As he glanced around at all of the dead bodies, the enormity of the scene set in. He was the only living person in a building full of dead people.
The room began to spin . . .
He plopped down hard onto the ground, near Morgan, and began weeping openly into his hands. He barely knew most of these people. But somehow, in a way that defied words or reasoning, he just knew . . . This was his fault.
His phone chirped in his inside pocket but he let it ring. It stopped after a minute or two but then started again. Aggravated now, he yanked it out and opened it, but couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘‘Grant? Hello, are you there?’’ It was Daniel.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Grant managed to get out. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do. Words were pointless now.
‘‘What happened? Where are you?’’
‘‘They’re dead,’’ Grant whispered, choking on another sob.
‘‘Are you sure?’’ Daniel replied. ‘‘Have you checked them? We thought you were dead at first, too.’’
Grant felt the headache in his temple again and tried blinking it away. It subsided, and he reached out a hand to feel Morgan’s body.
‘‘Morgan’s cold. I can’t find a pulse.’’
‘‘Hmm,’’ Daniel said with a clinical tone. ‘‘You were cold too, but we eventually found a faint pulse on you. Maybe hers is too faint to detect.
What else can you see?’’
‘‘Hang on . . .’’ he mumbled. He stood up on his haunches and carefully rolled Morgan over onto her back. ‘‘She’s got a nasty bruise on her forehead. She must’ve hit the corner of the table as she fell.’’
Daniel’s words escaped quickly. ‘‘Grant, dead people don’t bruise.’’
Grant gasped slightly, a glimmer of hope flickering to life. ‘‘Are you sure?’’ he asked, examining the egg-shaped bruise up-close.
‘‘It’s impossible,’’ Daniel said, still talking fast. ‘‘When a body dies, blood stops flowing. Without blood flow, a corpse can’t develop a new bruise, no matter what you do to it.’’
Grant’s mind spun, and his eyes landed on the ring on her right hand, middle finger.
A ring can be removed after its wearer dies. He remembered her speaking those words to him.
He cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, and grabbed Morgan’s ring and tugged at it. It didn’t budge.
His heart skipped a beat and he swallowed. ‘‘I think you’re right,’’ he said into the phone, his voice growing stronger now. ‘‘I think they’re still alive!’’
Daniel said nothing.
‘‘But how do—what do I do?’’ Grant said.
Daniel’s reply was excruciatingly slow in coming. ‘‘I’ve never heard of anything like this before. If they’re not dead, then they must be in some kind of catatonia, like you were. If we only knew what it was that woke you up . . .’’ Daniel said, thinking aloud.
Grant’s thoughts shot back to his dream and lingered there.
‘‘You still have no idea what roused you?’’ Daniel asked when Grant didn’t reply.
‘‘Not . . . exactly,’’ he said quietly.
‘‘Well, there’s obviously a connection between what happened to you and what happened to them,’’ Daniel began reasoning again. ‘‘You’re all on parallel paths of some kind . . .’’
Grant sat up straight. ‘‘What did you say?’’
‘‘I said you’re all on . . .’’ he began, but Grant was no longer listening. Something had just triggered in his mind.
How did the woman in his dream say it?
‘‘You must ask yourself what you are willing to endure to reach the journey’s end. Are you willing to sacrifice? Are you willing to absorb your greatest fear and make it part of your very being?’’
He closed his eyes and remembered the look on her face.
Are you willing? she had said.
I don’t want to hurt, he thought. But I am willing.
‘‘Grant, are you still there?’’ Daniel’s voice was saying into the phone.
Grant’s demeanor had changed, a new resolve now set deep into his bones.
‘‘I’ll call you back,’’ he said, and hung up the phone.
He knelt down beside Morgan on the floor, and with a deep, long breath . . . he let go. Let go of his fear, his doubt. His questions and frustrations. His desires and needs. His anger at life for doing this to him.
He released it all.
His heart fluttered, and immediately the pain returned and seized him once more.
But this time, instead of fighting, he disappeared into it.
Its ferocity was beyond imagining, but he didn’t struggle. He relaxed and let it overtake him.
Grant managed to force his eyes open as the pain surged through him and he saw that the light had returned. His ring was glowing again, as were all of the others around him, growing and shimmering.
The pain increased again. Scorching and fierce. Every inch of his skin felt as though it was being ripped apart, his bones being crushed into powder. His nerve endings sizzled like cattle prods. His blood raced through his veins like scalding hot oil, burning him from the inside out. And his heart was pumping much too fast . . .
He was sure he would pass out any moment now, and he would welcome it when it came. No one could withstand this kind of pain and remain conscious. It had to be scientifically impossible, as Daniel would probably tell him.
Yet the pain grew larger still, and he remained awake and aware. It became so potent that he could no longer tell one part of his body from another. It melted together and burst outward as though every molecule in his body was being rent and torn from every other.
And for one, brief glimpse of a moment, his senses extended far beyond himself and he touched them . . . all the Loci, everywhere.
Then he felt his lungs gasp in a deep breath of air. Slowly—very slowly—he became aware that the pain was subsiding. Feeling returned to his limbs, and his breathing began to slow. His heart decelerated as well, and his blood no longer burned like acid. It dwindled farther and farther until he felt a tingling sensation all over, and his familiar headache, now a dull echo of a whisper.
Grant opened his eyes and massaged his temples as he looked around the facility. He’d never felt so tired in his life.
The light from the rings was gone.
And silence was no longer the only sound he heard.
Morgan’s chest was rising and falling in normal rhythm. The others were breathing as well, and some of them were beginning to stir.
Grant couldn’t remember when he’d begun to cry, but his cheeks were soaking wet now, and more tears soon joined them. He could barely move, the after-effects of the pain too crippling.
Yet despite this, he couldn’t stop an enormous smile from spreading across his face.
Grant hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket, dwelling on how eager he was to get back home and talk to Hannah, see with his own eyes that she was okay.
As he slowly waddled back into the Common Room, which was now bustling with activity, he drew a number of wide-eyed stares. None of the Loci had any idea what had happened; they knew only that they were alive thanks to him.
Grant made a careful beeline for Morgan, who was watching him from her chair across the room, as Fletcher, per usual, was murmuring in her ear. Meanwhile, another resident—a young girl—was rubbing some kind of ointment on Morgan’s forehead with a small cloth.
Grant eased slowly into the chair opposite Morgan, cautious not to overextend his aching muscles.
‘‘Can you tell us what happened?’’ she asked.
‘‘I think I understand what happened, but I don’t think I can explain it,’’ he replied, still smiling for no apparent reason. He was beyond tired, yet his body surged with excitement.
‘‘Think about trying,’’ Fletcher said, his mouth a thin, tight line.
Morgan turned away from the girl who was nursing her bruis
e and threw a nasty gaze at Fletcher.
He shivered, despite himself.
Morgan spoke. ‘‘I know the rings glowed before we all lost consciousness— all of them. And that’s something that’s . . . rare, at best.’’
‘‘But it has happened before?’’ Grant asked.
‘‘I’m not certain what triggers it, but it always seems to be a precursor to something significant. I’ve witnessed ‘multiple glows’ when someone new is given a ring, for example, but I don’t believe that to be the only time it happens.’’
A moment passed in silence.
‘‘I think I did it. Whatever happened to you all, I believe I’m responsible for it,’’ Grant said. ‘‘But it was something that had to happen. I don’t know why, I just know it did.’’
‘‘How do you know?’’ Morgan said, creasing her brow.
‘‘Because everything’s changed,’’ Grant said. ‘‘I can feel it.’’
‘‘Feel what?’’ Fletcher said.
‘‘You,’’ Grant replied. ‘‘I have this . . . sense of all of you. Not like I can read your minds or feel your feelings. I just have a very strong impression of you. Like I can close my eyes and still see you.’’
Neither Morgan nor Fletcher spoke as they considered this and studied him. For once, Grant found he didn’t mind their stares, nor that of the other Loci. He was still smiling, though he was so drained his eyes were trying to close by themselves.
‘‘So you’re saying,’’ Morgan spoke up, ‘‘some type of connection has been . . . switched ‘on’ . . . or forged between you and the rest of us?’’
The Forging.
‘‘Yeah,’’ he replied, looking far away. ‘‘That’s probably a good word for it . . . And none of you experienced the pain that I did?’’
Morgan shook her head. ‘‘We should be thirsty and starved, but we’re fine.’’
He didn’t reply, as she continued watching him.
‘‘What do you think it means?’’ Grant said at last, ending with a yawn.
She shook her head again, her eyebrows raised. ‘‘This is new territory for all of us.’’
40
Despite his profound fatigue, Grant lay awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling and trying to sort out the Forging. Things were becoming clearer, and he’d made up his mind that it was now time to chase down Evers’ clue. He needed to return to his boyhood home. But even with that concluded, other concerns nagged him.
His conflicted feelings for Hannah, for one. They had plans to meet up late afternoon at the asylum.
And then there was the Keeper . . .
Who are you? Grant thought.
Finally well before dawn, he gave up pretending. Sleep would not come. Bleary-eyed and depleted, he roused himself and began preparing for the day, particularly for the inevitable conversation with Julie.
How would she handle the idea that their father could still be alive and in hiding somewhere? That during all these years, he’d never bothered to contact them?
How would she feel about returning to their childhood home?
Will she dread it as much as I do?
Then again, she might want to go . . .
Grant dressed and left the apartment before his sister was awake.
He descended in the elevator to the parking garage and the door chimed, then it opened.
Some small part of him expected to see Alex. It seemed like time for one of their encounters, but he was greeted only by the silence of the garage.
Grant took a tired step toward his car when there was a flash of movement before his eyes and somehow, he was flying through the air. He crashed into the side of a nearby car and slumped to the ground, rattled. His instincts were telling him to roll, to get to his feet, to look up. But the sleepiness and soreness were too pronounced, his reflexes too sluggish.
Grant struggled to his feet and looked around through bleary eyes. No one. He was all alone in the hollow surroundings of the garage. He shook the cobwebs out of his brain. He may have been tired, but not that tired. Whatever just happened—he didn’t imagine it.
But he hadn’t seen anyone there and couldn’t see anyone now.
With a start, he heard a sound from behind and turned to look, yet saw nothing.
But wait, there was . . . Something itching at the edge of his awareness. He was too drained to concentrate on it fully, but it was a familiar sensation. He could feel the presence of another.
Grant listened in silence but only heard the sounds of the elevator descending. Finally, he walked toward the car again.
He made it halfway across the garage, when there was another glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Then Grant found himself lying on the ground, a throbbing pain in his stomach, where it seemed he’d been kicked.
‘‘All right!’’ he shouted. ‘‘Who—’’
A flash of movement later, and there was a figure standing above him, holding a very long, thin sword that curved slightly along the far end of the blade. It had an unusually long handle, and its tip was only inches from Grant’s left eye.
He froze.
Out of his other eye, he made out the shape of the man holding the sword, standing over him. He was shorter than Grant, thin with bulging muscles. He wore a simple black jumpsuit. He was bald.
The man’s hands were covered by tight leather gloves, but Grant knew—he could feel—a ring hiding under one of those gloves.
‘‘What’s wrong with you?’’ asked the man, his deep-throated British accent neither offering an accusation nor sarcasm; he was genuinely curious. ‘‘It should not be this easy.’’ He had a gruff manner and spoke in an all-business tone.
Grant said nothing. The man’s sword was so close to his eye, he was afraid to move or provoke him. And Grant’s mind was too tired to try anything just now . . .
The man pulled the sword back a few inches. ‘‘Up.’’
Grant complied slowly, and as he rose, so did the sword. When Grant was upright, the man was gone, reappearing at his left side. He brought the sword around and up in a quick slice with one hand. He stopped cold when its tip made contact with the underside of Grant’s head, just below his chin. He made a small nick there, enough to bring forth a drop of blood that oozed down Grant’s neck.
The attacker held his sword in position with a stillness carved out of stone.
Grant tried to be calm, his chin angled upward to keep from making the incision worse. He held his breath, afraid any movement would project his head downward into the razor-sharp blade.
The man looked him up and down. Finally he shook his head.
‘‘You’re a pathetic child,’’ he said, incredulous. ‘‘Lost and barely conscious.’’
The man walked slowly in a semicircle around Grant, ending when they were face to face. Still he held the sword so that its tip never lost contact with Grant’s neck.
Grant dared to speak, causing his throat to vibrate against the tip of the sword. ‘‘What do you want?’’ He could barely get the words out, his voice quivering.
‘‘You don’t even know who you are,’’ the man decided, disgust evident in his voice.
Finally, he pulled the sword back a few inches—enough for Grant to stand at ease. ‘‘I’ll not kill a pitiful, untrained fool. Go and rest. Prepare yourself. Then we shall begin again.’’
As far as the other man was concerned, that seemed to be that. He held out the sword, but only in a defensive posture. Grant assumed he was free to go.
He let out a shaky breath and glanced down at the sword again. It was then that he saw there was a row of symbols etched along the length of the blade. The symbols looked familiar.
‘‘What do you want with me?’’ he said, stalling for time as he stared at the symbols, memorizing them.
The man stood unmoving, the sword still pointed at Grant. ‘‘I have no interest in you,’’ he replied. ‘‘My quarrel is with the abomination.’’ His voice full of menace, he made a swift slice throug
h the air, after which Grant felt a stinging pain on the top of his hand. He flinched and withdrew the hand. A bleeding gash extended from Grant’s wrist in a straight line down his hand, forming a red line that was unmistakably pointing at his ring.
‘‘I will not show mercy twice,’’ the man replied calmly, straightening himself up and sheathing the sword. ‘‘Go. I’m allowing you this one chance to ready yourself. Use it.’’
There was a blur, and Grant was suddenly alone, cradling his bleeding hand in silence.
One heartbeat later, he blacked out.
As the sun was rising, Morgan and Fletcher made their way from room to room throughout the asylum, on his suggestion that they check to make sure everyone ‘‘really did wake up.’’
They knocked on doors and carefully peeked inside. Everyone they encountered was perfectly fine—most of them still sleeping soundly.
After a while of this, Fletcher closed another door and continued their private conversation.
‘‘And you don’t think there’s any chance he did this on purpose?’’ he asked.
Their feet clicked in unison as they walked down a lonely hallway in the back of the building.
‘‘It’s obvious he didn’t,’’ Morgan replied, her matter-of-fact tone leaving no room for argument. ‘‘He was in tremendous pain.’’
Fletcher was quiet as they walked along.
‘‘What?’’ she finally said, noticing his look of frustration.
‘‘If he didn’t do it on purpose, then that’s even worse!’’ he cried as they walked.
Morgan stopped, near another door. It was Marta’s room.
‘‘How is it worse?’’ she asked.
‘‘If Grant didn’t do . . . whatever he did . . . on purpose,’’ he cried, exasperated, ‘‘then that means he has no control over what he’s capable of. Who knows what he might do next!’’
She turned away from him and knocked on Marta’s door. When there was no reply, she assumed Marta was asleep and opened it.
‘‘Look, I know you trust him, and you probably feel like this was all part of some grand scheme,’’ Fletcher was saying. ‘‘But personally, I just feel lucky that we all survived.’’
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