Falls the Shadow (23 page)

“I'm not calling her anything but a monster. Because that's exactly what she is. Just like Huxley and all their creations—and I knew it from the beginning. But I followed you out here to find her anyway. I was going to
keep
following you, for some stupid reason, I wanted to think you were right, that you—”

“Well I didn't ask you for any of that, now, did I?”

I also didn't ask for this argument. I don't have time for this either.

“It doesn't matter,” he says. “All that matters is that we're going back to the city now, and we need to talk about something before we get there.”

“Talk about
what
?”

“About how we can't keep pretending like this.”

“I never—”

“Violet's clone needs to be stopped. I realize that now.
You
have to realize that now, and you have to know we can't do it alone. Things are just . . . they're getting out of control. This is bigger than you and me. Way bigger.”

“You're just scared.”

“Of course I am,” he says, shaking his head. “I've almost lost you twice now. Do you have any clue what that's doing to me? The thought of anything happening to you—the thought that no matter what I do, I can't keep you safe. I can't stand it.”

His voice is softer now, so I try hard—really hard—to take some of the edge off mine when I say, “I'm sorry, okay? I just don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore.”

“It's obvious, isn't it? You cooperate. With me, with the CCA, with—”

The back of my neck burns. “With the people who have terrorized my family since practically the day I was born.”

“With the people who will help protect you, if you'd just work with me here.”

“Right,” I say, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “I guess I should have just cooperated from the beginning, huh? Just helped you all destroy my sister's clone before you even had any evidence that she'd done anything wrong.”

“She's a clone,” he says, his tone hardening again. “What more evidence did we really need?”

I slap him. As hard as I possibly can.

“Jesus, Cate—”

“Get away from me. Now.”

“Calm down.”

“Let me go, Jaxon, or I swear, I'll—”

“
Please
calm down. I'm sorry, okay?”

I raise my hand, threatening him with another slap. But he grabs both my wrists and gently but firmly pushes them back against the bars behind me. The phone slips from his hand and falls at our feet.

“Was this your plan all along?” I ask, my gaze falling with it. “To wait for the perfect moment to drag me back to the CCA? Is that who you were calling? That was who called you in the hotel, wasn't it?”

I was stupid to let him get so close to me last night. I was stupid to think—even for a second—that he was actually different from the rest of those monsters at the CCA. That he was on my side and that he'd actually be able to understand why I can't help anyone hurt Violet.

“Do you really think this is what I wanted? Have you listened to
anything
I've told you? I didn't want Violet to be a murderer. I didn't want my mother to be right—about Violet or Huxley or anything. And I just want all of this to be over with now.” His voice is calm, but there's still fire smoldering in his eyes.

“What if it was me?”

“What?”

I didn't really mean to ask the question out loud. But now I can't take it back; the way he's looking at me gives me no choice but to keep going. “What about when my replacement comes?” My voice is shaking so badly that he probably can't even understand what I'm saying. “Are
you going to be the one to track her down and kill her?” I demand. “Because she'll remember you, you know. My clone . . . I bet she'll think about you all the time. At least at first. Maybe she'll be exactly like me at first too, and so she'll want to trust you in spite of everything, and she'll be easy to trick. So you'll be the perfect person for the job! And I bet you think it will be
easy
, don't you
?
That you're going to be able to look at her and then just destroy her, simple as that, because she's just a clone in the end, isn't she?”

“Stop it. Don't say things like that.”

“Like what? Like the truth?”

“That isn't the truth. You're not going to be replaced.” He takes his hands from my wrists and brings them up on either side of my face instead. “I won't let that happen, all right? I'm not going to let anything happen to you.”

Wouldn't it be nice to believe him
, I think. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just keep staring into his eyes like this, and if just focusing on his touch was enough to make me forget what we'll have to face once we get back to the city? Assuming we both make it back, of course. Assuming that losing myself in the blue sea of his eyes somehow makes the darkening sky—and the looming meeting with my sister—irrelevant.

If only.

“You shouldn't make promises you can't keep,” I say, and this time when I put my hands on his chest and shove him away, he doesn't fight back. He just stares at me, his shoulders slumped and a torn expression on his face.

I realize then that this is how it's going to happen. This is how I'm going to get away from him.

And it's going to suck.

“I don't need you to make all those stupid promises anyway,” I say, my voice quiet and as angry as I can force it to be. “I don't want anything to do with them. I don't want anything to do with you—I never should have had anything to do with you in the first place.”

“You don't mean that.”

“Yes. I do. I just haven't been able to say it until now. But I'm done, okay? We're done. This—whatever this is between us—it's done. Now get away from me.”

“I'm not just going to leave you out here.” He reaches for my arm, and I'm so into this act now that I respond without even thinking about it; I grab the gun from his belt, lift it between us so quick that it takes him a moment to realize what I've done. He stops reaching for me and lets his hand fall slowly back to his side.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You're CCA. I'm an origin. We're enemies, Jaxon. We always have been, and we were stupid to think we could be anything else.”

Enemies
. Even now, the word makes me feel like someone is taking my heart in their fist and clenching it as tightly as they can. I take a deep breath and try to imagine myself on stage, try to convince myself that these are just lines I'm reciting. It's all made up. Fake. Everything is fake.

Everything except the hurt in his eyes.

“Put the gun down, Cate. Come on.”

“You wanted to stop pretending. So here you go. I'm not pretending anymore.”

“Cate, please . . .”

“No!” I have no choice but to shout it; no choice but to take my performance to the next level if I'm going to convince him to let me go. “Go back to Seth. Go back to the city, and stop thinking about me, stop worrying about me, stop following me everywhere. It's pathetic, all right? Surely you have better things to do.”

The words have exactly the effect I wanted. He doesn't just look hurt anymore; he looks angry, too. More angry than I've ever seen him, and who could blame him?

Have I mentioned how much this sucks?

It only gets worse. Because as angry as he looks, he still doesn't speak. Or move. He only glares at me until all I want to do is dig the deepest hole I can and just crumple down into it and never climb out again. But I can't crumple now. All I can do is take a deep, shaky breath and tell him good-bye in the steadiest voice I can manage.

And then I turn and walk away, praying he doesn't follow.

He doesn't follow me
.

I didn't expect him to. I didn't want him to. So why does it still hurt so much when he doesn't call my name, or even once tell me to stop? I don't know if he even watched me walk away before going back to the car, because I don't trust myself to turn around to check. I can't see him again. I can't look at the hurt on his face again, because I know it would be my undoing, and I can't afford to come undone now.

I try to calm myself down. I try reciting lines from every play I've performed in; try softly singing lyrics from every song that I can think of. But with every word, my voice only gets shakier.

The sky is a dusky shade of purple by the time I make it to the edge of the woods.

My palm is covered in sweat. I set the gun down while I dry my hands on my shirt, and I stare at it for a long moment before I convince myself to pick it back up again. It would be foolish to meet Violet unarmed. Even if I probably won't be able to shoot her, if it comes to that. Not to mention I'm not sure what type of gun this is, or if it could actually stop a clone. Though judging by the way
Jaxon looked at it when I pointed it at him, I'm guessing it would at least slow them down.

But hopefully I won't have to find out.

I linger around the outskirts of the woods. Watching. Waiting. My whole body tingles with nervous anticipation, and several times I start into the dark web of trees, only to double back out into the open. She could be anywhere in there. If she really wants to see me, she can come out here and meet me. I'm not playing psychopath hide and seek with her.

At least thirty minutes pass. The sky fades from purple to a deep, starless black, and I feel like shouting at the trees, demanding that they stop hiding her. After what I had to do to Jaxon to make it here alone, I'm going to be seriously pissed if she doesn't show up.

Maybe I should stop waiting. Maybe I should track her down myself and refuse to let her make me look any more stupid; but how do I know she's even anywhere close? How do I know she didn't just suggest a meeting at the first random place that came to mind? My cheeks burn, and my grip tightens on my gun as it occurs to me that that's probably
exactly
what she did.

I should never have come here.

I spin around and am about to head anywhere but this place when I hear it: a scream, cut short by a terrible choking sound.

And it sounds a lot like Violet.

I should keep walking.

After everything she's done . . . god, how I wish I could
keep walking away and let whatever is in those woods take care of my problem for me. But then I hear another scream—quieter, weaker this time. My stomach sinks, and the sick feeling in it makes my decision for me.

I turn and race back toward her voice, tripping over roots and brush, stumbling through the darkness. Limbs and briars grab at my arms and face, scratching bloody trails across my skin. A patch of briars catches me by the hair and jerks me to a stop, and while I try to unsnarl the strands I'm holding my breath, listening, trying to hear what I can't see in the shadows around me.

A twig snaps somewhere close by. I twist toward the sound, yanking out a fistful of my hair in the process.

No one's there.

“Violet?” I call softly, uncertainly.

No answer.

I draw my gun and maneuver carefully around the thorn bush, moving on silent feet toward the sound of the breaking twig. After about ten steps, though, I hear something else. Laughter. Then a man's voice, directly ahead of me.

And then another man's voice.

How many of them are there? What are they doing in here?

I really, really don't want to know. But I'm going to have to find out—because the next voice I hear is definitely Violet's, and though most of what she's saying is lost under the frantic pounding of my heart, one word is still terribly clear:
Stop
.

Either this is her most horrible trick yet, or she's in trouble.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do about it—especially if I'm outnumbered—but I have to do something. The thought of going back to Jaxon and Seth for help briefly flashes through my mind, but I dismiss it just as quickly; there's no time. Jaxon probably wouldn't help anyway. Not after what I said.

I slip from tree to tree, picking up my feet so they don't drag noisily through the brush. Soon I can hear the voices more clearly, and I pick out at least three distinct people—the two men, and what sounds like an older woman. I press close to a wide-trunked tree that's missing most of its bark. I draw the gun back to my chest, just as the light at the base of the barrel glows the green of a full charge, and then I dart to the next closest tree that's big enough to conceal me completely. Keeping as close as I can to the trunk, I curve around and scan the woods for someone, anyone—

There.

To the left, less than twenty feet away, I see a light—the pale blue fluorescent of an electric lantern. The bodies are hazy in the harsh light, but there are clearly three of them, surrounding a fourth person who's on the ground, her body doubled over at an odd angle. A mass of wild, tangled black hair hides her face. But I don't need to see it. I already know it's her.

Violet.

I draw in a sharp breath just as the man closest to her
kicks her hard in the side. She rolls over with a muffled groan. The man draws his foot back for another kick but stops as Violet's groan transitions into laughter—soft at first, but then louder and louder still until it echoes through the muggy night air.

“You've got a strange sense of humor, clone,” the man says. He grabs her arm and jerks her to her feet, while the one beside him holds a gun to her forehead. My stomach lurches. I shrink back against the tree, close my eyes, and try to take a deep breath.

“You won't be laughing much longer.” It's the woman talking now. Her voice is like ice water drenching me, leaving me cold and shaking. “Not after we take you back to the lab and have you properly dealt with.” I don't have to be able to see her to know those last words were accompanied by a nasty snarl. And whatever feelings exist between me and my sister's clone, that still sends a tremor of fear skipping through me.