Into the Abyss (11 page)

It is the strangest place I've ever been in.

The more time I spend taking it all in, though, the more I find its lack of order oddly appealing. Comforting, almost. But that still doesn't change the uncomfortable fact that I have no idea how or why I ended up here.

I sit up, and realize that I have been lying on yet another table, but one that has been turned into a makeshift bed, piled with foam cushioning and flannel blankets. “How did I get here?”

“I carried you,” Seth says, plopping back into a nearby chair and—finally—giving me more space. “And got strange looks from every person on the street who I didn't manage to avoid, because apparently a strapping young lad like myself carrying a half-unconscious girl through the city is actually more creepy than chivalrous.”

“Carried me?” I try to hide the mortification in my voice.

“I didn't have much choice. It was that or leave you hanging like ten stories off the ground, until you'd either unconsciously rolled off the edge of that sign yourself or until some other CCA creep came and finished the job.”

“The job of killing me off,” I think aloud, my eyes
drifting to a half-finished painting propped on a chair in the corner. An amateur work in watercolors, depicting a parklike setting framed by dogwood trees. It looks vaguely familiar, somehow. Like one of the dozens of places that Catelyn pointed out to me on one of our trips through Haven, though I can't remember why she thought I should know about it.

“Yeah, I didn't really see that part coming,” Seth says. “But I'm not entirely surprised; the clone-hate has been reaching kind of alarming levels at headquarters these past few months—more alarming than usual, I mean. I had a feeling someone was going to get hurt. Because I'm smart and observant like that, you know.”

“And modest, clearly.”

He nods, as though I am being perfectly serious. “And I figured that clone attack last night would send at least some of them over the edge, which is why I tried to tell you that you'd be better off leaving. But you're like those girls that end up getting killed first in every horror movie ever—the ones who run upstairs when the ax murderer is trying to break in through the front door, instead of just going out the back door?” He leans back far enough in the chair that the front legs lift off the ground. “You probably haven't seen any of those movies, though,” he adds thoughtfully. “So I guess you get a pass this time.”

“I wasn't running,” I point out. “Just getting some fresh air.”

“The air was pretty refreshing out there on that sign,” he agrees. “I probably would have really enjoyed it if I hadn't
been so concerned about plummeting to my death as I tried to carry your unconscious deadweight back inside.”

“How did you even find me out there?”

The front legs of his chair crash loudly back to the floor. He suddenly looks uneasy, and his voice is noticeably quieter when he says, “I saw you fall.”

Quiet as they are, the words seem to expand, looming large and filling the already-crowded room. “How? Where were you?”

Hesitation, and then: “When you didn't meet me in the city, I came back—I was waiting, just in case you changed your mind. I missed you somehow, but I saw Josh and the others come outside. And at first I let them go, but then, I dunno. . . . I had a bad feeling, so I tracked them up to the roof. I couldn't get to you and Josh in time, though.”

“Because the others got in your way.” The memory is suddenly surprisingly clear edged and bright. “I heard fighting behind us. That was you, wasn't it?”

He doesn't deny it, but he doesn't really answer me either.

“There were six of them. One of you. You're lucky they didn't throw you over the roof right behind me.”

Of all the ways he could reply, he laughs.

“They were armed,” I say, annoyed by his lack of concern, and at how I suddenly feel the need to justify why I ended up being thrown off the building when he didn't. It makes me feel weak. And I don't know why, but I can't stand the thought of him thinking I'm weak.

“So was I,” he says, more to himself than me. Which is
fine, because I am tired of talking to him anyway. Silence settles between us, and I go back to examining the things around me with distracted interest. In the next room over, I can hear movement, someone—that woman from earlier, I assume—rummaging through things. I get to my feet. The noise makes me anxious for some reason, desperate for movement myself. I head for the only other door in the room, the one opposite of where the woman is rummaging.

“You can't leave,” Seth says.

Now it's my turn to laugh. “Stop me. I dare you.”

He stands as well, as if he plans on doing just that, and I want to laugh again. But I can't. Because another memory opens suddenly in my mind: We've been here before, haven't we? When I tried to run past him back at headquarters, and he caught me. Somehow, he caught me. Something about him, whether it is his distracting mind games or otherwise, slows me down. Knocks me off guard.

“They'll be looking for you,” he says. “And for me, too, and I'm not going to let you just waltz out of here and give away the location of this place that easily. Besides, you were messed up when I brought you here—you should probably take it easy for a bit until we're sure everything is functioning like it should.”

“And you're staying here too?” I ask, ignoring his latter concern. “Hiding from all of the CCA? Some of them may be creeps, but you're the son of their president.”

“Adopted son,” he reminds me.

“All the same—you can stay away from her? Even after
everything she's done for you? What about Jaxon? Him too?”

“It's not that simple. And it's probably better for both of them if I'm not there, anyway.”

“I don't think Jaxon believes that.”

“Yeah, well, he can be a little thick in the head sometimes, can't he?”

I don't return the cynical smile he gives me. I can still picture how upset Jaxon was while we were in his room, trying to contact Seth. Which, of course, reminds me of the whole reason I'd been in that room to begin with: Catelyn.

It's then that I notice my communicator is gone.

“Where is it?” I demand, shoving my empty wrist toward Seth.

“I got rid of it.”

“That was my property.”

“It was CCA issued. It would have been way too easy for them to trace.”

“I want it back. Now.”

“Can't do it,” he says. “Sorry.” But he doesn't sound especially sorry at all. And suddenly this place feels less like a comforting living room and more like a cleverly disguised prison. I am cut off from the few familiar things I had. Confused. Cornered. And that violent hum I am becoming so familiar with lately is almost palpable as it gathers around me, surging a little stronger with every deep breath I take.

Another blackout is threatening, and despite how Seth
annoys me, I don't really want to lose control right now.

“I'm leaving,” I warn him. “And you need to get out of my way.”

“There's nowhere for you to go, Violet,” he says, and this time he does sound almost sorry, and somehow that's worse.

And it's the last challenge I can take.

I charge toward him, reckless, mind abandoned by any thought other than the need to knock him down hard enough to keep him down, and then to get out of this place. To find a way to contact Catelyn, to go back to her and something I recognize. I refuse to believe that I can't go back to her.

Seth manages to catch hold of me, to keep himself from falling all the way back, though the momentum of me is still strong enough that we slam into a table and send it—and everything on it—toppling to the floor. His arms brace against mine. I manage to heave him away from me, but it takes more effort than I expected. It throws me off balance. I fall sideways, awkwardly catching myself on one hand and hitting hard on my right knee. I recover quickly, bouncing up onto the balls of my feet. The muscles in my legs tense, preparing to spring.

My eyes lock on to his.

They're the last thing I see before a rush of heat consumes me, and everything flashes to black.

•  •  •

This time, when I feel my senses coming back to me, I open my eyes immediately. I see Seth a few feet away,
holding the side of his head. I wonder what I've done. What I don't remember.

How those flecks of blood got on the floor between us.

I look up, and we stare at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“You should have just moved,” I say. “I could have killed you.”

“Not swinging like that you couldn't have,” he replies. “Maybe I should teach you how to fight while you're here.”

My mouth opens to snap back at him, but then I see those dots of blood on the floor again, and I stay quiet. I move to shove myself back to my feet instead, and my fingers land on the edge of a handheld computer that fell from the knocked-over table.

It's coincidence, really, that I happen to look down at this computer. And only for a split second—just long enough to see the symbol branded in the corner of its lid. An intricate, partially encircled letter
H
.

Huxley's symbol.

I grab the computer and stand the rest of the way up. My blackout is forgotten for the moment, because at my feet are more of those
H
s, emblazoned on folders and on the letterheads of papers spilling from them.

“What is this place?” I ask, eyes wide and more closely searching the hoard around me.

Before Seth can reply, the woman from earlier appears in the doorway opposite my escape route, looking slightly frazzled. “What in the world was all that commotion? I told you to . . .” Her eyes light up as they fall on me. “Oh! I
thought I heard an extra voice in here—and you're up and moving around, too. Good.” Her smile is warm.

But this room seemed that way at first too.

I take a backward step toward the door, not taking my gaze off her.

“Wait a second,” she says, lifting her hands as if in surrender. “Before you leave—I know you have to have questions. At least give me a chance to introduce myself, how about?”

She moves closer, hands still raised slightly. Her step is careful, body bracing a little with each movement, as if she is trying to hide a limping injury, or maybe battling the stiffness of arthritis. Probably the latter, I decide after glancing over her gray-streaked hair, which is pulled loosely back from a face grooved with wrinkles and laugh lines.

Not much of a threat either way, my brain decides as she reaches me. Though the way she is studying me so closely, so openly, is making me increasingly uncertain.

“He's told me a lot about you, Violet,” she says with a nod at Seth. “All good stuff, don't worry.”

Should I have been worried?

She extends a hand, and I cautiously take it. It feels like soft, well-worn leather. “My name is Angela,” she says, and then her eyes drift back to Seth. “He probably hasn't told you much about me, but I'm his mother. And it's nice to meet you.”

The door seems closer. More
inviting than ever before. Because it feels as if I've stumbled into yet one more thing that makes no sense—or been carried into it, rather. And my carrier is uncharacteristically silent.

“I didn't think you had a mother,” I say to him, still edging toward the door and thinking of bolting. “Other than President Cross.”

“It's complicated.”

“And not especially important at the moment, in light of other things,” says the woman who introduced herself as Angela. “I only mention it because I thought it might make you more comfortable.”

I keep my focus on Seth. “Why did you bring me here?”

He hesitates, picking up the table and straightening a stack of folders against its top. “Because I knew Angie would be able to help you.”

“Because she knows about clones.” I gather some of the scattered papers and hand them over, my eyes lingering on one of the letterhead logos. “Because she works for Huxley.”

“Worked for, rather,” Angie corrects, kindly but firmly. “But you're right about the other part—I'm no stranger
to cloning technology. Which is a good thing, because it looks like you smacked the back of your head pretty hard on something during that fight. And a bit too close to your sensitive brain-hardware stuff for comfort, at that.”

Sensitive brain-hardware stuff?

That hardly sounds like the technical term for it.

My gaze finally shifts to her. Who is this woman, truly? How much does she honestly know about Huxley? About cloning? She isn't how I pictured a Huxley employee looking; not that I have encountered or personally seen many, but for some reason I already had an image of them all in my head: scientists in stiff white lab coats, their expressions sterile and postures proper. But when I look at this woman—with her bright aqua-colored glasses and hair consisting mostly of flyaways—“proper” is the last word that comes to mind.

I realize that I am staring and quickly look away. The jerk causes a sharp, pulling pain along the back of my head, and when I lift a hand to it, I feel a layer of gauze taped there. I peel it off in annoyance. Underneath it is a tiny, clean-edged cut. Surgically precise.

“I did that,” Angie says. “So I could get a scope in there to check for possible driver damage that might end up causing memory loss. A bit of a primitive method for checking that sort of thing, but as you can probably tell”—she gestures at that messy hoard around us—“this isn't exactly my former laboratory. Proper equipment's a little scarce around here.”

My body tenses, and skepticism floods my voice. “You cut me open just so you could have a look?” There are plenty of advantages to having what is essentially a supercomputer for a brain; having to worry about whether or not people have hacked or reprogrammed it is not one of them.