Falls the Shadow (8 page)

“Geez. Are they always this persistent?”

“Some days it's worse than others.”

He's quiet for a minute. Then, “All right. They are entirely too close to my car, and it's stressing me out.” His fingers fly across the buttons on the side of the steering column. “I'm going to lose them.”

“What? How?”

“You wearing your seat belt?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Good.”

There's a high-pitched
ding
, and all the display screens across the dash glow blue for a second. Jaxon's hand falls to the gearshift between us. He jerks it back, over, and up, and a split second later the car rockets forward. The momentum throws me back and all but takes my breath away.

“Holy crap,” I manage to gasp.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I should have warned you; the gasoline engine has a lot more get-up than anything electric. Which is why they're never going to catch us.” I can hear the smile in his voice. I'm not looking at it, though, because there is no way I'm taking my eyes off the road. He's going to hit something, weaving in and out of lanes like this. A car. A person. A building. And whatever it ends up being, I don't want it to catch me by surprise.

He manages to surprise me anyway, though, when he reaches over and lays his hand over mine. My heart skips
several beats, and when it picks up again it's pounding even faster than before.

“You okay?” he asks. “You . . . um, you look a little pale.”

My eyes leave the road for a fraction of a second. “Why are you looking at me?” I breathe. “
The road
 . . . Watch the road. . . .”

“I am—” He swerves wildly, just barely missing a car that starts to pull out in front of us. “See?”

“You're going to get us killed.”

“Not today.” He takes a sharp left, cutting off a woman on a mach bike as he turns into a huge concrete parking garage. He twists and turns through the garage, still going entirely too fast until we reach the lowest level, where he parks in the farthest, darkest corner.

He could have parked anywhere, really, because there are almost no other cars in here. I'm not even sure what building the garage is attached to, but the fact that it's concrete instead of steel—and the fact that it has parking spaces for so many cars—tells me that it's old.

“What are we doing in here?” I ask.

He cuts the engine. “The car stands out too much, and everyone's seen you get in and out of it now. I think it'd be better if we made the rest of our escape on foot.”

“You're coming with me?” I ask.

He's already halfway out the door, and he ducks back under the frame to answer. “Hey, if you get to skip school, then I do too.”

“I'm not actually skipping school, you know. I sort of don't have a
choice.” I'd go if I could, just to keep people from talking.

“Besides,” he continues as if I haven't spoken, “you owe me a date.”

*  *  *

Once we're outside, this corner seems even darker. In the distance I can see stretches of sky through the rows of parking decks; it looks like it's clouding over. The only light we really have comes from the white safety lamps lining the ceiling—and half of those are burnt out or flickering halfheartedly.

I hug my arms tightly against myself and try to keep my focus straight ahead. It's useless, though, because I can feel Jaxon watching me. Refusing to ignore me, just like he always has. I would find it annoying, maybe, except for the way his eyes light up whenever our gazes catch; it's as though he's seeing me for the first time, every time, and that somehow makes my heart race and leaves me feeling completely at ease all at once. He just has that effect on me in general, actually; it's like I know I
should
feel anxious, like I should keep blocking him out. And with anybody else, that's exactly what I would do. It would be safer that way. Easier. There's something about Jaxon that won't let me be nervous, though—or at least not as nervous as I normally am.

I think I actually want to trust him.

Problem is, I'm so used to not trusting people that I don't really know how to do it. I slow for a few steps without meaning to, while my mind tries to make sense of this
strange new sensation settling over me. Jaxon glances back and gives me a look that's half-amused, half-concerned.

“You all right?”

Then suddenly I'm moving, one foot in front of the other. And I think,
Maybe that's how you do it
. Maybe you just keep walking and hope that the stone casing you're in cracks—and that something more trusting, something more brave, works its way free.

I catch up to Jaxon, and we walk in silence for a few steps before I find the courage to speak. “I can see why you chose this spot for our date,” I say. “It's incredibly romantic.”

“Isn't it? I really think that damp, mildew scent adds to the ambience of this place.”

“Definitely. The flickering lamps remind me of candlelight.”

“I knew you were the romantic type.” He darts over to a nearby concrete column; there are weeds sprouting up through the cracks at its base, and he swipes a handful of them, jogs back and offers them to me. “Which is why I got you flowers,” he says.

“Oh, you shouldn't have.” I take the bunch from him and arrange it into a makeshift bouquet. Among the green clover are two puffy white flowers with reddish pink centers. I pick at their tiny petals, pulling out the ones that have started to brown. I'm surprised anything—even just weeds—has managed to grow this far down, with nothing but the dim artificial light. Life can be persistent when it wants to be, I guess.

I look up from my bouquet just in time to see a gray truck hurtle around the corner.

I don't think twice. I just grab Jaxon's arm and jerk him behind the nearest column. “Those CCA guys . . . ,” I whisper.

“No way they saw us come in here. . . . I was a mile ahead of them,” Jaxon says. “Maybe they're just looking around. Maybe they don't know we're here.”

“They'll see your car,” I say, “And you're right—they're going to know it's the one I left in. This is going to be all over the news. . . . I should have just told my parents what happened. I should have—”

“Elevator,” he says suddenly, nodding to the right. “It's just around the corner up there; we can take it to the street level and lose them, but we'll have to be fast. As soon as they turn into the next row . . . and . . . now!”

I've never run so fast in my life. My hair whips in my face. My feet pound against the sloped ground. I fly around the corner, so close behind Jaxon that it's a miracle we don't end up tripping over each other.

And there are the elevators, just like he said.

We reach them and he slams his hand against the access panel. The doors slide open almost instantaneously, and we half run, half tumble inside.

I lean against the far wall while Jaxon swipes his fingers over the control screen.

“Close, close,
close
,” he chants at the doors. They finally do, and I tilt my head back, shut my eyes in relief, and try to get my breathing back to normal. My body continues
to thrum with nervous excitement, though, and suddenly I find myself fighting the strange urge to laugh. At me, at him, at this elevator, this moment—it just all seems so surreal.

And then I look at Jaxon, who's still messing with the controls, and I stop fighting. I just laugh at the craziness of it all. He turns at the sound of it, watching me with a bemused smile until I start laughing so hard that my balance actually sways a little; he catches me, steadies me with his hands around my waist.

“You okay?” he asks, almost laughing himself now.

“I'm sorry. I just . . . this is crazy. And god, I am
so
dead. When my parents find out about this, when this ends up in the news . . .”

“Maybe it won't.”

“I admire your optimism, but . . .” I look up so he can see the sarcasm in my smile, and it's then that I notice exactly how close he is to me. My giggling fit ends abruptly. “But I, um, I'm just . . .”

He's so close that he's making it difficult for me to form any sort of rational thoughts. He must realize it too; because he makes what looks like a concentrated effort to take a step back from me, and to pull his fingertips away from where they'd settled against my hips.

“But I'm glad you knew this elevator was here,” I say, filling the silence with words before it has a chance to become any more awkward. “So at least we didn't have to deal with those guys right now.”

“Yeah.”

There's something off about the tone of his voice. Without saying anything else, he moves back to the control panels near the door and starts inputting commands. He's quiet for a long time, until I can't help but ask, “Is something wrong?”

“I'm just trying to figure out how this works.”

“Need some help?” I offer. “I'm pretty good with computers and stuff.”

“No,” he says, too quickly. Then in a calmer voice he says, “No. I mean, I think I've got it now.”

I shrug and lean back against the metal wall, which is cool and refreshing against my heat-flushed skin. The elevator shifts into motion a few seconds later. It's a lot jerkier than most of the ones in newer buildings around the city, and it makes my stomach flip uncomfortable. I stare at a bright red button on the wall next to Jaxon, try to concentrate on its stillness, to pretend we aren't moving and that I'm not about to be sick. My gaze is torn from it, though, when Jaxon finally turns back around to face me.

He looks . . . strange. His smile is gone. If I didn't know better, looking at him now I'd believe he'd never smiled a day in his life. An edgy, tingling feeling creeps up the back of my neck and over my scalp.

“Are you sure nothing's wrong?” I ask, straightening up again. He nods. The elevator shudders to a stop. I hear voices outside, and the breath I managed to catch gets away from me again. I keep listening, hoping to hear the hum of traffic, too, or at least the sound of footsteps hurrying past, or of birds calling or dogs barking. Sounds of the
city. I've never wanted that barrage of noise so badly as I want it now.

Something isn't right.

The doors open.

There's no city. There's no sunlight. There's only a giant room lined with computers and desks and swarming with people. And everything—from those computers to the clothing the people wear to the information boards across the wall—all have the same three letters blazing across them:
CCA
.

This can't be right
.

Jaxon can't be CCA.

He was it. The. Only. One. The only one who's never looked at me like I had some sort of disease. The only person who's ever stood up for me. How could he have been pretending all these years?

“Okay—I can explain this.” Jaxon's eyes are pleading with mine, but I only meet them for a fraction of second before we're interrupted. Two men and a woman file into the elevator between us; the woman taps away at a silver palm computer while one of the men grabs me by the arm. My gaze darts to the close door button, and then to the one labeled G, which I assume stands for garage level. And for one desperate moment, I think about diving for those buttons. But even if I could somehow fight everyone off and make it back to the parking deck, then what would I do? Walk home? Straight through who knows how many more CCA and news trucks that are probably nearby, looking for me?

Cooperating may be an even worse idea, but before I can make up my mind either way, the man holding my arm gives me a rough shove. The other two crowd closer
to me, and I'm marched from the elevator without a word from any of them.

“Guys, come on,” I hear Jaxon say. “I can take her myself. This isn't necessary.”

My heels dig instinctively into the floor. Take me
where
, exactly? What are they planning on doing with me?

“Vice President Voss's orders,” says the computer woman. I'm so stunned that it takes a second for the name to register in my brain.
Voss?
As in Samantha Voss? She has relatives who are CCA?

It shouldn't come as much of a shock, I guess. Like I said, the Vosses I know have never been especially shy when it comes to voicing their opinions about the cloning movement—or my sister.

Still, though . . . vice president? They never seemed
that
passionate about it. Of course, maybe they just didn't want their cover blown. It's not as if I've ever known any other CCA members to flaunt their titles in public; I didn't even know they had titles—and I never would have expected anything like this base, filled with what looks like a ridiculous amount of people and technology for what I always just assumed was another protest group. A more organized, more persistently annoying than most protest group, yes.

But this is different.

And the deeper it all sinks in, the more I wish I'd put up a better fight in the elevator.

Our footsteps echo throughout the dome-shaped room as we walk farther inside, a metallic
ting ting ting
against the
grate flooring. The blinding fluorescent lighting and the sterile recycled air reminds me of the last place I want to think about right now: Huxley. The memory of the day we brought my sister's replacement home crowds its way into my mind, and it feels like I'm walking through those winding halls all over again. It's sort of ironic, these two places filled with people who hate each other and their beliefs so much—but all I can think about is how they're the same. And I wonder: Am I here because of Violet again?

Did they bring me to this place because of what people are saying she did? Because they want information about her that I don't even
have
?