Control

CHAPTER 29

STARING AT REN’S IMMOBILIZED BODY, I shake my head.

“I can’t believe that stuff worked.” Hex’s serum would have been horrible by itself, but the bio-accelerant took it to a whole other level.

“Nice trick.”

Caliga surveys the scene and steps into the room, the door sliding shut behind her. I bring my hand to my chest and grab the other vials when she points at me.

“I’m not stupid, you know. Put those down.”

Shoot. I make a mess, dropping all the vials on the floor except one. I keep Hex’s other vial palmed in my left hand.

“I had no idea you were head over heels in love with Wilbert,” I say.

“What would you know about love?” she retorts. “I know Wilbert’s heart. Everything he’s done has been for me. And he doesn’t hide the truth. I don’t think you could say the same about your father.”

“Shut up.” It takes all my energy not to crush the plastic cylinder in my hand. If she wants to play dirty, then fine. “At least my dad didn’t name a hairy pig after me.”

The blur of her hand is too fast for me to duck. The pain in my face only lasts a nanosecond, followed by soothing numbness. It wouldn’t be so bad if nausea didn’t come with it.

I force a laugh. “You’re the lamest torturer I’ve ever met. Numb up the hurt afterward. Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“Shut your mouth.” This time she uses her sickle knife, but my not-yet-blinded eyes see her hand coming. I aim for her wrist, knocking the knife out of her hand. Somehow I manage to grab a finger. I hold it and twist viciously, hearing a crack.

“Get off!” she screams. It’s the scream of someone unaccustomed to suffering anything beyond a hangnail. I let go and lunge for her head. My hand is so numb, I’m not sure if I’m pulling hair or air until I hear Caliga’s shriek.

I can’t believe I’ve become this fighting alley cat. It feels good. Really good. My deadened hand yanks her bun harder, and she howls.

“Where’s my sister?”

“Get off me!” Her other hand slaps against my face, pushing me away. Something hits my teeth and I clamp down on it hard, and there’s another wail of pain. I taste her metallic salty blood and spit it out.

“Where is she?” I yell through numbed lips.

“I don’t know! They didn’t tell me, Micah knows, Micah knows!”

“Is she in the building?”

“Yes, yes, but I don’t know where. I never asked!”

I lift Hex’s vial in my rubbery left hand.

“Just returning the favor. Lights out, dearest,” I say. I shake the liquid over her eyes, and she tries to smack me away. My face, hands, and arms are so numb that I can’t hold on any longer.

She pushes me away and gallops for the door. Knife or not, I can’t let her leave. I make a spastic, sloppy leap and hook the ankle strap of her stiletto with my outstretched fingers. She goes down onto the floor with a satisfying splat. Now she’s really crying, but her cry intensifies into sheer panic.

“Oh, oh—my eyes, what—what—oh no—”

Caliga writhes on the floor. Her eyes are covered in a sheaf of eyelids. Two mini books with lashed lids of pages. They glisten wetly, dripping tears as she paws at her cheeks.

Suddenly, she stops weeping and flops back in a dead faint. I try to drag her over to Ren, but after each pull, I have to rest for several minutes before the feeling returns to my hands. I find my torn sleeve and use it to tie Caliga’s hands together through the loop of Ren’s arms. It takes a while before the knot is tight enough. I survey my work. They make a perfect pair of interlocking humans.

I run to fetch the other vial that has rolled across the floor. I break it open, dabbing Cy’s brew over my raw wrist and blistered hands. I use the last few drops over the cut on my scalp. By the time the bottle is empty, the pain has become tolerable.

“Thanks, Cy,” I say, though I know he can’t hear me. He’s probably waking up at Carus and wishing I’d never walked into his life. A wave of bad feeling hits me, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t spend time thinking about my treachery.

It’s time to find Dyl. The black disc of the room door is locked and inert. With Caliga’s knife in hand, I bend over Ren. I can’t believe I’m going to do this.

“Sorry, dude, but at least you’ve got some anesthesia. Anyway, you’ve got plenty of fingers. Time to share.”

Ren’s finger-blooming mess of hands must be perfectly numb, lying an inch away from Caliga’s arm. Oh man. The price of door access.

Once I have Ren’s bloody fingertip, I neatly tourniquet it with a piece of torn shirt. I press it to the panel on the door, and it slides open.

Awesome. Disgusting, but awesome.

“WHERE ARE YOU, DYLIA?” I WHISPER, staring down the corridor of frozen Aureus kids. The ones that fought and rebelled. Dyl doesn’t have any trait, I remind myself. She wouldn’t be here. How am I going to find her?

I slip my hand inside my bra and pull out the flat paper packet with the three pills.

It’s Marka. Bring her with you.

I have no other way to find Dyl, except by smell. I hold up the peach spheres, matte and button-like. I don’t know how to take them. All at once? Spaced out?

“What the hell.” I pop all of them into my mouth and force them down.

Through the floors, the haunting heartbeat of Aureus still thumps. At the end of the corridor of frozen freaksicles, the transport door waits. I pull out Ren’s finger and touch the pad. Nothing happens. I jiggle the finger, warm it in my palm. Gah, this is gross. I press it again. I let out my breath when the door opens with a whoosh. Inside, I just stand there.

I have no plan. I have no idea where to go.

I slide to the floor, waiting for some illuminating idea to swoop down and tell me what to do. But it doesn’t come.

After a few minutes, the distinct sensation that Cy is nearby creeps up on me. I twist my head around, but I’m alone. Of course I’m alone, he’s still in Carus. But the feeling is strong and cranks to a high level when I smack my forehead with frustration. And then, I smell it.

I inhale deeply and a flood of sensations—his hands on me, the look of his dark eyes, the scent of his T-shirt—hovers around my hands. I sniff again. Cy’s brew, and the essence of him on the vials. They’re all over my palms and treated wrist.

And then, like a sluice gate of an old-world dam, it all rushes in.

Coffee, sweat, rubber, fine linen, blood, spit, anger, happiness, confusion, low blood pressure, dandruff, weakness, orange sherbet, neurodrugs, Italian marble, lemon, wool and silk, waxy lipstick, sick pig, confused pig, dead pig . . . they’re all here, and that’s only a tiny fraction of what’s invading my nose.

Holy shizz. Marka’s pills do work. Thousands of signals overwhelm the synapses of my brain, and I shut my eyes, crumpling into a ball on the floor.

Now I know. I should have taken only one pill.