I leave The Tank and walk to the closest bus station. After a twenty-minute wait, I decide to take a cab instead. The drivers, the passengers, cause my head to buzz and give me meaningful glances that make me want to kill them. If I ride with them, I’ll never make it home in one piece.
The first two cabs are just as infected. I wave them off. I finally catch one with a quiet driver who wears a lime green Hawaiian shirt and gives me a pleasant smile. When we get within a mile of home, I get the urge to walk, so I pay my fare and get off. Walking slowly, I turn into my street around 2 P.M. The moment I see the familiar pothole in front of Mrs. Jenkins’s house, my shoulders morph into two steel beams, stiff and heavy. I shut my eyes and open them every few seconds, just enough to make sure I’m still on a straight path. I count the cracks on the sidewalk and don’t look to the left, across the street, where Xave’s small house rests under the cover of many shady trees.
I know the lawn will be deserted, so I try to picture Xave—one shoulder pressed against a tree trunk, one foot folded lazily over the other—waiting for me. He’s smiling, hazel eyes in their happiest shade of green. His brown shaggy hair curling by the ears and two-day stubble darkening his face.
“’Bout time you showed up, Marci,” his voice echoes. “Been waiting for you.”
“I knew you’d be waiting,” I whisper after a deep breath.
The smell of cinnamon gum fills my senses. I think of those firefighter boots he was wearing when I first met him twelve years ago, the flames tattoo over his back that I helped him select, the way his strong arms felt around me when I allowed myself to be vulnerable. My thoughts jump from one thing to another, every tiny scar, freckle, and crooked smile. All of them Xave, keeping the shadows away as I step closer and closer to home, my breaths firing at a thousand per minute, my neck tense and ready to snap.
When I reach home, I turn my back, never having looked across the street, except in my imagination. I notice my bike parked by the side of the house in its usual spot. Clark brought it back, I’m sure—strong and protective and still functioning among the living, in spite of it all.
I unlock the front door and go in. Mom will still be at work at this time and on a Tuesday. She won’t be home for another four or five hours, long enough to sweep the house for what James wants: my mom and brother’s genetic secrets.
I set the shoebox with Xave’s things on top of a narrow table by the entrance. I still don’t have the heart to look inside. Walking through the white-painted foyer with its modern black picture frames, I move toward my room, but a slight creaking noise makes me stop. Slowing down, I peer into the living room. No one’s there. Next, I check the kitchen and that’s where I find him, sitting at the table, reading a book and sipping a Coke.
Luke.
My thoughts reel. I stand still, trying to understand. I didn’t expect to find him here. James said he hadn’t been back. Not after what happened at the club, after we found out he’s part of Hailstone … after Xave. Blind rage builds up inside me. Here is one of the many monsters that bear the blame. Luke is with Zara—whatever he might be to her—and together they’re the masks this evil wears, two of the three that will pay for ruining my life.
Taking several big breaths, I do my best to stow away my fury. Luke never saw me at Shadowstorm. He has no idea I was there and saw him. I suppose that’s why he’s still here, that’s why he thinks it’s still safe. Well, maybe I’ll prove him wrong.
I back up a little, then walk forward again, taking firmer steps. As I pass by the kitchen, I stop and do my best to look surprised. Luke lifts his eyes from his book and matches my startled expression.
“Marci!” He stands, walks to me and wraps me in a tight hug. He’s wearing a pair of loose, gray sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and sneakers. He’s the picture of comfort, of I-don’t-give-a-shit-who-died.
My skeleton turns to concrete.
“Oh, Marci.” His tone is charged with regret I would buy if I didn’t know better. “I’m so sorry. That was just … you must be devastated.”
I swallow my disgust, doing my best to ignore the burning sensation in my throat along with the bitter taste of bile.
He holds me at arm’s length. “Are you all right? Where have you been? Mom and I have been worried about you.”
Lowering my head to conceal the hatred in my eyes, I walk away from him and enter the kitchen. “I’m fine,” I say, my voice hoarse with a million emotions. I clear my throat and walk to the white porcelain sink. I pour a glass of water and drink it in one gulp.
“Clark said you were with some friends. Mom had me call everyone I could think of. I talked to a few of your classmates, but they didn’t know where you were. I told Mom you weren’t close enough with any of them. So, of course, they didn’t know. Marci, where have you been?” He sounds like a father asking a naughty child how many cookies she stole when he knows exactly what is missing from the jar.
“It’s none of your business,” I say.
“Oh, don’t be like that. I love you. I’ve been worried about you.”
My skin crawls at the word “love”. I rack my brain, trying to get hold of a loose thread in this game he’s playing, but all I see is a big, tangled ball with no end and no beginning. This started the minute he was kidnapped from the neonatal unit sixteen years ago, I’m sure of it. If only I knew why they took him? Or, more importantly, why they sent him back?
“Come.” He puts a hand out and points toward the cherry-stained table. “Sit. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. Everyone at school is shocked. Is there anything I can do? Let’s talk. Sit. Please.” His blue eyes brim with compassion and understanding. At the moment, he’s all-loving, amazing Luke, a version of him that always makes an appearance when Mom’s around. I feel like puking.
My heart hammers, rage-infused adrenaline fueling its wild rhythm. It’s going so fast it’s practically climbing, clawing its way up my throat, choking me. The fury builds and builds and builds, until red is too mild a color to mark how far it’s gone.
“You’re a two-faced bastard!” I scream.
Luke takes a step back. “Marci,” he says, looking as innocent as a lamb.
His blue gaze fills with hurt and, for an instant, I consider the possibility that he doesn’t have a clue about what’s going on, that he’s innocent, a pawn, a victim in someone else’s game. Maybe it’s Zara’s doing or that man who kidnapped him, or some other monster. I don’t know who, just someone else.
The doubt lasts one, two, three breaths, then it’s gone. Gone, because I’ve always known something about Luke isn’t right, because the way he treats me sometimes is creepy, so unlike a sibling. Because the way he looked while talking to that woman revealed yet another side of him; one that fits him perfectly, more than any of his other favorite costumes. The jock and perfect son, even the womanizing bastard disguise don’t quite cut it. They strain, ready to rip at the seams, or are too loose, leaving him indefinite and shapeless.
He’s not what he pretends to be, nothing like it.
Nothing.
Fake.
Three dollar bill.
Bogus.
I point straight at his face. “I know about you.”
“W-what are you talking about?” he asks, but only halfheartedly. More than anything, he seems surprised I’ve finally decided to confront him.
“Tell me something, Luke. It’s the only thing I want to know, then you can leave, can get the hell out of my life, or I swear I’ll kill you.” I pause, then point in the general direction of my head. “Why, why can’t I sense you? Just answer me that.”
His perfect blue eyes tighten at the corners, his blond eyebrows press together. “What do you mean?” The question, at face value, still makes him sound clueless. His expression, however, is a different story. He knows precisely what I mean. Yet, alongside this understanding there’s also confusion; the discovery of some puzzling piece of data that doesn’t fit his scheme.
I shut my mouth, determined not to unwittingly give away something that may provide an advantage. I wait for his answer. He offers none. Instead, he takes a deep breath and paces in front of the kitchen table, staring at his titanium sports watch.
After pondering for a moment, he says, “Karen will be here any minute.”
“‘Karen’? What happened to ‘Mom’?” I ask, feeling as if the walls around me are cracking and will soon begin to crumble right over my head.
Luke shrugs. “I’m afraid the act isn’t necessary anymore. Besides, I really have the hardest time thinking of her as my mother, in spite of it all.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I guess it’s your turn to be confused,” he says with a perfect smile and a flick of his head that makes his blond hair sway to the side. “It’s all so puzzling, even for me. I’ve known all along that something was wrong with you. You can really sense others?” He sounds as if I just told him I can fly. “We just assumed you couldn’t, because I can’t.” He adds the last two words as if they should explain everything.
For a moment, my brain goes perfectly still, like the calm before a storm unleashes hell on Earth. Then a million questions sprout, mature, take shape. I gather everything I know, try to see patterns in hopes of puzzling the answers to some of my most demanding questions. But what I come up with looks more like an exam rather than the bullet point facts I want to find; an exam with a few true or false questions, a fair number of multiple choice entries, and a hell of a lot of essay-style doozies.
1. Luke is an Eklyptor True False
2. Luke is my brother True False
3. I’m supposed to sense Eklyptors
a) Always b) Never c) Sometimes d) The hell if I know
4. Explain what the heck is going on?
He takes a step closer. “We can make it all better, Marci. We can fix whatever is wrong.”
“And by we, you mean Hailstone?”
He nods once, looking very gracious, as if he’s referring to some altruistic society and not a group of freaks trying to exterminate humanity.
“Have you been with them since the beginning?” I ask, as a great hole opens inside of me, letting my newly formed concept of family fall through a depthless crack.
“If I had known you could sense it,” he says ignoring my question, “I would have never allowed them to …” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid it will upset you.”
“What? What will upset me?” I demand.
He sighs and is about to explain when we hear the front door open.
“Hello,” a voice calls out in a sing-song.
Mom is here? Luke sighs again and runs a hand through his hair, a weary expression on his face. The tap, tap of her heels sounds against the foyer’s floor. I’m trying to figure out how we’ll play this out when a low hum begins in the back of my head. I step back, imagining a hideous creature walking on clawed feet, getting ready to burst into the kitchen and attack me. I look over my shoulder toward the glass panel door that goes from the kitchen to our small backyard. If it’s locked, would I have time to unlock it and escape? I eye the Coke can on the table, my brain performing all kinds of calculations that could facilitate my escape. Except some part of me is stuck on Luke’s words and they play again, as I struggle to understand them.
If I had known you could sense it. I would have never allowed them to …
“Mom?” my lips move in an involuntary murmur.
My gaze drifts toward the threshold.
I peer over Luke’s shoulder. He moves out of the way to let me witness this next horror in its full glory: Mom, or the body that used to host her consciousness, walking into the kitchen, destroying what little was left of a life that’s almost never been worth living.
The only person I had left in the world is now one of them.