Master: Arrow's Flight #3

by Casey Hays

  “I don’t want to forget,” I insist.

  Our eyes meet. My heart thuds, and I press my hand against my chest to still it.

  “And . . . you aren’t my mate.”

  His mouth parts slightly when I finally say it aloud, an uneasiness riding on the phrase. But my words are absolute, solidly defying any other option. He stretches out his long legs leans back on his wrists on the hard, smooth floor.

  “No. Not in the way you think, anyway.”

  He crosses his feet at the ankles. I cock my head with a trickle of apprehension.

  “What other way is there?”

  He shrugs. “Mona had her plans. We had ours.”

  When I don’t answer, he tilts his head, his eyes narrowing severely.

  “You don’t remember this either?”

  “No.” I study the blanket. “I remember the Pit. I remember going there. But . . . you’re from Eden. You shouldn’t have been there.”

  He leans forward and dips his head to catch my eyes. “You already know the answers to every one of your questions.” He reaches out, takes hold of my fingers. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. Mona’s plans failed.”

  I shake my head. “I have to remember,” I whisper.

  “You will,” he insists.

  I close my eyes. A lone tear makes its escape down my cheek, and suddenly, his thumb is there—warm against my face—to brush it away. His sudden touch startles me, and I grab his wrist.

  “It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s us.”

  My fingers tighten, his hand floats suspended between us. He’s so close I can feel his breath, see the texture of his orange-glow skin, drown in the shadows of his eyes. They search me out, begging for my trust.

  “I have so much to tell you,” he says. “So many things . . .” Desperation rides his voice. “So you have to remember. You have to remember what we’ve been through together, Kate. I can’t live it by myself.”

  His eyes pierce me, a razor-sharp pang that pricks my heart, and they’re strong enough to reach me through the fog. It does something to my stomach—a fluttering—and my heart skips along in a flood of erratic beating. It’s too familiar.

  With a tiny gasp, I release him, and I wonder . . . if my heart could speak, what would it tell me? That Ian—this stranger who isn’t a stranger at all—means the world to me, too?

  I shuffle through my memories, and in a haze of images just out of my reach, I see him everywhere. He lingers in the shadows of my past. I squint at him.

  If my heart could speak . . .

  I wrap my arms around myself as an uncontrollable shiver suddenly consumes me. The air is biting in this stone, cold basement, and my teeth chatter loudly, the noise reverberating inside my head.

  “Here.” On his knees, Ian unfurls a blanket and wraps it snug around me, tucking the ends beneath my chin. “One thing’s for sure. This place isn’t lacking for blankets. We might as well use them.”

  It’s true. There are no less than three piles of blankets shoved up against the back wall next to the boxes of supplies. Ian lays a hand against my forehead. The heat that accompanies this single touch sends a river of relief bouncing through me, which only magnifies the agony when he removes it. A tiny gasp of disappointment, and my teeth are chattering again.

  “No fever,” he announces.

  He slides away, easing onto a pile of blankets to watch me. I keep my gaze on him, but I say nothing. Another shudder shakes my entire body. He watches me for only a minute longer before he emits an exasperated sigh.

  “This is ridiculous.” He hoists himself up onto the mattress, and in one quick, smooth action he nudges his way around me to lean his back against the wall. I tense, shocked, but he ignores this. His arms glide around me, pulling me into his chest as gently as possible to avoid my wounds. “You may not like it, but this is what we do, you and me. I’m not going to let you freeze when you don’t have to.”

  Everywhere my body touches his, a hot sensation pools on my skin, easing the frigid bite. I release my breath and let my cheek sink against his chest, and it’s like sunshine beating on my skin. It’s a hot fire drawing me closer.

  It doesn’t take long for my body to still its trembling, and I’m soon able to concentrate on the rise and fall of Ian’s chest. His heartbeat pulsates against my ear, soft and slow—and beautifully rhythmic. It makes me drowsy, and in the quiet, darkness, I begin to drift.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?” he whispers, and my eyes flutter.

  “Yes.”

  It feels nice to cuddle up against him. It feels safe. Once again, I am aware that it is not a new feeling. My skin prickles with proof of it, and I wonder briefly if this is how our love feels—this heat. Here I am, pressed against this boy who claims to love me more than his own life. I want to know for myself how it feels to be scorched by the heat of something as powerful as that kind of love.

  Ian knows. It’s plainly evident in how he holds me now. In how his arms tighten ever so often. In how his hand cups my elbow. Somewhere inside the heat he waits for me to rediscover him.

  Carefully, I unball a fist. I splay my fingers wide, flatten my palm against his chest.

  “Thank you, Ian,” I whisper.

  “Sure.” He rests his chin against the top of my head. “I missed you, Kate.”

  I lift my head, catch his eyes. He smiles, and our hearts touch—just a slight bumping against each other. And a memory rattles.

  “You left,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “You left the Village. You left and . . . I didn’t go with you.”

  I furrow my brow. He squeezes me gingerly.

  “I left because it’s what you wanted.”

  It’s what I wanted? I search my mind for this truth.

  His hand is on my cheek, and he runs a thumb along my bottom lip. I instinctively lean my face into his palm.

  “But I came back . . . for you,” he whispers. “Because it’s what I wanted. What I needed.” His pulse thumps against my cheek. “Because the whole time I was in the Pit, I can’t remember a day when you didn’t have a fresh bruise or a healing wound.”

  My stomach tightens involuntarily, and I’m reminded of the stripes on my back.

  “I don’t have a single mark from my time in your village.” He purses his lips, a scowl crossing his face. “You carry all the scars for both of us.”

  I hear his pain. It sears me, scratches into my senses like another scar forming. I focus on him, my chin quivering even as I clamp my teeth against it.

  “If I could trade places with you, I would. I would take every single one of your scars away forever. And not just the physical ones.”

  His chin trembles, his heartbeat hammering against mine, and I believe he means it.

  The room is dead quiet. We stay locked, a solid connection on a straight line from his eyes to mine until I break it. I’m overwhelmed by the feelings rattling every one of my nerve endings in an explosive attempt to reach him . . . to remember. Ian gathers me in closer as if he’s afraid I might look for an escape after such intimacies have passed between us. But he’s wrong. I don’t care to escape. In fact, I know I can’t, and I press into him. I long to climb into this heart, to see his love beating from the inside out. Perhaps then, the pulsing promises would be revived, and I would know for certain what my heart says.

  It feels right to be in his arms, and I cling to this feeling.

  “I need to remember us,” I whisper. I squeeze my eyes closed tightly.

  Ian says nothing. He simply presses his lips to the top of my head, and holds me.

  Chapter 17

  I

  wake shivering beneath the blankets. It’s as black as a starless night inside the cellar, and even colder still. I blink several times, but the sheet of darkness is a thick mass all around me. Just before panic raises its ugly head, I hear Ian’s steady breathing beside me. I reach through the black wall, six inches of space between us, and feel the broad expanse of his warm
back. I sigh.

  I long for his warmth again, and for a split second, I consider snuggling up next to him. But the idea is equally comforting and mortifying, and so I make a conscious decision not to act upon it. But I leave my palm pressed against him for just a moment longer before my hand falls away.

  It was my thirst that woke me, and my fingers fumble along the edge of the blankets, searching for my half-empty water bottle. I find it, bring the cool liquid to my lips. Ian stirs, rolls over to face me, and stills again, a long sigh emitting from him.

  I stare into the vast blackness. I don’t recall ever being consumed in it to this extent—dense and endless, and even with the wheezy sound of Ian’s breathing inches from my ear, I feel alone. The darkness closes in on me like a wall, pressing in until even my lungs feel compressed beneath its weight. I stare into it, willing myself to see something—anything—and in a panic, my breathing grows rapid, erratic. It’s an unreasonable panic, and in my head I know this. But my cold body isn’t in tune with my head, and in a matter of seconds, my heart batters against my ribcage.

  “Ian,” I whisper. Silence. “Ian!”

  A shuffling beside me.

  “Ian!”

  “What?” His voice is full of sleep. “What is it?”

  “Please light a candle,” I rasp. My side aches, and I rest a hand against it as my breathing turns heavy, full of fear. “Light a candle!”

  The urgency in my tone frightens me. More shuffling and fumbling as Ian crawls to the end of the mattress. He stumbles into the table, curses under his breath, but soon the small space flashes with yellow-orange light. I squint as the harsh brightness cuts through the room, but a sigh of relief eases out of me in a cloud of misty breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Ian holds up the candle, his hair ruffled, his eyes groggy with sleep.

  My fingers tighten around the water bottle. “It was so dark. It frightened me.”

  “Oh,” he nods and sets the candle on the table. “Yeah, I get it.” He rubs at his eyes, winces, and pulls back to examine his finger before saying, “I’m not enjoying this, either.”

  He glances at the trap door above the ladder, and my eyes follow.

  “How long have we been here?” I ask.

  “Not sure.” He frowns. “Too long.”

  He dives onto the pile of blankets a few feet away, stretches out on his stomach, and curls one of the blankets up under his chin. With a yawn, he closes his eyes. “I wonder if it’s morning,” he sighs.

  “Who’s to say?” I answer blandly.

  We’re quiet, and the silence surrounding us is deafening. As deafening as the darkness was stifling. I root my body deeper beneath the heavy blankets to ward off the cold. Ian eases over to one side, laying a gentle hand over a tear in his shirt. After a moment, his eyes flick open, lock on me. I take another sip of water.

  “You look pretty in this light.”

  I turn, grateful that he can’t see the hot flush that attacks me. “That’s doubtful.”

  He smirks. “You’re never going to just take the compliment, are you? Stubborn to the end.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  “Yep.”

  I smile. He rolls upright, hangs his hands over his knees.

  “I guess we should eat.”

  He reaches for a box, drags it with one hand across the smooth floor, and peers inside.

  “We’ve got jerky, some bread, granola bars.” He lifts a small bag. “Raisins. Wow. I haven’t had raisins in ages.”

  He rips open the bag, holds it out. I extend my hand, and he dumps a few onto my palm. Small, black, wrinkled objects. He dumps a handful into his mouth. I lift one, smell it before placing it gingerly onto my tongue. It’s sweet. I chew.

  “Good, huh?”

  Ian offers me the rest of the bag. I take it, savoring every sweet bite. He breaks off a chunk of the bread and gives it to me. It complements the raisins well.

  “How’s your pain?” He produces the bottle of pain pills.

  “It’s . . . a little better.”

  He offers me two pills. I take them and swallow them down with the rest of my water.

  “And your bandages?”

  Easing up, I lift the blanket from my legs. The bandage around my shin is intact. I lift my blouse at the waistline, examine my side, peer down the collar of my shirt at my chest.

  “They look clean. I suppose they’ll last a while longer.”

  He nods, satisfied, and chomps down on another piece of bread. I lie back, staring at the ceiling. I’m tired of rest, and I long to stand, walk around a bit. But there’s no room in this cramped space.

  Ian searches the box again, arranges it into some form of order.

  “I’m worried about Diana,” I say suddenly.

  Ian sits back, a hint of concern crossing his features, and lets his hands dangle over his knees again.

  “I know,” he says softly. I wring my hands. He frowns. “Justin won’t let anything happen to her. He’s so cautious he’s boring.”

  He smiles and lifts a bottle of water from the box, rolls it between his palms a moment before he looks up at me through a wisp of hair.

  “I’ve learned some things about myself over the past couple of days, you know?” He shakes his head. “I think I could’ve protected you if I’d known these things before.”

  “What sort of things?” My curiosity pricks me. I raise myself a little in anticipation.

  “Bullets are fast,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I’m faster.”

  He shrugs. I don’t know what to say to this. He studies his wounded fingertip, rubs his thumb over the end of it tenderly.

  “You remember about the Serum, right?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “So you remember that we heal?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  He drops the water bottle and raises his shirtsleeve to reveal a wound on his bicep. “The gun that shot you is the same kind that shot me. An Eden-killer. One of them did this to me.”

  He points at the wound. It’s a deep, fleshy crevice bulging with swollen redness. I cringe, and he winces as he rolls his sleeve back over it and tugs the collar of his shirt downward to reveal another seared mark on his chest just beneath the torn section of his shirt. “And this.”

  My mouth falls open at the severity of the injuries.

  “Shouldn’t you bandage them?”

  He studies me, eyes intense. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not healing. I can feel my body trying to, but no go. Like something’s working against the Serum.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Because their ammo is designed to kill us.” He digs into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a small cylinder-shaped object, pointed on one end. He holds it up between us like it’s a hateful thing. “I need to find out what’s in this bullet.”

  He drops it into the palm of my hand, and I hold it up toward the light. The casement is clear and filled with a thick, white liquid.

  “I’d never touched a gun before,” he says. He picks up his water bottle and toys with the lid. “I’ve always preferred a bow. But the moment I held a gun in my hands, I knew that if I had to, I could use it. Skillfully. Without any practice.”

  I study him. His eyes darken.

  “That built in defense mechanism inside me is on point.”

  He winces, examines his fingertip, makes a fist. I clutch the bullet in my own fist.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask.

  “Like everything. I touched the stuff, just barely. That’s how this happened.” He indicates his fingertip, and his jaw flinches with the pain. “It’s worse today. It feels like it’s killing me slowly, one cell at a time. Now that’s torture.” He tosses me a half smile. “I’m not used to being injured for so long anymore. You know, one of the perks of being a freak. But I’m tough. I can handle it.”

  I try to smile, fail miserably. His fingertip glances off the edge of the water bottle, and he sucks air between his teeth. If he’s susceptible
to these weapons, then they all are. I swallow hard as this thought consumes me.

  And then, a memory—wispy and faint—shimmers into place. I’m pacing the wood floor of a cabin, wringing my hands. And Ian is with me, and it’s somehow his fault that we are once again separated from the others.

  Ian seems to read my thoughts.

  “Don’t worry, Kate. Justin is smart; you know this. He won’t bring Diana near Jordan once he knows it’s not safe. And it won’t take much for him to figure out it isn’t.”

  I nod, tugging on the end of my braid. He’s right. Justin has never been rash. But I’m torn. I don’t want them to stay away anymore than I want to be here.

  It’s more than simply missing Diana. I have a pressing need to see her, as if something between us needs to be resolved. As if we left each other on bad terms. I look at Ian.

  “Did Diana and I have a fight?”

  He pauses, studies me.

  “Yeah,” he nods.

  “Why?”

  “You kept something from her to protect her. A secret.”

  I raise my brows. He squeezes the water bottle.

  “I need to tell you about the Serum. All of it. And the toxin.” An aching sigh vibrates out of him. “And about Tabitha.” He pauses, his eyes shifting away slightly and then returning. “Man, I wish you could remember all this.”

  I raise up out of the bed, focusing on him. “What about Tabitha?”

  He sighs. “Penelope told me about a virus.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded.

  “It attacks us when we’re born—all of us. And some of us survive it. Because we’re immune.”

  Ian pauses, eyes on me as he waits for me to react, his hands limp at his sides and his shoulders rigid. I run my tongue across my suddenly dry lips. I can’t blink, can barely breathe. A baby-killing virus?