by Kat Zhang
Dedication
For Dechan, who may not be my sister in blood, but is in soul
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Kat Zhang
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
We share a heart, Addie and I. We own the same pair of hands. Inhabit the same limbs. That hot June day, freshly escaped from Nornand Clinic, we stood and saw the ocean for the first time through shared eyes. The wind batted our hair against our cheeks. The sand stuck to our salt-soaked skin, turning our pale legs tan.
We experienced that day as we’d experienced the past fifteen years of our lives. As Addie and Eva, Eva and Addie. Two souls sharing one body. Hybrid.
But the thing is, sharing hands doesn’t mean sharing goals. Sharing eyes doesn’t mean sharing visions. And sharing a heart doesn’t mean sharing the things we love.
Here are some of the things I loved.
The cold shock of the ocean when I stood waist-deep in the water, jumping at the crest of each oncoming wave. The sound of Kitty’s laughter when I tickled her. The breathless joy of Hally’s dancing. The way Ryan smiled when I turned to look at him and he was already looking at me.
Addie liked these things, too. But she didn’t cherish them the way I did—desperately. Because I never should have had them. Millions of recessive souls never reached age five, let alone fifteen. That was the way of the world—or so Addie and I had been taught. Two souls born to each body. One marked by genetics to disappear.
I was lucky in so many ways.
I told myself this every morning when we opened our eyes, every night before we went to sleep.
I am lucky. So lucky.
I was alive. I was, in some ways, free. In a country where hybrids were forbidden and locked away, Addie and I had escaped. And I—
I could move and speak again. Me, who had known since childhood that I was the recessive soul, destined to fade away. That my parents would mourn quietly, quickly, then move on. That they would tell themselves this was the way of the world, the way things had always been, and who were they to question the workings of nature?
Children were supposed to shed recessive souls, leaving them behind like they would one day discard their baby teeth. Just another step on the journey to adulthood.
The alternative, never settling—retaining both souls—meant staying trapped in the chaos of a perpetual childhood, never gaining the steady, rational mind of an adult who could be trusted to control her own body. How could a hybrid ever fit into society? How would she marry? Would she be able to work, with two souls pulling and yearning in two different directions? To be hybrid was to be forever unstable, forever torn.
I was twelve, two years past the government-mandated deadline, when I succumbed to the curse lettered in my genes. But I was lucky, even then. I lost control of my body, leaving Addie to command our limbs, but I never disappeared completely.
It was better than dying.
Are you all right, Addie? Mom asked, those first few weeks after I was declared gone. She spoke the words like they pinched her lips on the way out, like she didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that Addie might not be okay, even then. Addie should have been normal.
I’m fine, Addie said, even when I screamed and screamed in her head, even when she was holding me as she smiled for our parents, telling me she was sorry, begging me to be as okay as she supposedly was.
Hally and Ryan Mullan were the ones who released me from the prison of my own bones. Where would I be if Hally hadn’t convinced Addie to go home with her that afternoon? Still paralyzed. Still alone. Not entirely, because I would always have Addie, but—alone, in every other sense of the word.
Here in Anchoit, this shining city by the western sea, smelling the salt the waves tossed into the air.
It had been my turn, then, to say I’m sorry. Because Addie was right. If Hally hadn’t—if I hadn’t convinced Addie to go to the Mullans’ house, to take the medication, to take that first step away from normality, we would still be home. We wouldn’t be out of danger—as hybrids, we could never truly relax—but we would be a little safer. We’d be going to school and watching movies and laughing at our little brother when he clowned around the kitchen.
Not like the other children who’d walked through those hospital halls. Like Jaime Cortae, who’d lost his other soul to a scalpel.
Addie and I had been lucky.
Perhaps, if we stayed lucky, we would never again have to see Mr. Conivent with his pressed, white button-up shirts. We would never again feel Jenson’s cold grip on our wrist—never come under the jurisdiction of his review board.
We would be allowed to live just as we were: Eva and Addie, Addie and Eva. Two girls inside of one.
ONE
It was stuffy in the phone booth, even with the door propped partway open. Our desire for privacy couldn’t override the sickness that gripped us in the small, enclosed space. Squished cigarette butts littered the ground, their smoky smell lingering in the early-morning air.
We weren’t even supposed to be outside. We’d snuck out of the apartment before Emalia and Kitty woke up, and we had to make it back before then as well. No one knew we were here, not even Ryan or Hally.
Addie pressed the phone receiver against our ear. The dial tone mocked us.
Our free hand slipped into our pocket and closed around our chip. Ryan had given it to us right before we arrived at Nornand, and it had connected us to him during our time at the clinic. Habit made us rub it between our fingers like a good-luck charm.
Addie’s voice was soft.
Lyle was eleven. Our little brother.
The night Mr. Conivent confiscated Addie and me, Lyle had been at the hospital, doing one of his thrice-weekly rounds of dialysis. Unlike our parents, he’d had no say in letting us go. We never got to tell him good-bye.
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It would only be one call. A few coins in the slot. Ten numbers. So quick. So simple.
Hi, Lyle, I imagined saying. I pictured his flop of yellow hair, his skinny arms and legs, his crooked-toothed grin.
Hi, Lyle—
Then what? Happy birthday. Happy eleventh birthday.
The last time I’d wished Lyle happy birthday—actually spoken those words aloud—he’d been turning seven. After that, I’d lost the strength to do more than watch as Addie spoke for me. I’d hovered in a body I couldn’t control, a ghost in a family that didn’t know I still existed.
What did one say after four years like that?
Thinking about what I’d tell Mom was even worse.
Hi. It’s Eva. I was there the whole time. I was there all those years, and you never knew.
Hi. It’s Eva. I’m okay—I think I’m safe. Are you okay? Are you safe?
Hi. It’s Eva. I wish I were home.
Hi. It’s Eva. I love you.
I could see Mom so clearly it hurt: the panes of her face, her laugh lines, and the deeper lines on her brow not etched by laughter. I could see her in her waitressing uniform: black slacks and a white blouse, stark against her corn-silk hair. Addie and I had always wanted hair like hers, so smooth and straight it glided through our fingers. Instead, we had Dad’s curls, lazy and halfhearted. Princess hair, he’d called it when Addie and I were small enough to sit in his lap, breathing in the smell of his aftershave, begging for stories that ended in Happily Ever After.
I wanted, so badly, to know how our family was. So much could have happened in the nearly two months since Addie and I had last slept in our own bed, last woken up staring at our own ceiling.
Had Lyle gotten the kidney transplant we’d been promised, or was he still chained to his dialysis appointments? Did our parents even know what had happened to Addie and me? What if they thought we were still at the clinic, being cured of our hybridity?
Was that better or worse than them knowing the truth? A month and a half ago, Addie and I had broken out of Nornand Clinic of Psychiatric Health. We should have brought all the other patients with us. But we’d failed. In the end, we’d left with just Ryan and Devon, Hally and Lissa, Kitty and Nina. And Jaime, of course. Jaime Cortae.
Now we were hiding outside the system entirely, sheltered by Peter and his underground network of hybrids. We were the fugitives we’d heard about in government class. The criminals whose arrest—and they were always arrested in the end—blared across the news.
Would Mom and Dad want to know that?
What would they do if they did? Come charging across the continent to take us home? Protect us, like they hadn’t protected us before? Tell us they were sorry, they’d made a terrible mistake in ever letting us go?
Maybe they would just turn us in again.
No.
I couldn’t bear to think they might.
They’re going to help you get well, Addie, Dad had said when he called us at Nornand. Mom and I only want the best for you.
Peter had warned us how the government might bug our phone lines. Maybe Dad had known someone might listen in on our call at Nornand, and he’d had to say whatever they wanted to hear. Maybe he hadn’t meant those words.
Because that wasn’t what he’d whispered as Addie and I climbed into Mr. Conivent’s car.
If you’re there, Eva, he’d said. If you’re really there . . . I love you, too. Always.
Always.
The knife of her longing cut us both.
No matter how much we ached to.
When Addie didn’t release the phone, I slipped into control and did it for us. Addie didn’t protest. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the city greeting us with a slap of wind. A passing car coughed dark exhaust into the air.
What else could I say?
I waited at a crosswalk with a small crowd of early-morning commuters, each sunk in their own thoughts. No one paid Addie and me any attention. Anchoit was the biggest, busiest city we’d ever seen, let alone lived in. The buildings loomed over the streets, contraptions of metal and concrete. Every once in a while, one was softened by a facade of worn red brick.
Peter had chosen Anchoit for its size. For the anonymity of its quiet alleyways and busy thoroughfares. Cars, people, thoughts—everything moved quickly here. It was a far cry from old, languid Bessimir City, or the all-but-stagnant Lupside, where Addie and I had lived before.
It seemed like more happened in a night in Anchoit than in a year in Lupside. Not that Addie or I would know. Since Peter had brought us here from Nornand, I could count on one hand the number of times we’d been allowed out in the city. Peter and Emalia weren’t taking any chances.
In Anchoit, it might have been easier to hide what Addie and I were—hybrids, fugitives, less-than-normal. But it didn’t change the facts. I dreamed of roaming the neon streets after dark. Of playing games and buying junk at the boardwalk. Of splashing through the waves again.
Our legs froze. It took three thundering heartbeats before I calmed down enough to move again. I crossed the street so we didn’t have to pass the policeman directly.
Chances were, his presence had absolutely nothing to do with us.
But Addie and I were hybrid.
Whatever the chance, however small, we couldn’t take it.
TWO
Emalia’s apartment building was silent but for the buzzing of overhead lights, which flickered on and off like struggling fireflies. A trash bag slouched, stinking, in the corner.
Peter had housed us Nornand refugees together in his apartment as long as he could. But he spent as much time traveling as he did living in Anchoit, and eventually, we’d been separated. Kitty and Nina lived with us at Emalia’s. The Mullan siblings were only a few floors up, with Henri, but it wasn’t the same.
Even worse, Dr. Lyanne had taken Jaime away to a little house on the fringes of the city. None of us had seen him in three weeks.
The apartment was still dim when I slipped back inside, the living room half-lit by hazy morning sunlight. Emalia and her twin soul, Sophie, kept their home achingly neat, softly decorated. In a weird way, Peter’s apartment—since Peter was so frequently absent—had seemed like our place, our home. Here, Addie and I felt like intruders in a sanctuary of muted sweaters and woven placemats.
Addie sighed.
Kitty and Nina spent most of their time curled up in front of the TV, watching whatever was on: Saturday-morning cartoons, daytime soap operas, afternoon news reports, even late-night talk shows when they couldn’t sleep. Hally and Lissa stared out the windows, listening to the music thumping from car radios.
Ryan filled his days with making stuff. Trinkets, mostly, pieced together using tools he borrowed from Henri or Emalia. Emalia was no longer surprised to come home to a salt-and-pepper shaker that rotated between the two at a press of a button, or some other vaguely useful invention.
And Addie—Addie had started drawing again. She sketched Kitty on the sofa, capturing the soft snub of her nose, the wide, brown eyes. She caught the glint of light on Hally’s glasses, spent an hour perfecting the way Hally’s curls fell, some in lazy almost-ringlets, others barely more than a dark wave.
It was nice to have Addie drawing again. But after so many days, we were all going stir-crazy
.
“Oh!” came a voice behind us. It was Emalia, draped in a pink cardigan and a cream-colored blouse. She looked as soft and pastel as the dawn. Her smile was flustered. “I didn’t know you’d gotten up . . .”
She didn’t ask, but the question hung between us: Addie? Or Eva?
“Addie,” Addie said when I took too long to answer. By then, of course, it was. She climbed to our feet and surreptitiously stepped on the back of our heels, kicking our shoes under the couch. Addie had a thoughtless ease with our body I still didn’t.
“You’re up early,” Emalia said. “Something wrong?”
“No.” Addie shrugged. “I just woke up and couldn’t fall asleep again.”
Emalia crossed to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by only a stretch of counter. “It’s these city noises. They take a while to get used to. When I first moved here, I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep for weeks.” She gestured questioningly toward the coffee machine, but Addie shook our head.
Emalia had a bit of a caffeine addiction, but maybe that was to be expected with everything she had to do: hold down her regular job, take care of us, and complete her work for the Underground. She was the one who had forged our new documents, printing birth certificates for people who’d never been born, casting our faces onto lives we’d never lived.
I associated her now with the heavy, bittersweet smell of coffee. Even the first time we’d seen Emalia, her hair had reminded us of steam—cappuccino-colored steam curling against her pale cheeks, reaching just under her chin.
“You’re up early, too,” Addie said.
“I’m headed to the airport today. Peter’s flight arrives in a few hours.”
“No one told us Peter was back.” The words came out sharper than I’d expected. Sharper, perhaps, than Addie had intended.
Emalia’s hands stilled. “Well, it—it was a bit unanticipated. Something’s come up, so he caught an earlier flight. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d want to know.”
“I do,” Addie said, too quickly. “But it’s okay. I mean—”
“Okay, in the future I’ll—” Emalia said.
The two of them looked at each other awkwardly.
