Earthquake (5 page)

“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 me feel clean and refreshed. I’m ready to smile until I remember what just happened. My eyes fly open and I try to jerk to a sitting position, but there’s a heavy strap across my chest that holds me in place.

“Stop, please.” The same voice. Soft hands on my shoulder. “Let me unhook you. You were only restrained to keep you from rolling while you were asleep.”

Asleep
.
She says it like I just dozed off.
But I hold still while she unbuckles the strap and helps me to sit up. She then props up the bed behind me so I can recline.

“Logan?”

“He’s right there. Look. He’s fine.” I see him almost near enough to touch, on a tiny stretcher that looks just like mine. I slowly register the noise around me, the rhythmic pulsing that fills the tiny, cramped space. We’re still in the helicopter.

“I’m Audra,” the voice says, pulling my eyes back to her.

I startle at the sight. She’s . . . she’s a girl. Younger than me.
Maybe
fifteen.

“And this is Glenn and Christina. We’re doctors with the Curatoria.”

Doctors. Curatoria
. I don’t know what to think. I notice now that they’re wearing light-colored scrubs, and I vaguely remember seeing the feather and flame.
Doctors. Curatoria
. What have I done?

I’m still considering whether we may have jumped from the frying pan into the proverbial fire when I glance again at Audra. “Doctor?” I say, the question popping from my lips in a scratchy croak.

She catches the look of skepticism I can’t hide and laughs. “Yes, I’m a doctor,” she says. “And yes, I’m fifteen. I actually have been a doctor for several lifetimes now and was lucky enough to have my memories restored almost three years ago.”

An Earthbound then. “That’s amazing,” I say, still staring at her and trying to comprehend that this girl—younger than I am—could already have the knowledge and maturity of a long-practicing physician.

“We can talk later. They wanted you patched up by the time we reach Curatoria headquarters.”

“How long will that take?” I ask. They’re all crowded close around me because of the tiny space, and the rhythmic beat of the helicopter blades makes everything feel a little ominous.

Maybe it’s just because I’m in the air again for the first time since the plane crash.

Oh gods, don’t think about that.

Audra peeks at her watch. “Oh, uh, probably within the next fifteen minutes or so.” She looks up at the other two doctors for confirmation, and they give her a tight-lipped nod. “Your partner’s not yet awake, so we’ll start with you.”

“He hasn’t remembered,” I warn. “The name ‘Curatoria’ won’t mean anything to him. He’ll be panicked and terrified.” I don’t know why I’m telling them that. Because I’m afraid he’ll freak out? Because I don’t want them to throw a whole bunch of
new
information at him before the two of us have had a chance to talk? Maybe some of both.

Audra gives me a wan smile. “At least he’s here. We’ll find a spark for him. Now, where are you hurt? We didn’t want to invade your privacy without your consent by doing a full-body examination.” She gingerly lifts my swollen wrist that is now one huge purple bruise. “This looks pretty bad though.”

“Is it broken?” I ask.

“Let’s see.” She smears my wrist with jelly and slides some kind of plastic piece of machinery over it. The other two doctors—a middle-aged woman and a man sporting gray hair and thick glasses—set their fingers on the side of my wrist. They all look at a screen flashing weird black and white images.

“This shouldn’t hurt,” the man says. “But it will feel strange.”

I brace myself—after surviving major brain surgery, I’ve learned never to trust doctors when they say it won’t hurt—but he’s right. I suck in a breath as I feel like everything in my wrist is collapsing in on itself. Then, like a gear slipping into place, everything returns to normal.

Like
normal
normal. All the pain is gone.

“What did you do?” I ask as they release my arm. I flex it back and forth. The bruising isn’t totally gone, but almost—merely a few smudges of purple here and there. The swelling, meanwhile, has disappeared completely. “It feels better than it did before I injured it.”

“That was the intention,” Audra replies, a hint of fifteen-year-old smugness coming through.

The woman called Christina tilts her head at her colleague. “It was broken,” she explains matter-of-factly. “Though not badly. We—well, Glenn—removed the damaged cells, the inflammation, the blood that leaked from your veins and made the bruises, and then I replaced the bones cells with new.”

“You can do that?” I say with wonder.

“Oh yes,” she says. “We used to have to cut into you to do it, but with our EB scanner—”

“Earthbound scanner,” Audra interrupts with a smirk. “Although we’ll make up something else when we release it to the public. Like the CAT scan. I’ll give you one guess at what the
C
originally
stood for, and it rhymes with Muratoria.”

“Thank you for that,” Christina says dryly. “Anyway, with this scanner we can see what needs to be done and make the switch without doing anything invasive.”

“It’s basically a combination ultrasound and X-ray, with some MRI functions,” Audra says.

And is apparently small enough to take on a freaking helicopter.

Audra gives me another once-over. “What else?” she asks, as though she hadn’t just told me about a completely revolutionary piece of medical equipment.

“My shoulder.”

I spend the next few minutes in awe as my injuries are quite literally erased.

“What about your leg?” Audra asks as I’m fingering my lip made whole again.

“My leg is fine.” I’m half distracted as I swing my shoulder around, stretching it. I’d gotten so used to the ache I almost forgot what it was like not to have it.

“I was told you were limping quite badly when they rescued you.”

“Oh.” I understand. “That . . . that’s an old injury.”

“No reason we can’t fix it,” she says. She glances over at Logan and shares a silent message with the person watching over him. “Your partner is just starting to stir. We have a few more minutes.”

“I guess,” I say, not certain why I’m so nervous.

I’m wearing jeans, but the fabric across my thigh disappears with a glance from Glenn. More jelly and then Audra is sliding the probe over my leg and peering at the screen.

“Titanium plates,” Glenn says. “Those’ll have to go.”

Go?

“And extensive scar tissue in the muscles here and here,” Audra says, pointing. “No wonder it’s not healing well.”

I close my eyes. I don’t want to watch.

The same weird feelings take over my thigh, but this time it
is
a little uncomfortable. “Sorry,” Glenn says. I must have grimaced. “Christina will fix it in a moment.”

No titles, not calling each other “Dr. So-and-So.” As though we are all equals here. “We’re finished,” Christina says softly, rubbing goop off her hands.

I look down, and it’s like the plane wreck never happened. The staple marks are gone; the skin on my thigh is smooth and new and . . . looks rather exfoliated to boot.

“Good?” Christina asks.

I nod dumbly, and right before my eyes the missing piece of my jeans reappears as though it had never vanished. I’m not sure why this all makes me so uncomfortable. I mean, it’s a good thing, but it’s like they erased not only my scar but an entire section of my life. I force myself not to touch the scar on my head. I’ve had enough supernatural medicine for today.

“Let’s get you up,” Audra says. “No reason for you to be in bed any longer.”

I swing my legs to the side and gingerly get to my feet, holding on to a strap connected to the low ceiling for balance in the tiny square of space between my and Logan’s little beds. They hand me a large pouch of juice, and as they fold the travel-sized stretcher away I test my weight on my right leg and almost laugh in glee.

No pain.

Not a twinge or jolt. Nothing. Not even when the chopper hits a brief patch of turbulence.

I can’t remember the last time I could walk without at least a throb of discomfort.

“Get off me!”

I’m shaken from my wonderment by Logan’s voice.

“It’s okay!” I take two steps—still in awe that there’s no pain when I do so—and lay my hands on his chest, pushing my face into his line of sight. “It’s okay,” I repeat, softer now as his focus hones in on me. He stops struggling, and as soon as he does the guy watching him unfastens the chest strap, just like they did with me. Logan’s hand immediately clamps onto mine, and he continues to hold my fingers in a death grip as the very basics of the situation are explained to him. I can’t help but be pleased by that—even if it’s only during the panic of this moment, he’s clinging to me instead of pushing me away.

The doctors question and then examine him, but all he has is the cut over his eye from the explosion at his house, and Audra doesn’t even need her ultrasound for Glenn and Christina to put that right.

When they touch him, Logan tightens his already iron grip on my hand, only loosening it when Christina backs away. “Pretty amazing, right?” I ask. He looks over at me with wide eyes, and I give him a little nod and squeeze his hand with numb, tingly fingers. I know he’s feeling the same cessation of pain that I did.

We’re both given a bag of dried fruit and more juice, and it’s all so welcome that I almost feel normal again. We’re shooed out of the way to a padded bench along the back of the chopper, and Logan and I sit together, thighs touching. I’m closing my eyes in silent gratitude that I’ve managed to at least get him to tolerate me, when I feel the warmth of his fingers creep across my hand, hesitate, and then twine through mine.

I don’t dare look. Like I might break the spell. I’ve proved something to him and I don’t want to question it. Certainly don’t want
him
to question it. I just squeeze lightly and pretend there’s nothing out of the ordinary about two people who couldn’t coexist in the same room a couple days ago holding hands.

As I munch on my fruit, a shadow crosses the floor, and Audra hurries to confer with a man who has just emerged from the cockpit. A moment later she returns with a little smile and says, “We’re going in now. You guys should see this.”

Confused, I scoot over to the window and bring Logan with me. We sit, hand in hand, peering out through the glass at . . . nothing.

Endless dunes of desert sand stretch as far as I can see, with a bright orange sunset starting to paint its way across the horizon.

Except . . .

Yes, there’s a glimmer. I can barely make it out at first, but as the chopper gets closer I realize it’s a silvery triangle. Just like I saw in Portsmouth.

And yet this one is nothing like those triangles. It shines so brightly it almost hurts my eyes.

It’s got to be at least a hundred yards on each side. An enormous triangle glinting in the sand. I know I must have a look of pure shock on my face when Audra giggles and says, “Oh, that’s nothing.”

Seconds later, a huge circle inside the triangle splits like pie slices and begins to pull back, revealing a cavernous space with a cement floor. On the perimeter I count six other helicopters parked and at least a dozen figures scurrying around beneath us.

I can’t come up with words as we lower into the shadowy space, landing with a bump on the ground, the whine of the chopper blades immediately quieting.

As soon as the helicopter has touched down there’s an entirely new low rumbling, and only when the light starts to dim do I realize that it’s the opening above us closing. My chest is tight as the panels come together and block out all the sunlight, but when I look back at the space we’ve landed in, I see it’s well lit. We haven’t been plunged into darkness.

A great boom sounds as the gates above us close completely, and then the doors on both sides of the helicopter open and people are there ready to help us out. Logan is still clinging to one of my hands, but with the other he reaches out and pulls on Audra’s sleeve.

“Audra?” Logan asks, and I can hear the fear in his voice. “Where are we?”

“Oh,” she says with a light smile, as though this detail was entirely unimportant. “I guess you wouldn’t know. This is the headquarters of the Curatoria.”

Terror and relief
both run through me so strongly I have trouble even breathing. The headquarters of the Curatoria. A place that has taken on a level of intrigue so high, it’s hard to believe it exists at all.

I reach up to touch my silver necklace for courage and feel a warm hand cover my shoulder. Logan’s. He lowers his head close to my ear and whispers, “Whatever this is, I’m here. I mean, I don’t feel very useful right now, but if you need me, you just say so.”

I can’t speak as I stare at him. Does he . . . remember? Or have I actually won his trust?

But he looks as worried as I feel, and I know he would understand his true usefulness if he had remembered.

And wouldn’t
I
know if he had? If we had resurged? I’m still baffled about what I would have to do to make that happen, but the first step is definitely keeping Logan with me.

He gives me a very small smile and slips his hand into mine as we follow the team of doctors down a ramp and out of the helicopter, leaving the rest of the crew behind. I take a moment to covertly glance around at the huge but dim space, surrounded by the other helicopters I saw from the air, all quiet and still along the perimeter of what looks like an enormous landing pad. The area is hexagonal, and a bunch of bright lines are painted on the floor. Tools line two of the six sides, and the next wall over is covered by some kind of radar-looking thing, with ropes and other supplies mounted on the fourth.

A huge feather and flame symbol is painted across the entire fifth wall, and my stomach twists at the similarity to the Reduciata symbol in the prison we were just in.

We’re not exactly prisoners here—at least I don’t think so. They’re letting us walk together without our hands tied or any weapons pointed at us, but still, I don’t feel
free
.

In the center of the sixth side is a set of gray double doors that look thick and soundproof. A woman in the lead—not one from the helicopter, a new one who was waiting for us when we landed—stops and turns, her eyes seeking me out. “When we walk through those doors you will enter the headquarters of the Curatoria. It’s a privilege we never allow Earthbounds who have not sworn themselves to our cause.” I’m about to tell her that I have no intention of swearing anything to anyone when she continues, “But you two will be an exception.” She eyes us both carefully, her attention lingering on me. It’s clear that she’s not a fan of this idea. “While you’re here,” she adds, “we ask that you remain entirely peaceful, that you don’t interfere with our work, and”—she hesitates—“that you have no communication with the outside world whatsoever.”

Like I have anyone to communicate
with
. My parents, Sammi, Mark, Elizabeth—all dead.

Benson . . . good as dead.

And Logan, but he’s here with me now. I feel a shiver of pleasure ripple down my spine at that thought and squeeze his hand.

I fix my gaze on the stern-looking woman and ask, “Why?”

“For our safety. It’s not something we ask of our sworn members. But we have extra restrictions on you.”

“Why let me in at all then?”

“Because Daniel wants to see you.”

Every cell in my body freezes at the name.

Daniel: the leader of the Curatoria. He’s here.

Not merely here,
expecting
me.

I don’t know whether I just became exponentially safer or more at risk. But I’m pretty sure it’s one or the other.

I shoot Logan what I hope is a meaningful glance, but he obviously doesn’t understand
any
of this. Regardless, we’re led into a space that feels more . . . domestic, for lack of a better word. Once the doors close behind us, the noise of the helicopter engine, the slowing blades, the crew shouting instructions to each other are all gone. I hadn’t realized until now how loud they were. Now, even the noise of our footsteps is muffled by thick, soft carpet that feels absolutely luxurious on my tired feet.

I take a few quick steps to follow the still-nameless woman as she heads down a dimly lit, long hallway that reminds me of one from a hotel, albeit a nicer hotel than the type I’ve been staying at lately. Doors line each side, and pretty little tables abut the walls, which themselves are covered in pleasant—if generic—pastel paintings. I glance back and see that everyone else has peeled off and disappeared, and part of me wishes Audra were still here. Although I only just met her, she seemed to genuinely care about our well-being.

The woman before us evidently does not, however. “It won’t be today that you meet him, of course,” she says without turning to face us, and I have to strain my ears to hear. “He wants you to rest. To sleep. We reported the condition you were held under for the last three days—”

“Three days?”
Apparently, I spent more time unconscious than I’d thought. “What day is it now?”

“Thursday,” she responds automatically, not missing a beat. “As I was saying, Daniel insisted you be fed and rested before he meets with you.” The tone of her voice tells me just how ridiculous she finds all of this. “Now, we’ll house you here—where all of our Earthbounds-in-Residence live—and you can simply pick up the phone if you need anything.” She pauses, then sneers, “Daniel has ordered us to be at your service.”

“Really?” Logan pipes up. “Why would he—”

“This is you,” she says, cutting him off. She raps sharply on a door with a silver number seven on it and then hands us each a key. “We have duplicates,” she warns, and I wonder just where the hell she thinks we might go. What we might do in this classy, but nonetheless clearly fortified, underground fortress. One of us powerless, the other with abilities that last for five minutes. Maybe we could rip those sconces from the wall and stage an incredible escape. Right.

I mumble a quiet
thank you
, not wanting to get even more on this woman’s bad side. Logan says nothing, just pockets his key and squeezes my hand.

“Daniel left you a gift on the table,” she says as she pushes the door open, which swings silently on well-oiled hinges. “He says you’ll know what to do with it.”

Curiouser and curiouser
, I think wryly. But I’m anxious to get out of this woman’s sight and be able to talk to Logan without overly attentive eavesdroppers. “We’ll be fine,” I say aloud.

“Food,” Logan blurts, then looks at me apologetically. “I’m starving.”

The truth is I am too, so I can hardly blame him. The dried fruit only went so far in making up for three days with only one meal.

“I’ll have something sent up.” She looks Logan up and down and adds, “Something substantial,” in a tone that makes me want to smack her.

Whatever.
As soon as she’s through the doorway I close it behind her, just inches shy of knocking her over. “Finally,” I say, my back to the door.

We’re in a very large room that seems to be part kitchenette, part bedroom. Like a studio apartment, really, with a sitting room around the corner on one side and what looks like a doorway to the bathroom on the left.

Logan is standing a few feet from an elegantly made king-size bed, and he runs his fingers through his hair awkwardly. Trusting me, even holding my hand, is one thing; being shoved into a bedroom with only one bed after being told to “get some rest” is another.

I look away, giving him a few seconds to get his bearings, scoping out the room instead. The hallway was elegant and nice, but this room is a completely different
kind
of elegance. It’s sparse and a bit artsy, with silver and black trim on pretty much everything. In place of paintings, black and white photos of buildings and cityscapes dot the walls. Here and there a touch of maroon breaks up the color palette: a throw on the back of a plushy chair, a vase that stands empty on a high shelf, one pillow in a pile of several on the bed.

I remember the woman’s cryptic comment about a gift from Daniel and look around for the table—seems like it would be easy to find, but it turns out that it’s a semicircular, bar-height table that’s mounted below a mirror, and so I miss it at first glance, thinking that it’s just part of the decor.

Still trying to avoid awkwardness with Logan, I walk over and pick up the cardboard tube sitting atop it. “No note,” I muse. But whatever. I pop the top off the tube and start to shake it out, but as soon as I realize what’s inside I yank my fingers back like they’ve been burned.

It’s from the dugout back in Camden that Quinn took me to. The painting that messed me up so badly. My breathing is sharp and noisy and Logan is walking toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him and force myself to calm down.

A little.

This canvas was in Benson’s backpack the night I found out what he was. Why does the Curatoria have it?

“What is it?” Logan asks tentatively.

“It’s just a painting,” I respond absentmindedly. I’m too caught up in the sight before me to attempt to act like less of a total weirdo.

“If it’s just a painting, then why did it make you jump out of your skin?”

He’s right. It did make me jump out of my skin. But that was nothing compared to what happened the last time I touched it.

I’ll never forget the sensation. It was like I was a radio set to the wrong frequency.

“Tavia?” Logan says.

I look up at him with what I’m sure is a nearly manic expression. If it was the wrong frequency for me, then there’s only one person who it could be right for.

And in a bright flash of light, I remember. I
remember
! Quinn and I knew our artifacts were too obvious. Him a jewelry maker, me an artist. Of course a necklace and a painting would be obvious creations, with obvious owners. So we reversed them. I created a replica of a necklace he made me; he created a copy of a painting of our home. That way someone looking to destroy all of
Rebecca’s
memories would miss one. Then we packed them away in the dugout.

That’s why the necklace worked on me and not him.

I didn’t
paint
this painting; Quinn
created
it.

My whole body trembles now as I realize what a treasure I’m holding in my hands. “Logan,” my voice is too quiet and too high-pitched all at the same time. “You should see this.”

His eyes are hooded, fearful, and I realize that in a world that has literally turned upside down on him in the last three days, anything might happen. Any paranoid fear might become a reality.

“It’s a good thing,” I say quickly, hating that expression of terror cast in my direction. “Just . . . here, take it.”

I hold out the painting and he obliges. The second his fingers come in contact with the canvas, everything changes.

His hands tighten around it, crushing the edge of the painting, and he takes two stumbling steps backward until his shoulders meet the door. His eyes widen and then focus on me.

“Tavia,” he murmurs. And it’s clear, he
knows
me.

He takes one step—not even a proper step, half a step—and his hand rises as though of its own accord. I’m still, stunned into paralysis even as my lungs force air in and out with a gasping, hissing sound, and adrenaline fills my veins in a rush that deafens me.

His fingertips brush my face so gently, as though I’ll break into a million pieces if he presses too hard. His eyes scan me, taking in every detail, until I feel like I’ve been stripped naked in front of him.

And I don’t mind.

Logan stands like a man transformed, even though his appearance hasn’t technically changed. His shoulders are straighter, his eyes more knowing. That
face
—suddenly it understands unspeakable wonders of the universe that normal humans simply can’t comprehend.

Then the world hits Play and his lips are on mine, his hands clutching, until I feel every part of him pressed against me. Hands, chest, hips, lips, teeth. With a growl he pushes my back against the wall and grabs at my hips, pulling me to him like he needs me closer
now
. “Becca,” he breathes in my ear, whispering my old name like a sacred memory before attacking my mouth again.

My brain is full of the chorus of women in my other lives singing with joy. Their strange music fills me, making every inch of my body tingle and glow. I know tomorrow I’ll have bruises from Logan’s rough, desperate handling, but I don’t care. I want it—all of it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers between kisses that trail down my neck, over my shoulder. He lifts my fingers to his mouth and kisses every fingertip, then rubs his face against my palms. “For everything I said. The way I treated you. I didn’t know,” he says, his voice gravelly now as his hands grip the waistband of my jeans.

I groan as his hands can’t resist and slip under the back of my shirt, his fingers skimming bare skin. Everything I ever wanted with anyone explodes into this one moment. “It’s okay,” I manage, as I lean against him, his mouth back on my neck. He rolls his hips against me. It’s like an ocean wave we can’t stop, crashing into us, sweeping us away with it.

We walk unsteadily backward—in the direction I hazily remember the bed sitting—we’re grasping at each other as our worlds collide in the most blissful crash I could ever imagine.

Logan lifts me, wraps my legs around his waist, and carries me the last few feet. He tosses me on the bed and kneels over me, reaching for the buttons on my jeans. Impatient with his fruitless fumbling, he tears his T-shirt up and over his head, and my whole body shakes at the sight of the familiar yet brand-new bare skin of his chest. He reaches for the bottom of my blouse, and as I raise my arms it suddenly seems to me that everything, every terrible, awful thing that has happened in the last month, was worth it.

The next few minutes are a blur of desperation as we learn each other all over again. It has that brilliant excitement of newness wrapped in the comfort of the commonplace. We say nothing as our bodies speak their own language; and even though I feel like I should savor this moment—take time to renew our friendship, our love—I can’t.

I look up into his leaf-green eyes above me, my hand clenching at his shoulders, and for the first time since the plane wreck, I feel free. I let go of everything. Of every fear and doubt, of tension and pain.