Forged (5 page)

“That's life, kid,” Bree says, which only makes his tears come faster. She drops to a knee and touches his elbow. “Aiden?” He coils into himself. “Aiden, look at me.” Finally, he glances through teary lashes. “Life is rarely fair,” Bree says. “It's hard. Really,
really
hard. Sometimes terribly cruel. But the bad stuff isn't worthless because it makes us stronger, and you are going to be so strong, Aiden. Understand?”

He blinks a few times, then throws his arms around Bree's neck. The look on her face is priceless—first shock at the hug, then pleasant surprise as she envelops him in return.

It was what he needed to hear. Not that everything was okay. Not even that everything would
be
okay, because who can promise that? Bree spoke the hard, honest truth, and somehow, it pulled the world back beneath his feet.

Charlie says something about dinner, and the tension dissipates as we shuffle into the kitchen.

AFTER EATING, MOST OF OUR
group drifts away from the table. Clipper stumbles off to bed, exhausted, and Blaine and Sammy disappear downstairs after swiping a bottle from Charlie's liquor cabinet. He dozes on one of the couches, blissfully unaware of their theft. Camped out on the second couch, I'm in the middle of a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors with Aiden, but most of my energy is spent listening in on Adam's conversation.

He's sitting at the kitchen table with September, discussing the state of Bone Harbor and the number of supporters she's rallied. Somewhere else in Pine Ridge, Heidi is having a similar discussion with Bleak. I sort of wish it was
happening here. I miss the guy. Want to ask him if his outlook on life is still . . .
bleak
.

From what I pick up, September has been busy in Bone Harbor. She's assembled a team to forge inspection slips so vessels carrying freshwater can slip in and out of harbor more easily, and she's also struck up a friendship with the woman who runs the
Bone Harbor Harbinger
, an underground newspaper aimed at exposing Franconian lies and providing tips and insider info for struggling AmEast citizens. The paper now serves as an additional Rebel recruiting outlet—if read from front to back, taking in only the corner words on each page, locations and times for meetings September holds can be deciphered. But most notably, September is using the paper to combat the lies spread on Franconian signage. The
Harbinger
prints stories about how I stole a vaccine to ensure the Rebels' safety last fall. How I freed Burg from Frank's clutches, eluding an entire squad of Order soldiers in the process. How I fled to AmWest—to people who are
not
the enemy—and am currently rallying Expats to aid in the East's fight for justice.

The pieces sport slogans like
Lead the way, Gray
, and
The wanted Expat: a fugitive for freedom
. I see Bree's point—how focusing on my face and name keeps everyone else safer—but I'm not the miraculous, one-man hero these stories
paint me as. I'd have been a goner in any of those past situations had it not been for the help of numerous others, and everyone deserves to know that.

As the discussion shifts to technology, it sounds like September's been spending a lot of time in a basement lab similar to the one Sylvia had beneath her Expat safe house. September's been using this place to communicate not only with Ryder, but with fellow supporters in the domed cities of Haven, which I've heard of, and Lode, which I have not.

“We lost touch with Crevice Valley around the same time you did,” she says to Adam. “We had started sending digital files of the
Harbinger
to Ryder a few weeks earlier, and he was working to spread those around Taem. I'm guessing one of his crew got caught, because the day before our lines died, the Order ran a search and seizure effort in Bone Harbor looking for the press. They tossed our place good, but didn't find the trapdoor. Maybe when Frank couldn't crush the paper at its source, he just retaliated on Crevice Valley? Leveling it would at least cut off the supply of the paper to his city.”

“It's possible,” Adam says. “Makes a heck of a lot more sense than him striking out of the blue. Especially when he's already suspected the location for months.”

Aiden covers my fist with his palm. “Paper beats rock.
Again
. Are you even trying, Gray?”

I nod enthusiastically.

“We're still hoping for the best,” Adam continues. “And Elijah should know more about the damage soon. Actually, he might have already reported back, but I haven't reached out to Vik yet. Now about the key cards . . . Were you able to get them squared away?”

Aiden clunks my two exposed fingers with his fist. “Gray, you're bad at this.”

“Maybe you're a supergifted, mind-reading cheater,” I tease.

I try to make out what's being said about the key cards, but Aiden won't quit jabbering.

“That's what Jackson always said: that I was reading his mind.” The boy tenses up at his mention of the Forgery. “I'm glad you're here. And everyone else. Even Bree. She had that gun when I met her in Stonewall, but she's just not as bad as I thought.”

“No, she's not bad at all,” I agree. “She's pretty awesome.”

Aiden squints at me. “She's pretty? Or she's awesome?”

“Both.”

“You
like
her,” he says, eyes wide like he's accusing me of a heinous crime.

“Well, I wasn't trying to keep it a secret.”

“Yuck. Girls are gross.”

I wrap my palm over his fist—I've finally won a round—and give it a playful shake.

“Just wait, kid. You might change your mind.”

“Never. And if I do, I've got at least”—he looks at me, counts our age difference on his hands—“ten years still.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Try more like four or five.
Tops
.” His nose scrunches up. “Don't believe me? Ask Clipper about Riley.”

As if on cue, Clipper emerges from the bedroom, yawning and mumbling about being thirsty. Aiden scrambles off the couch and tails him into the kitchen.

“Clipper, how old are you? And who's Riley?”

I head downstairs, grinning. It's dark in the bookshop, but I can hear Blaine ranting to Sammy about something as I descend the stairs.

“I just don't understand what happened,” Blaine says. “I know he's been through a lot, but he's acting like I'm a stranger. It's like he can't stand to look at me.”

“Well, he did shoot a Forged version of you,” Sammy responds. “That probably messed him up a little.”

“He what?”

“I thought you knew.”

“No!” Blaine practically shouts. “He didn't say a thing. He didn't even—”

They see me now, because I haven't slowed or bothered to stay quiet. Blaine's holding the bottle in one hand, and it's
obvious he's had too much. His eyelids are heavy, his mouth hanging open.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he demands.

“Because I knew you'd never let it go. That you'd ask every single day if I'm okay. And I am. I'm fine! Things are hard enough already without adding more guilt and grief to the situation.”

“So it's better to act like it didn't happen? To keep me in the dark? No wonder I can't help you.”

I hate when Blaine sounds disappointed like this. He acts like all I've ever done is inconvenience him. To him, I'm a child. A small, helpless thing he has to take care of.

“If you were truly concerned you would have
demanded
answers, Blaine. But that would have been too hard, standing up to me, butting heads. So you drag Sammy into it and dance around the issue from a safe distance. Where you won't hurt or upset anyone. Well, guess what, Blaine? I'm upset. It backfired and I'm so upset I'd throw a punch if I didn't think you were too wasted to slug me back.”

I knock into his chest as I storm onto the street. If I were a better person I'd take a few deep breaths and shake it off, accept that Blaine is drunk and talk to him about it in the morning. But even then it won't change the heart of the problem. I now have what I never wanted: Blaine's pity. Blaine
worrying about me more than he already does. Blaine acting like the damn parent when I've already had and lost two and what I really need is my brother. Someone who talks to
me
, instead of running off to chat about the things that haunt my nightmares with others.

I hear the door bang open.

“You're acting like a child, Gray.” I walk faster, not sure where I'm going, but happy so long as it takes me away from Blaine. “Gray! Don't you dare—”

I twist. “What? Speak my mind? One of us has to.”

“I was going to say don't you dare leave,” he shouts back. “You're running away from your problems because you're too scared to face them like a man.”

That does it. I'm on him in a heartbeat, my left hand clutching the front of his jacket, my right curling into a fist. Sammy forces his way between us, shoves me backward.

“Go cool off!”

“Stay out of this, Sammy!”

He shoves me again, so hard I stumble. “Now, Gray!” With his other arm around Blaine, Sammy pulls him toward the bookshop. “Inside,” he orders. “Gray will be back when he's ready.”

And then they are both gone, the door slammed in my face.

I stalk down the unlit street, fuming, my legs moving fast enough that I eventually break into a jog. The cool night air
feels good in my lungs, helps Blaine's words merely sting rather than burn. Sammy knew what I needed more than my own brother. How is that possible?

I run for a few blocks, and slow along a street that runs parallel to the inlet. The squawk of a rowdy crowd can be heard ahead, where a patch of light streams from an establishment. It's a pub. The Wheelhouse, according to the sign hanging above the entrance. Two patrons stand just outside the door. It's not until I'm closer that I recognize them. Gage and Bree.

“What are you doing here?” I ask her.

“Sammy told me Gage had invited us all for drinks, and I needed to get out,” she says. “That place was suffocating.”

“You gonna join us?” Gage asks. “It would be a real shame if you passed, know what I mean?” He jerks his head toward Bree and winks at me.

I don't think I like this guy anymore.

“We should go,” I say to Bree.

“Nah, the fresh air's been good.”

“Bree, I'm not suggesting it.”

“I think she can speak for herself, Ace,” Gage says. “And besides, the night is young. You want a drink? I'll go grab a couple.” He shoves off the wall and heads inside.

I move to follow, and Bree blocks my way. “What is your problem?”

“You honestly don't see what he's after?”

“I can see just fine,” she says. “But he's been perfectly civil since I got here, so how about you have a drink with us instead of babysitting me like I'm five?”

She takes her hand off my chest. I could walk after Gage now, but it all feels like a test.

And I don't intend to fail.

I LEAN AGAINST THE WALL
and try to pretend like I couldn't care less that Bree's been out here talking with Gage all night. Tilting my head back, I survey the stars. A whole blanket of them. Pinpricks of light. Small, yet stunning.

“They're phenomenal, huh?” Bree says, even though I haven't commented on them out loud. She's got her head back, the arch of her neck bared to the evening. The night sky reflects off her pupils, which are massive in the moment—as wide and eager as they should be under such poor lighting.

The day we arrived in Pike, I told Adam about the telltale sign we'd discovered for identifying Forgeries—how their pupils don't dilate properly—and suggested we check everyone after the betrayal Emma's Forgery committed right
beneath our noses. Bree pitched a fit, claimed I was walking a line that toyed with our faith in one another at a dangerous level. Clipper also sided with her, but in the end, because Adam said the entire thing was voluntary and that it would only look suspicious if they
didn't
participate, they yielded.

Vik had everyone in the Expat base pair off, and Bree and I ended up together. She stared at me blankly as I passed the beam of a small flashlight before her eyes, watched her pupils expand and contract. A Forgery's would, too, according to what we'd learned, just very subtly. An unnaturally minimal change.

“We should be coming up with safety questions,” Bree said. “They'd be more effective.”

“How's that?”

“What Forgery is going to let you get close enough to shine a light in their eyes?
Oh hi, I'm not sure if you're human, so would you mind submitting to this eye test real quick?
” She scoffed. “It's ridiculous. We should be asking questions that have answers a Forgery would never know.”

I lowered the flashlight. Owen had asked the Forged version of Blaine personal questions when he first found us in Stonewall, and we both saw how that panned out.

Sensing my reservations, Bree sighed. “Look, when you see me, if you ever doubt that it's actually me—even for a
second—just ask what my favorite bird is. Growing up on Saltwater, it was herons. They were the most graceful animals I'd ever seen, and I was obsessed with them. Thought they were magical, even. A Forgery will answer wrong based on those memories.”

“And the right answer? Now?”

She took the flashlight from me. “Loons.”

I was deeply puzzled by that choice, still am. Why would her favorite bird be associated with one of the ugliest moments between us? That night on the beach, when I said things I wish I could take back.

“What about you?” she said as she began to check my eyes.

“Ask what the biggest mistake of my life was, and I'll answer that it was doubting us. That I told you we wouldn't work.”

She lowered the flashlight, scowling. “Why do you insist on making this hard? Isn't there another question?
Anything
else?”

“Probably, but that's the deepest, truest thing about me right now. It's one of the only things I know for certain.”

She snapped the flashlight off and stood so aggressively her chair skidded back. “Congratulations, Gray. You're not a Forgery.” But she left like I was: quickly, hurried, as though she couldn't put enough distance between us.

Bree turns to face me now, the starlight disappearing from her perfectly human pupils. “Will you stop staring? It's creepy.”

I smile and look away. “Sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

I smile wider and her elbow prods my side. More contact. Initiated again by her.

Gage returns with a pair of mugs and hands one to Bree. “I only had enough for two,” he says to me.

How convenient.

I stalk inside to get my own, then realize I have no way of paying for it. When I come back out, Gage is talking about his work with Badger. He rambles about shipment schedules and various clients—some of which keep getting busted by the Order, but there's a waiting list a mile long to get on Badger's route, so it never hurts their business. Every detail is shared solely for Bree, Gage's frame angled so that I'm cut out of the conversation. When he tires of his own stories, he starts asking about our plans—when are we acting, what are we after, why?—and Bree keeps her answers vague.
Soon. Information. Because
.

“Well, Nick's a real genius,” Gage says. “Doesn't miss a beat. You're in good hands, whatever that job of yours is.”

He winks at Bree and my patience dissolves.

“I'm going to head back,” I announce. “You coming?”

“Don't,” Gage says to Bree, and points at her near-empty mug. “I was about to get us another round.”

Now he magically has enough money for extra drinks?

Bree shrugs and nods in one motion. “Okay,” she agrees. “One more.” Then she jerks her head in the direction of the bookshop and says, “I'm fine, Gray. Really.”

A nudge for me to leave.

I know there's no winning this one, so I say goodnight and head out, trying to ignore the jealous sting in my side. I get only a few steps away before Gage touches my shoulder.

“It's obvious you care about her,” he says in a low voice, “so I just wanted to say don't worry. I'll get her home safe.”

I force a smile. “I didn't doubt you would.”

“You, Gray Weathersby, are a terrible liar.” He takes a drag of his smoke and exhales out the corner of his mouth. I realize my right hand has curled into a fist and stalk off before he can notice he's gotten under my skin.

Back at the bookshop, I sit on the front stoop. I'm not ready to go inside and face Blaine, and I can't stop thinking about Gage, the way he winked at Bree and nudged her shoulder. I know his intentions, could read them in his sly smile. And even though Bree's tough, she's also small, no match for a guy twice her size if he gets aggressive. I should go back there in case . . . No, like she said, she doesn't need someone
to babysit her. She's smart. And competent. And completely capable of taking care of herself. Heck, maybe she even
wants
Gage to make a move. Maybe that's why she stayed for another drink. The thought of him kissing her—of her kissing him back—makes my blood hot.

I hear footsteps. A figure storms around the corner. Bree.

“That ass!” she says, and I scramble to my feet. “He got all grabby as soon as you left. When I told him to stop, he just tried harder, so I kneed him in the groin and bailed.”

My blood's nearly boiling at this point.

“You want me to go back there and hit the message home?” My hand is back in a fist. “I'll do it, Bree. Gladly.”

“I could do it myself if I thought it was necessary. So thank you, but no.” Bree sighs, her expression suddenly tired. It's this that makes me relax. She's annoyed and furious, but not hurt.

“Why are guys like that?” she says after a moment. “I didn't give him any sign that I felt like making out in a filthy pub.”

“A girl like you—confident, gorgeous? Can you really blame him for trying?” She gives me a look. “At least the first time,” I clarify. “The second advance was uncalled for.”

“Which is why I kneed him.”

“Naturally. He deserved it. Probably worse.”

She grins at that. “He
definitely
deserved worse. I think he put something in my second drink. It tasted off. You sure
read him better than I did, huh?”

I clap a hand to my chest. “Are you admitting that I was right for once?”

“Sadly, yes. But if you keep rubbing it in, I'll never do it again.”

“You know, I could get used to this feeling. Being right. I think I only need about”—I make a show of counting my fingers—“a million more outcomes to go in my favor for us to be even.”

“A million? When on earth did I rack up all these points?”

“I think it started when you told me I was fighting us.”

The street seems to grow incredibly quiet as she turns toward me. Her expression is curious, her brows raised.

“You also said we challenged each other in a good way. Correct again. And that I hadn't given you everything . . . that I was distracted . . . that the fire was good . . . Correct, correct, correct. Should I keep going?”

“Yeah, I kind of like this list.” She moves nearer, just one step, but our proximity changes from friendly to something more. There is mischief in her eyes, a playful twist to her lips. She hasn't looked at me this way in two months and suddenly I can't think straight. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

The scar above her left eye is brilliant in the moonlight. Brilliant and my fault. I reach for it, and this time, Bree
doesn't recoil or twist away. She lets me touch her. I trace the scar with my thumb, and when I finish, she leans into me slightly, presses her cheek into my palm.

A small sigh escapes her.

A
yearning
sigh.

The sound sends a flare of heat through my chest. I grab her face with both hands and press my lips to hers before my nerve vanishes. She flinches with surprise, then relaxes, opens her mouth to mine. She kisses me back, desperately, rushed, and it's so perfect—us pressed together, breathing each other in like it's never been any other way—that my blood nearly dries in my veins when she whispers, “Stop.”

I open my eyes. She's staring at my chest, how her palms lie against it.

“I . . . I can't,” she says, drawing them back like she's been burned.

“You just did.”

She shakes her head. “I want to be friends.”

“Friends don't do that, Bree. Friends don't kiss like that.”

“I want to be friends,” she says again.

“And I want to be
more
. I want to be so much more and you're killing me.”

I can feel the moment slipping away, sense her refortifying her wall. What is she battling? Her pride? Some promise she made to herself?

“Please don't do this, Bree. Please don't start fighting us when I've finally decided to stop.”

“This was a mistake,” she says, refusing to look me in the eye. “I'm sorry.”

She slips into the bookshop and I stand there, struck through with shock, the taste of her still burning up my mouth.