Once We Were

“They don’t even know,” Christoph shouted. He was speaking to the rest of the group now, not Ryan and me. As if we were too far gone to talk to. As if we weren’t worth the effort. “They don’t even know.” His voice turned low, hoarse. “They don’t even get how badly they’re screwing everything up. One day they’ll look back and realize how utterly stupid and small-minded they were.” He swung to face us. “And it’ll be too late.”

Each word was a rusty nail shot between our ribs.

“They weren’t there, Christoph,” Jackson said quietly. In defense of us? Or in dismissal?

It was true. We’d never been in an institution. We’d been in Nornand for six days.

It sounded pathetic in my mind—but it hadn’t been. We might have been fed and properly housed and allowed, every few days, to go outside, but—

“Then they shouldn’t,” Christoph growled, “try to screw around with things they don’t understand.”

“I think,” Ryan said quietly but firmly, “we understand murder just fine.”

Christoph sneered. He paced back and forth, as if his rage burned too hot to allow him to keep still. Then, as if he couldn’t even bear to look at us anymore, he stalked past us and stood, stiff-shouldered, by the window.

Sabine said, quietly, “It’s not murder if it’s war.”

Jackson didn’t speak. Jackson, who loved to hear the sound of his own voice. Jackson, who had smiled even when crushed in that dark closet with us at Nornand Clinic, yards away from a nurse, and whispered for us to keep hope.

I met his pale blue eyes, but they seemed to stare right through me.

“Call the plan off,” Ryan said. “I’ll take—”

I saw Jackson’s eyes widen. Saw his mouth open. He shot upright.

Then I just saw the brightest flash of light and crumpled.

THIRTY-FOUR

I didn’t have time to scream before our head hit the floor.

Our vision blackened. First around the edges. Then completely. Darkness, utter and stifling.

“Eva!” Ryan shouted.

The world returned in patches. Fairy lights. A few planks of floor. Sneakers, blurred.

The blow had come from behind. Someone had hit us with something—something much harder than just a fist.

I tried to push ourself off the floor but everything spun

spun

spun

spun spun—

Somebody crashed down onto the floor next to me. Christoph. Blood on his lip. I tried again to push off the ground—

Christoph was the only one who’d been standing behind us. Christoph had attacked us. Before the thought could even settle in my addled mind, he’d leapt back up.

Feet, everywhere. Ryan shouting, furious. Everyone shouting.

Our head rang, sound funneling into our ears as if through water.

Then there was someone crouched next to us. Sabine. She grabbed our arm.

Ryan, I tried to say, then managed to—“Ryan—”

Sabine dragged us toward her. There was something in her hands, dully silver. Duct tape. I tried to scramble away, but she said, “Hold her!” and more hands—Cordelia’s hands—clamped us down. I screamed, thrashing.

“God,” someone said in horror. Jackson.

A rag was crammed into our mouth. We choked on it, gagging, our back arching. Our hair covered our face, our eyes. Someone yanked our hands behind our back. We heard the skriich of duct tape, then felt it against our wrists, wrenching them together, binding them. Something rammed into us, and Sabine swore.

“Christoph! Get ahold of him.”

Ryan.

Our legs jackknifed outward, catching Christoph in the knee. He went down, but fell toward us instead of away, and we screamed into our gag as his weight slammed across our legs.

Then Ryan was there, pulling him off. Cordelia left us to tackle him. Christoph staggered back onto his feet. The three of them stumbled toward the other end of the attic—

Where Jackson stood, alone. Frozen.

“Jackson,” Sabine snapped. “Get over here and help me.”

Our arms were pinned. We tried again to lash out with our legs, but they didn’t move properly, and they hurt.

Sabine pressed us against the ground. We fought, but our bound hands threw us off balance. The initial blow had shot stars in our vision. Even now, we felt nauseated, like we might throw up. We couldn’t get the hair out from our eyes. Couldn’t see.

Then we felt the tape winding around our legs. We heard Sabine say, “Here, do him, too. Quickly.”

For a long moment, all we could hear was the sound of tape being pulled, the sound of panted breaths, of someone fighting to yell through a gag.

Then, quiet. Our cheek stayed pressed against the wooden floor, our eyes open. We saw nothing but the bottom of the green couch and our disheveled hair.

Someone pulled us into a sitting position. With our legs and arms bound, we almost fell over again. Sabine brushed the hair from our face, her hands soft. Her thick hair was tangled, too, her eyes wide and bright, her lips parted as she struggled to regain her breath. There was a scratch on her cheek. From us?

I found I still cared.

And I hated it.

I searched desperately for Ryan and found him at the other end of the attic, similarly bound. He watched the room. Watched me. His left sleeve had ripped at the seam. Like me, he breathed heavily. There was blood smeared across his temple.

That was when I stopped caring who I hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Sabine said quietly, pulling my attention back to her.

The gag prevented Addie and me from speaking aloud. Pure fury kept us from even speaking to each other.

“Christoph”—she turned to face him, and for a second the stubborn calm on her features dropped to reveal the anger underneath—“shouldn’t have done that.”

Christoph stood by Ryan, his lip split, his eyes wild. He clenched his jaw and looked away. Ryan tried to say something, but the rag in his mouth garbled it beyond comprehension. It did nothing to hide his vehemence.

Sabine ignored him. “I know you’re upset, Eva. You have every right to be upset. But you can’t go to the police. You’re too angry to realize that right now, so we have to make sure you won’t do something stupid until you can control yourself.”

I put every ounce of rage I could into my glare, every bit of pain.

“We’re on the same side,” Sabine said softly. “You have to understand that. We don’t have anyone but each other. And you’ll get that someday. Soon, I hope.” She seemed about to reach out toward us, but the look in our face stayed her hand. “If you went to the police, you think they wouldn’t take you away, too? What if they traced you back to Peter? And Henri? And Emalia? You could bring the whole Underground crumbling down, and then who would help all the kids who need saving?”

And what about what you were planning? What if they traced murder back to you?