Dissonance (7 page)

He grinned crookedly. “Are you hungry?”

We watched as a woman in Snoopy-print scrubs hesitated at the intersection, then decided to wait for the
WALK
sign. A pivot sprang up.

An instant later a Ford sedan blew through the light.

I shuddered. On the other side of the pivot, had her newly formed Echo made it across?

Either way, her choice had given us an opening. Monty hummed a target pitch and motioned to the rift. “Go on. Nimble fingers.”

Another childhood song from our Walks, as ingrained in my mind as the ABCs.

Nimble fingers, open mind,

Hum a tune both deft and kind;

Nimble fingers, open mind,

Help to seek what you would find.

I reached inside, the right frequency snagging my attention like a radio signal breaking through static. Keeping a firm hold on Monty's sleeve, I eased into the next Echo. When we were safely on the other side, I took a deep breath, tasting sugar in the air. Across the street was a bakery with a pink-striped awning and a window full of sweets.

“Doughnuts!” He rubbed his hands together. “Don't tell your mother. She'll say I spoiled my dinner.”

“Trust me, I won't say a word. How did you find this place?”

“I ramble,” he said distantly, tugging on my sleeve. “Don't suppose you'd like to buy an old man a treat?”

I knew he'd had a reason for bringing me here. The frequency was off-key, but not grating. We could stop for a few minutes. I handed him a crumpled five, hoping it matched this world's currency. “One doughnut. And be fast, okay? I need to get home.”

He patted my arm. “We're right on schedule.”

I trailed after him as he crossed the street. This version of downtown was miles better than the one we'd left. The sidewalks were clean, the storefronts filled, even if they weren't quite as upscale as home—a hardware store instead of an art gallery, a pawn shop instead of an antique store, a pharmacy instead of a yoga studio. The street was lined with cars, and plenty of people chatted on the sidewalk. Monty made sure to brush against one as he entered the store, so he was now fully visible. Outside the bakery, a dog was tied to the armrest of a bench. A chocolate Lab. With a red bandana.

“Iggy?” I whispered. Echoes often overlapped, but seeing Iggy so soon after watching him unravel was as jarring as any frequency I'd encountered.

His answering barks shook the windows, and he leaped up, straining at the leash.

I blinked. Some animals' hearing was so sensitive, they could
recognize Walkers before we made contact. Iggy was obviously one of them.

“Good boy,” I crooned, inching forward with my hand extended. “What are you doing here?”

As if in answer, the bakery door opened and Simon strolled out, white paper bag in hand. A different Simon, I reminded myself, taking in the layers of flannel and denim and leather, the messy hair, the battered work boots. Not a basketball in sight.

“Settle down,” he said, untying the leash. The dog bolted, seventy-odd pounds of enthusiastic fur crashing into me. I rubbed his silky ears, staring at my third Simon in two days, trying to recall Park World's frequency. This one was less grating—and much more stable. My stomach unclenched at the knowledge this Simon was safe. I didn't think I could handle seeing him unravel again.

He grabbed Iggy's collar, his hand brushing mine. The strength of his signal sent me reeling, and he met my eyes, interest sparking in his own. “You're making me look bad, Ig.”

Not much made Simon look bad. Even his legion of exes sighed and talked about his eyes or his hands or his laugh. He wasn't the type to stick, they said, but it was fun while it lasted.

I was not interested in fun.

“Iggy won't bite, I promise,” Simon said, misinterpreting my frozen silence. I looked at his hand, wrapped around the leash. Instead of the leather cuff or digital watch, he wore what looked like a silver railroad spike hammered into a circle around his wrist. But his hands looked the same, strong and
capable and slightly calloused. “Don't I know you?”

My nerves kicked up, a swarm of butterflies spreading from my stomach through my body, a hundred thousand wings beating in unison.

“Del,” I said, my voice scratchy. “School, maybe?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I need to get my eyes checked.”

“Oh?” I asked, checking the bakery. Through the window, I could see Monty peering at the pastry cases.

Simon's voice dropped, warm and inviting. “Something must be wrong if I haven't noticed you.”

I turned back. “Really? That's the best you can do?”

At home I would have stuttered and stumbled. It was easier to deal with him here, when it wasn't real and didn't matter. His smile turned rueful and somehow even more charming. “Too obvious?”

“You're not going to win any points for originality. What are you doing here?”

“It's Thursday,” he said, holding up the white paper bag. “My night to make dinner. I always pick up cookies for my mom, to make up for the inevitable kitchen disaster.”

“You could learn to cook,” I pointed out.

“I don't mind,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, if I hadn't stopped by, I wouldn't have run into you.”

There was an Echo where he hadn't, and I was unreasonably, alarmingly happy to be in this world instead.

“There's a band playing at Grundy's tonight,” he said. “They're supposed to be pretty good. Want to meet up?”

This invitation was as surprising as the first one. It wasn't unusual for Echoes to mimic each other, if their branches were close enough. And just like in Park World, I had a million reasons to say no. But sometimes the best decisions are the ones made on instinct and impulse. Sometimes a choice isn't a simple yes or no, but the truth made visible, strong enough to hold up a world.

I wasn't sure I was ready for that kind of truth.

The bell over the bakery door jingled and Monty appeared, long john in one hand, coffee in the other, a cruller clamped between his teeth. “I have to go.”

Probably not the reaction Simon usually got when he asked a girl out. His forehead wrinkled. “Is that a yes?”

I bit my lip. “It's a maybe. Bye, Iggy. Stay out of trouble.”

Grabbing Monty's arm, I steered him back toward the pivot.

“Making friends?” Monty asked around his cruller. His gaze, sharper than usual, followed Simon and Iggy as they crossed the street and climbed into a battered black Jeep.

“Simon Lane. He's a guy from school.” I checked my watch. Eliot would be arriving at my house soon.

“Simon,” Monty said. “Wasn't he the boy—”

“From the cleaving,” I finished. “Yeah.”

He nodded, obviously pleased with himself for remembering. The walk back to the Key World was fast and easy. We turned onto our block as Eliot pulled up in his mom's Subaru, parking in Addie's usual spot. She was typically back from her apprenticeship by now—she would arrive home a few minutes before Eliot and I left for training, offer advice we hadn't asked
for, and then go inside to finish up her day's paperwork.

“Where's Addie?” I asked.

Monty licked a bit of frosting from his thumb. “Your mother said she was meeting with the Consort.”

“By herself?” That didn't make sense. Mom had been adamant I not see the Consort alone. Why would Addie be any different?

“Seems so.”

If Addie could deal with the Consort by herself, I could too. “Can you get in by yourself? You won't wander off?”

“Don't worry about me,” he said, patting my hand. “Now go on, before your mother catches you.”

I kissed his cheek and ran for Eliot's car as Monty ambled around the side of the house.

“Go!” I said, throwing my bag onto the seat and sliding inside.

“Hello to you, too. Is there a problem?” Eliot asked.

“Not unless my mom catches us. Drive, will you? I want to make the early train.”

“Seat belt,” he replied, shifting into reverse. “I feel like I'm driving a getaway car.”

“Then act like it.” As we pulled away, my mom stepped onto the front porch, hands on hips.

“Delancey!” The shout was faint, but I was sure she'd make up for it later.

While Walkers share the Key World with Originals, we occupy very different spheres. Casual acquaintances and business interactions are acceptable, but strong attachments are discouraged.

Most importantly, revealing the existence and abilities of Walkers is
strictly
forbidden. Originals cannot understand the scope of our responsibilities and would seek to take advantage of both us and the multiverse, resulting in disaster.

—Chapter Ten, “Ethics and Governance,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

E
LIOT AND I
had been coming to the Consort Building for years—as little kids on family outings, and later as eleven-year-olds beginning our training, dropped off by his mom or mine. Eventually we'd graduated to taking the train on our own, once they trusted us not to wander through the pivots riddling Union Station. Class met four times a week, and I learned more in a single session of Walker training than in an entire month of regular high school.

To Originals, the Consort's headquarters looked like any other office building in Chicago's Loop. Even the name on the front door blended in: Consort Change Management. Nobody could tell you exactly what they did, but they'd been a quiet,
unassuming presence in the city for as long as anyone could remember. My parents drew a paycheck from CCM; they filed their taxes every year, they had health insurance and pension plans. CCM had offices around the globe, entire communities of Walkers hiding in plain sight. The operation was funded by investments, using information gleaned in Echoes. They took insider trading to a whole new level.

We followed our usual path from Union Station, taking Adams across the river, forcing myself not to look at the gray-green water below, waiting impatiently for the light across Wacker.

“Everyone's going to know,” I said, squeezing the straps of my backpack. “They're probably talking about me right now.”

The light changed and Eliot hustled me across the intersection, dodging the commuters streaming past us. “Quit dragging your feet. You love it when people talk about you.”

“Sure, when they're saying how kick-ass I am. This is not one of those times.”

“They probably won't even know.”

I snorted. “They'll be thrilled. And it's going to napalm my class rank.”

Unlike Washington High, where my GPA consistently landed in the toilet, Walker training didn't give grades. Instead they relied on rankings, and mine was disappointingly average.

Ranking was based partly on fieldwork, which I dominated, and partly on classroom assignments, which I did not. Walking was easy for me. Navigating branches, moving through pivots,
tracking signals . . . I moved as swift and sure as an arrow.

Classwork was another story. Nobody gave points for intuition or improvisation, only the meticulous repetition of Consort protocol. Eliot tried to help, but his patient explanations only underscored how differently my mind worked. In the Consort's eyes, “different” was the opposite of “better.”

My ranking, combined with our final exam, determined where I'd be assigned during my apprenticeship. We could request a position, but the final say, as always, belonged to the Consort. Never before had I realized how much of my future lay in the hands of other people, and the knowledge made me want to kick something. Hard.

We stopped outside the glass doors of CCM. Inside was a nondescript lobby—marble floors, security desk, a bank of elevators, and a few low couches and tables. Our classmates were gathered in the corner, everyone leaning in, still wearing their coats and backpacks.

“Listen,” Eliot said, eyeing the twin guards at the security desk. “When you see the Consort . . . act contrite. Like you regret what you did.”

“I
do,
” I said, remembering the twist in my gut as the Echo unraveled. “It's not an act.”

“Good,” Eliot said. “Don't blame Addie, either. They think she's great, so it's logical they'd take her side.”

“That's nothing new,” I said.

He took my hand. “We don't want to be late.”

I nodded, and he held open the door.

My skin tingled every time I crossed the threshold of this place. There's power in secrets, in knowledge hidden away. The deeper they're hidden, the greater the tension shimmering through the air. This building held secrets Originals couldn't dream of, and no matter how many Monet reproductions they hung on the walls or how tasteful the jazz they piped in, the hum of power couldn't be entirely muted.

This time when I walked in, dread curled through me, bitterly cold.

“Del!” Callie Moreno called from the corner. The group turned to gape at me. Muttering something under her breath, Callie shot them a dirty look, pushed off the couch, and strode across the lobby. In the too-quiet room, the heels of her boots rang out on the floor. She gave me a half smile, warm but worried. “Is it true? Logan said you—”

“Delancey Sullivan?” one of the security guards asked, stepping out from behind the desk. Callie's smile fell away, and Eliot shifted, putting himself between us. “You'll need to come with me.”

I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly, like a fish thrown onto shore.

“Where?” Eliot asked. “Says who?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted my classmates edging closer, as if they couldn't catch every word in the echoing lobby.

“To the sixteenth floor,” the guard said, chest puffed out. “At the request of the Consort.”

“Class starts in five minutes,” I said, my voice rasping.