Читать книгу Earthquake - Aprilynne Pike - Страница 14

It’s strange to suddenly start making everything I need. Soap, towels, clothing, hairbrush. I just think of it, and it appears. And even though I’ve known I could do this for a couple weeks now, my creations never felt exactly real before because I knew they would only disappear a few minutes later.

Now? Everything is permanent. There are consequences. I mean, advantages too, obviously. But let’s just say I’ve spent a lot of this morning thinking about the butterfly effect.

Honestly, I still don’t like using my powers, but I’ve had to sort of come to terms with it. It’s who I am. What I am.

Logan, meanwhile, doesn’t have any of my hang-ups. The candle last night and breakfast this morning were just the start of his creations. Since then, he’s made a garbage can, a shoe rack, an entirely new wall to set the kitchenette off from the rest of the room, and a full set of some kind of expensive soap plus cologne and deodorant. And he’s done so completely casually. Like it’s his right and he’s been missing out on it for the last eighteen years. Like he has to make up for lost time.

“So, do you think we’re supposed to simply wait here until they come fetch us?” Logan asks.

Fetch? He speaks just a little differently now. I think it’s a hybrid of modern Logan and his past selves. Rather like his clothes. Which he also made. He’s wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt, but those are definitely Quinn’s comfy riding boots peeping out from beneath, and he just pulled out a gold pocket watch to check the time.

And his hair is longer. Not as long as when he was Quinn, but not the short—probably mother-mandated—cut he was sporting before. He has taken to his abilities so easily. Easier than I did.

Easier than I do.

I’m still wearing my jeans from yesterday. New underwear was a must, and my shirt was seriously sweaty, so I replaced that too, but it just feels weird.

Elizabeth—my therapist in Portsmouth—did say my memory process would be more difficult. I was worried it would be painful for Logan too, but it didn’t seem to be at all. Watching him awaken was incredible! I could see the changes—could see in his eyes how much information was suddenly inside his brain! But it didn’t hurt him. I still cringe at the memory of how agonizing my own awakening was.

I guess that’s not the only difference though. Maybe getting used to my powers is one of the side effects. Thinking of how to use them.

Like those doctors. Seriously, wow.

“Yeah, I guess we have to wait,” I finally answer, folding my arms over my chest like I’m cold. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I don’t like being here.”

“I know,” Logan says softly. “But it’s better than being in Reduciata custody.”

“Is it?” I ask. I don’t feel like we have enough information to judge.

“Slightly. I guess it’s the lesser of the two evils.”

I open my mouth to say something like, “Cheerful,” when a pounding on the door interrupts me. We share a long look and then go together to the door and pull it open.

“Morning!” An excited and overly loud voice echoes in our room, shattering my momentary relaxed state. A woman, probably somewhere in her twenties, is holding a tray of something—food, I assume—and she shoves her way through the doorway and sets it on the floor. “I saw this by the door and figured they just left it there once the lights went out. Gave me an excuse to come in and say hi!”

I’ve hardly taken a breath when she straightens and is suddenly standing with her nose about two inches from mine. I stagger and almost fall getting away from her, but Logan manages to wrap a hand around my upper arm and hold me steady.

“Are you her?” the woman asks, her eyes childishly wide. To my horror she lifts the hair on the right side of my head to expose my scar, her fingers feeling as hot as fire as they brush across the sensitive skin. I clamp my hand down over my scalp and jerk my body away, but I’m too late. Gods, I wish my hair were longer.

“You are!” she says, letting loose a high-pitched squeal again, and all I can think is that I want to get away from this person no matter what it takes. “Everyone here has been hoping we would find you,” the woman continues, her almost black eyes dark and wide, reminding me very much of Bambi. “Welcome. If there’s ever anything you need … oh, look at me, offering my services to someone like you,” she says with a laugh, her hands gesturing at me from head to toe as though I were some physical specimen on auction.

“I’m sorry, do I know—”

But the woman interrupts. “Oh, silly of me. I’m Alanna, and this is Thomas.” A very tall man—probably in his early forties—with slightly wavy brown hair whom I had hardly even noticed steps forward and silently offers his hand.

Names are murmured, hands shaken, but inside I’m desperate to get them out of my space. Alanna links her arm with mine before I can protest and turns to view our room. Logan is stuck behind me with Thomas, which I think is the better of the available options. Thomas seems reserved, quiet.

I wonder how he stands Alanna. She looks like she’s quite a bit younger than him anyway, but she acts like a ten-year-old. It’s not just that she’s annoying; she’s tainting our space. This is the first real home that Logan and I will share—no matter how temporary—and she’s violating it with her intrusion.

“Oh, it still has the old décor,” Alanna says, studying our neat, elegant room that, oddly, reminds me of Sammi’s room back in Portsmouth.

“You’re both Creators, right? You’ll need some help clearing things out then. Here we go.” Looking more like a little girl than a full-grown woman, Alanna stands on her tip toes and points at the bed. “Poof!” she says, and the bed winks out of sight. “Poof, poof, poof,” and the armchairs are gone.

I’ve never seen destroying in action except for Marie. So watching Alanna make something go away with so little thought makes my stomach sour. I have to remind myself: Destroying is not inherently bad. Both Curatoriates and Reduciates can be Destroyers. It’s just the other side of the coin.

Still.

I stand there with my mouth open at Alanna’s odd, childish enthusiasm as she clears the room of all its furnishings with that silly pointing of her finger.

“There,” she says, hands on her hips. “Now you can set everything up yourselves. Not sad to see it go,” she continues before I can even think about getting a word in edgewise. “A couple of human Curatoriates lived here before. Snooty. Didn’t like to mix much. Mark, I think his name was.” Alanna turns to me, eyes sparkling, “Her name—this is hilarious—her name was Sammi and she was super short and cute with blond hair and all, but she was a hard-ass. All business, no play. I laughed every time someone called her Sammi. Totally didn’t fit.”

I can’t breathe. I look at Logan, silently begging him to help, to remove the woman who just zapped all my former guardians’ belongings out of existence. Fortunately, Logan catches my drift and starts to bodily shove Alanna from the room. “Thank you. You were very helpful. But we’re waiting for someone to come get us.”

“Ooh, are you going to Daniel today?”

How the hell does she know all of this?

“Yes, they are,” says a dry voice from the still-open doorway. “And I don’t think he’d be happy to find out you delayed them.”

I never thought I’d be so happy to see the cheerless woman who brought us here last night, but at this moment I could kiss her.

“Run along, you two,” the woman says dryly, and we share a look that tells me this couple is not popular around here.

Like I needed an insider to tell me that.

The two scurry away much like puppies who have just been caught peeing on the carpet, and the woman looks us up and down to judge our readiness. Then she simply says, “He’s ready for you.”

Instantly, the terror is back. Maybe “terror” isn’t the right word. I guess I’m not entirely afraid of Daniel—if the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that I truly am a goddess and—when I keep my wits about me—I can survive just about anything.

But Sammi and Mark didn’t trust him. Went to great lengths to keep information about me from him. Which apparently didn’t work.

And yet, he gave me the painting. And judging by all the stalling after that, he knew what would happen when he did. He gave me the one thing I wanted more than anything else in my life.

Or any other life.

He gave me Logan.

I glance over at my diligo, somber and silent beside me. It’s hard not to feel grateful.

Nervously, I run my fingers through my hair and pull my hand back in shock. My hair is down to my shoulders. When did that happen? Wait … I remember. When Alanna exposed my scar, I wished my hair were longer.

Did that tiny thought make this happen? That’s more than a little terrifying. I vaguely remember the fear Sonya had of herself in my dreams. The surge of power that frightened her. Do I have it too, or is this normal? I hate that I honestly have no idea. I shove my hands in my pocket, pretending nothing’s wrong. I’m going to have to give this some serious thought later.

After locking the door, we follow the woman—who still hasn’t bothered to introduce herself—down the hallway full of doors, in the opposite direction from where we came in last night. A glow of light is beaming from the end of the hall, and as we round the corner my mouth drops as a cavernous space—bigger than any lobby I’ve ever seen—greets me.