Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1)

by Trisha Leigh

  The huge metal door bangs open less than five feet from our heads. Four men and one woman spill out, all dressed in street clothes but palming pistols, and spread across the parking lot. They approach the fiery mess of the Dumpster with caution, and once their attention is captured, Athena pulls me through the still-open door.

  It’s dark inside, and there aren’t any windows. Or if there are, they must be covered.

  “Do you know where we’re going yet?” I mutter. He’s not even really supposed to be inside, since he agreed to be a liaison between the group and Goose, but I’m not complaining. I’d probably still be standing in the middle of the parking lot gaping at Jude if Athena hadn’t pulled me away.

  “No. I can’t hear anything.”

  The statement amps up my nerves as we continue down the corridor, feeling our way along the walls. If his gift isn’t working, this is going to be a lot harder.

  We don’t encounter anyone, but it’s hard to believe that’s not going to change. Even if there are only five people here at this hour, more have surely already been alerted. I’m not too worried about the Cavies outside because as long as our abilities work out there—which the display seems to suggest—Polly can have five people eating out of her hand in no time. They could be doing cartwheels down the street by now.

  Or, if even one of them is like Dane, my friends could be in handcuffs.

  I shake off the vision as we jiggle the handles on the doors to our left and right. They’re all locked. We find a flight of stairs inside a closet but don’t go up or down, deciding to wait to hear from Goose.

  We don’t wait long.

  “He found her. Upstairs.”

  The steps are rickety and narrow, a spiral with no handrail and no backs to the individual stairs. I’ve seen one like it before—we all have—at Darley. It’s an old servant staircase, built behind doors and through the center of the house so that maids and nannies and cooks and the like could serve all levels of the house without accessing public areas. Useful but dangerous: The Darley Hall records detail no less than five mortalities, mostly slave children who tripped and fell to their deaths.

  Athena and I make it to the top without any such incident, and I follow him into the room at the end of the hall. It’s some kind of laboratory, with gurneys and equipment and monitors and electrodes, all of which reminds me of Darley as well. It takes me back with such force that for a moment, the sight of Flicker slumped in a chair toward the back doesn’t register.

  “Over here,” Goose hisses. “She’s out cold, and these bonds are… I don’t know. Just smooth metal. No locks.”

  She’s alive, her chest pulling in deep gulps of oxygen before exhaling, spilling stale breath into the space. We’re not too late, even if she’s got bruises on her face and arms and blood crusted around the bonds on her wrists. Relief makes me so weak my knees almost dump me right onto the floor.

  “How do we get her out?” Athena raises his eyebrows, nervous energy tugging him from one foot to the other. “Even if Polly keeps them distracted, they must have called in the disturbance. We’re going to have company.”

  I turn my back on the boys and Flicker, scanning the contents of the tables. Then my gaze lands on a half-sized refrigerator and I speed toward it, excited to find labeled containers of drugs on its neatly arranged shelves.

  “What are you doing?” Goose whispers, panic encroaching on the edges of his outward calm.

  “Just shut up a minute.” My fingers turn the labels toward me, fumbling and knocking some over in the process. The tinkling of glass on metal sounds louder than it probably is, making me wince and feel as though we’re going to bring the cavalry down on us at any moment. My heart leaps at the label that reads PHYSOSTIGMINE, and my hand closes around it. The rolling set of drawers beside the nearest gurney houses an array of syringes, and I eyeball the one that looks like the right size.

  Years of being poked and prodded, put under anesthesia and brought out, are about to pay off.

  The twins stare at me, eyes wide, as I suck out some of the drug with the needle. “What are you giving her?”

  “Physostigmine. It should bring her out of the anesthesia.”

  “How do you know they put her under? Maybe she’s out for another reason” Athena shifts toward Flicker as though he’s going to block me.

  “How else would they be controlling her? She could just disappear out of those bonds.” I grit my teeth, every last piece of me sure we’re running out of time. “Move.”

  The thing that worries me is not knowing how much of the drug to administer. I could make it worse, or speed up her heart too fast, or any number of other mistakes. I’ve watched a hundred nurses plunge drugs into my veins, but that’s not the same thing as doing it myself.

  But we don’t have a choice, so I plunge the syringe into a vein on the inside of her elbow and we all stare, waiting for her eyes to open.

  “How do you even know that’s the right drug?” Goose asks after disappearing and returning in the span of five seconds. “We’re still alone in here. For now.”

  “Did you guys never pay attention to anything they shot you up with at Darley at all? This is the right drug if they put her under. Hopefully I gave her the right amount.”

  “Look!” Athena leans over, peering into Flicker’s face. Her eyes twitch under their lids, then her fingers do as well.

  “Flicker. Flicker, can you hear us?”

  Her lips part and release a little groan, then another, and her eyes pop open. They’re confused, faraway, a gauzy film obscuring the sharp chocolate brown. It’s not long before she focuses on us, one at a time, and starts to panic. Her tongue snakes out in an attempt to wet her cracked lips, and I wish we had some water because all of my memories of waking up after being dosed involve major cotton mouth.

  The way her eyes dart around as she gains coherence makes me want to look over my shoulder, but I grit my teeth and resist. “You’re okay. We’re going to get you out of here. Do you know how to undo these cuffs?”

  She struggles, finally sitting up straighter and swallows hard, then rasps out the last thing any of us wants to hear.

  “Get out of here. It’s a trap.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Before we can ask her what she means, Haint appears beside us, out of breath and painted with terror. “You guys have to hurry. We have to get out of here.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Two cars just pulled up. Hurry.”

  “There are some buttons on the wall. They look like light switches but one of them controls the chair and the cuffs,” Flicker says, perking up by the second. She stands after Goose finds the right button, gritting her teeth against pain or maybe wooziness, but stays upright. “We’re not getting out of here. They’re waiting.”

  “Who’s waiting? Pollyanna’s got the five of them taken care of,” Haint questions, clearly impatient.

  “It’s a trap. They knew you were coming. They’ve got the place surrounded.”

  “But who could have told them?” Goose wonders aloud.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it was your government agent boyfriend,” Athena spits my direction. “I don’t suppose you’ve chatted with him since we cracked his files.”

  I ignore the barb, knowing he’s just scared. I didn’t say a word to Dane, but that doesn’t mean the government didn’t plan on us pulling a location from the information we stole, like Jeannie suggested. But that wouldn’t have told them when we’d come. How could they know that?

  The Olders are here. Don’t panic, a voice in my head reminds me.

  Despite her protests that it’s fruitless, Flicker follows us all down the stairs. Haint and Goose disappear, checking ahead and then doubling back, but the moment they don’t return I know our time is up. At the bottom of the main stairs, in a room that’s entirely black except for one bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, sit the Cavies and Jude.

  They’re in the far corner, two blac
k-suited agents holding them at gunpoint. I wonder why they’re not fighting, why Geoff isn’t banging shit off the walls and Pollyanna’s not blanketing the room with a happy coma, when I see Dane standing by the door, arms crossed over the faded CA logo on his threadbare T-shirt.

  Next to him is Reaper—the answer to how they knew we’d be here this morning.

  I should have seen it sooner. Maybe we all should have.

  My heart falls down to my knees, ripping apart my insides along the way. She looks like hell—greasy hair, purple circles under her eyes, and track marks on the insides of her arms that are swollen and red. Fresh.

  The set to her jaw indicates she’s not under their influence at the moment, though, at least not pharmaceutically. She’s here with Dane because she wants to be, and she used our trust and the debrief Pollyanna gave her last night to betray us.

  Mole’s gaze is hot and hurt, and some version of it paints all of my friends. The agents sit Flicker, Athena, Goose, Haint, and me in the corner with the rest of them without a word.

  We’re trapped. The goons aren’t talking, but there are only two options from here.

  Well, maybe three, but I doubt, after all the time they’ve invested in us, that killing us is on the agenda.

  So, we’re either going to follow Reaper and become willing government Assets, or end up like Flicker, unwilling but Assets nonetheless.

  I’m trying to decide the best course of action, thinking maybe we should all at least pretend to go along so maybe eventually they’ll give us some freedom, when Jude’s toe nudges mine. He’s sitting on the other side of Mole, but his legs are longer.

  Our eyes meet; his are confused, muddled. The apology soaking the edges tells me he followed me here, maybe has been following me since the party the other night.

  What’s not in his gaze is horror, or disgust, despite the fact that he saw a pretty impressive display of telekinetic talent outside awhile ago. He knows the truth about at least some of us from Darley, and must suspect that I’m hiding something similar, but he doesn’t hate me.

  I’m sorry, he mouths.

  I shake my head, my own eyes burning with tears. He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his fight, and none of what’s happened is his fault. The fact that I’m secure in the details of his death gives me some comfort. It’s not today.

  He leaves his foot against mine, and even through our leather soles, the effortless calm he offers me seeps into my blood. It can’t erase the lump in my throat or the oily residue left by Reaper’s betrayal, but it helps.

  The agent who’s been murmuring with Dane beside the door, a middle-aged man with a neat mustache, short beard, and beady dark eyes, turns to face us.

  “Now that we have you all here together, and you can see that we’re a step ahead of any inclination you might have to live a life apart from the duty you were engineered for, perhaps we can all have a frank conversation about your futures.” Contempt, so thick it’s hard to breathe in its presence, gushes off him like a riptide that sucks at my lungs. “I’m Special Agent Marlow.”

  None of us speaks, even though it seems as though he wants us to react. I have a million gabillion questions, but being held at gunpoint and forced into submission traps my tongue. It’s not as though I would believe anything they told me right now, anyway.

  “The nine of you—well, ten of you, including the poor head case trapped in that padded room—were born to be soldiers. You’re government property, and although we thought it might be possible to allow you to mature a bit more, perhaps gain an understanding of the world that has previously been kept from you, this display of distrust, and the unauthorized actions of Miss Linnette, there”—he nods toward Flicker—”have made it clear that the time for you to fulfill your duties is now.”

  “Do we have a choice?” Mole glares. “I mean, are we people or rats?”

  “We’d prefer it if you don’t think of yourselves as vermin, despite the name of your project.” He smiles, displaying stained teeth that look like baked beans and make me want to hurl. “You’re more like monkeys, if anything.”

  “What are you going to do with us?” Haint asks quietly.

  The way the tips of her fingers and the end of her nose blink in and out of existence buoys my hope that she and the others will be able to use their gifts in here after all. Gills had said there was a chance they’d keep getting stronger.

  In the end, her body solidifies again and she slumps backward, clearly exhausted by the effort.

  Marlow’s face, previously made of hard lines and disgust, twitches. Fear touches his gaze the second before a goofy smile stretches his lips, and he places a single finger on the top of his head, then twirls on one foot like a ballerina.

  We’re flabbergasted, but the other agents are not. The two agents holding guns on us turn their backs to each other, scanning the room. The others break into a flurry of motion, shouting to one another about a breach. About the Olders. They’re here.

  The hair on my arms and my head stands straight up, and a quick glance around proves I’m not the only one. We look ridiculous, but in the snap of a finger, the Cavies’ hair drops back into place and the two agents with guns seize, jerking with violent muscle spasms, eyes rolling back in their heads. It’s as if they’ve stuck their fingers into electrical sockets, even though they didn’t move.

  Then there are more people in the room. Two men, two women, all a blur of motion. One of the women is Gills and she races to the twitching agents, securing their wrists with zip ties. The men make quick work of the remaining agents, who are all but frozen in place as though they suddenly lost control of their bodies, then handcuff the still-twirling Special Agent Marlow.

  When my gaze snaps to Dane, the last threat in the room, there are two of him. Fighting.

  Blows land on jaws, cheekbones, temples, kidneys. It’s impossible to know which is the real Dane, or even who the other person might be, and the sight of obvious talent, of so many more people like us, fascinates me for a moment.

  Then one of the Danes pulls a knife. A shrill scream fills the room, shrieking with the word no as he plunges it into the other Dane, who slumps onto the floor. Reaper is nowhere to be seen—perhaps our mysterious rescuers pulled her free or perhaps she ran, still determined to put her faith in these people who see us as nothing more than experiments. Guinea pigs. Less than human.

  My eyes are glued to the Dane on the floor, and when the one holding the knife in a bloody hand morphs into an Indian woman in a sky blue hijab, my heart squeezes. Shock numbs me from head to toe and I watch, fists clenched, until I see the shallow movement of Dane’s rib cage that says he’s alive.

  “We have to go,” the violent shape-shifting woman says. She watches me, not looking away, as though she senses that I’m the only one even a little upset that she hurt Dane.

  They didn’t have to hurt anyone.

  “Reinforcements are on their way, and as talented as we all are, you eight aren’t trained and aren’t any match for sophisticated weaponry.” One of the men, scraggly and skinny and dirty, strides toward the door. “Not to mention that we prefer to keep a low profile.”

  My heart skips a beat as I realize he’s the one who attacked me on the street with the syringe.

  There’s too much going on. Too many new things, a slew of new information and horrible scenery. There are government agents on the ground, their skin white and their hair still sticking straight up. A puddle of blood collects on the floor underneath Dane.

  But these Olders are Cavies. They’re like us, and I don’t know where else we’d go. It’s trust them or strike out on our own, and they’ve had loads more practice. Plus, they have answers.

  “Let’s go with them,” Polly decides, the set of her jaw ready for the fight.

  “What?” Mole’s mouth falls open. “I’d rather take our chances on our own.”

  I’m inclined to agree with him, but Haint jumps in first, siding with Pollyanna.

  “We can’t stay
here, Mole. And they know things that we need to know.” She eyes one of the women. “Like what exactly was in those syringes, and what it’s doing to us. When it’s going to stop.”

  “Dane said we can’t trust them,” I whisper, the words uncomfortable and cold on my numb lips.

  “Well, if Dane said, then by all means let’s just throw away our best chance to find out what the fuck our lives have been about all this time,” Pollyanna snaps at me. “Jesus, Gypsy. He’s one of them.”

  My eyes trail to his prone figure, then fill with frustrated tears. I’m sorry for what happened, but the desire for answers, to finally know where I come from and why I am the way I am, wells up just as strong.

  “Anyone else have an objection to at least getting out of here and hearing what the Olders have to say?” No one speaks this time, and Goose grunts, moving toward the door. “Let’s go, then.”

  We take a few steps as a group, then the Indian woman stops, pointing the bloody knife at Jude. “Not him. He’s not one of us. He stays.”

  “I’m not staying here. I’m going home.” Jude is next to me, his shoulder brushing mine. It trembles.

  “I’m afraid we can’t allow either of those things to happen,” the second guy, with tufts of spiky purple hair, says in a tone that conveys no actual regret. “You know about this program. The government will want to decide whether or not you’ll be allowed to return home.”

  “Well, they’re all down for the count and you’re leaving, so who’s going to stop me?”

  One of the women, one who appears to be at least as old as my father and has gray streaks in her thick, dark red curls, steps forward with another zip tie in her hands. Jude tenses, ready to run or fight, I don’t know. I lay a hand on his forearm. This isn’t his time. I know he’ll be okay, for now.

  “Go home, Jude. When they come to question you, say you didn’t see anything weird and sign whatever they ask you to. This isn’t your life or your fight or your problem. It never was.” There’s a massive weight in his eyes, one that matches the unexpected sense of loss dragging through me. I lean up and brace myself for the vision, then press a brief kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for being my friend for a while. I’m sorry.”