Earthquake. Aprilynne Pike
not the time.
“So what now?” Logan asks. It’s something just less than a whisper. He practically breathes the words.
I glance at the mirror, but it looks no different than before I got knocked out. Again. I incline my head at Logan and start scooting backward until I’m leaning against the wall. He joins me and I curl closer so my lips are right next to his ear. “Do you trust me?”
His nod is just enough of a motion for me to feel it.
“Rub my back, softly. Help me stay calm.” Then, before he can argue, I shift so my legs lay across his lap and I let my head rest against his shoulder, my face turned toward him so it can’t be seen. I breathe in the scent of his shirt—fabric softener, a light aura of sweat, the clean kind that smells earthy—and close my eyes when his arms drape over me, his fingers gingerly kneading along my spine. I’m surprised at his soft touch, but in my head, Rebecca clearly isn’t. I let myself listen to her and slump against Logan, breathing steadily.
My heartbeat speeds again at his nearness, but I’m counting on that. They’re watching, analyzing, but now they’ll think this is my baseline. I try to lose myself in the hypnotic massage, pretending it’s my mom, or even Sammi. Anyone but Logan. Once I’ve detached the feeling of those soothing hands from their owner, I start to let myself think of science again. Of my teacher Mr. Peterson lecturing in his boring fashion. Even explosives were tedious when he was trying to explain them.
I hold the image of his crisp shirt and tie in my mind, recalling the nasal sound of Mr. Peterson’s voice as he dryly listed off ingredients. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Over and over in my head until it doesn’t feel exciting anymore. I let out a heavy breath like I’m really enjoying this backrub and stare out from beneath my eyelids. I glare at the wall and then, as I let the air out like I’m breathing through a straw, I create a metal casing. Inside the wall.
I don’t see anything.
Nothing cracks.
That was the risky part.
The ingredients of gunpowder float along in my consciousness, and I remember mixing a small amount in class. I double, triple, quadruple that in my head and—again, as I breathe out—I fill the metal canister.
I’m so close, adrenaline tingles in my fingers. I toss my head back and pull closer to Logan, turning the simple backrub into something sensual—I need to hide my increased excitement. Logan’s body clenches up beneath me, but he doesn’t fight as I pull him close and rest my lips against his neck. I can sense the Reduciates watching my every move and nearly gag at the thought of actually being romantic in front of them.
Like. I. Would.
But apparently they don’t know me that well because they don’t do anything to stop me. I’m all the way on Logan’s lap now, and I can feel sweat start to trickle down his back as he grows more and more uncomfortable with the intimacy I’m forcing on him. But we’re almost done. I pull his head down, close to my chest—not sure just what that is going to look like. Then, as I set my head down on his back, my arms wrapped around him—covering him, protecting him—I create a spark.
Debris shatters out of the wall, ricocheting off the other walls and pelting Logan and me. “Come on!” I say, staggering to my feet as I try to pull him with me. “Run!”
I clench my fingers around his and dive into the smoke, hoping there’s actually a hole all the way through the wall. I can’t see—I can barely hear after the blast—but I keep moving forward, one hand stretched out in front of me, the other hanging on to Logan for dear life.
I bounce off something warm and squishy enough that it must have been a person, but I keep running. I pivot to my left and run toward light. What I think is light. I trip over something and go sprawling, but because I refuse to let go of Logan, he follows my trajectory and lands on top of me, pushing the air from my lungs. I landed badly on my wrist, but I can’t let that stop me. I don’t need my arms to run.
Pushing the pain away, I yank Logan to his feet. I’m desperately thinking of what I can make to help us escape when something hard hits me across the stomach and I double over, gasping for breath yet again. Arms wrap around me, and I try to scream but I have no air yet, and I fight against my own muscles as my lungs burn. Finally I get out an enraged shriek that’s way higher pitched than I intended it to be.
I slam into a wall, and the back of my head clangs against something. A sob of fiery pain escapes my mouth and blackness invades my periphery as my cries reverberate in my aching head. My knees have no chance, and I collapse onto the floor, my whole body quaking in fear and agony.
A blurry face invades my fading sight, but I can’t even raise my hand to block the view of Sunglasses Guy, two inches from my nose.
“Sit,” he says, and I dimly feel a fleck of spit from the T at the end of the harsh word. “Stay.”
He rises to his feet and he looks even taller from where I lie crumpled on the floor. As he walks away I fight to stay conscious, but the pain is overwhelming and it’s a relief when I slip away.
I have no idea how long it is before I wake, but the pain is even sharper than last time. My ears are ringing—probably from the noise of the bomb exploding—and my entire body is sore and achy. I try to take stock while cradling my head in my hands. Throbbing, puffy lip; I probably bit it. My shoulder is still tender. But the worst is my wrist—it’s swollen twice its normal size and purple bruises are starting to form. I move it and cringe. It’s either broken or very badly sprained. I’m stiff from sleeping—well, lying unconscious on the ground—but that particular discomfort is so minor in comparison that it barely registers.
I push up onto my knees with my one good arm and peer blearily around. I don’t care what I look like to them. Not this time.
I’ve been relocated into a much, much smaller room. The walls are the same glaring white, same bleachy tiled floor, but probably half the size. Worse, the tiny box is lined with an even smaller cage of bars. That’s what I must have hit when I was literally thrown in here. There’s another two-way mirror, but it’s on the other side of the bars, where I can’t even attempt to reach it.
My mind is having trouble thinking clearly, but I know I’m missing something. Something is wrong. Something big. I close my eyes and rub hard at them before I remember.
Logan.
He’s not here.
I have a feeling I’ve just been put in Reduciata solitary confinement.
The hum of the air conditioning unit kicking on pulls me from my stupor. Ah, new tactic then. They’re going to keep me cold, stiff, and devoid of energy.
Sunglasses Guy did warn me they weren’t stupid.
The Reduciates seem to want me alive, but the state I’m in is apparently unimportant.
I push myself off the hard floor and start pacing to keep myself warm. I’m guessing it’s been about an hour since they separated me from Logan. I rub at my temples, willing the throbbing to go away. The stark halogen lights hurt my eyes and make it hard to think. But thinking’s all I’ve got at the moment. I reflect on what I’ve figured out thus far.
They want something—something in my head. A secret.
The memories of whatever the secret is come from Rebecca. She knew. And if my dreams can be believed, Sonya knew too. But for some reason it remains locked inside my brain, dancing away like shadows from a flickering candle whenever I think about it. How do the Reduciates think they’re going to get it out of me when I can’t get it out of myself?
I