Earthbound

the virus—but Elizabeth said it was there, and I know now to believe her.

It takes a few minutes to orient myself, to get used to walking on a surface that doesn’t move and sway. Being still doesn’t feel normal anymore.

Jeez, I smell. The hasty washings I’ve managed to get in bathrooms on my way across the country haven’t been nearly enough. But better than being a Reduciata prisoner, I remind myself.

I hardly feel like myself anymore. No, that’s not quite right. I hardly feel like Tavia anymore. The last five days I’ve let the voices that came out when I was fighting Marie become part of me. I’ve filled half a notebook with what I can remember of them. Shihon the warrior queen from before time had meaning, Embeth the faceless scullery maid with dreams she couldn’t understand, Kahonda, an Indian huntress who died young on a search for something she couldn’t put into words.

And Sonya. And Rebecca.

They are me now, and I am them.

And we all need one thing. To find him.

Because now that I’ve had a chance to read the secret part of Rebecca’s journal—twice—we all know just what we’re running from. I don’t know what kind of future I do or don’t have with Logan, but I have to find him and protect him from these people. It’s more than a little terrifying to realize how many disasters I’ve read about in history that can be attributed to Earthbounds—usually affiliated with the Reduciata, but not always. The Mongol invasion of China, the great Indian famine, the Deluge of Poland and Lithuania, and even—if the Curatoria are to be believed: the Black Plague—a practice run of the virus now devastating the world. It ravaged Europe seven hundred years ago, but apparently that wasn’t enough for the Reduciata. This virus is supposed to be ten times worse. Ten times as deadly.

That this is success in the Reduciata’s eyes sickens me.

It makes me wonder what they’ve been involved in since Rebecca’s account. The Great Depression? World wars? Even natural disasters like the huge tsunamis of the last decade could potentially be laid at their feet.

I push those thoughts away again. I have to focus on step one—finding Logan. Step two is too big to think about now.

Too impossible.

I look at the scrap of paper I copied Logan’s address onto, even though I have it memorized.

A cab. I need a cab.

I need to get to him—to make sure he’s still alive.

And if he is, then it’ll all be worth it.

No. Not worth it. But somehow justified. I need this Logan to be the right one. To be Quinn. Because I can’t save anyone without my partner, of that much I’m certain. And I need their deaths to mean something. Sammi, Mark, Elizabeth.

Benson, my mind says, but I shove that thought back. He’s not dead.

But I kind of wish he was.

Still, too many people have died for me, for us. And not just in this life.

I look around. I don’t know how to find a cab. I stand in the parking lot looking lost for several minutes before I realize the three neon-green cars on the far end of the parking lot are taxis. Neon green?

Whatever.

I walk over to one and hold out the torn piece of paper. “Can you take me here?” I ask.

The guy reaches for the paper, but I draw it back possessively. It’s proof of where I’m going—my own little paper trail. I’ve learned the value of paranoia.

He nods his understanding—he probably drives a lot of crazy people—and leans forward to study the address. “Easy,” he says, a heavy accent in his voice. “’Bout ten miles.”

I nod with a jerky motion as adrenaline surges through me. Ten miles. I could walk if I had to. My body tenses at the thought and I’m grateful I won’t need to.

“Bags?” the driver asks, gesturing to the bus.

I shake my head. I have nothing but my backpack, and I grip its straps even tighter when the driver offers to take it. The journals are in there—my journal and Quinn’s—the few pages of the files I managed to save, the gold, the money, the necklace. No one’s taking my connections to my past away from me—not for a second.

He opens the back door and I slide into the cool vehicle. He starts the car and more chilly air flows from vents on the ceiling, hitting my face like a slap that sends goose bumps across my skin. As he pulls out of the lot, the cold air chills the nervous sweat on my body, and I shiver.

The driver notices and turns down the AC—which I appreciate—but it doesn’t matter. It’s nerves.

Every minute, every moment that ticks by brings me closer to him. I’ve embraced the feelings I once fought against. Let the attraction—Rebecca’s love—come through. I don’t care anymore than it’s not my choice. Who can fight fate, really?

I was stupid to try. I wish I had listened to Elizabeth. About everything. Maybe she and Sammi and Mark would still be alive if I had.

But even without Elizabeth’s words, I should have known.

Humans and goddesses. That never ends well; I’ve read the stories. I belong with my own kind.

I belong with Logan. He needs me.

Maybe … maybe this is what I want.

I wish I didn’t have to work so hard to convince myself of that. It’s Benson and Quinn all over again—except that the lingering feelings I wish I didn’t have are for Benson this time.

Focus, focus on how much they all love Quinn.

Leaning forward as far my seat belt will allow, I study the meter. The driver glances at me from the corner of his eye. He sees how fixated I am on the ticking red numbers and probably thinks I’m worried about the fare; now he’s afraid I can’t pay.

He couldn’t be more wrong. I’m willing the red numbers to scroll up higher, faster. Wish the driver would speed a little more.

I hear a turn signal click and sit up straight, staring out the front windshield. The driver pulls off the main road and into a quiet neighborhood. Not fancy, but nice.

Unfortunately, it’s also the kind of neighborhood where a taxi will be noticed.

“Hey.” I lean forward. “Can you drop me off like a block from the address?”

“Of course,” he says, then adds in a grumble, “You’re the boss.”

He pulls over about ten seconds later in front of a two-story stucco and brick house, and as he circles the cab to come open my door, I’m frozen in terror. Terror? No, it’s not precisely that. It’s fear and nerves and giddiness all mixed together and it glues my feet to the floor. Then the door is open and warm sunlight pours in, thawing my skin and somehow melting my paralysis. I move slowly, but at least I move.

The cabbie is looking at me with real worry in his eyes now. “That’s twenty-nine eighty,” he says, obviously assuming I can’t pay. I don’t blame him—I look like I can’t pay. But I peel two twenties from a small wad of bills in my pocket and hold it out to the driver, my eyes already traveling up the street toward my ultimate destination. He says something, but I don’t hear. I make a noncommittal sound and step away from the car.

The driver almost runs back to his seat—probably afraid I’ll ask for change—but I don’t have the energy to pay attention to him. I’m barely managing to breathe. I can feel my chest starting to convulse and have to make myself take a breath and hold it for three seconds to keep from hyperventilating.

Again.

Again.

My heart is still racing—my pulse deafening in my ears—but at least I’m not light-headed. My feet move, carrying me up the street.

I don’t have a plan. Four days of thinking about Logan and I still don’t have a plan.

It’s Saturday. He should be around. It’s still early afternoon—too early for dates and parties.

What if he has a girlfriend? My mouth dries up. I hadn’t even considered that.

A smile hovers at the corners of my mouth. Just one more hurdle. If there’s anything the last week has taught me, it’s that I can jump hurdles.

I’m here.