Earthquake Page 7

  I like it.

  “I’m going to go shower,” he says with utter nonchalance. Then he raises one eyebrow. “Join me?”

  “Soon as I’m done,” I say, gesturing to the nearly finished croissant in my hand. But it’s just an excuse. As soon as I hear the water turn on, I toss the croissant onto the tray, close my eyes, count to three, and turn and look at the bedside table.

  At a tube of ChapStick.

  I pick up the tube and rub it with my thumb, then sink back down onto the bed. My hands tremble so badly I can barely keep a hold of the ChapStick.

  “I did it,” I whisper.

  I’m not broken. I created something permanent.

  A glow of victory accompanies that thought.

  But how am I supposed to feel about the fact that, even after spending the night with Logan, the first thing I thought to make was a memento of Benson?

  TEN

  It’s strange to suddenly start making everything I need. Soap, towels, clothing, hairbrush. I just think of it, and it appears. And even though I’ve known I could do this for a couple weeks now, my creations never felt exactly real before because I knew they would only disappear a few minutes later.

  Now? Everything is permanent. There are consequences. I mean, advantages too, obviously. But let’s just say I’ve spent a lot of this morning thinking about the butterfly effect.

  Honestly, I still don’t like using my powers, but I’ve had to sort of come to terms with it. It’s who I am. What I am.

  Logan, meanwhile, doesn’t have any of my hang-ups. The candle last night and breakfast this morning were just the start of his creations. Since then, he’s made a garbage can, a shoe rack, an entirely new wall to set the kitchenette off from the rest of the room, and a full set of some kind of expensive soap plus cologne and deodorant. And he’s done so completely casually. Like it’s his right and he’s been missing out on it for the last eighteen years. Like he has to make up for lost time.

  “So, do you think we’re supposed to simply wait here until they come fetch us?” Logan asks.

  Fetch? He speaks just a little differently now. I think it’s a hybrid of modern Logan and his past selves. Rather like his clothes. Which he also made. He’s wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt, but those are definitely Quinn’s comfy riding boots peeping out from beneath, and he just pulled out a gold pocket watch to check the time.

  And his hair is longer. Not as long as when he was Quinn, but not the short—probably mother-mandated—cut he was sporting before. He has taken to his abilities so easily. Easier than I did.

  Easier than I do.

  I’m still wearing my jeans from yesterday. New underwear was a must, and my shirt was seriously sweaty, so I replaced that too, but it just feels weird.

  Elizabeth—my therapist in Portsmouth—did say my memory process would be more difficult. I was worried it would be painful for Logan too, but it didn’t seem to be at all. Watching him awaken was incredible! I could see the changes—could see in his eyes how much information was suddenly inside his brain! But it didn’t hurt him. I still cringe at the memory of how agonizing my own awakening was.

  I guess that’s not the only difference though. Maybe getting used to my powers is one of the side effects. Thinking of how to use them.

  Like those doctors. Seriously, wow.

  “Yeah, I guess we have to wait,” I finally answer, folding my arms over my chest like I’m cold. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I don’t like being here.”

  “I know,” Logan says softly. “But it’s better than being in Reduciata custody.”

  “Is it?” I ask. I don’t feel like we have enough information to judge.

  “Slightly. I guess it’s the lesser of the two evils.”

  I open my mouth to say something like, “Cheerful,” when a pounding on the door interrupts me. We share a long look and then go together to the door and pull it open.

  “Morning!” An excited and overly loud voice echoes in our room, shattering my momentary relaxed state. A woman, probably somewhere in her twenties, is holding a tray of something—food, I assume—and she shoves her way through the doorway and sets it on the floor. “I saw this by the door and figured they just left it there once the lights went out. Gave me an excuse to come in and say hi!”

  I’ve hardly taken a breath when she straightens and is suddenly standing with her nose about two inches from mine. I stagger and almost fall getting away from her, but Logan manages to wrap a hand around my upper arm and hold me steady.

  “Are you her?” the woman asks, her eyes childishly wide. To my horror she lifts the hair on the right side of my head to expose my scar, her fingers feeling as hot as fire as they brush across the sensitive skin. I clamp my hand down over my scalp and jerk my body away, but I’m too late. Gods, I wish my hair were longer.

  “You are!” she says, letting loose a high-pitched squeal again, and all I can think is that I want to get away from this person no matter what it takes. “Everyone here has been hoping we would find you,” the woman continues, her almost black eyes dark and wide, reminding me very much of Bambi. “Welcome. If there’s ever anything you need . . . oh, look at me, offering my services to someone like you,” she says with a laugh, her hands gesturing at me from head to toe as though I were some physical specimen on auction.

  “I’m sorry, do I know—”

  But the woman interrupts. “Oh, silly of me. I’m Alanna, and this is Thomas.” A very tall man—probably in his early forties—with slightly wavy brown hair whom I had hardly even noticed steps forward and silently offers his hand.

  Names are murmured, hands shaken, but inside I’m desperate to get them out of my space. Alanna links her arm with mine before I can protest and turns to view our room. Logan is stuck behind me with Thomas, which I think is the better of the available options. Thomas seems reserved, quiet.

  I wonder how he stands Alanna. She looks like she’s quite a bit younger than him anyway, but she acts like a ten-year-old. It’s not just that she’s annoying; she’s tainting our space. This is the first real home that Logan and I will share—no matter how temporary—and she’s violating it with her intrusion.

  “Oh, it still has the old décor,” Alanna says, studying our neat, elegant room that, oddly, reminds me of Sammi’s room back in Portsmouth.

  “You’re both Creators, right? You’ll need some help clearing things out then. Here we go.” Looking more like a little girl than a full-grown woman, Alanna stands on her tip toes and points at the bed. “Poof!” she says, and the bed winks out of sight. “Poof, poof, poof,” and the armchairs are gone.

  I’ve never seen destroying in action except for Marie. So watching Alanna make something go away with so little thought makes my stomach sour. I have to remind myself: Destroying is not inherently bad. Both Curatoriates and Reduciates can be Destroyers. It’s just the other side of the coin.

  Still.

  I stand there with my mouth open at Alanna’s odd, childish enthusiasm as she clears the room of all its furnishings with that silly pointing of her finger.

  “There,” she says, hands on her hips. “Now you can set everything up yourselves. Not sad to see it go,” she continues before I can even think about getting a word in edgewise. “A couple of human Curatoriates lived here before. Snooty. Didn’t like to mix much. Mark, I think his name was.” Alanna turns to me, eyes sparkling, “Her name—this is hilarious—her name was Sammi and she was super short and cute with blond hair and all, but she was a hard-ass. All business, no play. I laughed every time someone called her Sammi. Totally didn’t fit.”

  I can’t breathe. I look at Logan, silently begging him to help, to remove the woman who just zapped all my former guardians’ belongings out of existence. Fortunately, Logan catches my drift and starts to bodily shove Alanna from the room. “Thank you. You were very helpful. But we’re waiting fo
r someone to come get us.”

  “Ooh, are you going to Daniel today?”

  How the hell does she know all of this?

  “Yes, they are,” says a dry voice from the still-open doorway. “And I don’t think he’d be happy to find out you delayed them.”

  I never thought I’d be so happy to see the cheerless woman who brought us here last night, but at this moment I could kiss her.

  “Run along, you two,” the woman says dryly, and we share a look that tells me this couple is not popular around here.

  Like I needed an insider to tell me that.

  The two scurry away much like puppies who have just been caught peeing on the carpet, and the woman looks us up and down to judge our readiness. Then she simply says, “He’s ready for you.”

  Instantly, the terror is back. Maybe “terror” isn’t the right word. I guess I’m not entirely afraid of Daniel—if the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that I truly am a goddess and—when I keep my wits about me—I can survive just about anything.

  But Sammi and Mark didn’t trust him. Went to great lengths to keep information about me from him. Which apparently didn’t work.

  And yet, he gave me the painting. And judging by all the stalling after that, he knew what would happen when he did. He gave me the one thing I wanted more than anything else in my life.

  Or any other life.

  He gave me Logan.

  I glance over at my diligo, somber and silent beside me. It’s hard not to feel grateful.

  Nervously, I run my fingers through my hair and pull my hand back in shock. My hair is down to my shoulders. When did that happen? Wait . . . I remember. When Alanna exposed my scar, I wished my hair were longer.

  Did that tiny thought make this happen? That’s more than a little terrifying. I vaguely remember the fear Sonya had of herself in my dreams. The surge of power that frightened her. Do I have it too, or is this normal? I hate that I honestly have no idea. I shove my hands in my pocket, pretending nothing’s wrong. I’m going to have to give this some serious thought later.

  After locking the door, we follow the woman—who still hasn’t bothered to introduce herself—down the hallway full of doors, in the opposite direction from where we came in last night. A glow of light is beaming from the end of the hall, and as we round the corner my mouth drops as a cavernous space—bigger than any lobby I’ve ever seen—greets me.

  But it’s not just the space—everything is filled with color and beauty and décor all reminiscent of ancient Rome. Plaster frescoes cover domes of alcoves, and pillars line the walls. Pillow-laden chaises and low tables are spread about, and a large buffet holds gold plates full of fruits, olives, and nuts as well as pitchers of honey and marble palettes of cheese.

  And the paintings! Everywhere are paintings of such exquisite artistry I can hardly breathe as I stare down at them.

  My fingers itch for a paintbrush as I take in the gilded frames of oils and watercolors, photographs and lithographs. I see, here and there, familiar paintings, and I can’t help but wonder if these are the real ones and if those displayed in museums such as the Met and the Louvre are actually Earthbound-created replicas.

  I can barely drag my eyes away from the walls to take in the furnishings resting on intricately woven rugs of every shape and color I could possibly imagine. It’s like a Roman museum. Each enormous alcove is decorated, perfect attention given to details I wouldn’t even think of. Beautiful tables and china hutches and credenzas are placed just so on intricately threaded carpets. Even the landing we’re standing on boasts a mezzanine with gorgeously carved rails. A navy blue stair runner invites me down the eight-foot-wide winding staircase.

  “This is wonderful,” Logan whispers. I nod in agreement but find that I’m afraid to go forward.

  Afraid to enter this bustling world that feels too big, too advanced, too incredible for someone like me.

  Too godlike.

  “This way,” the woman says, pointing us through the crowd.

  That’s right. We’re going to see Daniel.

  I never got a chance to tell Logan about how Sammi and Mark didn’t trust their illustrious leader. How, as Elizabeth explained, they’d found signs of corruption. It was something I’d intended to address before we were summoned. But then Alanna shoved her way in and then the woman was there and . . . I wish I could tell Logan now so that he’d know that I’m not ready to show all my cards to this man who may or may not be on the same side as us.

  But now isn’t the time. Maybe it won’t ever be the time as long as we’re here. Do they bug rooms? Are they always listening? Or is that only the kind of thing the Reduciates do?

  “Come on,” Logan gently urges, squeezing my hand. The woman is a good twenty feet from us now, and I hadn’t realized I was still glued to the floor. I force myself to nod, then lift my feet, clinging to Logan’s hand like a security blanket.

  We traverse the lobby, and though I expect people to turn and stare at us, they mostly keep to themselves. Small wonder—we may actually be the least interesting people here. Within one hundred feet I’ve spotted people in kilts, a woman in a long, sweeping gown, a man in a toga, and another in what looks like Indian robes. There are individuals in familiar modern dress as well, but they’re far outnumbered by their more diverse counterparts.

  “Are they all Earthbound?” I whisper.

  “Certainly not,” the woman sternly replies. “I would say that at any given time roughly ten percent of our occupants here are Earthbound. Many, many humans work with us. Support our cause. But then,” she says, and her intense eyes swing toward me as we wait for an elevator, “you know that, don’t you?”

  My thoughts immediately turn to Sammi and Mark, and I wonder again just how much these people know about me. How much they think they know about me.

  “The daily staff, however, are dressed to match the theme of the main hall.”

  Okay, I do see lots of people in multicolored togas. They look . . . busier than the others. So just what are the Earthbounds here doing? A bubble of anger rises inside me. Don’t they know humans are dying by the thousands—maybe tens of thousands now—while they’re buried all safe and secure out here in the desert?

  “Easier that way,” the woman continues as I swallow down my anger. “You know who to ask if you need help. Togas on Friday, Baroque costumes on Saturday, Chinese dress jackets on Sunday, et cetera.”

  “Does the hall change too?” I ask, and chide myself for the wonderment in my voice. Logan seems to be taking it all in stride—I’m the only one pestering her with questions.

  “Of course,” the woman says.

  Of course. I narrow my eyes at her back. I don’t like her, but I have no one else to ask. “Why are there so many people here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down. I still don’t get it.

  “Working,” she says, as though that were all the explanation necessary.

  “On what?” I press, annoyed at being evaded, especially when the fate of the world is literally at stake. They certainly don’t look like they’re working to me. More like being served by subservient humans. From literal silver platters, in some cases.

  “Lots of things. Developing technology, searching for other Earthbounds, teaching newly found Earthbounds about the time they’ve missed. We’re always busy here trying to protect our own and make the world a better place. The same thing we’ve been doing for thousands of years.”

  I think of Audra and the other doctors and the special scanner they invented. That makes me feel a little better. Something is getting done. Maybe half of these people here are just on break.

  Break. Sure.

  I try to make myself reserve judgment. After all, if I remembered more of my past lives, maybe I would understand more.

  “Ah, here we go. Off to Daniel.” The elevator doors open, and she herds us inside.


  Instead of taking us up, as I assumed it would, the elevator begins to move downward as soon as the doors close. For some reason, I have the impression that we’re in a small box descending into hell. I try not to squeeze Logan’s hand too hard, but with each foot we go deeper into the earth, my fear grows and I grasp Rebecca’s necklace like a talisman.

  Who is this man that Sammi and Mark—such loyal Curatoriates—were willing to lie to? To sneak behind his back? The thought inspires very little confidence.

  But then . . .

  It’s only seconds later that we’re exiting the elevator. I expect a hallway to greet us, but we step out into a tiny eight-by-eight-foot space, one wall almost entirely taken up by a beautiful and massive carved mahogany door. I hear a sound from behind me, and when I look, the elevator has closed and the woman is gone.

  Logan gives my hand another squeeze, but it doesn’t do much to inspire confidence. My breathing is unsteady as we stand and wait.

  And wait.

  And then the enormous door begins to swing open.

  ELEVEN

  I’m not sure just what I was expecting, but the slightly short man with graying hair and soft blue eyes wasn’t it.

  Of course, surely the great Daniel wouldn’t answer his own door—this is a . . . a secretary, an aide, something. But when he sees us his mouth tips up in a smile that crinkles the sides of his eyes.

  “Tavia. At last.”

  I stare at him in confusion, but the man doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Logan. Nick of time, eh?”

  The sheer absurdity of his statement-that-might-be-a-joke catches Logan off-guard, and he gives out a strange sort of cough-laugh.

  “Please, please, come in,” the man says, holding the door wide. “I’m Daniel.”