Stunned (The Lucidites Book 2) (7 page)

“Joseph,” I say in a scared hush. I push Samara out of the way and search his hollow expression. His skin is pale. Dark circles hang around bloodshot eyes. A leather jacket hangs loosely on his sunken shoulders.

“Oh, hey, sis,” he says with an empty expression.

I worry he’ll pass out right here. He’s too frail. All the spark that makes him Joseph is gone. Although he’s moving and interacting I know it’s only through instinct. Joseph isn’t fully in his body and I want to rattle him until he rises to the surface.

I drag him into Samara’s room. He tries to resist, giving me a petrified look, but he’s too weak to overpower me. “My God, Samara, why didn’t you tell me he was like this?”

“I didn’t know,” she says, wiggling her nose.

“That’s a lie.”

She darts her eyes to the floor. “He told me not to. He said you wouldn’t understand, that it would only make you worry unnecessarily.”

“Look at him.” I wave my hand at a barely present Joseph. He’s slumped on the bed, staring off in a daze. “Shouldn’t I be worried? Aren’t you?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t like this last night. Not this bad. I promise,” she says in a pained voice. She’s right. He didn’t look like this in my vision.

“What you girls talking ’bout,” Joseph says in a hoarse voice. “I’m fine.”

Is he drunk? On drugs? Sleepwalking?
No real clues support any of these assumptions.

“Give us a minute or two. I need to talk to him,” I say to Samara, not taking my eyes off my brother.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be outside.”

When the door slides closed I cautiously approach Joseph. He’s gone somehow. Had he even witnessed the last few minutes? I can’t be sure. I sit beside him, curling my feet underneath me.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” I plead.

With a thud he lies back on the bed. “Oh, nothing much, sis,” he says, looking at the ceiling. “What’s goin’ on with you?”

“Well, my life is falling apart and on top of that now I’m super worried about you,” I say. Joseph’s eyes shoot wildly around the room, like they’re watching a fly buzz in the air.

“Oh man, that sounds tough, Stark,” he sings with a whistle. “How ’bouts you sleep on it and we’ll discuss it something fierce tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking now works better for me.”

“I’m kinda feeling out of sorts right now though.” He wraps his arms on either side of his head like he’s trying to block out a sharp noise.

I go to reach for him, but pause, afraid I’ll disturb him even more. “Joseph, what’s wrong? You’re making me nervous.”

“Shhhh…do have to be so loud?” he says, an ache in his voice.

I’m not even yelling. Not yet, but I feel a frustration building in my chest. Still I manage to bring my tone down a degree. “You know the only reason I stayed at the Institute is because of you. You asked me to stay and I did. I thought you needed me. You said I could work a project with you. But you’ve disappeared and now look at you. What are you doing?”

With a great effort Joseph turns over on his stomach and rests his chin on his hands. “I don’t need help with the project. Thought I did, but you can’t be involved.”

“Why not? What is it? Who you working for? And what kind of ‘project’ has this kind of effect on someone?”

“It’s a surprise,” he says in raspy voice.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You’re gonna like this one.”

For some reason I don’t believe him. “And why in the hell are you coming to see Samara, when I’ve hardly seen you in almost a week?”

“’Cause I knew you’d ask me about the project and I can’t tell you,” he says.

“What? You’re really not going to tell me what you’re doing?” I ask, hurt, frustrated.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at the bed. His short blond hair is matted to his head. “I can’t tell you yet, but you have to believe in me.”

“Believe in you? How can I do that when you won’t be honest with me? How can I believe in you when you look deathly ill?”

“Well, that’s kinda disappointing.” Joseph turns to face me for the first time since he arrived.

“If you think that’s disappointing then you’re really about to be upset.” I lock onto his cold, dark eyes. “I’m leaving the Institute. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m not going to watch you kill yourself, which is what it looks like you’re about to do.” I shove off the bed and stand up, shaking.

“No, you can’t do that!” Joseph exclaims, pushing himself up to an awkward standing position. He staggers a bit. “You promised.”

“If you’re going to sneak around and refuse to tell me why you look like a heroin addict, then I have no problem breaking my promise to you.”

“I need you though,” he says, lunging forward.

“You don’t need me.” I slip easily from his feeble attempt to detain me. “All you need is my energy and I’m not giving you any more unless you tell me what you’re doing.”

He sinks down on his knees, his eyes wide as he begs. “I can’t. I just can’t. Please, you gotta believe me. Please don’t leave. Please.”

The Joseph I know would never beg. He’d never reduce himself to look so pitiful. Whatever Joseph is mixed up in, it’s stripping him of his integrity, along with everything else.

“If you can’t tell me what you’re working on then I can’t stay here. That’s the deal. No negotiations.”

He shakes his head, a look of horror on his face. “Please. Please.”

“No,” I say firmly and stride out of the room before he can say another word.

Samara sits beside the door braiding her hair. “Good luck,” I say over my shoulder. “He’s a goner. I wouldn’t kiss him tonight; he’s vampire status at this point.”

Only once I’m safe on the other side of my door do I breathe properly. The only thing good that has come of the last twenty-four hours is that I’m absolutely certain of one thing: I’m getting out of here.

Chapter Nine

Changed My Mind

Roya Stark

to bobandsteve

Hey Bob and Steve,

My brother and I don’t need as much time together as I thought. Also the Institute is starting to creep me out. I think they need to rename this place the Secret Institute. Everyone here is lying about something. I’m really tired of getting tangled up in all the drama that ensues from the treachery. I’m looking forward to returning to the land of the living, where people walk in real sunshine. Will you please pick me up at the GAD-C in Oklahoma on June 27
^th
. I’ll totally wash all your windows, repaint your house, mow your lawn, hell I’ll even clean the gutters—just say you’ll take me in.

Love,

Ms. Completely-Over-This-Place

I hit the send key with a silent prayer. If they don’t take me in then maybe I’ll join the circus. No, that’s just trading one band of freaks for another.

♦

Hemingway once said, “I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?”
Yes, old friend, I do know.
That night sleep doesn’t come though. No matter how hard I try I can’t get the constant babbling in my brain to shush. I’m thinking of naming my inner voice Chatty Kathy. Or Katherine Chatterson. Or Chatty McChatterson. Having a name would at least give me a way to address her.

Hey, Ms. Chatterson, shut up already.

When I couldn’t take it anymore I dream traveled to some of my favorite places, but they all seemed lame right now. The hipsters in Portland were especially irritating. A nasty green moss kept washing up on the shores of the Florida coast. And the locals in my most loved Istanbul coffee shop weren’t flirting, fighting, or doing anything of particular interest. Most of them read their newspapers and sipped their coffees like they were intentionally trying to be boring. Again and again my mind returned to my troubles, without any suitable distraction. Morning brings a small bit of relief. At least another night has passed and I’m that much closer to leaving.

♦

The familiar rap at my door sounds as I’m pulling my brand new racerback tank—another present from Bob and Steve—over my head. I answer the door, looking forward to seeing that white mustache and the man on the other side of it.

“Hey, Patrick,” I say with a small forced smile.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles and plays his air guitar with a letter in his hand. “I’ve got a note for you.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, surprised. Bob and Steve and I’ve been exchanging emails, not letters anymore.

“It’s a good thing you’re still getting hard copy correspondence, otherwise I’d never have the pleasure of bugging you.”

“You aren’t bugging me.”

“Of course I’m not.” He waves his hand at me. “Everyone likes the mailman. Hopefully today I’ve brought you good news.” He lays the letter in my hand.

“Thanks,” I smile.

“Well, sweetie, duty calls.” He tips his hat and trots away.

My stomach flip-flops when I realize who the letter is from.

Dear Roya,

You won’t listen to me if I’m standing in front of you. Maybe you’ll listen to me now. I told you before that our situation was complicated. I fear that because we have to be discreet about our relationship you doubt how much I really care about you. Please come by my lab today so we can talk about this.

Yours (and I mean it),

Aiden

I wad up his note and throw it in the trash. We don’t need to talk. Aiden and I need space. I’m thinking a few thousand miles should do the trick.

♦

At the breakfast table I find George eyeing me with a sensitive compassion, which is quickly threatening my firmness. He doesn’t say a word. Instead his eyes roam over me, like he’s trying to mend the emotional bruises with his gaze. My shield is down and I know he feels the dull ache in my heart. The disappointment. The sadness. The loss. And all I see in him is the same, like he’s mirroring my emotions. I almost want to feel this pain so I can allow him to fix me, which is what I think he’s offering, with his quiet stares.

“Do you want to talk now, Roya?” he says, pushing away the food he never touched. “If so, I’m here…but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

I shake my head. “Thanks, George. There’s nothing we can say that will make me feel any better, so no. I don’t want to talk.”

“We don’t have to talk about what’s bothering you,” he says, letting the obvious truth be known. “Maybe something else, something that takes your mind off of things.”

I release a long exasperated sigh. That’s what I spent my entire night trying to do: take my mind off my worries. “I’m game for anything at this point,” I say, mashing my peas with my fork.

“When I was a kid, and I heard people say they had a
sixth
sense, I thought they said
sick
sense,” he says, staring off, recalling the long-ago memory. “After that I actually wanted to get sick. There was a long period where I didn’t wash my hands. Luckily I didn’t contract a fatal disease. Pretty ridiculous, huh?”

“That’s adorable actually. How old were you when you thought that?” I ask.

“Last year.”

We laugh.

“Actually, I wasn’t more than eight-years-old. Then a couple years later my empathesis developed, and I actually thought I was sick. I thought I was going crazy. Schizophrenic. I couldn’t understand how all of a sudden I felt so much around me. It took a little while for me to realize it was other people’s emotions I was feeling.”

His intimate admission jolts me. George rarely talks and when he does it’s not like this. He eyes me again like before. And I realize he’s trying, really trying, like there’s something major riding on this moment. He’s pulling out all the stops, trying to repair things between us. And if he could read my mind, he’d know it’s working.

“It’s interesting that you wanted to have a sixth sense so badly and you ended up with one,” I say, thinking of all the kids who wish for special powers and grow up to be accountants.

“Yes, surprising to say the least,” he says, a satisfied expression in his eyes.

“The first clairvoyant flash I saw was of an owl,” I say.

George raises a curious eyebrow at me.

“I saw it in a tree, then a few seconds later it flew into the same tree from my vision. This was followed by a flash of a leaf falling off the exact same branch where the owl was perched. Then the leaf fell, just like in my vision. Like you, I always wanted a special gift. I was pretty disappointed to discover that my power was so lame.” I laugh, remembering the memory clearly.

“That’s ironic, actually,” George muses.

“How so?” I ask.

“You’re the most powerful person I know.”

“You need to get out more then,” I say.

He chews his lip. “You have more power than you realize.”

I clasp the frequency adjuster, feeling suddenly heavy from its weight.

With a deliberate shake of his head, he says, “Not only in that way.” His voice is tormented.

Tense silence fills the space.

“Roya, your power isn’t solely in your clairvoyance. I can’t even tell you what it is though. I just feel it.”

Nerves clamp my throat shut.

“Maybe you know what this hidden gift is within you,” he continues. “But my guess is you don’t. My guess is that it’s waiting to be revealed. And when that happens I think you’ll feel more confident than you do now.”

How do I respond to that? All my words sound cheap in response to his heavy insights. Finally I meet his quiet eyes and say, “Thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

“That’s not why I told you this.”

Why did he tell me I had some veiled gift? Is this a game? A way to keep me intrigued? George doesn’t play games though. I never have to doubt his words. Question his integrity. “Yeah, I know,” I finally say, my voice awkward.