Follow Me Through Darkness (16 page)

My father is home today, waiting for me to dress. There are few occasions lately that we go out into the Compound together, and aside from our weekly dinner, I rarely see him anymore. He’s never here. But this is a big event in the Compound, an act of unity and oneness, so we must appear to be a picture of father and daughter. He is the director, the leader of everything and the example. I am expected to be at his side
.

Father knocks on my door
.

“Come along, Cornelia. Even the dead don’t like waiting.”

I glance at myself in the mirror and open the door. My father’s eyes-blue like mine, the only thing I got from him besides his stubbornness-are wide as if he’s seeing a ghost. We stand there in silence until he clears his throat. He walks toward the door without saying a word, and whatever is going on with him, I hope it ends soon
.

Outside, the sky is overwhelmed with darkness. Around me, people are stirring. Little houses are busy with life. Children cry, and smoke from hearths billows up toward the sky. House after house is the same
.

As we walk through the center of town, a little boy named Jacob runs past us, his black pants covered with specks of gray from the gravel dust. His mother yells after him, but Jacob doesn’t stop. Not until he sees my father. Then he freezes, and his chest heaves
.

“Jacob Teem,” my father says. His voice is rough and loud. It’s always rough and loud lately. “I believe your mother is calling for you. Tell me, Jacob, what is the punishment in your household for disobeying your parents?”

Jacob’s eyes expand three sizes. He gulps, and the freckles on his face seem to dance in trembling fear. “Director, sir, we must spend the day on trash duty throughout the Compound for each account.”

My father nods. “How many times did she yell your name?”

Jacob doesn’t answer. My father bends down toward him, and I swear the boy is about to pee his pants. Father whispers in the boy’s ear. With a nod, Jacob flees from us and back to his mother. I hear her say his name in the tone that mothers get. I’ve heard Sara’s voice change that way many times
.

“What did you say to him?” I ask
.

My father stands, straightens his shirt, and we walk on before he answers. “I told him the Elders were looking at his records, and if he continues to disobey, they would send him North to be a servant.”

“Father!” I say
.

He doesn’t even look at me. “He will listen now. These are the cards we must play to teach the children right and wrong.”

“But you’re scaring him. How does a child running constitute a warning such as that? Since when is running forbidden? You aren’t teaching him. You’re threatening him.”

Father stops and looks at me. His face is contorted and red, very unusual for the way he’s always so composed. I miss his smile. Where is his smile? “I will not have my own daughter questioning my authority in public or in private. You should learn to tame your tongue, Cornelia. It will get you into trouble.”

And then, he keeps walking. I inhale and push away my anger before following him like a good little girl. If he can act like this, then I can too
.

Thorne’s family is already on the beach when we arrive. Sara waves as I walk by, and I smile back at her
.

“Cornelia,” Father says. He waves me over, and I join him toward the front of the forming crowd
.

The head of each family lines up along the edge of the ocean. Silver urns glisten under the sunlight. I know all these people. Sam the grocer. Hank the mill worker. Henry the Healer-in-training. Jane the teacher. There are about sixteen dead to name today. We haven’t had a ceremony since the winter
.

The matron has already stood up in front of us to begin the service when I see him saunter up. Xenith Taylor is dressed in black, head to toe, and carrying his father’s urn from a few months ago. The matron gives him a disapproving look, and then she continues with her ceremonial words
.

Xenith catches me staring, and I look away toward the water
.

DEADLINE: 23D, 8H, 54M

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE THE EL PASO CAMP

I NEED WATER.
I pointlessly run my tongue over the cracks on my lips and reach out for Thorne, but my hand hits the ground. That’s when I remember. I’m with the Remnants, and we’re running from the Cleaners. My heart races, and I freeze with panic, waiting for the sound of them-the shrill whirring or chomping, the sound of death and crying. There’s nothing.

My head is spinning before I even sit up all the way. There’s a hot, thick liquid on my left arm that reminds me of the sand when it’s wet and warm.

Where’s Thorne?

I survey the empty place. No, not empty-the Trooper who shot me is here. He’s dead. Blood seeps from a gaping wound in his head. There are other bodies, too-children and men and women-but Thorne is nowhere near me.

I need to find Thorne.

I stand, a sharp pain piercing through my body, and the sky above me is moving so quickly that the dark clouds seem to dance. I look around as the breeze picks up. The trees billow in the wind and my stomach churns with my surroundings, but I don’t dare close my eyes. If I do, I will fall over and never stand again.

There’s a pull through the connection, a dull throbbing that’s familiar and diluted. It felt that way before-when Thorne was far away and I was pretending to be dead, hiding out with Xenith-and it would seep through despite the block. He’s in pain; I can feel that, too-the pressure of worry and anxiety and fear. I’ve felt it before when my father tortured him, and it’s not a forgettable emotion. Thorne must be nearby.

Each step is a thousand knives in my body, but his pain is undeniable. He’s here somewhere.

I move slowly, past pools of blood and too many bodies sleeping on the ground. Sleeping. They have to be sleeping. Pretending they are asleep makes this easier, something other than the bloodbath that it was. Sleep is not as final as death. Death that I caused by coming here when the Elders are obviously tracking us. Tracking me.

After a few feet, I pass another dead Trooper. There’s a shimmer of metal in his hand. I lean down and notice that he’s probably just a little older than me. How did the Elders get to him so young? Where did he come from? Did he have a family?

His eyes are open, bloodshot red with dark brown irises. I pry the gun out of his cold, stiff fingers, which stay in position, still clutching a phantom weapon. I close his eyes before I move away from him and toward the hole in the center of the field, toward where Thorne could be.

Everything is my fault.
Because I killed my mother. Because my father is insane. Because I loved Thorne. Because of the secrets
.

My arm is crimson, and my stomach lumps as I step over a body. The blood from my arm drips on her. Her. A girl that looks younger than me. I step over her like trash.

Because I escaped. Because he followed me
.

I am so close to the hole, to where the connection is leading me. It’s only a few more steps before I see a man on the ground and hope it’s not him. That it’s someone else.

Because I am selfish
.

I wipe my hands on my tattered pants and cover my eyes with my hand. As if all of this will be gone when I look again. But it isn’t. Choices have been made and can’t be undone. This field littered with dead is all the proof we need that the Elders are somehow following me. So many people have died for me on this journey. People I can never thank or know or repay.

I bend down to the dead man. I try not to look at his eyes or his shape. Or the color of his hair that matches Thorne’s. I look for one thing.

My hands find his neck, and I try to wipe it clean. The blood is dried already, caked to his skin like it never wants to leave his body. Heart racing, I peel it off with my fingernails, and the dried pieces become part of me. His skin is soft, like Thorne’s, but cold with death.

I look down, and there is nothing. Just skin-creamy, perfect, white skin. There is no branding. It is not Thorne. I half-cry and half-scream. I’m thrilled that someone else has died who’s not Thorne.

It’s not Thorne.

But I was still led to a man who isn’t Thorne. I still feel the connection pulsing through me. The pressure in my head and the nausea in my stomach tells me that he’s alive and nearby. I ease myself back to my feet and start to move away. The ground shifts, bounces. I freeze. Step. Another shift. I lower myself to the ground again, searching for something. I’m not sure what until my fingers find a crevasse. They slide into it, and the ground moves up. It’s a door.

I slip my hands under the dead guy’s stiff body so I can move him off the door. I push him and scream as my arm stretches and the blood flows. The dead guy has barely moved, but I try again.

Heat rises within me, and everything feels off- center.

When I’m calm enough to move, I try to push the guy with my legs. I pound and pound at the door. Thorne’s name tears through my throat. Again and again it burns my tongue, tasting of desperation and despair. I’m so close to him, yet I can’t reach him.

I can’t move the guy off the door. He budges a little, but not enough.

I’ll never get to Thorne.

I’m going to die out here.

Then I hear voices, and someone pounds back up at me through the door. I yell, but I’m not sure what I say. Exhausted, I curl up on the ground. Noises move under me and around me. Everything is spinning. Green and red and blue whirl in my brain, and I can’t separate the colors.

“This is her?” a voice calls.

“She’s injured,” a different voice says. “Get her inside.”

Hands are on me, voices grow around me, everything is fuzzy, and someone says, “You’re safe now.”

Safe.

11 DAYS BEFORE ESCAPE

“YOU’RE SAFE, NEELY.
Open your eyes. It’s okay. You’re safe.” I stare directly into Xenith’s cobalt eyes, and get lost in them. It feels as if I just saw him yesterday.

“Take a breath,” Xenith says
.

I do, and the air fills my lungs quickly. I gasp it in again, fill up with it, and then cough out the air I’ve craved so much. The last thing I breathed was water
.

My hand squeezes his as I inhale, slowly this time. He’s staring at me intensely, so innocent and concerned. I keep gasping, even though I can breathe now. It was just a dream. A nightmare
.

Xenith strokes my hair. My head is pounding. How long have I been asleep? I’m on Xenith’s couch, so that means the plan worked and they saved me. He and Kai did it. It worked; I’m dead
.

Then I realize I’m holding his hand. I drop it and pull my legs underneath me
.

“What time is it?”

“Just after six,” he says. He’s still sitting on the end of the couch. The chair near me has blankets on it and a stack of books, an empty plate, a cup of water. I look at Xenith. His blond hair is messy, and his clothes are wrinkled. He’s been waiting for me to wake up
.

“Everything went okay?”

“Perfectly, now that you’re awake.”

His gaze hangs between us. I have to break away, to look somewhere that’s not at him, so I look past him toward the wall. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.” He says it like it’s supposed to mean something. I shake my head. My hair feels strangely stiff against my neck, and I probably look like a monster
.

“How many days are left?”

“Eleven.” Xenith taps the side of the couch, a rapid tick tick tick. His hands still for a second, then play with the edge of my blanket. The fabric slides between his slender fingers like water. He drops the cloth when he notices my gaze, then clasps his hands together. “Are you hungry? I can make you some breakfast before I go.” He moves from the couch and picks up his drink
.

“Go where?”

He takes a sip, peering at me over the rim of the cup. “Your ceremony.”

“It’s today?”

“In an hour.”

“My own ceremony?”

“Your father deemed it so. Rumor has it that the Elders are coming.”

The Elders are coming here for my ceremony. They never come here
.

“That’s bad, isn’t it?”

Xenith shrugs. “It’s something.”

I look away from him, search across the room for that familiar glass globe with the Old World. I stand slowly, knowing that Xenith is watching me. My legs are like jelly from not moving for so many days, and the first steps I take are a little shaky. My feet are wobbly, and the sudden shift between sitting and standing causes the room to be unstable, but my fingers reach out toward the globe, tread over it. I’m going to be there soon
.

Xenith is watching me when I look back at him. “Who are they really mourning at the ceremony?” Because it’s not me, not when I’m really alive
.

“Just some girl,” he says quickly
.

“Some girl. Where did she come from?” I say. The cup is in his hand, and he’s at the counter-the same place he stood the first time I came to his quarters. I expect him to put up a fight with the information, but he doesn’t
.

“Kai and I had to sneak into the restricted part of the medical ward to switch your body with someone else’s, in less than two hours and without being caught.” He jumps up on the edge of his counter, pulls his feet under him, and takes another sip
.

I look at him from across the room. “Sounds simple.”

“Typical Tuesday night with the boys.”

“You have boys?” I say
.

He gets quiet. I’m stupid. Of course he doesn’t have boys. He’s Xenith Taylor. He doesn’t have anyone
.

He clears his throat. “Not usually.”

I avert my eyes for a second and try to think of something to break the small awkward tension between us now. “Kai was helpful?”

Kai was Xenith’s idea. Since he’s a Healer, he already has direct access to the building. It took a lot of convincing and explaining why he couldn’t tell Thorne any of this. Xenith met with him in private, and I don’t know what was said, but eventually Kai agreed
.