Earthquake. Aprilynne Pike
That it was too dangerous to tell him. I’m sure of that. But since they’ve separated us apparently our re-awakening is no longer a priority for them.
Here’s the thing, though: it is a priority for me. I’m officially done playing their games. I’m not going to get less tired or hungry as time progresses.
It’s now or never.
For the first time, I wish I were a Destroyer. I could simply make the prison around me disappear.
My mind latches on to that idea. It seems like I should be able to do something like that. I consider how I change my face into my mother’s when I’m in public. I mean, her nose was longer than mine, so I guess you could argue that I’m creating cartilage there? But my eyes change color too.
Maybe it’s simply a matter of creating one thing that replaces what was there previously.
Could I replace a wall with created air? Is it all about the way you think about it?
I certainly have nothing to lose by trying. And everything to gain.
I pull in as much oxygen as my lungs can hold and clench my eyes shut as I push the air out. When I open my eyes, the walls on three sides of me are gone.
That’s Step One.
I nearly faint with relief when I leap to my feet and see Logan sitting on the ground a mere ten feet away, staring at where the walls used to be. At a glance I see he’s in the same room we were both in an hour ago. Two? Yesterday? I have no freaking clue.
I expect the sting of tranquilizer to hit me at any moment, but I still feel nothing as I scramble to Logan. I guess I’m just harder to hit when I’m moving.
So I better keep doing that.
“Come on!” I grab his arms and yank him to his feet. “Don’t you dare let go of my hand,” I say, ignoring the throbbing pain in my leg and shoulder. Without waiting for a response, I start to run.
Get Logan: Step Two.
“Tavia!”
The voice startles me into absolute stillness. It almost sounded like—
I can hear noise—shuffling, shouting, something that certainly could be a weapon—behind me, and I race forward, clenching my teeth as I drag Logan along. I create a dense cloud of smoke behind me, checking off Step Three in my head as I do so. My hands shake, but I’m already committed to Step Four as a fully loaded handgun fills my palm, making my injured wrist sear in pain. I grit my teeth against the agony and create more smoke behind me, trying not to cough as it tickles my throat.
The smoke is for the people behind me; the gun is for the people in front of me.
Time for Step Five. I pick a hallway and start running, replacing every obstruction in my path with harmless puffs of air.
My plan works for twenty seconds.
The hallway dead-ends.
No problem.
I replace the wall with air, and the innards of a large building are revealed. More replacing, more layers peel away. I can see light. One more layer vanishes and sun pierces through, and I have to throw my arm—still holding the gun—over my eyes to block the blinding rays.
But I keep running.
And hit a solid wall of cinderblock.
My elbow burns, and I can feel blood trickling. I make the wall go away again, but it returns in an instant. I wonder if I should make more walls disappear, but I’m risking this unknown structure collapsing in on me as it is.
I don’t have a Step Six.
Whirling, I realize the Reduciates are so close even smoke isn’t going to work. Logan has staggered to his knees, but I clamp my arms around his chest to keep him with me.
It’s going to have to be the gun.
I hold it out in front of me and brace my shoulders against the wall, pointing it wildly at the shadowy figures surrounding us, my eyes darting too fast to make out any features in the smoky air.
Can I do it? Can I pull the trigger? For myself?
For Logan?
For Logan.
I scrunch my eyes shut and start to flex my finger, but the wall behind my back suddenly disintegrates and something snakes around my neck, catching me before I can fall and cutting off half my air. The chilled edge of something metal touches my temple.
So much for my gun.
The circle around me stills, their eyes wide, and for a moment I remember the identical scene in my dream about Sonya.
“Hold on to that boy,” the voice whispers to me, and though I certainly didn’t need anyone to tell me that, I do, gripping Logan so tightly I swear I can feel the bones in my wrist scraping against each other from the pressure.
Then, to the others, in a loud, scratchy voice, “One move—a single Earthbound trick—and her brains splatter the wall.”
Oh. Good.
He drags me backward, and I pull Logan, my wrist screaming in pain. A mere foot or two and the wall reappears—hiding the Reduciates from sight but not thick enough to completely muffle their cries of outrage.
“Help!” the man calls as his arm falls from my neck and he reaches for Logan.
“No!” I scream, not willing to let him go.
“Hurry,” the man says to the black-clad masked figures that surround both Logan and me. They shuffle us toward a loud noise that I finally take note of. A helicopter! There’s a small feather and flame emblem near the nose of the helicopter. Curatoria. Is that good news or bad news? I’m paralyzed by indecision, but the helicopter blades spin so fast the wind threatens to knock me over until a person I can’t see pushes me forward, toward the ramp, despite my resistance.
The same one they’re dragging Logan up.
I give up my struggle. At least I’ll be with Logan. If we’ve gone from one dangerous situation to another, I’ll have to decide what to do about that later. For now, I reach out my hand for Logan, and with my fingers gripping his, I follow them up the ramp.
Inside the helicopter is chaos, and I’m shoved down into a seat that—though cushiony—jars my shoulder and thumps the back of my head. A small groan sounds in my ears.
My own.
Then there’s a woman in my face, her cheeks red and flushed, probably from the mask now pushed up on her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just a precaution.”
Something covers my face, and I gasp in a surprised breath of something strong and sweet. I think briefly to hold my breath, but whatever I’ve inhaled has already made my head fuzzy and my eyes roll strangely as I continue to breathe, my eyelids going heavy. I get one last look of Logan sprawled over two seats, surrounded by people in black clothing. I’m not sure whether I imagined the feeling of the helicopter leaving the ground, but sleep is too tempting, and I let my eyes close.
“You’re safe now,” a low voice whispers, just before I fall asleep. “Both of you, you’re safe.”
I try to open my mouth, but my jaw feels like a heavy steel trap and I can’t even mumble, “I don’t believe you.”
“You can wake up now,” a calm voice says. “We’re out of danger.”
A warm cloth rubs softly across my face, moistening my eyelids and making