette says—her voice harsh but shrill, wavering along its upper register. “Here you are. Well, look at me. I require your assistance.”
We both step out to greet her. I need to look composed. To show her I’m not afraid of her. To . . .
But I can’t.
Damn it. Damnitdamnitdamnit.
She went back. After I left Catherine’s, she went back.
Cherchette’s standing a few feet away from the steel door: hair mussed, a fresh red scratch on her face. One gloved hand clutches Catherine’s shirt, which she’s using as a sort of handle to drag her around. Catherine’s head is slumped forward; her whole body’s limp.
“Very interesting,” Cherchette says curtly. “To what do I owe this surprise?”
Jacques grabs my shoulders and urges me forward. “I brought him to you. Avery knows he made a mistake.”
What? This had better be part of the plan to save our asses, and not the ultimate goal of the treacherous plot Darla’s been so freaked about.
Leilani’s posed with one hand on her hip, ponytailed and dressed for a workout. “Well, I’m glad we have some muscle here. I thought I was going to have to shift into a big hulking thing to get the cat-girl into observation.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Jacques says, lifting Catherine’s limp body off the floor. Cherchette’s watching us curiously. And I’m . . . shaking. What happened to Cherchette’s appointment? Did Jacques just screw up or . . . ?
“Avery,” Cherchette coos. She wraps her arms around me, pulls me into her floral-scented embrace. My face sinks into the fur of her collar and she won’t let me go. It’s like the time my mom hugged me after I got on the wrong bus in kindergarten and ended up getting home an hour late. Back before I was a screwup. When I could still grow up to be anything.
“Jacques convinced me that I was wrong.” The words come out like they’re part of a script, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She wants to hear it, so she hugs me tighter. “I don’t belong anywhere else.”
I don’t have an explanation for what happened at Catherine’s because it’s something I can’t lie about. I can’t think of a way to excuse Cherchette’s behavior and apologize for my own. But she doesn’t ask for it. I’m here. That’s what matters.
When she releases me, Cherchette gazes at me for a long time. Proudly, her eyes misting up. “You’ve come home.”
I force myself to smile. I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do anymore. “Can I . . . can I see Catherine? I think she’d feel more comfortable if I had a chance to explain to her . . . why this is best.” It sounds like an outright lie to me, but Cherchette nods her approval.
“Yes, of course, of course. And Nicholas is here, too—it will be like a reunion. Would you like to see him as well?” She links arms with me and leads me to an observation room. Leilani follows, squeaking along in her sneakers—a sound that quickly shifts to the sharp click of stiletto heels, knocking in sync with Cherchette’s. I glance back to see that Leilani’s all glam now, wearing sunglasses and tight jeans; her legs seem impossibly longer.
“You made the right choice, Avery,” Cherchette says.
But my mind rearranges the words—and in my head I hear what she really means: I made the only choice.
23
I’M WAITING WITH JACQUES in the observation room, sitting on a gurney next to Catherine, two fingers on her wrist, obsessively checking her pulse, pushing her hair out of her face and trying to wake her up.
Cherchette and Leilani finally left a few minutes ago. We haven’t seen Nicholas.
“She’s sedated,” Jacques says. “It has to run its course.”
“She’s tough, though,” I say. “We might be able to speed it along.” It’s crap reasoning and I know it, but I don’t like seeing Catherine out of it like this; that’s so not her style. She should be bristling, raging, scowling. I want to go back to that.
“So what now?” I say.
“I’m not sure. The situation has become more complicated.”
Jacques takes out his cell phone, breathes deeply, and dials. It’s set to speakerphone, so I hear Sophie’s hopeful voice when she says, “Jacques! How’s it going? Did you guys find him? Are you coming home yet?”
“Things have gone awry,” Jacques says.
Darla’s voice: “Awry? What do you mean, ‘awry’? What the hell are you up to, Morozov?”
“It isn’t your concern because your getting involved is not an option,” he snaps. Whoa. Jacques is losing his cool.
“It’s okay, Jacques.” Sophie again, after a muffled argument with the genius. “Just tell us what happened.”
“Cherchette showed up,” I say. “At a very inopportune time. She has Catherine now, and she brought her here by force.”
Double gasps.
“Do not try to come after us,” Jacques adds. “I dislodged the tracking device you planted on me, Darla Carmine, so the beacon will lead you to the wrong location.”
“Jacques, come on.” Sophie again. “You have to tell us where you are. We can’t just leave you—”
“Have it your way, Morozov!” Darla shouts into the phone. “You two are on your own! Good freaking luck getting out of this without my help!”
Um, what?? What happened to “I’ll never let you down”? Or: “We’re a team”? Or any of those other sentiments?
Jacques raises his eyebrows. “Well. I’m surprised at your sudden change of heart. But I appreciate it. You are finally showing some of that intellect you are famous for.”
And then the girls hang up on us. I stare at Jacques, openmouthed. I can’t believe that just happened, that it’s over just like that.
“So much for the team,” Jacques says.
When Catherine comes to, she’s wobbly like a cat on too much catnip, but her attitude is intact. Before she notices Jacques, she promises to flay Cherchette into tiny pieces. Cherchette must be watching us on the surveillance monitors, because no sooner is Catherine upright and spouting threats than Cherchette instructs us, via loudspeaker, to strap her down.
“I’m surprised you didn’t think of that already, Jacque
s,” she says. “I’m disappointed in you.”
“Anyone comes close to me and I’ll—” Catherine sways backward, slams her shaky hands against the gurney to catch herself, nails piercing the vinyl. She’s sweating like someone in the throes of a fever, but she’s fighting hard to keep up a good front.
“I’ve got this one,” I say, slipping the straps around Catherine’s wrists and securing them before she can take my eye out. I lower my voice and say, “It’ll take me two seconds to rip these off. Just trust me. Nicholas is still here somewhere, and you’re in no state to make a break for it. We need to play along if we want to get out of here.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll rip your heart out,” Catherine mutters. She’s breathing hard. I swear, if that stuff Cherchette gave her messed her up, if any of this is permanent . . .
I shake my head to clear it—can’t think about that now. Thumbs up at the camera. “She’s good.”
“Thank you, Avery,” Cherchette coos. “Nicholas and I will be there shortly.”
Irritably, Jacques flicks his hand toward the camera and freezes it. He leans against one of the hospital-style cabinets, checks his phone, but doesn’t say anything.
Catherine’s staring at me. “Why are you here, Avery? Is this your choice?”
“Long story. I’m going to get you out of here, though. Don’t pay attention to anything I say to Cherchette.”
Five minutes more and Cherchette and a very war-torn-looking Nicholas are with us. His trench coat is back in place, but his face glistens with sweat. His normally sharp eyes are dim.
“Well,” Cherchette says. “How is our patient?”
I edge in front of Catherine. “Fine. Calming down pretty well.” I put my hand on Catherine’s, squeeze it in a physical shhhh gesture, because I know she’s not going to like my next question. “So where’s Charlie?”
Cherchette waves her hand dismissively. “Charlie—the poor dear simply doesn’t belong here. I have to concentrate my resources on those who can truly benefit from my help.”
Translation: Charlie’s on the reject list. Like Sophie. Like anyone whose powers aren’t impressive enough.
My hand is practically swallowing Catherine’s at this point, trying to calm her down. “Really?” I screw up my forehead, feigning confusion. “’Cause, I mean, if you’re offering sanctuary, Charlie needs it more than anyone.”
“He’ll be all right,” Cherchette says with a smile. “Now please, sit down. Today is about the three of you.”
Cherchette indicates the hard plastic chairs in the room. I drag mine over to Catherine’s gurney and take a seat. Nicholas settles in, too. He hasn’t quite met my gaze yet, almost like he’s ashamed. Like maybe he wanted to do this alone.
“I want to offer you something very exciting: a chance to live up to your full potential—surpass it, even.” Cherchette’s eyes glimmer and a smile twists her lips. “Imagine eliminating your weaknesses and, in the process, gaining power beyond measure. What would you say?”
“You know what I would say,” Jacques mutters.
Cherchette blinks at him, the flutter of her eyelashes masking . . . irritation? “Jacques, darling—if you’re going to remain here, you could at least make yourself useful. Right now you’re failing to do that.”
“Sounds all right.” I shrug. What’s she getting at?
“Oh, it’s better than all right,” Cherchette says. Her cold white fingers curl around my chin, tilt it upward until my throat is stretched and exposed. She runs her nails lightly along my frost-burned wound. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. You startled me, and I reacted, and it’s unfortunate—but it brings us to an important point, Avery.”
The straps creak behind me. “That you’re a psycho b—”
“Like what?” I say quickly, shooting Catherine a look, like: no, that does not count as playing along!
“You are strong, but you can still be hurt. You are invulnerable to blunt trauma, but I can prick you with a simple needle. A knife or a bullet could pierce your skin and kill you. You are worried about being captured, held as a test subject, dissected perhaps? We could render that an impossibility with Stage Two.”
“Stage Two?”
“It is a formula,” Cherchette explains, “designed to be used on extraordinary individuals once their powers have manifested. It will push you to the next stage of development, enhancing your strengths, eliminating your weaknesses, and quite possibly adding new abilities to your arsenal. It’s almost a crime to be as advanced as you are, and yet be held back by an Achilles’ heel. Checks and balances are for the weak, you know.” She winks conspiratorially.
“This formula . . .” Nicholas begins, his voice rusty. “Would it help me control my power? Or is it just an option for Avery?”
“Stage Two is for all of you. You would truly be the master of your power, Nicholas—it is yours, after all; there’s no reason you should be at its mercy. And Catherine, you are a remarkable girl: so powerful, yet so frail. Why be a kitty cat when you could be a tigress?”
“I’ll show you a tigress,” Catherine mutters, straining against her wrist straps. I whack the gurney to settle her down.
“I want it,” Nicholas says. “Can you do it now?”
“Administer the formula?” Cherchette asks. “Of course. The results won’t be immediate—the incubation process takes time. But we can begin almost at once. I only need to prepare a few things.”
“As soon as you can do it,” Nicholas says, “I’m ready.” He’s shaking a little, his hands clenched around a thermos.
He has no idea what he’s doing.
First of all, we don’t even know if this formula is legit. I mean, our origins are a mystery; maybe we were born this way. Pumping us full of chemicals isn’t going to bring about some miraculous change that supes us up to the nth power.
“Have a drink,” Cherchette says, stroking his hair on her way out. “Be sure you don’t get too excited.”
Nicholas nods bashfully, twists the cap off the thermos, and sips from it slowly. Almost instantaneously, his shaking stops and his breathing slows. Huh? Did she give him some kind of sedative?
Once the door shuts, I count to twenty, figuring that gives Cherchette ample time to come back if she forgot something. Through the windows in the observation room I see her pass the surveillance desk. Leilani’s sitting there with her feet on the desk, blowing pink bubble-gum bubbles; she bolts up when Cherchette gets there, nods obediently for a while, then darts off toward one of the research labs.
“You’re not doing it,” I tell Nicholas.
He sips from his thermos—I know that’s not chamomile tea. Already his eyes are getting this glazed look.
“People can overdose on prescription drugs, okay? And those are regulated. You have no idea what kind of toxin she’ll put in your body. You could die, Nicholas.”
“I don’t care. Better me than someone else.”
I almost want to smack some sense into him. Maybe I would, if I didn’t think I’d take his head off.
“You really want to die?” Jacques says. “Maybe you’ll get your wish.”
“Shut up, Jacques,” I snap.
Words are failing me. I want to break something, but I don’t want to alert Cherchette to the mutiny raging in my heart. How do you save someone who doesn’t want to be saved?
Cherchette’s busy preparing the Stage Two formula, measuring doses of the thick, phosphorescent liquid while Nicholas watches from a paper-lined exam table, the sleeve of his trench coat rolled up to his elbow.
He’s sucking in deep breaths. “I don’t like needles.”
“It will be over in an instant,” Cherchette says. “You’ll barely feel it.” She swabs his hand with something and Nicholas averts his eyes, grimaces as she slides the thick IV needle into his vein. A shiver runs through his body. “If you want to lie down,” she begins—but then Jacques interrupts her.
“Stage Two isn’t foolproof, you know. Not even close.”
“That’s enough,” Cherchette says, securing the plastic tube to Nicholas’s hand with tape.
Jacques flips a quarter into the air, slaps one hand on top of the other to catch it. “Call it—heads or tails? Success or failure? So far there is a fifty percent chance it will fulfill all your dreams. The other fifty percent says it ruins you.” His eyes are blazing blue fury—I’ve never seen him like this: angry, almost righteous. It’s not the simmering contempt I first saw at Sophie’s. It’s wild, reckless.
“If your mouth doesn’t close on its own, I can do it for you,” Cherchette says. She snaps her fingers and a crust of ice freezes Jacques’s lips shut. Snow dust falls to the ground as he claws it away.
“What’s he talking about?” I ask. Jacques doesn’t give her a chance to answer.
“You’re full of enthusiasm until something goes wrong,” he says. “And then it’s my fault. My fault that I didn’t live up to your hopes, and you can just explain it away with ‘survival of the fittest,’ as if—” He stops to catch his breath, watching his mother warily, uncertain. Like maybe he’s already said too much. “As if it was meant to be this way.”
“It is your fault,” Cherchette says coolly. “No one forced you to undergo the procedure—you believed you were ready. And I’ve learned from your mistake. I’ve become more selective; I see now who is ready to develop and who is not. Blaming me isn’t going to change anything.”
“I was a child. You promised me greatness! What was I supposed to think?”
The empty IV tube still hangs limply from Nicholas’s hand. Cherchette sighs. “This is growing tiresome, Jacques. Please get your emotions under control so we can move on.”
Nicholas lies down on the exam table, his chest heaving with short, shallow breaths. “What does he mean, it could ‘ruin me’?”
“Jacques’s experience was anomalous, dear. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Stage Two has only been given to two people,” Jacques says. “My mother and myself. I was a child when she first attempted it. She was ill for weeks; she was barely mobile and I feared she would die. But when she pulled through, she was ten times stronger. And so when I reached adolescence, when I felt I had begun to peak—”
