Fateless (Stateless Book 3)

by Meli Raine

  “You have news,” I say, sparing him the need to bring it up. Callum isn't the type to hesitate, so the news must be bad.

  “I do. Svetnu left the United States on a private jet before anyone could stop him. He's in a Middle Eastern country. There are two possibilities and neither allows extradition.”

  “I see.” Blinking hard is all I can do. The information doesn't have anywhere to go inside me. Where do I store this? The man wasn't close to me. If anything, he made my life so much worse. The person who is evolutionarily programmed to protect and nurture was the same one who hurt me. How could that be?

  A scream outside the window makes me look to find Candace and Tim kicking a soccer ball around. At the compound, the children in their age group were up at five a.m., so their early rise isn't unusual.

  The game is.

  Soccer at the compound was reserved for physical training, a means to an end. Watching them play open ended like this, kicking, screaming, and laughing, feels like even more hope.

  It's also terrifying.

  You don't go from being raised for decades in one system to suddenly shedding all those internal rules. My education in child development is the least of the reasons why I know this.

  The subconscious remembers everything. Internalizes it all. We have frameworks inside our minds and bones that can't be rejected so quickly.

  It takes time.

  It takes courage.

  It takes awareness.

  And yes–love.

  “When I was in The Field, in Pittsburgh, my apartment was across from a big park,” Callum says as he puts his arm around my shoulders, the solid comfort of him warming me. “I would watch children playing. Climbing on playground equipment, organized in teams for elaborate non-sports games, and, of course, the sports, too–soccer, baseball, and basketball. So small, Kina–the games began when they were tiny.”

  “How small?”

  “About the same age that our Stateless children went into training.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes. It disgusted me, at first, to watch parents let their children waste so much time on fruitless endeavors. Play seemed stupid to me. Over time, though, I began to see the patterns. Through play, the children negotiated. They learned to be better. They learned how to push their power in a rules structure and to win. They learned how to lose and regroup.” He laughs. “I still thought it was frivolous folly, but it made more sense.”

  “Meanwhile, our children were being taught to kill off all emotion.”

  “Our training had its positives.” He walks to the door, going into the mudroom, reaching for his bow and quiver of arrows. “Speaking of which, Candace wants to work on her shooting.”

  I wave him away with a smile and watch out the window as he jumps into their impromptu soccer game, deftly stealing the ball and kicking it straight into the bullseye on the hay bale, facing away from the house.

  Tim's arms go in the air. “GOAL!” he screams.

  They descend into laughter.

  It feels good and shaky at the same time.

  While they play, I add some coffee to my cup, busying myself with writing a to-do list for the day. So much of the renovation has fallen to me. Becoming properly certified as a group home has been easy, but I assume that’s because my... because the president has helped.

  The rest is up to me.

  And Callum.

  We're living in an undefined state, sharing a bedroom but never having sex. I feel his stirrings, and they're inside me, too. After so many attempts when elevation interfered for both of us, we're in a holding pattern.

  The trauma of what happened at The Grove can't be minimized, either. Duff and Drew have strongly encouraged us to accept therapy, but there's a point where the internalized structure of what it means to be human can be stretched too thin.

  The thought of unraveling all that I am and have been taught to be since I was four is too much.

  Perhaps another day. For now, I have to hold myself together for this new life we're creating for the children.

  And for Callum and me.

  His shoulders spread, then narrow as he turns, bow pulled, teaching Tim how to imitate the graceful release, the arrow sinking into the bale like it's drawn by a magnet. Callum dips down to say something to the boy. Tim nods, serious and determined, and moves his legs into a warrior stance.

  Candace watches, her body language clear: It's her turn next.

  “Hey.”

  I startle, nearly dropping my mug of coffee, so caught up in watching my people that I don't even hear the visitor’s approach.

  It's Duff.

  Holding a backpack that looks quite heavy.

  “Hi,” I say, trying to smile. Shifting from one mental state to another is jarring. The peaceful calm I felt watching Callum with the kids has turned into a buzzing electricity of surprise deep inside.

  “I didn't mean to scare you.”

  “You didn't.”

  “It's okay, Kina. I get it. I've been there.” He points to the scar on his eye. “Been there, done that, own the t-shirt.”

  “What does that mean? They give out t-shirts for injuries in mass society? Where? At the Emergency Room in hospitals?”

  “Nothing. Bad joke. I'll explain some other time. What I mean is, it's normal to be jumpy for a really long time. Trauma doesn't disappear overnight because we want it to.”

  My body goes stiff. “I know that.”

  “Sure, you do. But your psyche doesn't. Body doesn't either. It'll take years for you to find whatever normal means to you.”

  “Have you found it?”

  “Not yet. We're working on it, Lily and me.”

  “Together,” I say with a sigh, looking at Callum outside. “You're working on it together.”

  “Yes. And so are you two.”

  “Mmm.” I don't know what to say. The noncommittal sound is something we were taught women in mass society use as a placeholder in conversation, so I mimic that.

  “I want to get to know him better, Kina. He's my only blood relative. My only brother. I have all these memories from when we were kids. I was eleven when he was taken, when our parents were killed. He missed out on all those years with Gran. She died not...” He clears his throat. “Not knowing what ever happened to him. It's because of her that we figured this all out.”

  “The lock of his hair that she kept.” Such a strange custom. Callum and I had never heard of it before.

  “Yes. And all the work Alice Mogrett did with private investigators, trying to find Wyatt.”

  Normally, Callum corrects him when he uses the old name. I don't.

  “Hey,” Callum says, walking in the back door, Candace and Tim still outside, bickering over who gets the next turn with the bow. Callum looks at Duff, then at his overstuffed backpack. “I take it you're not here to sell us a trunkload of meat? Or a set of steak knives?”

  “What?” I ask, wondering why he's talking nonsense.

  But Duff laughs.

  “Hardly. I do have something for you, though.” Duff's demeanor changes, suddenly a bit... shy?

  He's never been shy before. Not one bit. Quiet, yes.

  Shy, no.

  Rummaging through his bag, he pulls out a book, a large, thick one with a spiral spine.

  “This was Gran's photo album. The one with all the pictures of you when you were little.”

  Callum grabs my shoulder like I'm the only thing in the world that can hold him up.

  Duff extends his arm, the book in his hand. “I made copies of everything. This is the original. I want you to have it. Gran would have...” He clears his throat again, takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “...wanted you to have it.”

  Tears threaten my eyes, poking like little needles.

  “I can't take that,” Callum says, using a voice that sounds like he's choking.

  “It's yours.”

  “Why don't you keep the originals?”

  “I've had them all these years. And by r
ights, they're yours.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Callum takes the book. He turns a few pages. “I don't know anyone in these photos. Sit down and identify them for me?”

  “It's just you, me, Dad, Mom, and Gran. And a few dogs.”

  Callum nods, but Duff grabs a kitchen chair and sits down, gesturing for Callum to sit and open the book.

  For the next hour, they go over each page, Duff painstakingly explaining the context of each picture.

  For the next hour, I feel joy for Callum and absolute emptiness for myself. No sibling will magically find me like Duff found Callum.

  Because we killed my only sibling.

  She haunts me, much like Wyatt's disappearance clearly haunted his grandmother and Duff, all these years. Glen is truly dead, though. Dead because Callum and I killed her.

  Dead because of me.

  Duff's phone buzzes. Frowning, he looks at it, then stands abruptly.

  “Damn. I've got an assignment. Gotta go.” He fishes through the backpack and hands me a thick envelope.

  “What's this?” I ask.

  “It's from your–from the president.”

  “The president is dead.”

  “No, she isn't.”

  “Oh. Right.” The manila envelope feels like a flat stone in my hands.

  Duff makes his way to the door, Callum holding his photo album open on the table in front of him, head moving to look at Duff, then back at the book, finally settling on me.

  “I'll be back in a couple of days. You have any questions, just text or call, Callum.”

  A nod is all he gets as Callum locks his eyes on me.

  I look at the packet, barely uttering a goodbye to Duff as he leaves the room with a respectful glance back.

  And a knowing smile.

  “This is from her?” I say aloud, my words less a question and more a sigh. So much energy, bottled up inside me, finds a way out through my breath.

  “Only way to know is to open it.”

  “What about you? That was a lot to deal with from your brother.”

  Emotion makes his voice thick. “Yes.”

  I reach for him, my arms wrapping around his shoulders, for once being the giver of protection. Callum doesn't cry, doesn't shake, doesn't do any of the completely understandable emotional expressions we're learning are truly acceptable.

  But he lets me hold him.

  Until he looks up and says, “Your turn.”

  My fingers stroke the top of the packet, the metal clasp holding the envelope closed so cold, so official.

  “Can you do it?” I ask, handing it to him.

  “Of course.” He squeezes the metal prongs, opens the envelope, and slides the papers out. A color photograph, printed on regular paper, stares at me.

  Twin girls. Likely age three or so. Long, wispy blonde hair with ringlet curls. They're laughing at each other, one with her hands clasped over her mouth, the other with her arms spread up to the sun.

  “Oh, Glen,” I rasp, unable to control my feelings the way Callum can. “Oh, Madison.”

  I shuffle through the photos and documents, each filling in a blank, until the factual questions that have crowded inside my brain are largely answered. Birth certificates that must have been destroyed in the official records. Footprints from a hospital birth, showing I was born first, then Glen. That means Glen lied to me; she always claimed to be the oldest.

  Stateless leaders confirmed it.

  Pictures of Paula Moray, who I now know was really my aunt. Not my mother. But she was also my mother, for she carried me in her womb. Raised me until I was four.

  Paid with her life for having us.

  Here and there, at birthdays and holidays, a woman appears in profile in photos. Alicia Ludame. Never facing the camera fully, she's one of the crowd.

  She does not stand out.

  This is what a good Stateless operative does.

  Finally, at the bottom of the papers, a note in thick, large handwriting with looping Gs:

  These documents have been purged from all government databases. Any information that could not be purged is classified, in servers that very few people can access. No one in government knows that Paula was my sister, because I am adopted, and we do not share DNA. That information has been successfully suppressed. You accomplished what I could not. You are my only blood relative now, Kina. Remember that. Treasure it. Use it when you need to.

  “Good grief,” Callum says as his eyes race across the page, taking it all in.

  I set the papers next to his photo album, then stand, leaning over him as he tips his face up to me, eyes bright with emotion. My palms cradle his face as I kiss him, a soft, sweet kiss of connection. It would be so easy to turn inward. To run away. To hide from him, from everyone, from no one.

  Isolation is a highly effective tool for manipulating people.

  I need connection.

  Callum lets me kiss him, his mouth returning the emotion, body rising up to stand until he's holding me against his chest, my tears pouring out, unable to stop.

  I cry and I cry until nothing is left, and then I'm surprised to find I am wrong.

  There is more.

  There is always more emotion.

  Chapter 25

  Callum

  Being this close to her is killing me.

  In all the good ways.

  It's killing the old me. The dead me. The one who was trained not to feel. I never let Stateless kill off my true self, even when I didn't understand my own defiance.

  Now I get it.

  I understand because, as we forge this new life together, I have to let myself feel.

  Then again, the feelings were never the problem.

  Last night, she cried herself to sleep in my arms, until I picked her up and carried her to bed. Too sad for more than affection and comfort, Kina turned to me, bonded with me, found me in sadness.

  I provided nothing more than shared presence.

  In difficult times, that is more than enough.

  “Do you feel ready?” she asks me as she walks into the living room we share in our private little wing. I'm sitting in front of a roaring fire, the remnants of a pale ale in a pint glass, the glowing comfort of the room wearing away at the sharp edges of my soul.

  “Ready?” I sit up straight, blood pulsing through me. Does she mean...

  “For the children! We have four more coming tomorrow.”

  “Oh. That.” I grab my glass and drain the last few drops, if only to distract me from my lascivious thoughts. “Of course.”

  “What did you think I meant?” A coy tone in her voice sharpens my senses, and I study her. Luminous in the fire's glow, it takes just one look to set my blood racing, settling where it's damn hard to ignore.

  And just plain hard.

  Taking my chance, I stand, but she beats me to it, sitting down on the couch next to where I was just sitting, looking up at me with soulful eyes that beg for a kiss, a caress, an embrace.

  A fire.

  Can I ignite it inside her? Or is it already roaring, her heat drawing me in?

  As we learn to live a new life, are our bodies finally ready to match what our minds and hearts have known all along?

  I take back my seat and reach my arm along the ridge of the sofa, hand on her shoulder, Kina moving in and relaxing against me as if we've done this our whole lives. Her head is steady, gaze forward, but when she turns to me, mouth open to say something, impulse makes me greedy for her taste.

  The kiss is so lush. Every part of her yields and returns at the same time, giving and taking as my tongue explores hers, as her hands roam up my back, our knees banging into each other as I lose myself in her flavor. She's as eager as I am, I see.

  Thankfully.

  The last six weeks of questions and uncertainty, of nightmares and bleak moments spent existing for the sake of existing, of other people being in control of our fate, all melt away as we step into each other's space, welcoming and welcomed in turn.

  Her
tight body, so compact and strong, moves against me with a sultry precision that tells me how much she wants this. We’ve held back, other parts of our lives a higher priority until now.

  But finally, it’s our now.

  The last time we tried to make love, she elevated. I didn’t. Each interaction brings us closer, stripping more of our past conditioning out of us, new patterns being laid in place.

  Time to get laid in other ways.

  “Kina,” I whisper as her fingers play at my waist, touching bare skin, making electric bolts shoot straight to my cock. “I want you.”

  “I can tell.” Her hand moves into my lap. My groan vibrates through me, the rush of an exhale blowing my breath across her face, pushing wisps of her hair out of the way.

  I kiss her harder, my tongue finding more heat, our wet exploration mirroring what I want to do with other parts of us. Her fingers move to the button of my jeans, opening my pants quickly, her palm sliding over my hard shaft. I find her breast and cup it, enjoying the arch of her back, the hiss of air as she inhales sharply telling me this pleases her.

  I want to do it again.

  Suddenly, she reaches for my shirt, unbuttoning each button with constant eye contact, the movement so hot, I’m about to shove her back on the couch and plunge into her right here. Decorum stops me.

  Good thing we’re in our private quarters and not in the main living room of the house.

  As she slips her hands under the shoulders of my shirt, sliding the fabric off my bare skin, she leans in, her clothed breasts brushing against my bare chest.

  It takes less than three seconds to pull her shirt off.

  My hand goes to her waist, unbuttoning and then unzipping her pants. We take a moment to wiggle out of what remains of our respective clothes, and we’re naked on the couch.

  Frantic hands touch everywhere, both of us moving as if we have a deadline, as if this is fleeting.

  I nudge her knees open, the heat between her legs distinct from the rest of her. I’m inches away but worlds apart.

  It can’t be quick.

  It can’t be rushed.

  Which means I’m not sure it can be now.

  “Callum, I–”