“Any pattern in the kind of painting? Form? Subject? Color?”
“No.”
“And you just started experiencing these hallucinations during the fugue?”
I fudged the details a little. “Just the last two. Both were hallucinations of painters. One time was my mom, and then I painted her, but the other time, the painting and the hallucination weren’t related.”
“You’re sure?”
I shrug.
“Feelings,” she says. “Before, during, after.”
“After…” I take a deep breath. “I’m wrecked. It’s getting worse, too. Like it takes a toll on me. During… it’s like a very realistic dream. I’m happy, I guess. More like content. Like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. The hallucination feels extremely real, but it’s actually all gauzy at the edges. And before the fugue hits…” I pause, thinking. The last two times, I’ve been around Lenora, frustrated with her, ashamed of wanting her when she clearly doesn’t want anything decent from me. But the fugues before that… “The first time, when I was a kid, I don’t remember very clearly. I just remember my mom went crazy over the painting, and I thought I had done something wrong. The second and third times, I remember not feeling well beforehand. Like I was sick to my stomach, maybe? Or just… upset about something. The Puppet Boy I remember clearly. That was when I figured out my mom was sick, and the ascenders wouldn’t cure her. I was sixteen, and I put two holes in the crappy walls of our apartment before I finally took out a canvas. And then I blacked out.”
“The Puppet Boy?” she asks.
“It’s a painting of a boy suspended in the air by strings. It’s disturbing. And brilliant. And probably pretty obvious given the circumstances. I was consumed with anger. Anyway, the last two times were like that, too. Anger. Jealousy. Frustration. Negative emotions, I guess.”
“The last two times?” She’s counting in her head, and my heart sinks as I realize my mistake. “That makes six times. You said five.”
“Five or six.” I stare at our knees, almost touching. I can feel the heat of her body crossing the gap between us. I lick my lips, hoping she won’t ask. Knowing she will.
“You have to tell me, Eli.”
I lean back and look up. “It’s six. The last one’s of you.”
She narrows her eyes. “You didn’t show it to me.”
I make a mental note to destroy it as soon as I get back to my studio. “No.”
She pauses. “Something about this painting makes you think I can help you with this?”
That will work as an excuse. “There’s something about you that’s tapping into whatever this fugue thing is about. It’s… interested in you.” That sounds really strange. “I mean, it’s like it’s a separate part of me. And if it’s painting you, then somehow you’ve inspired it. And you’re an artist. Cyrus is great, but you get this stuff better than he ever will.”
“But you won’t show it to me.”
I shift, pull my legs in closer. “It’s not that good,” I lie.
“I thought you said you could only paint in the fugue.”
I bristle. “I can paint outside the fugue. It’s just not that good.”
“Apparently it’s not that good in the fugue state, either.”
I clench up my fists on my knees. “Okay, fine. I lied. It’s good. Great, in fact. Probably the best thing I’ve ever painted.”
“But you’re ashamed of it.” She gives me a disgusted look. “You painted me naked, didn’t you?”
Heat rushes to my face. “No!”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not!” Sweat is breaking out on the back of my neck. “I swear.”
“But you’re ashamed of it. You painted me… and it makes you ashamed.”
I’m squirming so badly I have to stand up. I throw my hands out in exasperation. “It’s not like that. I just…”
She rises up and gives me a cool look. “You just what?”
“I just don’t want you to think that I… that I… think of you like… that.”
The need to flee wells up in my chest, but I stay rooted to the spot. She’s studying me now, not angry, just no doubt trying to figure out why I’m freaking over her painting. Her gaze lands on my sketch pad. My grip is so hard, I’m starting to wrinkle the pages.
“You should paint it again. In front of me.”
“What?” Panic seizes my throat.
“You don’t want me to see it, right?”
I nod vigorously, my heart thudding out a beat that says, no, no, no.
“You’re upset. Angry. Frustrated maybe?” She’s studying me like I’m a fascinating experiment.
Some of the tension leaks out of me. “You’re doing this on purpose,” I say with dawning clarity. “You’re trying to rile me up.”
“Is it working?”
I let out a shaky laugh. “If it was, I’d be up to my elbows in paint.”
“Next time, maybe we should try it in your studio.”
I shake my head, relieved she was just… what? Provoking me? Although, now I’m uncertain whether she really wants to see the painting or not. Or if I’ll have to show it to her “next time.”
“I don’t know.” I smile. “I’m on to you now.”
She returns the smile, then steps closer, capturing me with her wide brown eyes again. “I don’t know. You’re pretty easy to rile.”
I can count the inches between us. My gaze pulls down to her lips, still slightly parted with her teasing smile. They’re dusky pink, edged in a darker rose before they meet the creamy chocolate of her skin. The desire to paint her lips, to capture all the shades of their color on a canvas, quickly turns into the need to touch them. To see if they’re as velvety soft as they look. I drag my gaze back up to hers, my thoughts full of kissing, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same. If that’s why she hasn’t moved or spoken or breathed… her eyes are round and serious…
A pounding at the door startles us both.
It’s an ascender, female, banging with a knock that sounds like it might be denting the thick metal of the door. Kamali strides over to open it. I’m frozen in place by the angry look on the ascender’s face. As soon as the door slides open, she moves with bodyform-enhanced speed and stops right next to me, looming above me. I reflexively hold up my sketch pad to ward her off, but if she wanted to hurt me, I’d already be bleeding.
“Alexis, no!” Kamali says, hurrying over. “Eli and I were just… working through something for the competition.”
I’m guessing Alexis is her sponsor. She eases back from menacing me with her ascender–tech bodyform, but not by much. Her lips are pursed, and a wisp of gray flits along her neck above her red drama uniform. It’s clear that finding me in Kamali’s studio is not making her happy.
“Eli’s a friend,” Kamali says. “And he needs my help.” She says this in a pointed way, like it’s code for something, only I don’t know what the code is. Kamali’s in the resistance: is it possible her sponsor is as well? That makes my brain go sideways, but I don’t know how she and Delphina could pull off their scheme without their sponsors knowing. Then again, Marcus doesn’t know half of what I’m up to… so maybe not.
I keep my mouth shut.
Kamali’s sponsor backs up another pace, easing the tension in the room. I don’t feel in imminent danger of being crushed anymore, but that’s an illusion. If Alexis wanted to hurt me, it would be done before I knew what was happening. I begin to understand what Marcus meant about too much sponsor presence at Agon leading to a loss of agonites.
Alexis shakes her head slowly. “This is a distraction,” she says to Kamali, but her tone has softened. “You need to focus on your performance. The rest is… optional.”
“I understand.” Kamali looks me over with a narrow-eyed stare, like she’s evaluating something in her mind. It’s not an altogether unpleasant experience, and I’m dying to know what she’s thinking, but under the circumstances, I’m keeping quiet and following he
r lead.
She turns back to Alexis. “There’s something I need to help Eli with in his studio. I promise I’ll be back by the dinner hour.”
Another curl of gray wisps along Alexis’s skin, but she tips her head in agreement. Kamali leads me out the door, leaving her sponsor behind, watching us go.
Once we’re alone in the hallway, I dip my head closer to her and ask quietly, “Are you sure this isn’t getting you in trouble?”
She gives me a small smile. “Trouble isn’t something I’m exactly avoiding these days.”
I grin, even though I know she’s talking about the resistance and her plan to throw away the medal. That’s something I still want to talk her out of, but I can’t help liking this rebellious side of her, now that she’s letting it show. And the fact that she’s helping me… there’s really a lot I like about Kamali at the moment.
When we key into my studio, all the smiles drop off my face: Cyrus is by the far wall, with Marcus pacing by the door with a murderous look.
“See?” Cyrus gestures to me. “Told you he’d be right back.”
Last I saw Marcus, Cyrus was shoving him out of our apartment. And right now, I’d really rather they both cleared out—I only have Kamali’s help until the dinner hour.
“What is it, Marcus?” I ask. “I need to work on my competition piece.” I put a gentle hand on Kamali’s back and guide her past Marcus, who seems momentarily at a loss for words. A smile plays on Kamali’s face, and I send her a half-smile once my back’s to Marcus. Then I stride toward the art cabinet, thinking that a show of canvases and paint might give him a hint to leave. I toss a look to Cyrus, but he’s already on it.
He unfolds his arms and strides up to Marcus at the door. “How about we leave the artistes alone?”
But Marcus just ignores him. “Eli, I have a message from your mother.”
I stop so suddenly that my shoes literally screech on the floor. “What?”
“I thought it might inspire you,” he says.
I’m frozen in place. “Is she all right?”
Kamali’s lips are pursed tight, and I can tell from the look on Cyrus’s face that this is news to him, too.
“She’s been tired, sleeping a lot,” Marcus says. “But she was able to record a short message for you.”
I set my sketchpad down on the cabinet and stride back to him. “Well, let’s have it.”
I assume Marcus has it recorded on his person in some way. Maybe one of those fancy holo phones, like he gave me. But he simply turns to face the wall, and the screen comes to life. He must have transmitted something to activate it.
Kamali and Cyrus stand by my side as we wait for the message to start.
My mom’s on her bed, blankets rumpled around her in a haphazard way that makes me instantly wonder if the low-sentience med bot is taking adequate care of her. But her face is rosier than when I left, and she’s sitting up, alert, eyes bright.
“Hello, Eli,” she says.
I frown. My mom never calls me Eli.
She brushes back a strand of her long, blonde hair and smiles. The treatments must be doing something because she looks better than I’ve seen in a long time. “I miss you, honey, but I wanted to let you know I’m feeling well. The fever’s gone. I even walked for a little while this morning.” She gestures off screen. “Matilda is taking good care of me.” She laughs a little, but it makes my stomach bunch up. My mom hates the bots. She would never give them pet names.
Something is off. I swallow. Did the fever affect her brain? Maybe it went on too long, too hot. Maybe we didn’t cool her enough, and that delirious state did something… permanent.
She coughs a little, but not long or deep. Then her smile is back, even brighter. “I watched your Showcase piece, honey. I know you can do better. I know you will do better. I’m so proud of you, and I know you can win this. I have faith in you, sweetie. I know you’ll win this… for us. For me.” She smiles shyly. “I’ll see you soon, Eli.”
The recording flips off.
I blink and take a half step back, my mind reeling at what I just saw. That’s not my mother. I know this, as true as I know my own left hand. My mother doesn’t talk like that. She wouldn’t say those things. And most clearly, most obviously… she wouldn’t be encouraging me to win. Especially not for her.
Cyrus’s face is beet red. I don’t need to say a thing to know that he knows it, too.
I turn on Marcus and shove a hand up against his shoulder. It’s like smacking a brick wall, but I can’t punch him without breaking my hand. I still wince as the words blurt out. “What did you do to her?”
Marcus glances at the screen. “What do you mean? She’s doing better—”
I get in his face. I don’t care if he’s taller and made of mechanized power that can crush me without trying. I fling a hand at the screen while staring my hatred into his eyes. “That is not my mother.”
His eyes go slightly wide. “Of course it is. She’s just sick, Eli, maybe she sounds a little different than you expect.”
“My mother doesn’t like you,” I say, harsh, my mind spinning to figure this out. “She doesn’t like your kind, Marcus. The last thing she wants is for me to ascend, so unless you drugged her or threatened her or forced her in some way—”
Marcus holds up a hand to stop me. “I wouldn’t threaten your mother.” He glances at Kamali, who I sense has come up behind me. I’m glad she’s here. Glad she’s seeing I have no love for Marcus, that I’m wise to the fact that they’re not better than us… just like she believes.
It’s all I can do to keep my fists to myself. Cyrus pulls me back, putting himself between me and Marcus, but mostly to keep me from doing something stupid. But the truth is, I can’t imagine Marcus getting my mom to say those things by force. I have a moment of doubt tangled in a slithering snake of fear. Maybe the disease has finally ravaged her. Maybe the part that would be worth saving and ascending… is gone.
Maybe I’m already too late.
“It’s a simulation, isn’t it?” Cyrus says to Marcus, his voice cold as ice. “You couldn’t get her to say the things you wanted, so you made a virtual.”
Then I see it: a small ribbon of gray lashing across Marcus’s skin. Something is causing his emotions to flux… guilt.
He looks past Cyrus to me. “I thought you needed some kind of reminder of why you’re here. Some motivation.”
I blink back tears, my anger at Marcus dissipating in a wave a relief that it was all fake. Then a new fear rises in my chest. “Is she dead?”
Cyrus’s head bows in front of me, and I know he thought of that first, but wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t want to believe it. Kamali’s hand lands on my shoulder from behind.
“No,” Marcus says, grimacing. “But she’s been in a coma since shortly after we left. I kept hoping she would revive, but so far, nothing.”
“But she’s still alive.” My voice is a whisper now. Then I realize: Marcus could be lying about this. He could be lying about all of it. “I want to talk to her!” I say suddenly. “I want to see her.”
Cyrus turns to me, probably preparing to hold me back from launching myself at Marcus again.
“She’s not conscious, Eli,” Marcus says from behind him. “I just thought it would help if we made a simulation.”
“You only care about keeping me going,” I say dully, not even looking at him anymore. “Even if my mother was…” I can’t say the words, but I meet Cyrus’s gaze, and I can tell he’s thought it all through. She could already be dead. She could have died the moment we left. And there’s no way Marcus would ever tell me, not until the competition was over.
Marcus makes a sound of impatience. “I didn’t want you distracted by—”
My anger surges back, rumbling like a volcano about to blow. “Get out,” I hurl at him, over Cyrus’s shoulder.
“Eli—” Marcus objects.
“Get out or I’m quitting now.” I stare into his cold ascender eyes, leaving no room for mi
sunderstanding.
He blinks. Hesitates. Cyrus moves into action, leaving my side to stride across the floor and key open the door. “Time for you leave, shiny pants.”
The hot glare Marcus gives him makes me think he might simply smite Cyrus on the way out. But instead Marcus turns on his heel and marches from the room.
Cyrus gives me a nod from the door. “I’ll find out what I can about your mom, Eli.” He lands an approving glance on Kamali, who’s still holding my shoulder. “You focus here. I’ll make sure shiny pants makes it out of the building.”
I nod and Cyrus slips out. I wait until the door slides shut, then I close my eyes and let all the anger and fear and an intense glowing hatred for Marcus leak out of my body like the lava flowing after the top has blown. I take a few deep breaths, trying to tame it.
Kamali comes around to face me. “Are you all right?”
I open my eyes again. “I need to win this, Kamali.”
She nods and glances at the door. “Well, I’d say if anger alone was enough to trigger the fugue state, we’re going to have a hard time topping what your sponsor just did.”
I let out a small laugh, then the mirth disappears, like a candle quenched with a bucket. “I think… I think there’s something I need to show you.”
Her eyebrows hike up, but I’m even more surprised at my own words. Because showing Kamali the painting I made of her is the last thing I want to do. There’s absolutely no part of me that wants any part of that, including, I suspect, the fugue inside me.
Which is precisely why I need to do it.
I’m stalling, tugging at the corner of the sheet that covers the painting of Kamali.
“I’m not proud of this.” I tuck and untuck the corner, revealing just a tiny smudge of blood-drenched brown in the process then covering it up again.
“Doesn’t sound like you should be.” Her arms are crossed, her hands hidden by the flame colors of her outfit, her face serious. She’s going to make this as hard on me as possible. Which might bring on the fugue, and which is what I want, but knowing that doesn’t make the knot in my stomach any less tight.
The Legacy Human (Singularity #1) (Singularity Series) Page 18
