Fury: Book One of the Cure (Omnibus Edition) (17 page)

“This?”

“You.” He splashes me in the face. “You and me. So let’s fly away and join the fairies. Why the hell not?”

It’s kind of lame, but that’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to me.

I kiss him. He smiles against my lips, threading his hands through my hair. “But first,” I add, smile fading, “We have to survive the moon.”

“Your reports have become less and less detailed,” Jean tells me. “It’s unlike you.”

“There’s not much to report, Jean. Watching the girl is as dull as watching paint dry.”

“Then why do you continuously recommend that she needs to be surveyed? It’s been almost a year and a half, and you’ve given us nothing.”

“Like I said, I have yet to ascertain where her loyalties lie.”

Jean laces her fingers together on the desk. She’s gearing up for something big here, and I unconsciously brace myself. “Agent Townsend. I’m going to tell you something very interesting. Josephine Luquet has a unique condition. Once a year, she is overcome with aggression. This causes her to be violent—or at least, it has in the past. For the last four years, we’ve had various agents watching her, all of whom have reported her behavior to be extremely dangerous. On the last blood moon you were the agent sent to monitor her. You were unaware that we also sent three other Bloods to watch the girl. Those three Bloods never returned from the op. But you reported the next day that nothing of any interest had occurred.”

My heart beats a little too fast. Jean leaves her words to pollute the air between us. I keep my expression empty.

“You’re my only Gray, Luke. I’ve waited patiently, trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Hoping you’d come to me.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of her condition?” I ask softly.

“You didn’t need to be,” Jean snaps. She sits back. “Either you neglected to inform us that the girl murdered three of our finest agents, or she didn’t in fact have an outburst like she has had in previous years. Which is it, Luke?”

My mind starts working quickly. Obviously, this is a trap. The latter explanation is utterly stupid, and she knows it. If Josi didn’t do it, then what happened to the three agents? There’s no way out of this.

“Fine. I have something to admit,” I tell her. “On the day of the 16th the girl was acting strangely. I thought she was sick—she collapsed—so I broke into her apartment to see if she needed to be taken to the hospital. Next thing I knew she was attacking me. I don’t remember anything else. I woke up hours later, alone in her apartment. I didn’t report it because I was embarrassed that some kid managed to get the drop on me.”

“So you let three of our agents die without explanation?”

“I didn’t know about the other agents. You never told me about them.”

We stare at each other. It’s clear she doesn’t believe me, but I don’t really give a shit what she thinks, since she can’t actually prove that my words are false.

“All right. You might be able to explain something else to me.”

“My pleasure.”

“Why it is that you are living with your surveillance subject?”

I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes still as my mind launches ahead and moves faster than it has ever done. It was always a possibility they’d know we were living together, I just thought I’d have more warning than this.

“I changed her status from surveillance. I got sick of your secrecy, and being treated like an amateur. Watching her was delivering nothing. I decided to intensify the information I was acquiring so I upped her to contact status and got close to her. I figured you might want her as an asset, if she turned out to be working for the resistance.”

Jean smiles without any humour. “Really. Townsend, you do amuse me. There’ll be severe punishment for this breach in conduct. Did you manage to learn anything with your reckless activities?”

“Nope. She’s clueless about herself.”

“Very well,” Jean says. “Your new mission has been sent through. It’s very simple.”

There’s something in her voice that makes me wary. There’s no way I’m getting away with what I’ve done that easily. I don’t move a muscle. Jean opens some files and displays them on the wall. It’s a new photo of Josephine—one that I took last week.

“Josephine Luquet has become too difficult to contain. Her crimes are too extensive to disguise. She must be brought in.”

I don’t move—I can’t move. Somewhere inside me I knew that this would come one day, but I’m not ready for it. I haven’t figured out a plan. I’ve been wasting time, trying to help Josi figure it all out on her own, when I should have just fucking told her. I’m a coward. I’m the worst damn kind of coward, because I put my own happiness before her safety.

Bringing her in means one of two things. Either she’ll be cured, or executed. I don’t know which is worse.

“What’s the first rule we learn when we’re recruited into the Bloods, Luke?” Jean asks me softly.

I don’t reply—I can’t.

“Never make contact with a subject. Not even the novices could get that one wrong.” Jean stands up and it’s obvious she doesn’t expect me to answer. “Get it done before she changes tomorrow, or she won’t be the only one who gets brought in. You’re dismissed.”

*

I swerve my car to the side of the road, open the door and vomit into the gutter. Everything inside me comes tearing to the surface, shredding my organs as it goes. When I finally stop there’s a song playing on the car radio, its tinny electronic voice drifting over the quiet of the afternoon air. It seems to be about a man who’s forgotten his wife’s name.

I am so weary of people who forget.

I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. Jean knows my secret. I would rather die than be given the cure. The very idea of it makes me sick with loathing.

My phone is ringing. Over and over and over—whoever it is won’t give up.

Filled with despair, I answer it without looking at the caller ID.

“Luke!” It’s Louise. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for days!”

“Why?” I snap.

“Because you’re my boyfriend!”

I climb out of the car and breathe in the smell of the grass under my feet. I’m not sure where I am—I seem to be standing beside a park. On the other side of it there’s a playground with children climbing over brightly colored objects.

“We’ve been broken up for a year, Lou,” I tell her, forcing myself to stay calm.

“We’re not broken up!” she moans.

“We have this same conversation every time we speak,” I tell her as patiently as I can. “You don’t seem to be able to understand, so I’ll tell you again and again until you do. I don’t love you, Louise. You’re everything I can’t stand about the world.”

“It’s because of Dave, isn’t it? You changed when he died.”

Is this supposed to be a surprise? Would it be strange for a man to change when his brother kills himself? I want to scream at her, but I can’t. Eleven years of being a Blood—of rage—seethes under my surface, but I can never let it out or they will take it from me.

“If that’s easier for you to process, then yes,” I say flatly.

“Have you had an affair?”

“I haven’t had an affair, because you and I aren’t together.”

“Who was that woman on the phone?”

“Louise, I have to go. Don’t call me again. Do you understand?”

She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear her breathing. She’s trying to work out how to feel, but she can’t get there. After a moment she starts to giggle. I hang up the phone.

*

The house I park in front of is small and run down. I haven’t been here for years. I don’t know why I’m here now—a sick kind of self-punishment. Trance-like, I walk to the front door and knock.

My mother opens it and stares at me. Her hair is almost entirely silver, but she wears it with an innate grace she’s always had, even after they damaged her brain and she lost her oldest son. Her eyes are my eyes, but lighter. Slowly they fill with tears and she throws herself into my arms. She’s tiny. I get my stature from my father, who’s a hulk of a man. My mother has never felt so frail though, like she might crumble to dust at any moment.

I feel a desperate kind of sadness. Here in the powerful hold of her limbs is the physical proof of a notion we can never quite understand. It is a real, tangible manifestation of love, this hug, these tears. I feel my own eyes prickle because there is nothing so profound as the way she is, in this moment, forgiving me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. She’s stroking my hair over and over like she did when I was a kid. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Come inside, my darling,” she tells me, taking my hand and leading me into the house where I grew up. The smell of it is intense—a wash of memories and feelings I thought I’d forgotten. And Dave. God, Dave is here in every inch of this place, and it hurts so damn much I feel like my chest is being cracked open.

There are his trophies on the mantel. There are his photos on the wall. His guitar in the corner. A painting he did as a child on the fridge. I thought I would never see these again—I wanted never to see them again. But now that I am here, in among it all, it’s a perfect, sweet kind of agony.

A question with no answer.

My mom—Claire—wipes her eyes and bustles around in the kitchen, making a pot of tea. I sit down at the kitchen table and clear my throat. “Where’s Dad?”

“At work. He’ll be home this evening—if you could wait?” There’s such longing in her voice that it nearly makes me start crying again. Jesus, I’ve got to get a grip on myself. I can’t stay that long—I have to figure out what to do about Josephine—but I can’t bring myself to tell Mom, so I sit quietly and she goes back to the tea.

When she’s brought it to me she sits and we look at each other.

“Mom … I should have come back. I should have visited.”

She reaches out and places her hand over mine.

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “I’ve really made a mess.”

“Okay, darling. Start by telling me the truth and we’ll go from there.”

So I do. Mom and Dad know I’m a Blood. They were the ones who sent my test scores to be analyzed. They wanted security for me. Wealth, status, a nice place to live. They didn’t understand—and neither did I, in the beginning—what it would mean to have such a job. What I would have to do. What I’d be made to watch. They don’t get it, even now. All they know is that I work for the good guys, and Dave died trying to fight them. That kind of confused grief is enough to send anyone mad.

I tell Mom about getting shot, and about how when I returned from sick leave I was given a low-level job as punishment. I tell her about how I watched Josephine, how I started to lose my mind to obsession. How I lost forty pounds and stopped sleeping. I tell her about the night I first spoke to Josi, even though I knew it could get us both killed or worse—cured. I tell her about how we’ve been living together and I’ve been trying to help her figure out the truth. And I tell my mom how I was ordered this afternoon to kill my girlfriend before she murders any more innocent people.

“You love this girl,” she states.

I stare into my cup.

“And if you don’t take her in you’ll lose your job?” she asks faintly.

I feel the air leave my lungs in a gust. I feel sick. I should have known this would be her response. All she has ever cared about is making sure I’m not poor. Once upon a time that’s all I cared about too. When my brother went to protests and riots in the street, I went to work, knowing I had to keep my job to keep my money. I couldn’t afford to have any ideals, any opinions. I was a body for hire, and I was good at what I did.

Then my brother died and I realized there was a different reason to be a Blood now. I didn’t care about anything, not one single thing except the anger. The anger was mine, all mine, and it would only be mine if I remained uncured.

“I don’t care about my job,” I tell her. “It will be my life. They’ll cure me and turn me into a mindless drone.”

Her eyes drop to the table and I feel instantly bad. “Mom, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to insult you …”

“I know it’s true,” she says. “Your father hasn’t laughed in years. Even before Dave. I feel plagued by the thought that I might not be missing my son enough. I can’t … feel
anything
enough.”

I close my eyes.

“You can’t let yourself become like this,” she goes on. “Not ever, Luke. I don’t grieve for my dead son. I don’t love him. It’s like living through a waking nightmare. You wouldn’t … I’m not sure you would survive it.”

“So you’re telling me I have to have her killed then,” I say, voice breaking. “That’s the only other choice and you’re telling me to take it.”

My mother stands up and gestures for me to follow her. She takes me down the hall to where Dave’s bedroom sits. I pause outside the door, not wanting to go in. My heart is pounding like the panicked flutter of a bird’s wings. I can’t go in. I
can’t
.

“It’s just our Dave,” my mother says softly. “He’s nothing to be frightened of.”

So I follow her into my brother’s bedroom and I sit down on the bed, looking around at all the shades of Dave, and I know that she’s right—he isn’t frightening. It’s the idea that he was right all along that scares me to my bones.

Mom walks to the desk. There is an old-fashioned whiteboard against the wall, covered in pictures and ticket stubs. In the middle Dave has pinned up a quote, and as I read the words I feel everything shift.

“Your father and I always thought he was foolish and headstrong,” Mom says softly, running her fingers over the photo of Dave and Livvy on the desk. “But he was the smartest one of us all, wasn’t he? He knew about life,
real
life, and he knew how to live it big and fast, and full.”

I can’t help it now—I start to cry. I close my eyes and the tears slip out onto my cheeks.

“You have more than two choices, my love,” she tells me gently. “You have a third. You can stop behaving like a child, and become a man. You can fight. For yourself, and for the woman you love. Because there’s nothing else left.”

And then she reads aloud the words that defined my brother’s life, and as she does I come to understand that maybe I’m not so different.

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

*

At home she’s gone. The only trace of her is a note, written in lipstick on the fridge.

I won’t put us before the lives of others. You don’t need me to fight—you’re brave enough to do it on your own. I love you.