My body refuses to move on its own, but offers no resistance when the Sentry turns us around and marches us out of the lab. The weird, tentacled science bots watch us with impassable faces. I wonder what they’re thinking, if they think at all. Then I’m too busy worrying to wonder anything.
Javed and I are silent as the Sentry guides us into yet another part of Center I’ve never seen, down a corridor with actual windows looking out onto the ruins of my once-beautiful city. Anger rises up inside me. Is this a view they enjoy? Does it give them pleasure to reflect on their annihilation of our world?
Before I can get properly worked up, we’re past the windowed hallway and into a sort of professional suite with offices clustered around a central waiting area. The Sentry walks us to one of the closed doors and knocks. “Enter,” says a voice that makes my skin crawl. The door slides open, and the bot shoves us inside.
Winona is sitting behind a sizable desk. In front of her float a series of holographic displays, from which I imagine she can run the entire facility if she so desires. The rest of the room is bare, save some chairs against the wall and two more across from her desk. “There you are,” she says.
I assume she means us, but a voice behind us says, “Hello,” startling the hell out of me. I whirl to see not-Ryan walking toward us, followed by Zenana. He immediately zeroes in on my hand in Javed’s, and I snatch it away even as Javed drops it. I fear I’m in even worse trouble now, but his impassive face gives nothing away.
Winona gestures to the chairs in front of the desk. “Jeraca, Javed, please have a seat.”
I obey, feeling not-Ryan’s gaze on my skin like a living thing. An irrational guilt settles like a millstone around my shoulders.
“Please explain why you ignored the orders of the Sentry in the atrium,” Winona says as soon as we’re situated. So much for pleasantries.
“We heard screaming and wanted to find the person in trouble,” Javed says. “It’s a human instinct to want to help others.”
She scrutinizes him for a moment. I imagine her sensors are detecting his heart rate, breathing patterns, and a hundred other minute bodily reactions to gauge whether or not he’s telling the truth. Then she looks at me, and I feel my body going haywire before she even opens her mouth. “Jeraca, why did you ignore the orders of the Sentry?”
“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to follow the orders of every bot in this place,” I say. “Someone was in pain, and I wanted to know who—and why.”
Winona’s expression doesn’t change, but her eyes grow as frosty as the Arctic. “If you didn’t know you were supposed to follow the Sentry’s orders, then why did you run?”
“When someone’s in pain, you don’t usually stroll toward them. Besides, it seemed like it wanted to stop us, and I didn’t want it to.”
Javed’s eyes flash a warning, but that only stokes the anger in my chest. How dare they torture that kid and then pretend to have the moral high ground? “I have some questions of my own, actually,” I say. “Why do you have that boy stuck to a column in that room? What are you doing to him? Are you aware he screams in pain every damn time one of those blue lights touches his skin?”
“Of course we’re aware,” she says. “The point of his punishment is to feel pain. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment.”
“Punishment?” I say, as Javed bursts out, “How can you do such a thing? It’s inhumane!”
“Javie, hush,” Zenana admonishes him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mama, how can you take her side? I know you’re not fully human, but this is cruelty. My real mother wouldn’t have stood by and let an innocent young man be harmed.”
“Innocent?” Winona’s laugh is harsh. She stands and braces her hands against the desk as she leans toward us. “The boy you two are so eager to defend murdered the hybrid of his mother.”
My blood runs cold as I remember the screams from the other night. “Is that what happened when you two came to visit me?” I ask, my eyes flickering to not-Ryan. He hesitates only a moment, and then nods. I turn back to Winona, my face reddening with shame. “I didn’t know,” I mumble.
“It still doesn’t excuse torture,” Javed insists. “If you want to punish him, lock him up. Don’t make him suffer like that.”
“His suffering can never be equal to that of his victim’s,” Winona says coldly. “However, we have the ability to exact a similar punishment. In his mind, he is her, reliving the last moments of her life again and again. Feeling her death steal over him, the warmth of her blood gushing over his own hands. Only in that way can he be made to understand his crime.” She looks down her nose at us. “When he has sufficiently learned his lesson, he will be released. Not to the Task, of course, but we will make sure he returns to his compound unharmed.”
I wonder which compound that is. Not Epsilon—of all the humans here, only I am native to this city. But there are several compounds in what used to be my state, from which all the rest of them have come. “How do we know he’ll be returned?” I ask. “It’s not like we can check up on you. I assume you won’t let anyone go with him to verify.”
“You care so much for the well-being of a murderer,” she says, and it is not a compliment. “You’ll have to be satisfied with my word.”
I’m not, and she knows it. But to admit it is to forfeit the game, and I’ve come dangerously close to losing already. So I nod and say OK like a good little girl, and I don’t even complain when Winona orders not-Ryan to escort me back to my room. “No more wandering,” she says as we leave, and I fear my days of relative freedom in Center have come to an end.
Javed and Zenana walk ahead of us. Every now and then, the former glances back and grimaces at me, a look of shared understanding passing between us. I can sense not-Ryan’s displeasure, but he says nothing. We reach the familiar hallway in just a few minutes, reminding me again that I know almost nothing about this place. Zenana and Javed disappear down the corridor for some breakfast, leaving not-Ryan and me alone outside my room.
“May I come in?” he asks, an intensity in his eyes I’ve never seen. My heart begins to pound.
“I don’t—what? Why are you smiling?”
“Because you don’t react that way when you talk to him,” he says. “I can hear your heart beating like a drum every time we’re together. Your breath quickens and your pupils dilate. Do you not notice?”
Of course I notice. I try not to, but it’s not like these are subtle signs. It pisses me off that he can see it so easily. “Wait, who is him? What are you talking about?”
“The man you were holding hands with. You don’t react to him like you do to me.”
“Who, Javed?” I roll my eyes. “We’ve known each other less than twenty-four hours. I’m not quite ready to move in with him yet.”
“I’m glad.” Not-Ryan steps closer, so close I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Jesus, they’re exactly like my husband’s. I get the whole DNA thing, but not even twins are exactly the same. I’m guessing these two are identical down to their fingerprints and follicle counts. “I know you don’t want to hear it,” he murmurs, “but I do love you. Very much.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible.” The breathy sound of my voice embarrasses me, but I can’t seem to make it stop. “You’re not my husband. You learned his personality from social media and video recordings. How is it you can have his memories or feelings?”
“You’d be surprised what DNA holds.” He takes another half-step, until he’s almost pressing me against the door. I should put a stop to this, I know I should, but it’s like he’s hypnotizing me. I can’t stop staring at his eyes, his long lashes, the crooked mouth with its perfect teeth just visible between his parted lips. He’s half a foot taller than me, but he’s so close all I’d have to do is lean forward a little, and that would be it. He would have won.
I can’t let him win.
“I should eat,” I say, leaning as far back as possible. I imagine him kissing me anyway, melding our lips and tongues and bodies together with a heat I haven’t felt in over a year. I want it so much.
But he’s not my husband. He isn’t ruled by his emotions, for all he says he has them. He’s a bot, and when I say I should eat, he agrees and takes a step back. Disappointment washes over me.
“Hey there, kids!” William emerges from his room a little way down the hall. “Feel like joining an old man for breakfast?”
“Of course,” I say brightly, with a happiness I don’t feel.
“Sounds great,” not-Ryan says. I don’t know why it surprises me; all the other hybrids eat with their humans. He catches me looking and says, chagrined, “Winona wants me to keep an eye on you. It’s part of the Task anyway. I know you haven’t agreed to it, but spending time together isn’t so bad, is it?”
“It’s fine,” I say. My smile doesn’t falter. I knew there would be consequences after this morning, but if all I have to do is put up with my fake husband a little more, I count myself lucky. I honestly thought I’d be confined to my room for the foreseeable future. All things considered, it could be worse.
Then again, I think, glancing over at him as we head to the cafeteria, it might end up being the beginning of my downfall. He looks at me and grins, and I know he can hear my heart racing. His eyes hold triumph and more than a little heat.
Yeah. I’m totally screwed.
The voice is cold. “Prepare her,” it says. “I want no mistakes this time.”
The gag in my mouth chokes me as I scream, a garbled squeak that quickly dies. My arms and legs are cemented to the column. The tentacled science bots hover around me, their little fronds waving excitedly. At least, I think they’re excited. The atmosphere around me is so thick with fear and tension I could cut it with a knife.
“Please,” I whimper. What comes out sounds nothing like speech, but the bots can detect the vibrations in my throat as well as words. “Please don’t do this. I didn’t mean to betray you.”
Ryan glances up from the console that controls all the machinery. He flips a switch and the tubes shift and writhe, making me scream with pain as the needles scrape across flesh and bone. His smile widens. “Your intentions don’t matter,” he says. “I gave you every chance. You should have told me the truth.”
“Please…” I panic as he adjusts the controls. Blue light builds at the base of every tube and creeps agonizingly toward me. All I can do is wait for the torment and pray it doesn’t overwhelm me.
Ryan turns to watch. The bots’ tentacles wave faster. They’re practically dancing in ecstasy. My naked body shivers as the first light reaches me, and then I’m screaming like I’ve never screamed before. Pain like a living thing rips and claws its way through my insides. On and on and on it goes, without relief or cessation. Ryan laughs, and I realize he isn’t the hybrid at all, but my husband. My husband is there, working for the bots, and he’s trying to kill me…
Gasping, I sit straight up in bed, weeping and shivering and soaked with sweat from head to toe, simultaneously hot and cold. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. I draw the blanket up around my shoulders and sob my heart out. Hopelessness grabs me and refuses to let go.
Since Javed and I discovered the young man a week ago—Mike Jones is his name, according to the bots—I’ve had nightmares every single night. Not-Ryan can tell something’s wrong with me, but I don’t want to tell him about it. I know he would reassure me and thaw the ice around my heart, and I’ve made it my mission to hold off the inevitable as long as I can.
Between my yearning for him and my horror of what the bots are doing to Mike, it feels like my insides are in a race between coming back to life and dying by inches.
Not-Ryan and I are together every day now. He shows up at breakfast, laughing and carefree, entertaining every person at the table with jokes and stories of “our” life together. None of the other bots are as expansive and warm as he is—none of the humans, either, for that matter—and I can see the effect it has on the entire group. He’s single-handedly helping the Task along, and I don’t know whether I hate or admire him for it. All the women have a crush on him, even the hybrids who were brought back for their husbands. Ellen Decker—as dour a person as I’ve ever known—actually blushes when he talks to her. To be honest, I don’t blame her. I don’t blame any of them. Ryan was the life of the party when he was alive, a man who lit up every room he entered. It makes sense his bot clone would be the same.
In between meals, we have our sessions. Some are with Winona, others alone or with other humans and hybrids. In the morning we go to therapy, ostensibly to discuss our current and former relationship, but in reality I think they’re trying to get past my single-minded determination to make things difficult for them. These sessions are the most dangerous, as I try to walk that thin line between obstinacy and oversharing. It’s not easy. Evenings after supper are the most fun, because we all gather in the game room or in other parts of Center for activities and socializing with the others. I know everyone’s name now, and vice versa. To my surprise, many of them like me almost as much as they like not-Ryan.
But all of these things pale next to the simulations. Several days a week after lunch, he takes me to that white room with its needled goggles, and for a few hours I live another life.
The technology is astonishing. When the goggles are on, I get to observe lawyers, doctors, helicopter pilots, mercenaries. I see everything they do. I feel the sun and smell the wind and taste the rain. Each of these vignettes offers me a glimpse into life before, during, even after the war’s end. The sensations are so real they force me to adjust every time I come back to reality. And every time, not-Ryan is waiting to ask me question after question about what I saw.
“I’m trying to match the scene to your emotional timeline,” he explains after I snap at him to stop giving me the 3rd degree. For reasons I can’t understand, I don’t want to tell him anything. In many cases, I can’t. Not only do the simulations feel intensely personal to me, but I find I lack the words to talk about what I’ve seen. Describing them to him is like trying to communicate a dream. He doesn’t push too hard, but each time I sense a sort of frantic desperation below his placid surface. It makes me angry. I wish he would stop trying so damn hard.
All in all, though, things could be worse. Life in Center has its own rhythms, easy to get used to and almost soothing. One could almost believe the bots have no ulterior motive beyond coexisting with humanity. They’re peaceful, pleasant, and accommodating to the point where we can do just about everything but leave (and wander around into the now restricted areas, thanks to yours truly).
Despite what they think, however, I haven’t really drunk the Kool-Aid. The mental picture of Mike Jones lurks behind everything I see and do. Whenever Winona plasters on her fake smile and pretends to like me, I hear her cold voice talk about his year-long punishment. I don’t know the guy. He might be a piece of shit for all I know, murdering a woman who is half his mother in cold blood. But I’ll say this much: I understand. Nothing here is like it was Before, including morality. In the Dark, there is only survival, and the desperate need to hold onto one’s sanity by whatever means possible.
If that includes lying my ass off to make everyone trust me, I’ll do it. I don’t give a shit.
“That’s odd.” Noel Bancroft, former lawyer and all around good guy (I know—weird, right?) glances around the breakfast table. Alton, his partner, is missing, along with all thirteen other hybrids. For the first time in over a month, they haven’t joined us for a meal.
I’m relieved. Denying my ever-increasing feelings for the clone of my dead husband is becoming more difficult by the day. Some may think I’m crazy for falling for him. Others may think I’m an idiot for holding out this long. Maybe most people would jump at the chance to reunite with their beloved dead. God knows everyone else here has. Weeping Girl—Kelly, rather—treats us all to a make out show at least five times a day. Dag, her hybrid boyfriend with the dumbest name in all of Christendom, is just as enthusiastic as she is. Apparently the hybrids can do anything we can.
Anything.
So when dreams of being with not-Ryan start to supersede the torture dreams, I know I’m in trouble. I seem to go around in a constant state of arousal these days, and of course he knows. He never says anything, but that damn little smirk he wears is maddening. Which is why, on this particular morning, I don’t sweat his absence. Instead, I thank my lucky stars for a moment of peace.
Normally a Sentry or two hangs about the cafeteria while we eat, in case we have questions or need anything. Today, one of them watches me closely, and I realize 70192 is back. I haven’t seen it in a few weeks; not since I began taking my meals with the others.
“Jeraca Holly,” it says, inclining its head.
“Hi,” I mutter, peering down at my plate while the others look at me.
“Got an admirer, eh?” William says with a wink. I roll my eyes.
“I’m not sure that’s possible, actually,” says Darshan Rao, a twenty-something former graduate student. He and his twin sister, Dipali—a hybrid now—had been studying environmental science when the world went tits-up. The others joke with them that they were just a bit too late to do any good, something that amuses Dipali but makes Darshan cringe. “I don’t think any bots except the hybrids have actual emotions.”
“Are we even sure they do?” William asks, glancing around as if he expects his wife to show up at any moment. “Ellen wasn’t the most demonstrative woman in life, but this one barely looks at me.”
An uncomfortable silence descends on the table. We humans generally don’t talk about our hybrids, though I suppose it’s mostly because they’re always there. What one bot knows, they all know. Despite this experiment, we all know their loyalty is still to each other.
“Aaaanyway,” Kelly says, munching a bite of her green salad. “Dag is just like he was. I don’t even notice a difference.”
“This Alton is a bit more fastidious,” Noel says with a smile. “He still misses our puppy, though. We’d just gotten her when—when the Beetle came.”
Javed and I glance at one another. We decided the rest of them don’t need to know that same Beetle is still here. Both of us have reservations about lying (to humans, anyway) but it would only upset them. And to be honest, I don’t trust these people much more than I trust the bots. They were all a little too willing to go along with this BS. “My mom is definitely not the same,” he offers. “Before, I was her number one priority. Now she puts the machines ahead of me.”
This makes me sad. I offer him an encouraging smile, wincing when his eyes light up just a bit too much. Crap. When did that happen?
“What about you?” Kelly asks snidely, and I realize she’s looking at me. “Is this Ryan the same? Or is he different in any—particular way?”
“What, like does his dick vibrate or something?” I blurt before I think better of it. There is silence around the table, and then all but Kelly and Javed burst out laughing. Mortified, I hurry to assure them I’m only joking. “Guys, I haven’t spent any time alone with him. This is still really weird for me.”
“Same here,” Elinor offers. She’s been quieter than normal lately, something I haven’t noticed until this very moment. My gaze sharpens as I note her thin appearance and sallow skin. Her majesty is still there, but it’s under threat. How have I not noticed? “I’m over the moon about Elijah, of course, don’t get me wrong.” She seems desperate to assure us. “But I…I can’t help but wonder…a child? After everything that happened?”
From the looks on the faces around me, she isn’t the first to have the thought. No one will meet her eyes. After a long moment of awkward silence, Darshan says, “It doesn’t matter why they chose them, does it? What matters is the overall goal. Do you think they really want to coexist with us?”
No one answers. We might be stuck together; we might even like each other. But no one here trusts anyone else as far as they can throw them. We’ve all learned hard lessons about trust in the last year.
“I do,” offers Lydia Forster, a Filipina in her mid-60s. Her husband, Dean, is like the grandpa we all had Before, slightly inappropriate but lovable. Lydia is the universal grandmother, a bit dotty but sweet as pie. I like both of them very much. “My Dean would never lie to me. He says we’re entering a new era of peace and harmony. I see it here, around this table, and every night when we all gather together. You’re all our family now, and we love each and every one of you.”
Tears and smiles greet her little speech. Noel gets up and gives her a hug, much to her delight. The whole table shares in a moment of camaraderie, except for Elinor. She looks downright unhappy. I stare at her until she meets my eyes, and just as quickly looks away. But in that split-second, I see something she doesn’t want me to see.
Elinor Grant is scared. Deep, down to the bone scared. And I intend to find out why.
The hybrids don’t appear after breakfast. Nor do they show up at lunch or dinner. When we ask the Sentries where they are, the only answer we receive is that they are indisposed for the day and will see us in the morning. Even my questioning of 70192 yields nothing, and I sense the bot is deeply unhappy with me for reasons I can’t even begin to guess. Nor do I want to try.
That evening in the rec room feels strange without the other half of our group; strange but freeing. We don’t have to try so hard to be diplomatic and accommodating. We can be a little more human with each other, a little more frank and a little less stilted. Many conversations are had about our experiences after the war. People tell stories of their first night at Center and how frightened they were. They talk about their first impressions of one another, and laugh and laugh and laugh. No one mentions Mike, and I realize no one even remembers his existence. Javed and I glance at one another, and I know we’re both thinking of him, but that is one story we won’t tell.
He does, however, tell them about the Beetle, much to my dismay. The group takes it surprisingly well; either they’re numb to pain or enough time has passed that it isn’t so sharp and debilitating. Either way, I suppose it’s good they know what we’re up against. That the bots aren’t as kind and well-meaning as they want us to believe.
All evening long, Elinor sits apart from the group, in the corner by one of the TVs. She pretends to watch some formulaic crime drama, but her attention is far, far away. “Hey,” I say, plopping down beside her. She jumps a mile and looks at me, the whites of her eyes visible all around the irises.
“Oh! Jeraca, hi.” Her nervous laugh is the fakest thing I’ve heard since Kelly’s sex moans after dinner last night when she and Dag “forgot” to close her door. “You startled me.”
“So I see.” I glance around to make sure no one’s paying attention to us, and then lean toward her. “Elinor, I can tell something’s wrong. What is it? I’ll help you if I can, you know I will.”
“What do you mean?” she asks a little too loudly. “Everything’s great.”
Everything is clearly not great, but I can tell that if I push her, she’ll pull away so fast my head will spin. So I smile and cross my legs, settling in. “Cool, just making sure. Mind if I watch with you?”
She eyes me warily, but eventually nods. “Sure. Of course.”
“Great.”
For the next thirty minutes, I stare relentlessly at the television, seemingly absorbed in whatever CSI-ish shows the bots have managed to save (seriously, of all the media that existed, they chose these?) without once glancing Elinor’s way. But I feel her watching me, and can practically hear the gears turning in her mind. The episode ends, and I expect her to say something, but she doesn’t, and the next one comes on.
Fine. I can wait it out.
People start to trickle away in ones and twos, ready for bed. Javed stops by the sofa and asks if I want a chess rematch, but I tell him I’m more into the mindless entertainment tonight. He’s disappointed, but gives me a smile and says good-night. We’re alone by the time the credits roll on the second episode. Elinor stands.
“Well, good night,” she says. Glancing up at her, I see the tightness around her eyes and mouth, the alarming expression on her face edging closer every second to outright terror. She heads for the door. I watch her, anxiety churning in my gut, knowing full well the bots probably have every square inch of this place bugged. Whatever she tells me, they’ll hear. It’s maddening.
At the door, her hand hovers over the knob. She turns and looks over her shoulder. “See you in the morning,” she says tightly.
“’Night, Elinor,” I murmur, trying to tell her with my eyes that I understand. A moment later, her face brightens.
“Hey! Do you know anything about showers?” she asks excitedly. I am officially confused.
“I know the basics of how they work, yes,” I say slowly. “Why?”
“Well, mine is acting a little funky, and I wondered if you would take a look and see if you think it’s broken. If yours is different, I mean.”
“I’m sure the bots could fix…” I say, trailing off as her huge eyes and odd behavior finally click into place. She’s a goddamn genius. “Yes! I’d love to take a look.” I jump up and practically run to the door. Elinor hurries on ahead, anxious now that she has a plan. When I burst into the hall, I nearly run smack into 70192.
“Jeraca, I must speak with you—” it says, but I blow past it.
“Later,” I call over my shoulder, following Elinor into her room. I slam the door in the Sentry’s face and jog to the bathroom, where she’s already turning on the spigot. I perch on the side of the tub as the water roars next to us. I keep my voice as low as I can. “Think they can still hear us?”
“Probably,” she says with a shrug. “But it’s the only thing I could think of.”
“So what’s wrong?” I ask. She leans forward, listening while trying to read my lips. The moment is strangely intimate—not in a sexual way, but as if we’ve become best friends in some sort of accelerated timeline.
“Have you gone through many simulations?” she asks without preamble.
Surprised, I nod. “Almost every afternoon. Why?”
“Does Ryan ask you a lot of questions about them?”
“Yeah. He says they need to know what’s happening in order to track my emotional responses to them.”
“And that doesn’t seem odd to you?” Fear lurks in her eyes. “Why would they run programs they can’t access? They should know exactly what’s being played. Shouldn’t they?”
I think about it. “Well—yes, I suppose so. If it’s really a simulation, they should have programmed it.”
“But they don’t seem to have any idea what we’re being shown. And Elijah is getting—insistent. Every day he asks question after question about what I see, and to be honest, it’s starting to frighten me. He gets really angry when I don’t give him what he wants.”
“You don’t tell him?” I ask, thinking of my own inability to relay the information.
Elinor shakes her head. “Not any details, no. Something about them is so lifelike, but at the same time, I feel like I can’t tell him. Not only emotionally, but physically.”
The hairs on my arms stand on end. “It’s the same for me,” I say. “It’s like trying to describe a dream. It’s so vivid, but afterward it’s too chaotic. Vague descriptions are the best I can do. Then there’s a part of me that doesn’t want him—them—to know what I see.”
Elinor nods eagerly, as if it’s the answer she suspected. “We don’t even talk about them among ourselves, have you noticed? Of course, we’re never really alone, but even when we are, they’re taboo. I have a sneaking suspicion the hybrids didn’t join us today because they were hoping we’d bring them up. The whole thing is strange.”
“I suppose I hadn’t really thought about it. This entire situation is strange. The simulations aren’t any weirder than the rest.”
She shakes her head. “They are, because those are what the hybrids focus on. Elijah does, at least.”
“You said he’s starting to scare you?”
“Yeah.” She bites her lip, staring down at her lap. When she looks up again, her eyes are haunted. “He doesn’t act like a nine-year-old when he’s questioning me. It’s obvious then what he is. At first, I was so happy to have him back, I didn’t think about it. But it’s hard to keep pretending.”
I’m taken aback, even though Elinor was the most vocal about her distrust when we first arrived. “You know we can’t trust them,” I say. Her expression tells me that yes, she does know. My mind races as I consider what it all means, but in the end I have zero ideas. Not yet, anyway. I decide to take a chance. “Have you thought about trying to escape?”
She nods. “I think about it every—”
The bedroom door bursts open, and Elijah enters the room. His face is not that of a normal nine-year-old. It’s pinched and angry and suspicious. He comes toward us, shouting, “What’s going on? Why do you have the shower on, mama?”
Elinor looks guilty as hell, but to her credit, she recovers quickly. She reaches behind her and switches off the water. “I was asking Jeraca to take a look and see if it runs like hers does. I think it may be broken.”
Elijah stares at her. To say more would be to admit they’re spying on us, but it’s clear he thinks something’s going on. I see what she means about him being frightening, though. Not once has Ryan looked at me like this supposed child is looking at his “mother”.
“You should go to bed,” he says, turning to me. “Mama is tired.”
“Your mama and I were hanging out,” I say. “We’re friends. I think she can decide when she wants to go to bed—”
“It’s OK, Jeraca,” Elinor says, forcing a smile. A hint of her old self comes through as she stands and helps me up. “I should get some sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”
“Sure.” With my stomach tied up in knots, I let her walk me to the door. The last thing I see before she closes it is Elijah staring at me malevolently from behind her. I shiver with fear and disquiet, and then the door closes. I’m alone. The implications of what I’ve just heard whirl around like a carnival ride in my brain. Something lurks out of sight, a piece of knowledge dancing around my thoughts, there and then gone. If I could only grasp it! But Center has yet to give up its secrets.
I need to try harder. I need to stop being so complacent and focus on something more important than my goddamn feelings. Jesus Christ, Jeraca. Woman the hell up and make a plan. Get your priorities straight.
As if in a dream, I enter my own room. I close the door softly and turn to throw the deadbolt. But a hand is already there, sliding it into place; a metallic, shiny hand with delicate joints and alloy casing like skin. I jump a mile, clutching at my heart. 70192 watches me with what I can only describe as disapproval.
“We must talk, Jeraca Holly,” it says. “You’re in great danger.”
Katia Cole 