by Camilla Monk
I know that this whole situation is just as messed up for him as it is for me, but I can’t help it: I’m still afraid . . . of him? I’m not even sure of that. My heart is beating fast, so maybe a little. I wish I were stronger, but my world had been so tiny, so slow, so foggy for all this time, and now the rush of the past few days terrifies me. It’s a continuous free fall toward a glint of light down below, at the end of this rabbit hole. And yet, I need to overcome that fear and find my way back to him, because deep down, something tells me he’s the safest rope to hold on to.
So, with cautious steps, I return to March’s bed and sit by his side. I can feel his gaze on me, ever attentive, but I don’t look at him yet. I need a little time to ease back into this strange intimacy. He makes no attempt to touch me, and I’m grateful for that.
Next to me, I feel him shift. “I didn’t mean to scare you . . .”
“I know . . . I guess I’m a little on edge.”
His reply comes with a sigh. “That makes two of us, I suppose.”
In a way, I find it reassuring that we’re on the same page. Are relationships like riding a bike, something you can’t really forget, that comes back naturally if you give it a try? I scoot closer, until my shoulder is touching his arm. I reach for his hand, and his fingers close around mine, his thumb stroking my palm softly.
I peek up at the curve of his lips I can make out in the dark. What’s the worst that could happen? Is my life going to get any weirder anyway? I free my hand to trace his jaw gingerly. I feel him startle and then relax as I trail down, drawing a path along his neck, his clavicles. His chest. My fingers splay across what can only be described as follicular nirvana. The hair is just like I dreamed it . . . soft, curly, fuzzy, dusting his pectorals and trailing all the way down a six-pack I want to believe can cure amnesia.
One of March’s hands settles on the small of my back, and his breathing quickens as my palm glides down his stomach. His skin feels hot; it ripples under my fingertips when his muscles contract. I’m not naïve; I know what my touch is doing to him, but I’m not ready to venture that far down yet. I’m thinking that maybe I should stop when I feel a deep dent a few inches away from his navel. There, a patch of the divine fleece appears to be missing, and the skin feels a little different.
His head dips until his chin is brushing my cheek, the caress made rough by a little stubble. “I was very lucky. The second one did more damage.”
The second one . . . My body tenses; a nameless fear spills in my stomach. “Where?”
March takes my hand and slowly guides it across his chest, right under his heart. The scar here feels shallower, but tracing it, I feel a jagged line running along his ribs.
He nuzzles my hair. “Dries dragged me out of the dome just in time, but he had been shot too, by Mr. Morgan. We were both in very bad shape when the Queen’s men found us . . . On the bright side, I am now the proud owner of a 3-D-printed rib.”
I wish I could smile, but around me the room is spinning. Mile-high glass walls are crackling, threatening to collapse on me. My dress is red, and March’s blood is everywhere. A paralyzing terror freezes my limbs like ice. I can’t move; I can’t escape. We’re being swallowed by water, and I hear Mozart again. I recognize the Queen of the Night’s aria. Stiles. Stiles’s suit. His sniper rifle. I try to hold on to March, terrified to lose him, but I can’t save him and he’s fading away in the darkness . . . Yet I feel his arms around me, strong, warm, alive, hauling me back to reality. In the safe cradle of his embrace, I break down and howl. “He shot you . . . He shot you!”
I barely register March’s strangled gasp against my cheek. “You remember.”
I’m swallowed by a tide of emotions I can’t handle, and I let go. I taste salt at the corner of my mouth, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut because tears are blinding me. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathe a little soap and the deeper, unique musk of him. I know that scent. I love it. My fingertips claw at silky curls on his chest. I know this too, it’s comforting and warm, and it’s mine. March holds me tighter, rocking my tears away.
I think I’ve found my way home.
•••
It took me a little while to calm down. The room has become quiet again, our breathing the only ripples marring the silence. Under the covers, March and I made a little cocoon for ourselves, safe from the outside world, where we lie together. I’m safe, drained, and, after all that crying, strangely happy. His lips linger on my forehead, graze my temple. His hand rests on my hip; our legs are intertwined. He’s all around me. I know it’s corny, but the way our bodies are molded together, I’m thinking of the yin and yang symbol. A contented sigh fans against my cheek as he falls asleep.
He didn’t ask whether I’m ready to return to Viktor’s casino. We both know I am. I want my memories back. All of them.
TWENTY-THREE
ALESIA
Last night changed everything.
Here in this hotel room, huddled under the covers, listening to the water running in the bathroom . . . it’s the safest I’ve felt in months. I peek out at the closed door. I’d be lying if I said I’m not thinking a little about what he looks like under that shower—not bad, if the muscles and magnificent rug of chest hair I caressed can be filed as topographical evidence. If we’ve never been all the way, have I ever seen him entirely naked? I did get a good look at his upper half last night, but we were in the dark, and, well, it was a different kind of intimacy, an aftermath. We were both exhausted, and neither of us were truly in the mood to explore beyond the comfortable boundaries of this newly reawakened tenderness between us.
I bite my lower lip, fighting a secret grin against my pillow. I have a boyfriend, and this morning, in the bleak light of dawn, my world feels different. Broader, brighter. There’s an us; it’s no longer just me groping my way in the dark. March walks at my side, carries my memories, a part of me. A treasure box he kept for me until I returned. I want to make the most of the life he promised to give back to me. I want to tell my father and Joy I’m alive; I want to see my old apartment, walk in New York streets, and rediscover all the people, the places I’ve forgotten.
But that can’t happen yet. Now that I’m fully awake, the weight of reality slowly settles on my shoulders again. March was right: if I go home now, all I’ll accomplish will be leading either the Lions or Erwin right to my family’s doorstep. Like a seed taking root in my heart, I feel the need to protect them grow stronger. I can’t go to them yet, but I’ll find my way back to them.
For now . . . my stomach is growling. There’s a bottle of water and a bowl of complimentary vanilla wafers sitting on a small wooden desk by the window. Still floating in my now thoroughly wrinkled Rompetrol sweatshirt, I sit up in bed and rub my hands. Breakfast is served.
I turn the TV on and plop myself back on the bed. Careful to eat above the bowl because I know March is going to freak out if he sees crumbs in his sheets, I flip through the channels, looking for any kind of English-speaking news. I’ve been deprived of actual reliable information for far too long to settle for teleshopping . . . I grunt in appreciation when I stumble on CNN between a soap opera and an ad for pizza-flavored chips.
I munch on my wafers and watch with interest as the anchors discuss President Steed’s recent decision to appoint Steed International Broadcasting’s CFO as Secretary of Commerce—it doesn’t help that the guy is Steed’s cousin . . .
Meanwhile, March seems to be done with his shower. The door opens to reveal a freshly shaven Prince Charming. I swear this man was born with a no-wrinkles setting. He dusts something on his sleeve—I don’t even know what; there’s nothing there. His gaze immediately sets on the bowl in my hands, like a laser pointer. I hastily place it on the nightstand, flushing with irrational guilt. “I don’t think there’re any crumbs . . .”
He clears his throat. “I didn’t see any.”
So he was checking . . . March walks to the bed and sits by my side while, in the background, the
anchors keep droning about unemployment rates for December. I’m no longer really paying attention because March’s knuckles are slowly trailing down my cheek.
“How do you feel today?”
I lean into his touch. “Okay . . . No, pretty good actually.”
His hand skims up and down my arm. His lips graze my hair, my ear shell, trace my jaw, silently asking for permission. I inhale his scent, his aftershave, and something citrusy, soap maybe. His hesitation, mine . . . it’s so much like a first kiss. Feeling bold, I rest a hand on his shoulder and seek his mouth. I feel his smile when my lips brush his. I cup his cheeks in my palms, the skin there almost smooth from a close shave. With a trembling intake of air, I take the lead, capturing his lower lip and tasting the sweet, minty flavor of toothpaste.
It’s easier than I imagined it’d be—instinctual, really. I’m not even scared when he kisses me back in earnest, and the kiss gets a little wet, a little desperate. In fact, I never want to stop. March is slowly bringing us down into the pillows. I touch the tip of my tongue to his, and make a silent prayer that this moment will last.
He’s eventually the one who pulls away to stroke my cheeks with his thumbs. “I missed this so much . . .”
“Me too,” I whimper, and it’s true. I just didn’t consciously know it.
His mouth finds a wonderful spot on my neck, right under my ear, one that’s apparently deserving of a thorough hickey. His voice is deep and breathless against my skin. “I missed you so much . . . every day . . .”
I’m not entirely sure where this is going, and I vaguely remember I was supposed to get ready, but one of his palms is reaching up my thigh, working its way to my hip. I’m in for the ride. I wrap my legs around him, and my eyes roll back in delight.
Odysseus.
The word registers in my brain like a blade slicing through our little bubble of lust. I jerk against March and scramble to a sitting position on the bed.
For him too, the bubble has burst, and the usual lines of worry have reappeared, weighing on his features. “What’s going on?”
“I-I need to listen to this,” I stammer, grabbing the remote to raise the TV’s volume.
. . . A difficult hearing tomorrow for newly appointed NASA Administrator James Zwicky. All eyes will be turned to the House of Representatives as the committee on Science, Space and Astrology asks: Where is Odysseus?
It’s been 197 days since Odysseus’s disastrous launch attempt that claimed the lives of nine American astronauts. “The costliest calculation error of aeronautics history,” to quote Vice President McLean, is still purported to rest some 18,000 feet underwater at the bottom of the Litke Deep, an oceanic trench located to the northeast of Greenland.
The red planet was at hand’s reach, but Odysseus, a pharaonic seventeen-year-long project reported to have cost nearly a trillion dollars to the United States, will not be. The first of its kind, the spaceship was designed to dock a 130-feet-wide habitable artificial-gravity ring currently orbiting Earth and carry it all the way to Mars in four months to establish the first permanent settlement on the red planet.
But the dream has turned into a nightmare, as experts have been working nonstop over the past six months to recover the ship and its third-generation nuclear ion reactor. Today, after Greenpeace announced a plan to deploy two small submarines to look for signs of potential radioactive contamination in the area, NASA issued a statement to reaffirm that the main reactor was never started, as the ship crashed before reaching orbit, during the disassembly of its Falcon 13 rockets.
I stare blankly at the TV, as the off-screen voice comments on images of the wheel-shaped living quarters that awaited Odysseus’s crew in stationary orbit. Portraits flash one after another, listing the lives lost during the failed launch. Hillstone, Chopra, Beauchamp, Jamal . . .
I rub the heel of my palm against my forehead, trying to remember what’s so important about this. “Anies . . . he mentioned something about Odysseus.” I search my memory and see Stiles again, giving him the absinthe. “He toasted us. He raised his glass to Odysseus’s journey!”
March’s brow creases in doubt. “He could have been referring to something else. Are you certain he meant that ship?”
“I don’t know . . . Maybe Erwin would. Do you think we could try to sort of . . . trade intel with him? Or just drop the hint and see if he reacts?”
“Island, I’d rather work on severing all ties with him at the moment.” He gets up from the bed and walks to the window. “Starting with the two agents who spent the night outside.”
I watch in curiosity as he parts the threadbare beige curtains just an inch, enough to glance down the street. He doesn’t close them though. He scans the place, his eyes progressively narrowing.
“What is it? Is there something wrong?”
“I’m not certain, but we need to leave.”
I jump from the bed and slip on my yoga pants, an unpleasant prickling rushing down my spine. “Right now?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, I see the magic suitcase in his hands. One, two silenced guns get secured in a double holster around his torso while I put on my boots. He grabs a couple of magazines that go into an extra pouch on the side. A handful of mints from the precious tube that never leaves him before he takes his dark-plaid blazer . . . and throws it at me. “Wear it.”
“Why?”
“Island, we don’t have time.”
I’m about to demand an explanation when the bedroom’s phone rings, a shrill, old-fashioned metallic sound. March shakes his head silently, but the phone won’t stop ringing, each attempt whipping my heart rate up a little faster. I shrug on the blazer, registering its unusual weight on my shoulders and the stiff material underneath the lining—bulletproof?
March slams his magic suitcase shut and presses his thumb to a tiny fingerprint scan on the side. A small digital screen lights up, glowing blue against the case’s sleek black material. He types in some sort of code and holds out his hand for me. “Bathroom window,” he hisses.
He can’t be serious. “We’re on the second floor!” I protest, a rush of cold air hitting my face as he opens the window.
“There’s a garage below.”
It’s the only explanation I get before he grabs me by the waist and hauls me up onto the toilet lid and then through the window. Oh God . . . there is a row of snowy tin roofs right under the window, but they look so far, miles below . . . I scan the cracked concrete buildings surrounding us and grip the wooden frame, willing myself to take the leap. In the bedroom, the ringing has stopped.
“Island, jump!”
Does it count as domestic abuse if your boyfriend pushes you through a window? I’m not given any time to ponder this as March shoves me, and I land ass-first on the roof. The powdery snow cushions my fall somewhat, but a crack of pain announces a bruise. March follows right afterward, his weight making the structure shake dangerously.
I’m a heartbeat away from cardiac arrest, and I still have no idea what’s going on, or who we’re fleeing from, until I see a black Hummer parked down the street that looks nothing like the tired Dacias scattered on the nearby parking lot. Definitely not from the neighborhood. Like the four men who just jumped out and are now running toward us. They’re wearing ordinary civilian clothes, but the guns in their hands tell another story . . .
“You said Erwin’s men were watching us—” I yelp as March helps me roll down the roof and onto the ground. Barely protected by the yoga pants, my knees protest at all that scraping and bumping in icy weather.
“They’re dead.”
Cold fear prickles down my spine. That can mean only one thing: Anies’s “brothers” have found us.
We take cover between two garages when the first shots tear through the air, some slamming into the sturdy brick walls shielding us. Reddish brick chips explode mere feet above my head, and I shield it reflexively, huddled against March. He takes my hand and pulls me, forcing my legs into action. Gunshots crack above us, c
oming from the bathroom’s window, as we race along the line of brick and concrete sheds toward the safe haven of a garage that seems to be missing one of its doors.
We’re almost there when I register that above us, the shooting has stopped. There’s a beat of unnerving silence before a deafening boom rips through me, shattering glass and stone. I turn my head to see the gaping hole that was once our bathroom window vomiting clouds of black smoke. The magic suitcase—it was still on the bed—I’m figuring whoever touched it shouldn’t have . . .
While, behind us, the Lions are probably looking for their bearings after the explosion, we tumble inside the open garage. There, a dismembered car and rusty tools are slowly fading under layers of grime and dust. March drags me toward a corner and drops me unceremoniously behind a stack of old tires. “Stay here.”
I wish I were strong enough to hold him back, but I can barely control my own fear as he moves a few feet away to take cover behind the car’s brownish carcass, with a perfect vantage point to the street outside. Several rounds of shots clank into the garage’s remaining wooden door, and I press my hands over my ears to block the painful buzzing in my eardrums. I can hear footsteps crushing gravel outside, distant screams—panicked neighbors, no doubt. Near the doorway, a shadow briefly grazes the ground before vanishing just as fast. They’re circling the garage.
Guided by faint scraping sounds coming from the other side, March aims one of his guns at the worm-eaten door. Slowly. Calmly. I watch in morbid fascination as his arm follows the imperceptible movements of an invisible target outside the shed. His face is perfectly blank; there’s no life in the blue eyes I know, only cold calculation. A little chunk of me shatters at the thought that maybe the man I spent the night with isn’t here anymore . . . I clench my fists to stop the tremors shaking my body.
Under the black wool of his turtleneck, the muscles in his arm bunch, ready to absorb the recoil. He’s perfectly still as he presses the trigger, and on the other side of the door, a man collapses with a groan of surprise. The second after, March has rolled away from his hiding spot and the barrage of bullets that shreds the door. Curled behind the tires, I clasp my hands over my mouth in a desperate effort not to scream.
