The knowledge sits with me for only a moment before I start to question it. “No DNA match? None at all?” I ask.
Aydan looks like he has something else to say, but I’m too lost in my own reasoning.
“But, Luke looks so much like Mom. How is that possible?” I ask.
“Because,” Aydan answers in a very quiet, very careful tone, “because he is her son.”
I shake my head. “You’re making no sense.”
He lifts an eyebrow and inclines his head, prompting me to think a little deeper about what he just said.
“Wait, you mean … you mean I am not her daughter.” I wanted it to be a question, but in the end my tone flattened, hammered down by the weight of a deeply seeded understanding, a truth that, somehow, I’ve always known in some deep part of my mind.
“You are no match to Luke or Karen,” Aydan clarifies.
I grab my head, raking stiff fingers into my hair. “What the hell?” My mouth opens and closes, taking in air to form words, but finding nothing to say.
Finally, Aydan’s pity wins and he finds it in himself to say the things that I can’t even babble.
“None of it makes any sense. The whole situation is crazy. We all discussed it and can’t come up with any explanations for Hailstone’s interest in your family. James had me look up birth and police records, also news articles. Your mother gave birth to a male and a female on December 3rd at Northwest Hospital and Medical Center. The male was born first, followed by the female, ten minutes later. The male had complications, was taken to the neonatal care unit. The female required no such care. The male, Maximilian Victor Guerrero, was abducted eight hours after birth. The female remained safe with her mother and father. On paper, Marcela Victoria Guerrero went home with Brian Scott Guerrero and Karen Guerrero and has lived at the same address her entire life. On paper, you are Karen’s daughter, but biologically … There’s zero percent chance you’re related.”
Which, of course, means Luke isn’t my brother either. We are not related in spite of the connection I feel with him, a connection I must have imagined. And then there’s …
“Dad,” I say, and it’s strange that all the pain I feel is for the parent I lost ten years ago—not for the one I was living with just days ago. If Karen isn’t my mother, does that mean Dad wasn’t …?
I can’t even finish the thought. He’s the only parent I ever felt close to. “I look just like Dad, though,” I whisper and can hear the loss in my own voice. And I hate, that on top of everything else I’ve lost, I’m also to lose my identity? My heritage?
“Without his DNA, there’s no way to confirm or deny paternity,” Aydan says, trying to be helpful, but adding salt to the wound instead.
I grasp at straws. “He was Hispanic. I look Hispanic. He has to be my father. It just …”
It just … nothing. It means nothing that we share traits such as skin, hair and eye color. Millions of people do. How could I be his daughter and not Karen’s?
It makes no sense. My life’s inside a tumbler, rolling down a steep hill.
But I can’t accept it. “So they didn’t just lose a son?” I say. “They also lost their real daughter? Was I switched? Is the real Marcela Guerrero somewhere out there?” I point toward the city. “It’s like a freakin’ soap opera.”
Xave was the first person I told when I found out Luke was my brother. Now Xave’s not here to tell him it was a lie. The thought makes me explode. I whirl and scream toward the sky, tendons bulging in my neck, soul drifting into nothingness. I pound my thighs and rage, baring my throat to the heavens and cursing God for his sadistic streak.
The universe against Marci, or whoever the hell I am … Azrael after all, I suppose.
My chest feels as if it will split in two, overwhelmed by the deformity of the emotion trapped inside of it. How can one person bare so much pain? How can someone lose so much and still be able to find herself in the chaos left behind?
The world dips, then rocks back and forth. My head pounds with each backswing. Pain is a hammer and it falls, falls, falls, shattering my will into dust.
But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
I refuse to believe this! Karen never tired of telling me how much like Dad I look. Hell, I can see it myself in the pictures that are left of him. He is my father. I know it in my heart.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” a voice whispers in my ear.
Soothing words exist and they find their way to me, to the one who, since the night Xave died, has known nothing but the purest forms of agony.
I don’t know how long it takes me to realize that I’m on my knees, rocking, almost touching my forehead to the ground every time I move forward, that Aydan is kneeling next to me, an arm over my back, telling me that everything will be all right, that not all is lost.
When the storm passes, the shock of having him near me mixes with my other emotions. I look him in the eye and see something I have never seen in his black gaze.
Tenderness.
Disarmed by the warmth radiating from him, I press my cheek to his chest and cry more freely than I’ve ever done in years. I have always been strong, if only on the outside. It is how everyone saw me, how I used to see myself. This vulnerable child in Aydan’s arms is like a newborn in a new, terrible world.
He smooths my hair down my back. “We’ll find a way,” he’s saying. “We’ll make everything all right.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling away from him.
We kneel, facing each other without saying anything for a long moment.
“You believe me?” I finally say, even though I shouldn’t risk mentioning it. There’s no telling how fragile his trust is and how likely I am to break it.
“You are one of us,” he answers and gives me a small smile.
“Thank you.” The words come out clipped as I fight not to cry again.
“Well, the others … don’t get your hopes too high,” he says, not without some of that tenderness I saw in his eyes just a moment ago.
“I won’t. I’m just glad there is some hope, no matter how small.” I smile sadly.
“You’ll understand if I don’t tell you anything about our plans.”
I nod several times. “Of course. Of course. I don’t need to or want to know anything. If I’m eclipsed again, we can’t risk Elliot finding out any new information. Although, I’d die before I let that happen. Now, it will be his information coming your way, as soon as I go back.”
“Marci,” he shakes his head. “Going back is crazy. I don’t think you—”
“I have to. Having someone inside will give IgNiTe an invaluable advantage.”
He sits on the grass, worry shaping his face. “I know, but it’s too risky. What if—?”
“I have to do this.” The thought of going back scares me to the core, but I can’t waste this opportunity. “I have to redeem myself.” I sit cross-legged, facing the lake, looking into the distance.
“What happened wasn’t your fault. It could have happened to any of us.”
“No. I was the weak link. I can’t meditate on my own. If I’d been able to, I would’ve had better control of my agent.”
“We can blame James for that.”
I look at him. I don’t remember Aydan ever taking my side.
He shrugs. “He shouldn’t have kept you out. You needed our help. It was our job to protect you. You’re only sixteen. Not some sort of soldier in an army. He was so damn bent on secrets and rules.” He looks at the ground, wearing an angry frown.
“Clearly, he had a reason.”
“Well, he screwed up and he knows it. If he hadn’t pushed you away, you would have been with us when it all started.” Suddenly, Aydan seizes my hand and sets his intense black eyes on me. “Please, Marci, don’t go back. It’s too dangerous. Come with me.”
“You said it yourself, they hate me.”
“Not you, Marci. Not you!” His fingers squeeze mine so hard it hurts. “You can prove to them it’s still you.”
It’s very tempting. I’m scared enough to want to go with him, but it isn’t an option. Not even close. “I can’t. Maybe in a different life, but in this new world, I have a responsibility. Everyone who’s still human does, and you know it.” I pull my hand away and stand. “I should get back before anyone notices I’m gone.”
Aydan stands. The clouds have moved and moonlight reflects on his black hair. There are circles under his eyes and he looks years older than he did a week ago. Each day has been a lifetime since The Takeover, even for him.
“At least tell me, is everyone all right?” I ask.
“It’s been rough, but we’ll get through it. We will.” Certainty shines in his eyes and, for an instant, he makes me believe everything will be all right. He gives me strength—just what I need in this moment.
I take a step back. “Take care.”
“Please be careful. And if you don’t find anything or if you find something big, just get out. Promise me you’ll do that.”
Promise him? Why would he demand a promise? We were never friends, and promises aren’t something acquaintances, teammates, or whatever we are, demand from each other. Yet, when I give him my word, it feels strong and definite. Truer than anything I’ve ever said.
It seems that, under the circumstances, we humans owe each other a great deal. More than ever, we owe each other respect. We owe each other honesty.
We owe each other survival.