Earthbound

I eavesdrop on Sammi as I fill my backpack to bursting with all the things from the dugout and the journals from the front seat. I look up when Mark curses. He’s staring at his ringing phone but not answering it. “It’s Daniel again. I have to answer eventually. What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Anything but the truth,” Sammi says wryly.

“Who’s Daniel?” I ask, recognizing the name from the conversation I overheard in their bedroom.

Another conversation that included hiding the truth from this Daniel person.

“Bigwig in the Curatoria,” Elizabeth answers for Sammi.

My heart pounds in warning. “Then why don’t you trust him?”

The three adults look back and forth at each other and don’t speak.

“Oh please,” I say in such a bitter tone that all three heads jerk up. “We got into this mess because you wouldn’t talk to me. Have you learned nothing?”

Sammi nods and beckons me closer. “We’ve been seeing some signs of … corruption, so to speak … among the higher authorities of the Curatoria. Regarding your case, specifically.”

I think about Sunglasses Guy, not to mention everything else that’s happened since. I was certain they were Reduciata assassins, and Sammi indicated that they were too. Are we both wrong? I grit my teeth, wishing I could remember whatever it is that the Reduciata thinks I know.

“So, just to be safe, we’re trying to keep our plans as out of their hands as possible. Even the six guns I brought,” she says, pointing to the trees, “are old friends of my dad’s who know not to report to their superiors. We could be wrong about everything,” Sammi hurries to add. “But we want to keep you safe.”

I swallow, Quinn’s words echoing in my head. Trust ye the Curatoria but tenuously. Tenuously indeed. Apparently that’s how much they trust themselves.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sammi says, making a gesture to her hidden bodyguards and leading the way.

“No.”

The word is soft, almost inaudible, but Sammi hears.

“Tavia—”

“No.” I say it louder now. I hold out the files. “Thank you for these, but I won’t be your pawn.”

“It’s not about that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to make this decision on my own. And that means not going with you tonight. That doesn’t mean I won’t help with the virus,” I add before she can speak. “But the fact is, I don’t trust Curatoria.”

“Tavia,” Sammi begins. “Don’t make me force you. I don’t—”

“Let me walk away, and I promise you’ll hear from me again. And soon. Show of good faith,” I say, challenge in my eyes. “But if you try to …” A movement over her shoulder catches my eyes and I nearly gasp when I realize it’s Quinn.

Vision Quinn, not real Quinn.

He’s in the same coat and hat he was wearing when I first saw him and he looks out of place standing close to the Honda.

He’s not looking at me; he’s glaring up the pathway we drove down hours ago.

I feel like I’m fixed in cement. Benson pulls away and says something, but I’m deaf to his words as I stand there gaping.

Quinn takes half a step forward, thrusting his chin toward the path with that same studious gaze. Then, with no warning, his head whips around and that glare is directed at me for a fraction of a second before he begins to fade from sight.

And I understand.

We stayed too long.

“They’re here,” I whisper, my head spinning to look in the same direction Quinn had been glaring.

All motion stops—everyone is silent.

“They’re here!” I shout, some forgotten instinct taking over. I hear only a sharp crack, a blinding light, before I’m enveloped in an explosion of searing heat and blistering flames.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Something inside me wrenches away control of my mind and I fall to one knee. My hands swoop out to the side and swing over my head, pages of files scattering to the ground around me.

The space around me vibrates with a sound that pierces my eardrums and yet is strangely muffled. Hot air fills my lungs and I stifle the urge to cough.

Then it’s quiet.

No, not quiet; fire crackles and roars. But the explosion is over.

I touch my arms.

I’m not burned.

Dancing orange flames lick up the trees, devouring the crackly leaves. I look up, but there’s only blackness. I’m standing in shadow.

“Ow! Damn it!” Benson swears beside me after scrambling to his feet only to clang his head on something above us and sink to the ground again.

We’re in a rounded shelter of something black. I lift my hands to it, my fingertips skimming the surface, almost hot enough to burn me. “Cast iron,” I whisper, recognizing the material. Just like the shield that protected Quinn and Rebecca from the bullets two hundred years ago.

Well, at least I know who to thank.

“Tavia, Benson,” Elizabeth snaps. I turn to her with wide eyes as I realize what happened.

“I made this!” The words burst out in a shriek. “Holy shit, Elizabeth, I did it! I—” I saved more than just me this time.

“We have to get out of here,” Benson says, his hand squeezing mine so tightly it hurts. “I can’t—why— this is all my fault.” He releases me and runs both his hands through his hair, ragged gasps loud in the tiny space.

“Ben, it’s all right,” I say, trying to grasp for his hands, but they flutter just out of reach.

His eyes meet mine and it’s like he just realized I’m here. He throws his arms around me and his fingers grasp against my back. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against my neck. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to get away.”

“Benson, what are you—”

Benson rises to his knees and pulls at his jacket, yanking it down his arms. He grips my leg to get my attention. “Scissors, Tave.”

“What?”

“Make me some scissors. Please,” he adds.

There’s no time for my ethical quandaries. Not when there are three lives to save. I can do this! Scissors. I close my eyes and force my mind to focus. A weight fills my hand and I give a pair of sewing scissors to Benson.

They’re identical to the ones that used to reside in my mother’s sewing basket. Hauntingly familiar. It’s like the locket I accidentally created. Somewhere at the periphery of my consciousness a firefly memory glows. I make what I know.

Benson grabs them and begins cutting his jacket. I still don’t understand what he’s doing, but I trust him with my life. With Elizabeth’s life.

“Water,” he says before coughing. But I’m ready this time.

Liquid spills from my upturned palms and he soaks the pieces of cloth and hands one to each of us.

“Shouldn’t I just use water to put out the fire?” I ask, confused, remembering the huge surge of water I managed to make when Benson’s roommate was such an asshole.

But Benson shakes his head. “If we can get away, the fire might hide us. You put it out, we’re sitting ducks.”

I nod and we all press the wet fabric to our mouths as we crouch together, the temperature in the air rising