Eclipse the Flame

by Ingrid Seymour

  I leave with James, without a backward glance. As we walk, I’m on the verge of telling him what I saw but, in the end, I say nothing. Aydan may be an asshole, but his suffering is none of my business, just like mine isn’t any of his.

  Chapter 15

  “Take a seat, Marci,” James instructs as we enter one of the small conference rooms.

  He slumps on a chair at the head of the mahogany rectangular table and runs a large hand over his bald head. I sit to his right.

  “Things are getting out of control, moving too fast.” He presses a thumb to his temple and smooths a bushy eyebrow with his forefinger. He looks extremely tired. “I’m sure you’ve noticed. I flew to Washington on business last week. My head never stopped buzzing. TSA guards. Cab drivers. Even a few people I used to know.” He sighs, ending the small talk. “Anyway, there’s no easy way to start this conversation, so I’ll just go straight to the point.”

  I wait, teeth clenched.

  “I know you’re convinced Luke isn’t a spy, but—”

  “I saw him there, at the nightclub. I’m sorry,” I say, admitting my mistake.

  James nods. “He led us there. It looks like that place was one of Hailstone’s main spots of operation. Hailstone is another Eklyptor faction.”

  “I know.”

  James frowns questioningly.

  “I was attacked by two guys the other night,” I explain. “They asked what faction I belonged to. They didn’t like it when I said the ‘Whitehouse faction’”

  “I see. Well, they’re Elliot’s biggest rivals. They’ve been establishing territories around the city. The police members who are still human think they’re dealing with gangs. Luke is clearly with Hailstone, Marci. He was meeting with Zara, Zara Hailstone. She’s their leader.”

  “Crap! I’m so stupid. He’s been getting emails from her. I hacked his account.”

  “I know. I received your reports. Sorry if I didn’t respond. It’s been crazy busy and I didn’t want you involved since Luke is your brother.”

  So this is why he kept me out? If only he’d said, I might have understood.

  “But he must have known,” I wonder out loud, “must have been trying to get me off his trail. I followed him to one of the meetings they arranged. He met some blond chick at a restaurant and sat there looking bored while she made goat eyes at him. I thought she was one his many admirers, so I lost interest. It was all a freakin’ show.”

  “We saw those emails and followed him, too. Every time. Everywhere,” James says.

  I curse under my breath. My hands are shaking. I wring them and think of Kristen’s oblivion drug. My tongue feels swollen and heavy. I don’t see a way to go on.

  “Don’t blame yourself. We simply had more resources to dedicate to the task.”

  Pressing a hand to my forehead, I wince at the pounding sensation in my temples. “I don’t understand. Why can’t I sense him? I don’t feel a thing. No buzzing, not even one bit. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a fluke of some sort,” James says in a puzzled tone.

  “Why would he come to us? To join his long, lost family?” I let out a derisive chuckle. “To infect Mom? ’Cause he has to know I’m already a goner, right? None of it makes sense,” I say.

  “No, it doesn’t. That’s why I think we should find out all we can about him, which is precisely what I wanted to talk to you about.” James places his elbows on the table and leans forward. “He has been staying at your house, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, suddenly jolted by my total disconnect from the real world. I sit straighter. “How long have I been here? Is he still …? Mom?!”

  “Calm down. Luke hasn’t been back there. It’s only been three days. Clark went by your house and talked to your mom. She was fine. He explained about Xave. Told her you were with some friends, trying to … you know.”

  A lump builds in my throat. The back of my eyes burn. How will I go on? How?

  “Anyway,” James continues, “we thought you might be able to get some of Luke’s DNA. Hair from a comb, toothbrush, anything like that. Kristen would like to take a look. Can you do that?”

  I feel strangely numb. The room looks colorless in spite of James’s art hanging on the walls. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Great. If you’re also able to get something that belongs to your mother that would help.”

  “My mom? Why?”

  “For cross reference, maybe. I really don’t know. Kristen is the expert.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s fine.”

  “Good. Good. Well …” James stands and straightens his shirt.

  “Is that it?” I ask.

  “Yes.” It sounds like a question, which makes me think there’s more. “I didn’t realize you’d seen Luke at the club, so I thought it’d be harder for you to hear that he’s involved with Hailstone.” He looks relieved I didn’t melt into a puddle of tears.

  I stand, following his lead. “The hardest thing that’ll ever happen already happened.”

  James nods and looks at me with pity, making me feel as if I’m just an ignorant child who has seen but the tip of the iceberg. To hell with him. What does he know about the way I feel? What does he know about the measure of sorrow? And whether or not my grief for one person is bigger than what he’s felt for the bunch he may have lost in his forty-something years of life.

  He walks to the door, then stops and looks back. “Just send in the samples with Clark. You should take some time to rest. Go home. Spend some time with your mother. Grieve. This isn’t the best place for you right now.”

  I open my mouth to protest, then clench it shut, fighting the anger that swells in my chest. His gray eyes are stern and unwavering, making it clear that he has no time to argue but, most of all, that I have no right to argue, that my presence here is entirely up to him and no one else. I thought Aydan said James wanted me to help them fight? I guess that was a lie. This is not the best place for me? He just doesn’t want me here. He must think I’m more trouble than it’s worth, and maybe I am.

  James leaves, and I stay behind, hating myself for swallowing the lies they fed me just so they could get me out of The Tank and off their consciences.

  The colorless room swells around me, exemplifying the emptiness I will endure from now on. Before, it hurt not being with IgNiTe and the Symbiot family I thought I’d become part of. But at least then I had a brother I could still trust, and I had Xave, the one person who gave me hope and happiness and could have kept me going, even if the rest of the world came to a screeching halt.

  Now all I have is my mother and, ironically, I’ve never really had her, and now that there’s no way in hell I’ll play family with Luke, the chances of reconnecting grow slim again.

  * * *

  I exit the conference room a few minutes after James. When I step outside, Oso is waiting for me, a tan shoebox cradled in his large hands.

  “I thought you would like to have this.” He offers the box. I take it. “It’s a few of the things Xave left here.”

  “Thank you.” I’m so touched by his thoughtfulness that my response comes out in a mere whisper. Staring down at the lid, I think of opening it, but quickly realize it would undo me. I whimper in the back of my throat.

  Oso takes a step closer. “It’s okay to cry, kiddo. It don’t mean you’re not tough.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. I’m glad you do. It took me a while to realize that. Tough guy like me, crying, not a pretty sight, but sometimes you can’t help it.” He chuckles.

  I smile sadly and see his warm expression through wavering tears. His eyes are full of paternal kindness. His crow’s-feet fan out from the corners of his eyes as he smiles back. His cheeks shine under the white, harsh lights overhead.

  “Take care, kid. We’ll be here when you feel ready to come back.”

  If only my return was up to Oso.

  “We’ll fight for Xave.” Oso’s eyes fill with fury. “His life wasn’t given i
n vain. We’ll make sure of that.”

  I thank him again, unsure of what else to say, and walk away.

  Box tucked under my arm, I make my way toward the metal stairs that lead out of The Tank. My feet drag. My chin rests on my chest. I don’t even know the time and whether day or night await on the surface of this high-tech, underground hideout.

  As I pass one of the corridors that lead to the sleeping quarters, a hand grabs my elbow and pulls me into the passage. I stagger, then stare blankly at the bodysnatcher. Aydan.

  I look at his slender hand and, with detachment, notice the length of his fingers and the perfect shape of his fingernails. My gaze goes from his tight grip around my arm to his near-black eyes. Suddenly, he pulls away from me as if I’ve become too hot to touch.

  “Sorry.” The tips of his ears turn red.

  Unblinking, I wait to hear whatever asinine thing he has to say. Must be something important if he’s willing to lower his high standards to talk to me.

  “About … the thing.” He lifts his index finger as if that explains everything.

  I narrow my eyes, trying to decide whether to play stupid or not, but I find I have only enough energy to stare and sneer the way he always does.

  He runs a hand across his mouth. “Did you tell James?”

  “No. He was too busy kicking me out.”

  Aydan’s left eyebrow goes up, calling attention to itself. I examine it with indifference, the same way one might look at the curves and angles of a passing car, while the rest of one’s mind is immersed in an endless daydream that has all the markings of a nightmare. I blink and try to focus on the words spilling out of his too-red lips and, instead, I end up wondering whether his lips always appear red because of his pale skin or because he wears some sort of balm. I blink again.

  “… not kicking you out,” he’s saying. “He says you need time to rest, to grieve, and I think … Well, it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s none of my business. I just wanted to ask if you had told him about what happened.”

  “Believe it or not, it didn’t even cross my mind to mention it. It’s also none of my business. So no, I didn’t.”

  He nods and, for a moment, I think I see a glimmer of emotion in his eyes. At first, I try to define it, then decide it’s hopeless, like trying to name the first tune played by a four-year-old violin student. So not like the real thing.

  Aydan’s gaze strays to the wall, to one of James’s many classical paintings in his gilded art collection. “Um, I don’t know what that was.” He rubs his soldering finger absently. “It’s never happened before. It’s probably nothing and I don’t want James worrying and wasting time on me when he has better things to do. So … thank you.”

  Gratitude? The emotion in his eyes was gratitude?

  Well, I think the devil just took a cold shower.

  A hundred smart-ass responses form in my mind, my favorite being: “It was just a discharge of excess self-importance. The human body can only take so much snobbery, you know?”

  Instead, the words that come out of my mouth are civilized and reasonable, so undeserved by the likes of Aydan, but yet appropriate given that I owe my—what to call it?—wakefulness to his arrogance.

  “I understand. Don’t worry. I won’t mention it. To anyone.”

  We stand there for a few seconds, looking at everything but each other.

  “I’d better …” He points toward the computer pod.

  “Right. Me, too.”

  Our feet shuffle. Our eyes shift from side to side, and then we part—Aydan back to work and I out into my life, which will be both old and new, but mostly terrible.

  Chapter 16

  I leave The Tank and walk to the closest bus station. After a twenty-minute wait, I decide to take a cab instead. The drivers, the passengers, cause my head to buzz and give me meaningful glances that make me want to kill them. If I ride with them, I’ll never make it home in one piece.

  The first two cabs are just as infected. I wave them off. I finally catch one with a quiet driver who wears a lime green Hawaiian shirt and gives me a pleasant smile. When we get within a mile of home, I get the urge to walk, so I pay my fare and get off. Walking slowly, I turn into my street around 2 P.M. The moment I see the familiar pothole in front of Mrs. Jenkins’s house, my shoulders morph into two steel beams, stiff and heavy. I shut my eyes and open them every few seconds, just enough to make sure I’m still on a straight path. I count the cracks on the sidewalk and don’t look to the left, across the street, where Xave’s small house rests under the cover of many shady trees.

  I know the lawn will be deserted, so I try to picture Xave—one shoulder pressed against a tree trunk, one foot folded lazily over the other—waiting for me. He’s smiling, hazel eyes in their happiest shade of green. His brown shaggy hair curling by the ears and two-day stubble darkening his face.

  “’Bout time you showed up, Marci,” his voice echoes. “Been waiting for you.”

  “I knew you’d be waiting,” I whisper after a deep breath.

  The smell of cinnamon gum fills my senses. I think of those firefighter boots he was wearing when I first met him twelve years ago, the flames tattoo over his back that I helped him select, the way his strong arms felt around me when I allowed myself to be vulnerable. My thoughts jump from one thing to another, every tiny scar, freckle, and crooked smile. All of them Xave, keeping the shadows away as I step closer and closer to home, my breaths firing at a thousand per minute, my neck tense and ready to snap.

  When I reach home, I turn my back, never having looked across the street, except in my imagination. I notice my bike parked by the side of the house in its usual spot. Clark brought it back, I’m sure—strong and protective and still functioning among the living, in spite of it all.

  I unlock the front door and go in. Mom will still be at work at this time and on a Tuesday. She won’t be home for another four or five hours, long enough to sweep the house for what James wants: my mom and brother’s genetic secrets.

  I set the shoebox with Xave’s things on top of a narrow table by the entrance. I still don’t have the heart to look inside. Walking through the white-painted foyer with its modern black picture frames, I move toward my room, but a slight creaking noise makes me stop. Slowing down, I peer into the living room. No one’s there. Next, I check the kitchen and that’s where I find him, sitting at the table, reading a book and sipping a Coke.

  Luke.

  My thoughts reel. I stand still, trying to understand. I didn’t expect to find him here. James said he hadn’t been back. Not after what happened at the club, after we found out he’s part of Hailstone … after Xave. Blind rage builds up inside me. Here is one of the many monsters that bear the blame. Luke is with Zara—whatever he might be to her—and together they’re the masks this evil wears, two of the three that will pay for ruining my life.

  Taking several big breaths, I do my best to stow away my fury. Luke never saw me at Shadowstorm. He has no idea I was there and saw him. I suppose that’s why he’s still here, that’s why he thinks it’s still safe. Well, maybe I’ll prove him wrong.

  I back up a little, then walk forward again, taking firmer steps. As I pass by the kitchen, I stop and do my best to look surprised. Luke lifts his eyes from his book and matches my startled expression.

  “Marci!” He stands, walks to me and wraps me in a tight hug. He’s wearing a pair of loose, gray sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and sneakers. He’s the picture of comfort, of I-don’t-give-a-shit-who-died.

  My skeleton turns to concrete.

  “Oh, Marci.” His tone is charged with regret I would buy if I didn’t know better. “I’m so sorry. That was just … you must be devastated.”

  I swallow my disgust, doing my best to ignore the burning sensation in my throat along with the bitter taste of bile.

  He holds me at arm’s length. “Are you all right? Where have you been? Mom and I have been worried about you.”

  Lowering my head to conceal the hat
red in my eyes, I walk away from him and enter the kitchen. “I’m fine,” I say, my voice hoarse with a million emotions. I clear my throat and walk to the white porcelain sink. I pour a glass of water and drink it in one gulp.

  “Clark said you were with some friends. Mom had me call everyone I could think of. I talked to a few of your classmates, but they didn’t know where you were. I told Mom you weren’t close enough with any of them. So, of course, they didn’t know. Marci, where have you been?” He sounds like a father asking a naughty child how many cookies she stole when he knows exactly what is missing from the jar.

  “It’s none of your business,” I say.

  “Oh, don’t be like that. I love you. I’ve been worried about you.”

  My skin crawls at the word “love”. I rack my brain, trying to get hold of a loose thread in this game he’s playing, but all I see is a big, tangled ball with no end and no beginning. This started the minute he was kidnapped from the neonatal unit sixteen years ago, I’m sure of it. If only I knew why they took him? Or, more importantly, why they sent him back?

  “Come.” He puts a hand out and points toward the cherry-stained table. “Sit. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. Everyone at school is shocked. Is there anything I can do? Let’s talk. Sit. Please.” His blue eyes brim with compassion and understanding. At the moment, he’s all-loving, amazing Luke, a version of him that always makes an appearance when Mom’s around. I feel like puking.

  My heart hammers, rage-infused adrenaline fueling its wild rhythm. It’s going so fast it’s practically climbing, clawing its way up my throat, choking me. The fury builds and builds and builds, until red is too mild a color to mark how far it’s gone.

  “You’re a two-faced bastard!” I scream.

  Luke takes a step back. “Marci,” he says, looking as innocent as a lamb.

  His blue gaze fills with hurt and, for an instant, I consider the possibility that he doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on, that he’s innocent, a pawn, a victim in someone else’s game. Maybe it’s Zara’s doing or that man who kidnapped him, or some other monster. I don’t know who, just someone else.