by Stacey Kade
After all, it wouldn’t do Justine any good to have manipulated Ariane to her side if she couldn’t keep her safe and, therefore, useful.
Ariane eyed me warily. “It doesn’t matter. Getting out of here without being caught by whoever’s hunting us—”
“But if we could,” I persisted.
“Then, yeah, maybe,” she said reluctantly. “But it would mean throwing ourselves on her mercy. We’d be under her thumb forever.”
“But alive. We would be alive.” I hit that word extra hard. Not just me. I wasn’t looking for half measures; I wanted a solution that would get us both out.
Ariane’s shoulders sagged, her face sad and etched with weariness. “You don’t understand,” she said. “Any leverage I might have had by being a needed resource is gone if I can’t live outside their protection. I would have to do whatever they asked of me, and with that kind of absolute power, it’s only a matter of time before corruption sets in.”
“But eventually, Jacobs, the Committee, whoever, they’ll have to stop looking,” I pointed out, “and then—”
She reached out as though she would touch my cheek, but then her gaze skittered away from mine and her hand fell away. “Justine, DHS, they would own me, and I wouldn’t be able to say no.” She shook her head. “I can’t do that again, whether it’s for a few months or years. I won’t.”
“You’d rather die?” I demanded.
“Yes,” she said, and the truth rang out in that single word. She meant it.
“That’s stupid,” I said, frustration getting the better of me.
“No,” she said sharply. “It’s a hard-learned lesson. You want me to believe that I deserve to have my own life, make my own choices. If that’s true, then this existence is mine now for as long as I have it. I’m not blindly following someone else’s rules, obeying their commands or even giving in to their well-meaning wishes.” Her voice softened on those last words. “I have to do what I think is best.”
“I’m not asking you to compromise yourself, Ariane,” I said, struggling for patience and trying to make her understand. “But you have to give yourself a chance to—”
“This is a moot point,” she reminded me. “I don’t think we could get to…”
“…live on the scene at the Manderlay Hotel.” The news, which had continued as a murmur in the background of our argument, suddenly recaptured my attention as that familiar name registered.
Manderlay Hotel, that was where we’d started this little adventure this morning, which, honestly, felt like years ago.
Ariane, hearing it as well, stopped and swiveled to face the screen.
On the television, a reporter stood in front of a very familiar set of glass doors. She was in front of the west entrance to the hotel, just feet away from where I’d met Ariane this morning. Flashing red and blue lights behind her, along with an area cordoned off in yellow caution tape, showed she was as close as she was allowed.
“We don’t have much information at this time, Rebecca,” the reporter said to the anchor. “But there are reports of shots fired on the third floor. Also, interestingly…” She paused, consulting a notebook in her hand. “According to a source inside the hotel, Dr. Arthur Jacobs and Dr. David Laughlin, of GenTex, Inc. and Laughlin Integrated Enterprises, respectively, are inside, among others.”
“Those would be the companies mentioned in our featured story this evening, ‘Corruption in the Heartland,’” the anchorwoman prompted.
“That’s correct, Rebecca.” The onsite reporter seemed a mix of astonished and gleeful. The story was practically writing itself, high ratings included. “Specifically, the two individuals whom Ms. Bradshaw has referenced in her account.”
I felt a sudden creeping dread. This didn’t make sense. We were missing something, a key piece of information or a fact that changed everything. And when we missed something, that’s when things got treacherous. Well, more treacherous.
“That’s got to be wrong,” I said. “Right?” I looked to Ariane. “You said they left.”
“They should have,” Ariane said with a puzzled frown. “There is no reason for them to stay. No good reason,” she amended.
“You think the Committee decided to take them out, too?” I asked.
“No, they’ll need Jacobs and Laughlin to answer for Mara’s accusations,” she answered, but her voice sounded distant, distracted. She was working it through, trying to see the pattern, understand the strategy. “To be scapesheep for the government.”
Now I knew she was preoccupied. “Scapegoats,” I said.
She didn’t acknowledge my correction. She moved past me, scooped my hoodie off the floor, and handed it to me.
“Where are we going?” I asked, turning the sweatshirt right side out before putting it on.
She frowned at me before heading toward the main room of the suite. “You are following our original plan: head for the nearest police station and identify yourself as Mara’s missing son in need of protection.”
“While you do what?” I demanded, following her.
“I will provide the distraction, as discussed,” she said, but the caginess of her answer, combined with knowing her as well as I now did, told me all I needed.
I stopped. “You’re going to that hotel, by yourself,” I accused.
She spun around to face me. “If Jacobs and Laughlin are dead…” Her face lit with an unholy determination. “I need to see for myself.”
“No. Hell no,” I added. “I’m going with you.”
Ariane shook her head, her hair falling over her face. She brushed it back impatiently, fumbling for the hair band on her wrist. “There’s still a chance this is a trap, something designed to lure us back to them.” She pulled her hair up into the sloppy ponytail that I remembered from the months of sitting behind her in math.
But I couldn’t allow myself to get caught up in sentiment at the moment. “If Emerson St. John is inside, I need to find him. Preferably alive,” I said grimly.
Ariane frowned, registering the tension in my tone or perhaps something from my thoughts. “What’s wrong?”
I hesitated. She was going to be so pissed. “Emerson wasn’t done with me. You know that. He had to speed up the process to save my life and to be ready for the trials. But there’s a tipping point where the body either rejects or accepts the changes going on. It requires monitoring and adjustment. You can’t exactly go cold turkey on this stuff.” I paused, grimacing in anticipation and memory. “There was a video. Emerson made me watch it so I’d know what I was getting into. There was a rabbit he’d done some testing on. He let the virus run its course without interference. It died…badly.”
If you could call bleeding out of pretty much every opening of your body for hours something as simple as “dying badly.”
She went very, very still, her eyes dark and wide in her pale face. “Why didn’t you tell me?
“Because what were you going to do? What could you have done differently?” I asked, holding up my hands in defense. “Besides, it wasn’t a guaranteed outcome, so I didn’t—”
“You should never have done this,” she hissed at me. “You should have stayed home and safe in Wingate. None of this would have happened.”
“Too late now,” I pointed out. “What’s done is done. The only choice now is what to do going forward.” I was actually pretty proud of that last bit. It was exactly the kind of logic she would have used against me. Never let it be said that I wasn’t learning anything through all of this.
Ariane closed her mouth with an audible click. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with fury and anguish.
“So, to the Manderlay?” I asked with forced brightness.
She didn’t respond.
“I don’t need to go with you,” I reminded her quietly. “I can just go on my own later, as soon as you’re done throwing yourself beneath the wheels of whatever disaster you can find. If there’s a chance Emerson St. John is still alive, I need him.”
&nb
sp; She folded her arms across her chest protectively, and I hated that I’d done that to her, made her close off like that. Then she shook her head. “No, we need a distraction first. That has not changed.” Her voice was thick, almost guttural in her distress.
But at least she was speaking to me again, and seemingly agreeing to take me with her.
“I need some supplies.” Avoiding my gaze, she pushed past me on her way to the bedroom.
“For the record, I liked ‘scapesheep’ better,” I called after her, trying to lighten the mood.
“Shut up.”
Yep, still angry. That was okay. There was very little in this situation that wasn’t infuriating, one way or another.
Sirens screamed outside, mingling with the fire alarm shrieking overhead as we exited the Ulta lobby and cleared the overhang with the other guests. When Ariane said we needed a distraction, she wasn’t messing around.
A cavalcade of emergency vehicles roared into view. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, a little bit of everything.
With their arrival, everyone around us turned to watch them pull in, whispering among themselves, wondering what was going on.
“Come on.” Ariane tugged at my hand, pulling me after her as she threaded through the crowd, moving away from the safety in its chaotic midst.
When we reached a clear patch of sidewalk, I watched in surprise as Ariane moved to the curb and lifted a hand to hail a cab, like she’d done it a thousand times.
A yellow taxi pulled up next to us within seconds.
“Trouble at the hotel, eh?” the driver said, gesturing at the Ulta as he pulled away.
“Fire alarm,” Ariane said at the same time I said, “Bomb scare.” Technically, it had been a little of both, thanks to Ariane’s scheming and “supplies.”
The driver frowned at us in the rearview mirror, and Ariane’s mouth tightened with displeasure.
She straightened up in the seat. “We’re switching hotels. The Manderlay, please,” she said with smooth authority.
But the cab driver shook his head vehemently. “No, no, you don’t want to go there today, lady. They got their own trouble at the Manderlay.”
Clearly, he’d heard something over the radio or through his dispatch service.
Ariane stiffened, not expecting the refusal.
“Just get as close as you can,” I said easily. “We’re meeting my uncle over there.”
Ariane held her breath, obviously preparing for further resistance, but the cab driver just shrugged. “Okay.” He started whistling tunelessly, weaving in and out of lanes.
I leaned in next to her. “Breathe,” I said. “We’re fine.”
“In this particular second. Maybe. I still wouldn’t be shocked to hear someone landing on the roof of the cab,” she murmured. “And you’re still not forgiven for lying to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” I said, avoiding her gaze.
She glared at me. “Fine, for not telling me, which is a form of lying.”
“I don’t think you want to use that argument, do you?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
“You know everything about me, everything,” she whispered. “Even the horrible things. Why wouldn’t you tell me about the potential consequences?”
“Because I don’t know for sure what’s going to happen,” I said, exasperated. “And…I knew you’d take it on.” I turned away from her to stare out the side window. “You’d make my decision your problem, like you always do, and I didn’t want to make things any more complicated.”
“How am I not supposed to take it on when it’s a decision you made because of me?” she demanded.
“It wasn’t just because of you, Ariane,” I said. “Not entirely. I knew the risks, and I wanted what St. John was offering. I could have stopped after the initial injections, had him try to wean me off instead of trying for stabilization, but I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was a chance to be more, to finally be good enough,” I said a little too loudly, losing my grip on my frustration. “So I took it, and now I’ll have to live with whatever happens.” My mouth twisted in a strained smile. “Or not.”
She didn’t like that answer. Ariane turned her head away from me, staring silently out the side window for the rest of the trip.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up near the Manderlay, finding a scene similar to what we’d just left behind. The front entrance was cordoned off with police caution tape, with uniformed officers patrolling the line. Emergency vehicles occupied the turnaround and the street out front. One news crew was already stationed as close to the tape as possible, with two others pulling equipment out of their trucks.
Some guests still lingered nearby. They were the ones with the uncertain expressions and missing shoes or random pieces of clothing. Others were obviously tourists, passing by and taking in the drama, recording it with their phones.
“This is fine,” Ariane said in a clipped voice to the driver. She handed over the last of our cash. Then she got out of the cab without waiting for me, or even looking to see if I followed.
I climbed out of the cab, shutting the door behind me. Ariane was still pissed, obviously. But I suspected at least some of it might have been because she was scared, not for herself but for me. My mind-reading abilities were weak. But fear had a distinct flavor to it, for lack of a better term. It was metallic, cold, powerful. And that’s what’s radiating from her more than anything, even anger.
And she kind of had a point. Knowing what I knew now, I had to admit that, given the chance to do it all over again, I would probably choose differently. Adam had been pretty close to perfect as a candidate for Emerson’s experiment, and even being skilled and better than the average human hadn’t saved him.
Everyone had limits, blind spots, weaknesses, peculiarities. Maybe the key was just figuring out how to live with them. I loved Ariane for who she was, including the parts she didn’t like and other people feared or hated.
Was it so impossible that she felt the same way about me? Maybe not.
I caught up with Ariane when she paused on the sidewalk, near a clump of people watching the spectacle.
“What do you want to do?” I asked.
Her expression had clicked over to that distant, evaluating mask that I recognized. She’d retreated within herself, letting the training she’d had and the nonhuman instincts she’d been born with rise to the surface.
“When the GTX guards brought me here, they used that garage.” She tipped her head to indicate the structure looming over us. “There was a walkway to the hotel.”
Which would mean fewer people watching, maybe even the possibility of no police at that particular entrance.
But a few steps toward the garage entrance revealed red and blue flashing lights and squad cars blocking the ramp to the upper levels of the garage. The officers inside the cars were on the radio, and their stiff posture screamed, “We are not kidding around.”
“They are taking this really seriously,” I muttered.
She nodded, her head cocked at an angle and her forehead wrinkled with concentration as she focused in on their thoughts. “Hostages. That’s what they’re worried about. They’re not talking about it with the media yet, but that’s what I’m hearing. They think someone’s still alive in there.” She frowned.
I felt a spark of hope. Someone still alive was good. Even better if it was Emerson St. John and not Dr. Jacobs or Laughlin. Though, the odds of just one of them surviving weren’t good. The scar on my stomach began to itch and burn again.
“But they can’t get confirmation, so they don’t want to go in yet. They’re waiting for something…maybe.” She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know, the adrenaline is making their minds…buzzy. Hard to read.”
I nodded. My limited experiences with telepathy had given me more than a taste of that. It was amazing she could pick out anything from the noise, in my opinion.
“What about another entrance to the hotel?�
�� I asked. “They have to have a door for deliveries or whatever, right?”
She nodded absently, her mind working to make all the pieces fit. “Yes, I’m sure they do. But it will likely be under guard equal to this. They’re trying to make sure no one escapes.”
I edged toward the hotel for another look. “Ariane. What about a window on the side? They have all the doors blocked, but if we circled the block and came through from the other direction, we might be able to get in—”
She followed me and then shook her head. “It will take too long. And that’s additional exposure for us, wandering farther away from the hotel. Eventually the shooter may figure out that we came back here, if he or she hasn’t already.”
“What do you have in mind?” I asked. She had that look on her face now, that sharp, determined one that was also somehow empty of feeling. The one that said she’d ceased to see the human factor and simply viewed everyone and everything as obstacles to her ultimate goal.
It sent an instinctive shiver of dread through me. I wasn’t afraid of Ariane. But occasionally, I was smart enough to be afraid of what she could do.
“I don’t suppose I can talk you into staying here or going to the police on your own,” she said, her eyes trained on the activity in the distance.
“No.”
“I don’t know what will happen,” she warned. “It may end badly.” She paused. “Very badly.”
If Emerson St. John was already dead inside that building, “very badly” was pretty much my only option anyway, unless Justine had had someone else studying up on his research. “What’s the plan?” I asked, though it may have taken a bit more effort than usual to push the words free.
“Sometimes simple and direct is the best.” But that was all she’d say.
She led the way down the sidewalk toward the hotel, moving confidently.
People moved out of her way, perhaps sensing something, a potential threat, that even their conscious minds didn’t register.
I tagged along in her wake as she crossed the side street and reached hotel property. Skirting the turnaround, she kept to the road, moving around the news vans and equipment on the perimeter of the police line.
