The Legend (4 page)

 

chapter 5

I
wake up in a different room to the makeshift hospital ward that has been my lodging for the past few weeks. It is still light outside but judging by the muted rays of sunlight filtering through the yellowing venetian blind, it will be dark soon. This room is far more inviting than my previous accommodation, and the practical decor tells me that it must be one of the standard dorm rooms. I am lying on a single bed made up with white linen and a navy blue blanket emblazoned with the word “Lakeside”. There is a small matching blue rug on the floor beside the bed, a chest of drawers in the opposite corner, and a small, neat desk by the window.

I ease my legs out of the blankets and make my way across to the desk, taking a seat on the rickety chair and watching the sun setting behind a copse of trees as I reflect on what happened today. I am angry – angry that Chase is wandering around arm-in-arm with Jenna when he poses such a danger to our people, angry that my father destroyed our lab without a thought to the consequences, angry that my abilities have failed me and that Morgan bested me so easily this morning. I am angry too with Reed and Kwan, who have always been my fiercest allies. They don't understand. Neither of them seems to grasp how desperately I need to get back into the States and make Kenneth Williams pay for what he has done. And if they won't help me, I will do it alone. I have to get better, I need to be strong again. Randomly, I trace the pattern of names gouged into the wooden desk – names of previous occupants of this room. Students of the Academy, all of whom are probably long dead.

A knock at the door interrupts my reverie.

“Come in,” I call, swivelling in my chair to face it as it opens. Aidan steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. I suddenly wish I had still been asleep when he arrived.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, walking over to sit on the unmade bed, dropping his hands between his knees and getting comfortable. “I heard you collapsed?”

“It was nothing, just a head rush.”

“You should be in bed.”

“I was. I just needed to think.” The fading sunlight through the blinds highlights the blonder streaks in his hair. “Where's Alex?”

“He's with your dad. He wanted to come and see you, but I told him to wait until tomorrow. He's staying with me,” he adds. “I hope you don't mind?”

“Of course not,” I smile. I am hardly in any position to be taking care of Alex right now, either physically or emotionally.

“I still can't believe it was Kenneth who did this to you,” he murmurs. “He was always so caring, so honourable.”

“He's neither of those things. He's a monster.”

“It's just hard to believe.” I recall that Aidan and Kenneth had become close when Aidan was living in the Rebeldom. In fact, it had been Kenneth who had comforted me when Aidan was kidnapped by Eric.

“What were you thinking about?” Momentarily distracted, I don't understand his question.

“What?”

“You said you needed to think. What were you thinking about?”

“My abilities,” I admit. There is no point in denying it any longer.

“You're worried they might not come back?” he asks, and I nod. “Would that be such a bad thing?” His voice is so low I have to strain to hear him. “You almost died,” he continues, his voice stronger now. “These Gifts . . . they've brought you nothing but pain and heartache. Without them you would never have been taken, never been tortured. You would never have left us . . .”

I know now that he is talking about a lot more than just my recent ordeal. Aidan is bringing up what happened four years ago when I left him and Alex to infiltrate Eric Dane's organisation, and everything in between.

“If your father had never found you we could have stayed in Michigan,” he continues, powerless to stop himself, like a train that has been derailed. “We would never have been any the wiser, and we could have grown old together.”

“What are you saying?” I am frowning now.

“That ignorance is bliss.” He lifts his head and a lifetime of regret passes between us.

“We can't change the past.”

“But if your abilities don't come back,” he persists, “you'll have to accept that your part in this war is over.”

“I am the leader of the Legion!” My voice rises in outrage. “My part in this war will not be over until NUSA is defeated. Gifts or no Gifts, Aidan, I
will
fight!”

“Then you will die!”

“So be it!”

At this, he gets to his feet angrily and stalks over to stand before me. “I lost my father to this war, Rebecca. I will not lose you too.”

“Oh Aidan,” I bite my tongue as my resolve weakens, and I force myself to think only of Kenneth Williams, “I'm not yours to lose.”

A myriad of emotions passes over his face – shock, hurt and embarrassment among them. His hands ball into fists and he takes a deep breath through gritted teeth.

“I guess I already knew that,” he murmurs. “I'm too late. I pushed you right into his arms, didn't I?” He gives a harsh, scornful laugh. It was true. When Aidan's memory was lost, he had told me categorically that I meant nothing to him – he had even gone so far as to encourage my relationship with Reed. By the time he had started to feel something for me, I had made my decision.

“This has got nothing to do with him.” I don't know what makes me say it, but I cannot let him think I have chosen Reed over him. I am sick of their petty fighting, their constant power struggle. “I don't want to be with either of you,” I add coldly.

Aidan considers this. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Doesn't it?”

“If you think that, you don't know me as well as I thought you did.” He turns around and walks the short distance to the door. Swinging it open, he turns back to stare at me, his hand resting on the doorknob. “What happened to you?” he whispers, and the next moment he is gone. The door slams shut and I am left alone in the semi-darkness, pondering the meaning of his question.

I cannot get back to sleep. Guilt is tugging at my conscience. In my self-absorption, I had forgotten that Aidan did not know that his father Jonathan had been killed protecting our son Alex. I had kept it from him when he was suffering from amnesia, but someone must have told him when he got his memory back. I had wanted to be the one to tell him. Thinking about Jonathan – the only father I had known for nineteen years – threatens to break my resolve and, unbidden, a memory of a time long past sweeps me away from my lonely room.

“They'll kill us if they catch us,” I whispered, casting terrified glances over my shoulder.

“They won't catch us,” Aidan murmured, with all the confidence of a twelve-year-old boy.

“What if they do?”

“They won't! Just take this.” He shoved a torch into my outstretched hand and got to his feet, a coil of rope looped over his arms.

Under the cover of darkness, we made our way two blocks downtown to the construction site. I eyed the warning signs warily.

“Aidan, I don't think we should . . .”

“Bex, stop worrying. You sound like my dad,” he whined. We were standing beneath the scaffolding, and I had to crane my neck to see the top of it.

“Are you sure I won't fall?”

“Are you scared, scaredy cat?” he taunted. “You can stay here if you want – it's not your fault I'm braver than you!”

“Am not!” As if to prove it, I reached up and grabbed the horizontal bar, pulling myself up. Aidan started to climb too, and he passed me easily.

“Slowcoach!” he called, goading me, and I picked up my pace, snatching at the next bar. Suddenly, my foot slipped off the beam below and I gave a shriek of terror. I was hanging by my arms, my feet scissoring below me, trying to find my footing. I could see Aidan streaking down towards me, and I could hear him urging me to hang on, but I couldn't, my arms were burning with the effort of holding my weight and my hands were already slipping. I knew I was not going to be able to hold on even as his face appeared above me.

“Aidan!” I yelled as I fell, hitting the bar below me painfully, and then I collided with the ground, landing hard on my left arm.

It took him only a minute to get back down, landing like a cat beside me in the dirt.

“Bex! Are you okay?”

I didn't answer, my elbow hurt too badly to speak. Crying and clutching my arm, I let him help me to my feet and we shuffled all the way home.

“Do you think you'll be able to hide it?” he asked as we neared the house, and I shook my head pitifully, doubling over with renewed sobbing. “Okay, wait here.” Gathering himself together, he released me, opened the swing door and disappeared into the dark house.

Through my tears, I saw Jonathan emerge a minute or two later, bending low to avoid hitting his head on the door frame. I knew I should be frightened, but instead all I felt was relief. Jonathan would fix everything, he always did. He had always made me feel safe, for as long as I could remember. His giant hands were warm as he gently lifted my arm. I gave a cry of pain, and he scooped me up into his arms and carried me into the house, Aidan following silently behind us.

The next afternoon Jonathan took us for a walk. My mother had barely spoken a word since we left the doctor's room that morning. Nervously, I picked at the plaster cast on my left arm. Aidan couldn't seem to bear the sight of it and he studiously avoided looking at me. I thought it was because I had got him into trouble. When we reached the orchards, Jonathan bent down, placing one knee on the grass so that he was able to look Aidan in the eye. I expected the dressing-down of a lifetime, but instead his voice remained calm as he took me gently by the shoulders and drew me forward so that Aidan could see me clearly. He grimaced as Jonathan lifted my plaster cast up and under his nose.

“Do you want to see Becca get hurt?” Jonathan asked, and Aidan shook his head. “She looks up to you, Aidan. You are older, and you should set an example. You're not doing that.”

“It's not my fault she fell off – it's her tiny twig arms! She's too little to try stuff, she should just have stayed at home.”

“You're not the boss of me!” I snapped in petulant outrage.

“Is that what you really want?” Jonathan asked his son. “Have you outgrown Becca? Because if you have, you should play with the other kids your age, and let her play with girls her own age.”

“No,” Aidan answered before Jonathan had even finished. “They're mean to her.”

“Then she is your responsibility,” Jonathan continued in his deep melodic voice and I flushed in embarrassment. I hated it when they talked about me like this – as if I was an incompetent child. “You need to look out for her – keep her safe. Can I trust you to do that?”

Aidan looked at me then, as though seeing me for the first time. Then he nodded slowly.

The day my cast came off, I raced to the orchard to find Aidan.

“When are we going to try again?” I whispered, keeping a close eye on our parents.

“We're not,” he answered firmly.

“But . . .”

“But nothing, Bex. We're not doing it again. It was a stupid idea.” He stalked off, and I sat down on the soft grass, scratching my arm and sulking. I was so caught up in my dour mood that I didn't notice Jonathan's small satisfied smile.

My room has fallen dark and I push the memories away. I had forgotten Aidan's recklessness. He had been the trouble-seeker, the daredevil, until that night. After that, he had steered us clear of danger, keeping me out of mischief. I goaded him incessantly, missing our adventures, but eventually I had simply let it be and followed his lead.

The evening is balmy, and a sheen of sweat covers my body. I lift my dark hair off my shoulders and then I tug on my pants and my shoes and head outside, desperate to escape the hot, stifling quiet. I don't want to think. I make my way to the dining hall. Only Veronica and Jethro are there, Veronica tidying up in that quiet, contented way of hers. Jethro is sitting with his feet up on one of the tables, chatting amiably to her. He is so like Mason with his olive skin and his dark hair. It is only the birthmark on the left side of Mason's face that sets them apart.

“Rebecca,” Veronica smiles shyly when she catches sight of me. “Are you hungry?”

“A bit,” I admit, taking a seat opposite Jethro. He doesn't look at me at first, keeping his eyes fixed on the table. I refuse to apologise for what I said earlier about Mason. It is the truth – Mason did those terrible things to me and he is going to be punished.

Veronica returns with a bowl of steaming stew and I eat quickly, desperate to be gone. The scalding liquid burns my mouth as I scoop up spoonful after spoonful. Veronica tries to make conversation but gives up after only a few moments, sensing the tension in the air.

“Thank you.” Picking up my bowl, I get to my feet but she waves me away.

“I'll get that,” she offers kindly. I hesitate, wondering if I should speak now, if I should explain to Jethro exactly what happened back at the prison, but I don't.

I creep into the gymnasium, making as little noise as possible. I need to be away from prying eyes to do this. There are only a few lights on at the far end of the room and I make my way to the shelf where Kwan keeps his weapons. Ignoring my beloved Bo staff, I select a Hanbo. The Hanbo is only half the length of the Bo and is much lighter, making it easier to manoeuvre. Confident of my decision, I move away from the shelves into the centre of the gymnasium. Taking a deep breath, I lift the Hanbo and test the weight in my hand, bouncing it up and down. The smooth wood feels at once both strange and familiar. I take hold of it in both hands, gripping it firmly, and I jab it forward, throwing all my weight onto my front leg. The movement is fluid enough, but it lacks the strength behind it to be effective if I were actually attacking someone. I try again, and again, feeling more frustrated at each weak attempt. I lift it above my head and start to spin it, one hand crossing the other. I have trained extensively with these weapons and, again, my technique is flawless but the movements are slow and unimpressive. Disgusted with myself, I drop the staff in a loud clatter to the floor.