Читать книгу Earthquake - Aprilynne Pike - Страница 12

Terror and relief both run through me so strongly I have trouble even breathing. The headquarters of the Curatoria. A place that has taken on a level of intrigue so high, it’s hard to believe it exists at all.

I reach up to touch my silver necklace for courage and feel a warm hand cover my shoulder. Logan’s. He lowers his head close to my ear and whispers, “Whatever this is, I’m here. I mean, I don’t feel very useful right now, but if you need me, you just say so.”

I can’t speak as I stare at him. Does he … remember? Or have I actually won his trust?

But he looks as worried as I feel, and I know he would understand his true usefulness if he had remembered.

And wouldn’t I know if he had? If we had resurged? I’m still baffled about what I would have to do to make that happen, but the first step is definitely keeping Logan with me.

He gives me a very small smile and slips his hand into mine as we follow the team of doctors down a ramp and out of the helicopter, leaving the rest of the crew behind. I take a moment to covertly glance around at the huge but dim space, surrounded by the other helicopters I saw from the air, all quiet and still along the perimeter of what looks like an enormous landing pad. The area is hexagonal, and a bunch of bright lines are painted on the floor. Tools line two of the six sides, and the next wall over is covered by some kind of radar-looking thing, with ropes and other supplies mounted on the fourth.

A huge feather and flame symbol is painted across the entire fifth wall, and my stomach twists at the similarity to the Reduciata symbol in the prison we were just in.

We’re not exactly prisoners here—at least I don’t think so. They’re letting us walk together without our hands tied or any weapons pointed at us, but still, I don’t feel free.

In the center of the sixth side is a set of gray double doors that look thick and soundproof. A woman in the lead—not one from the helicopter, a new one who was waiting for us when we landed—stops and turns, her eyes seeking me out. “When we walk through those doors you will enter the headquarters of the Curatoria. It’s a privilege we never allow Earthbounds who have not sworn themselves to our cause.” I’m about to tell her that I have no intention of swearing anything to anyone when she continues, “But you two will be an exception.” She eyes us both carefully, her attention lingering on me. It’s clear that she’s not a fan of this idea. “While you’re here,” she adds, “we ask that you remain entirely peaceful, that you don’t interfere with our work, and”—she hesitates—“that you have no communication with the outside world whatsoever.”

Like I have anyone to communicate with. My parents, Sammi, Mark, Elizabeth—all dead.

Benson … good as dead.

And Logan, but he’s here with me now. I feel a shiver of pleasure ripple down my spine at that thought and squeeze his hand.

I fix my gaze on the stern-looking woman and ask, “Why?”

“For our safety. It’s not something we ask of our sworn members. But we have extra restrictions on you.”

“Why let me in at all then?”

“Because Daniel wants to see you.”

Every cell in my body freezes at the name.

Daniel: the leader of the Curatoria. He’s here.

Not merely here, expecting me.

I don’t know whether I just became exponentially safer or more at risk. But I’m pretty sure it’s one or the other.

I shoot Logan what I hope is a meaningful glance, but he obviously doesn’t understand any of this. Regardless, we’re led into a space that feels more … domestic, for lack of a better word. Once the doors close behind us, the noise of the helicopter engine, the slowing blades, the crew shouting instructions to each other are all gone. I hadn’t realized until now how loud they were. Now, even the noise of our footsteps is muffled by thick, soft carpet that feels absolutely luxurious on my tired feet.

I take a few quick steps to follow the still-nameless woman as she heads down a dimly lit, long hallway that reminds me of one from a hotel, albeit a nicer hotel than the type I’ve been staying at lately. Doors line each side, and pretty little tables abut the walls, which themselves are covered in pleasant—if generic—pastel paintings. I glance back and see that everyone else has peeled off and disappeared, and part of me wishes Audra were still here. Although I only just met her, she seemed to genuinely care about our well-being.

The woman before us evidently does not, however. “It won’t be today that you meet him, of course,” she says without turning to face us, and I have to strain my ears to hear. “He wants you to rest. To sleep. We reported the condition you were held under for the last three days—”

“Three days?” Apparently, I spent more time unconscious than I’d thought. “What day is it now?”

“Thursday,” she responds automatically, not missing a beat. “As I was saying, Daniel insisted you be fed and rested before he meets with you.” The tone of her voice tells me just how ridiculous she finds all of this. “Now, we’ll house you here—where all of our Earthbounds-in-Residence live—and you can simply pick up the phone if you need anything.” She pauses, then sneers, “Daniel has ordered us to be at your service.”

“Really?” Logan pipes up. “Why would he—”

“This is you,” she says, cutting him off. She raps sharply on a door with a silver number seven on it and then hands us each a key. “We have duplicates,” she warns, and I wonder just where the hell she thinks we might go. What we might do in this classy, but nonetheless clearly fortified, underground fortress. One of us powerless, the other with abilities that last for five minutes. Maybe we could rip those sconces from the wall and stage an incredible escape. Right.

I mumble a quiet thank you, not wanting to get even more on this woman’s bad side. Logan says nothing, just pockets his key and squeezes my hand.

“Daniel left you a gift on the table,” she says as she pushes the door open, which swings silently on well-oiled hinges. “He says you’ll know what to do with it.”

Curiouser and curiouser, I think wryly. But I’m anxious to get out of this woman’s sight and be able to talk to Logan without overly attentive eavesdroppers. “We’ll be fine,” I say aloud.

“Food,” Logan blurts, then looks at me apologetically. “I’m starving.”

The truth is I am too, so I can hardly blame him. The dried fruit only went so far in making up for three days with only one meal.

“I’ll have something sent up.” She looks Logan up and down and adds, “Something substantial,” in a tone that makes me want to smack her.

Whatever. As soon as she’s through the doorway I close it behind her, just inches shy of knocking her over. “Finally,” I say, my back to the door.

We’re in a very large room that seems to be part kitchenette, part bedroom. Like a studio apartment, really, with a sitting room around the corner on one side and what looks like a doorway to the bathroom on the left.

Logan is standing a few feet from an elegantly made king-size bed, and he runs his fingers through his hair awkwardly. Trusting me, even holding my hand, is one thing; being shoved into a bedroom with only one bed after being told to “get some rest” is another.

I look away, giving him a few seconds to get his bearings, scoping out the room instead. The hallway was elegant and nice, but this room is a completely different kind of elegance. It’s sparse and a bit artsy, with silver and black trim on pretty much everything. In place of paintings, black and white photos of buildings and cityscapes dot the walls. Here and there a touch of maroon breaks up the color palette: a throw on the back of a plushy chair, a vase that stands empty on a high shelf, one pillow in a pile of several on the bed.

I remember the woman’s cryptic comment about a gift from Daniel and look around for the table—seems like it would be easy to find, but it turns out that it’s a semicircular, bar-height table that’s mounted below a mirror, and so I miss it at first glance, thinking that it’s just part of the decor.

Still trying to avoid awkwardness with Logan, I walk over and pick up the cardboard tube sitting atop it. “No note,” I muse. But whatever. I pop the top off the tube and start to shake it out, but as soon as I realize what’s inside I yank my fingers back like they’ve been burned.

It’s from the dugout back in Camden that Quinn took me to. The painting that messed me up so badly. My breathing is sharp and noisy and Logan is walking toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him and force myself to calm down.

A little.

This canvas was in Benson’s backpack the night I found out what he was. Why does the Curatoria have it?

“What is it?” Logan asks tentatively.

“It’s just a painting,” I respond absentmindedly. I’m too caught up in the sight before me to attempt to act like less of a total weirdo.

“If it’s just a painting, then why did it make you jump out of your skin?”

He’s right. It did make me jump out of my skin. But that was nothing compared to what happened the last time I touched it.

I’ll never forget the sensation. It was like I was a radio set to the wrong frequency.

“Tavia?” Logan says.

I look up at him with what I’m sure is a nearly manic expression. If it was the wrong frequency for me, then there’s only one person who it could be right for.

And in a bright flash of light, I remember. I remember! Quinn and I knew our artifacts were too obvious. Him a jewelry maker, me an artist. Of course a necklace and a painting would be obvious creations, with obvious owners. So we reversed them. I created a replica of a necklace he made me; he created a copy of a painting of our home. That way someone looking to destroy all of Rebecca’s memories would miss one. Then we packed them away in the dugout.

That’s why the necklace worked on me and not him.

I didn’t paint this painting; Quinn created it.

My whole body trembles now as I realize what a treasure I’m holding in my hands. “Logan,” my voice is too quiet and too high-pitched all at the same time. “You should see this.”

His eyes are hooded, fearful, and I realize that in a world that has literally turned upside down on him in the last three days, anything might happen. Any paranoid fear might become a reality.

“It’s a good thing,” I say quickly, hating that expression of terror cast in my direction. “Just … here, take it.”

I hold out the painting and he obliges. The second his fingers come in contact with the canvas, everything changes.

His hands tighten around it, crushing the edge of the painting, and he takes two stumbling steps backward until his shoulders meet the door. His eyes widen and then focus on me.

“Tavia,” he murmurs. And it’s clear, he knows me.

He takes one step—not even a proper step, half a step—and his hand rises as though of its own accord. I’m still, stunned into paralysis even as my lungs force air in and out with a gasping, hissing sound, and adrenaline fills my veins in a rush that deafens me.

His fingertips brush my face so gently, as though I’ll break into a million pieces if he presses too hard. His eyes scan me, taking in every detail, until I feel like I’ve been stripped naked in front of him.

And I don’t mind.

Logan stands like a man transformed, even though his appearance hasn’t technically changed. His shoulders are straighter, his eyes more knowing. That face—suddenly it understands unspeakable wonders of the universe that normal humans simply can’t comprehend.

Then the world hits Play and his lips are on mine, his hands clutching, until I feel every part of him pressed against me. Hands, chest, hips, lips, teeth. With a growl he pushes my back against the wall and grabs at my hips, pulling me to him like he needs me closer now. “Becca,” he breathes in my ear, whispering my old name like a sacred memory before attacking my mouth again.

My brain is full of the chorus of women in my other lives singing with joy. Their strange music fills me, making every inch of my body tingle and glow. I know tomorrow I’ll have bruises from Logan’s rough, desperate handling, but I don’t care. I want it—all of it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers between kisses that trail down my neck, over my shoulder. He lifts my fingers to his mouth and kisses every fingertip, then rubs his face against my palms. “For everything I said. The way I treated you. I didn’t know,” he says, his voice gravelly now as his hands grip the waistband of my jeans.

I groan as his hands can’t resist and slip under the back of my shirt, his fingers skimming bare skin. Everything I ever wanted with anyone explodes into this one moment. “It’s okay,” I manage, as I lean against him, his mouth back on my neck. He rolls his hips against me. It’s like an ocean wave we can’t stop, crashing into us, sweeping us away with it.

We walk unsteadily backward—in the direction I hazily remember the bed sitting—we’re grasping at each other as our worlds collide in the most blissful crash I could ever imagine.

Logan lifts me, wraps my legs around his waist, and carries me the last few feet. He tosses me on the bed and kneels over me, reaching for the buttons on my jeans. Impatient with his fruitless fumbling, he tears his T-shirt up and over his head, and my whole body shakes at the sight of the familiar yet brand-new bare skin of his chest. He reaches for the bottom of my blouse, and as I raise my arms it suddenly seems to me that everything, every terrible, awful thing that has happened in the last month, was worth it.

The next few minutes are a blur of desperation as we learn each other all over again. It has that brilliant excitement of newness wrapped in the comfort of the commonplace. We say nothing as our bodies speak their own language; and even though I feel like I should savor this moment—take time to renew our friendship, our love—I can’t.

I look up into his leaf-green eyes above me, my hand clenching at his shoulders, and for the first time since the plane wreck, I feel free. I let go of everything. Of every fear and doubt, of tension and pain.

And in that moment I let my entire body fill with pure, unadulterated joy.