Earthquake

I’m not sure how much time elapses before I haze into consciousness. My head aches and my throat is painfully dry as pinpricks of light worm through my lashes. I throw my arm over my face—my eyes are so sensitive; I must have been out for a while—and struggle to remember where I am.

And how I got here.

The explosion, Logan’s house, the bag over my head.

The stinging pain in my arm.

Drugs.

Logan! Where is he? My head whips around, making me dizzy even as I fight to focus. There’s something on the floor—a dark lump in the corner, and as soon as I realize what—who—it is I fling myself over to it, to him.

“Logan. Logan!” I roll him over, my head spinning, and he emits a low groan but doesn’t open his eyes. I curl my body protectively around him and throw my hands up to create something—anything—to protect us from whatever the Reduciata, or whoever, has in store. But a new bout of sharp pain thrusts through my arm, and again the world swirls in front of me.

I collapse onto the floor, and my cheek falls against chilly tile.

My eyelids close.

The next time I float back to reality I keep my eyes clamped shut and take a few minutes to think. I acted too quickly last time. That doesn’t help anyone. No sudden movements—that’s step one.

Slowly, I lift my eyelids just enough to peer through my lashes at my surroundings. I’m in a stark white room, and I can see a huge mirror on one side that throws my reflection back at me. A two-way mirror, no doubt.

I sniff and smell what I swear is fresh paint. Everything is so neat and new as to be almost sterile. The smooth white walls, squeaky-clean white tiled floor, even the grout between the tiles is scrubbed to a pristine cream color. Like they poured a huge bottle of bleach over this place before dumping us in here. I shudder, wondering just what they had to scrub away.

I’m lying on my side, curled against Logan, and the warmth from his body makes me feel a tiny bit better. Yes, we’re obviously in some kind of prison, I guess, but at least I’m not alone. He’s still unconscious. Last time I awoke I at least got him to groan, but now he doesn’t respond to my touch at all. I wonder if at the same time they injected me they also got him with … whatever was in the needle. I glance down at my arm, where I can see two red dots. They make me want to scream in anger, but I’ve got to keep my cool. I focus on Logan instead.

I pull his limp torso halfway upright across my lap and cradle his large frame against my chest. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want him to get too cold lying on the freezing tile floor, but the truth is, after three days of him not letting me get near, I just want to hold him. This is the first time I’ve really gotten a chance to look at him this close. His skin is so tan against the honey color of his hair. I run my fingers through the short strands, remembering when they were long. Remembering Rebecca remembering. I scrunch my eyebrows together at that. Close enough.

He has a smattering of freckles along his hairline and across his cheeks that didn’t used to be there. Probably from living in the desert. There’s dried blood from the cut over his eye. I prod it gingerly, but it doesn’t seem too deep. My arms tremble as I attempt to check him for further injuries. I’m not sure where we are or how much longer they’re going to let us live, but at least we’re together.

As long as we’re together, there’s hope. Logan is my hope.

An icy spike of fear makes its way through my intense relief, and I force myself to peer around with what I hope is a degree of subtlety. Not that there’s much to observe. The room is bare and small, and the only possible escape is beyond that mirror I can’t see through.

Glancing at my reflection, I curl my shoulders, trying to look both harmless, which isn’t too hard given my pathetic appearance—bad hair, bedbug welts, no makeup, a big red mark across my cheek—and ignorant. The latter is, of course, more challenging. What I want to do is scream and yell and demand they let us go, but I have a feeling I’ll have better luck if I try to act submissive. That tranquilizer is nasty stuff. And I have no intention of staying a prisoner for long. Not after everything I’ve done. We’ve done. I just need to bide my time for a little while. First things first, I have to get Logan awake. There is no way on earth I’m leaving him.

While I’m waiting for Logan to open his eyes, I feel out the situation. “Hello?” I call quietly. My throat is so parched that only a hiss of a whisper comes out.

A bottle of water appears on the floor in front of me. Appears. It doesn’t get pushed through a little door or anything. Just pops into existence. Now I know for sure that there are Earthbounds involved. But whether they’re Reduciata—as I suspect—Curatoria, or something else entirely, I can’t be sure.

I reach for the bottle tentatively and consider the risks. They’ll want me to talk—so this water probably isn’t poisoned.

Probably.

I could make my own, but it’ll only disappear a few minutes later; and besides, I have a feeling that would bring about unhappy consequences.

I unscrew the cap and intend to sip—hoping to maintain some semblance of decorum despite my desperate thirst—but as soon as the cold water touches my cotton-dry tongue I’m gulping, and in seconds the whole thing is gone. Trying to cover my embarrassment, I resume my hunched posture of submission and screw the lid back on with as much dignity as I can muster. Then I set the empty bottle in front of me.

It vanishes only to be replaced by a new one.

This time I manage to drink the first few sips more slowly, considering this a test to make sure that this water is safe to ingest. It’s too late for caution regarding the last one, but I’m not taking chances anymore. I begin counting to three hundred, deciding that if I make it through a full five minutes without croaking, then the water most likely hasn’t been tampered with.

By the time I reach the 290s, I’m satisfied that the water isn’t poisoned and start actively trying to rouse Logan. This bottle is for him.

“Logan?” I lift his eyelids, first one and then the other. I poke and pinch his arm, shake him back and forth, and pat his cheeks sharply, just shy of a slap. Finally he starts to groan again. I keep prodding, not willing to lose this progress. He rolls to the side and starts to raise himself up to a sitting position, his eyes eerily out of focus.

“Here,” I say, proffering the nearly full water bottle. Even in his fuzzy haze he takes it and gulps it down about as quickly as I did. He shakes his head and rubs at his face as I set the water bottle down. “More,” he murmurs, his lips chalky-white.

Looking up at what I still believe to be two-way glass, I echo Logan’s request with my eyes and am rewarded with a cold bottle a few seconds later. Now that we’re three bottles in, I hand the newest one directly over to Logan without testing it. I’m going to have to trust whoever is behind that mirror one more time. After all, if they wanted us dead they would have done it already. Right?

But I think of Logan’s house, and doubt curls in my stomach.

Maybe it is the Curatoria after all. Don’t the Reduciata just want to murder us? Sadly, the thought that we might be in the custody of the not-as-bad guys doesn’t make me feel much better.

Logan is halfway through his second water when his eyes gain focus and zero in on me. “You!” he exclaims. Liquid spews from his mouth as he tosses the bottle down and crab walks backward away from me. His arms crumple beneath him, but he keeps scooting until his back is up against the corner, as far from me as the suddenly claustrophobic room will allow. “You stay away from me!” he shouts.

“Logan, I—”

“You did this!” he yells. “You made—you made all of this happen. Stay the hell away from me!”

“I didn’t—”

“My house,” he’s almost talking to himself now, struggling to get to his feet. But his strength isn’t back yet, and he leans against the wall, staggering to the side when he attempts to stand. He covers his face with one hand and lets out an inhuman sound halfway between a bark and a sob. “My family.” He’s nearly hyperventilating, and one arm splays against the wall as though grounding himself against everything.

Against me.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” He sounds like a little boy. But all I can do is give him the honest answer I know in my gut is true. I nod.

His breath is labored, the sound filling my ears. “Oh no. I can’t—they didn’t … Did I do something wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything,” I blurt. “It’s not your fault.”

My voice finds its way through his devastation, and his eyes narrow. “You’re right,” his says, his lips curling into a terrible grimace. “It’s your fault. Why couldn’t you leave me alone!”

“I was trying to save you,” I reply, my voice barely more than a whisper as I wilt beneath his accusations. My heart bleeds at his revulsion.

“Save me? The only reason I’m here is because of you.” He limps but manages to get across the room to the mirror, having clearly also identified it as the place where our captors are hidden. He pounds on it with both fists so hard I’m sure it’s going to shatter beneath his rage. “Please, get me away from her!”

“Logan, stop!” I shout, tears running down my face. I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to.

He’s right. I brought attention to him and in so doing I got his family killed.

I would hate me too.

There’s nothing I can do but crouch there on the cold, tiled floor, the strength drained from my body. It’s been eight months since my parents died, but watching Logan pound on the mirror, my mind flies back to the moment I realized our plane was crashing. Tears stream down my face in a torrent that splashes on the tile and joins the puddle of water that still drips out of Logan’s discarded bottle. For an instant it almost seems like the entire pool could have been formed from my tears.

It feels like hours before Logan relents. Finally, he crumbles into a heap on the floor, his face pressed to his arms, his forehead dotted with sweat.

I can only imagine what the people watching us are thinking.

Are they amused? Satisfied? Is this what they wanted? To watch us be so helpless? So at each other’s throats?

We’ve got to be in the hands of the Reduciata. Surely the Curatoria wouldn’t kill Logan’s family.

Surely.

But I can’t muster up a great deal of confidence to back that up.

My head aches from crying, and my eyes feel like cotton balls. But none of that compares to how my heart feels. Broken, shattered. No, something else. Empty.

After a while I feel my eyelids droop, and I fall into an exhausted, desperate sleep. Logan must as well because when I open my eyes again he’s calm. He’s back in his corner, far away from me, but his eyes are dark and glittering when they meet mine. He’s been waiting for me to wake up.

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice a little hoarse. Whether from screaming or disuse after sleeping I’m not sure. “And don’t lie this time.”

“I never lied,” I say, massaging my aching leg and trying to clear my foggy head. “I’m Tavia, like I said.”

“The whole truth.”

I look him in the eyes. What can I say to make him trust me? “I’m your eternal lover. We’ve been together since the beginning of time—in every lifetime that we could find one another.”

He lets out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Right. I should have known better than to even ask.”

“Then you tell me why you feel like you know me,” I say, my voice low. I’ve decided to focus on Logan and Logan alone, not the fact that we’re trapped or that we’re probably being watched by creeps who get their jollies from making us suffer; just Logan and getting through this conversation with him.

“Some people just seem familiar,” he says, brushing off my words. But I can tell, from the tiny creases between his eyebrows, that it bothers him. He doesn’t want to believe. He’s desperate not to believe.

“You saw me make that furniture,” I say, even as I wonder why I thought to make something so trivial.

He shakes his head. “A trick. Something to distract me while people were blowing up my house,” he says, the words a savage growl.

Okay, he’s right, that coincidence is not a happy one.

“Where did the water go?” I ask, and though a slight shake in my voice betrays me, I’m fighting not to let him know how much his mistrust is affecting me.

“What water?”

“The water bottle that spilled on the floor.”

He looks away. “They came and cleaned it up while we were asleep,” he says with total dismissal.

“Are you thirsty now?”

His eyes only dart toward me for a moment, but I can tell the answer is yes. I’m parched myself. And hungry. And I have to pee. But that’ll have to wait.

I take a chance and look directly at the glass, then hold up two fingers like I might to order coffee at a diner. If I have to depend upon my kidnappers, at least I can be sarcastic about it.

Within seconds two water bottles pop into existence on the floor. One within my reach and one within his. His jaw is shaking, and I wonder if I’ve just shoved him over that delicate precipice into insanity.

“I can’t … I can’t. No.” He turns away from the water and curls his face against his knees, his whole body shuddering. I don’t know if he’s crying or trying to keep his mind from cracking.

But clearly I’m not going to get any help from him until he figures out who he is. And that likely won’t happen unless I can get him out of here. Not that I don’t empathize. I was pretty much a wreck when all this stuff started happening to me too.

But the timing is … less than ideal.

I stand and walk the perimeter of the room, giving Logan as wide a berth as I can. My fingers stray up to Rebecca’s necklace and I fiddle with it as I consider the situation. I think about what happened when Logan pounded on the glass—how the surface rang with vibrations but never cracked. The material must be something stronger than glass. What can I create that could break it? And how could I do so without anyone noticing?

I take deep breaths, trying to keep my thoughts hidden. My shoulders slump as though in defeat but in my mind I see a heavy sledge hammer. In an instant my knuckles are white on a splintery wooden handle, and with a loud grunt I swing the newly formed hammer at the mirror. Shards of glass rain down like snow and my heart races for three beats, four, enjoying the sensation of success.

It doesn’t last. A burning that feels like knives assaults my arm.

I can’t move.

Every muscle in my body rebels and clenches tight, My tendons ache and twitch, and it’s only when the sensation releases me that I look down at my arm and realize that I’ve been tased.

Shit.

I fight for consciousness, my body already overwhelmed from whatever tranquilizer they gave me earlier and today’s lack of food.

Or has it been two days without food? I don’t even know.

My knees give out, and I sprawl to the floor. My fuzzy brain grasps for daylight, and I manage to push back the darkness gathering at the edges of my vision. I will not succumb again. I suck in air, focusing on my breath until I’m certain I’m not going to lose it.

I glance about me.

It’s as if my entire attempt never happened. The mirror is as it had been—whole and unbroken—the shards of glass I distinctly remember peppering my skin are gone. Even my bottle of water is sitting full and upright, just how it was when it first appeared.

“I suggest you don’t try that again.” A bored voice booms in from an unseen speaker, frightening me as much as anything. I know that voice. I just can’t put my finger on it. “As you can see, you can be instantaneously subdued if you try anything.”

I nod shortly—since it’s clear they can see me—anger trickling through my body as a weary absence of energy replaces the fierce tension of the electricity from the Taser. No using my powers. In any way, shape, or form. Got it.

I glare at the mirror, knowing that even though all I can see is my own scowling face—a red mark across my cheek—there must be people on the other side watching me. The familiar voice, for one. I stare at the mirror, willing my expression to travel through the thick glass the way my vision can’t, and all of a sudden the surface almost seems to turn transparent. At first I think it’s my imagination, but then something clicks and the lights on our side dim, and I know it’s not my tired body playing tricks on me; I can actually see through.

A man in a dark suit is standing at what appears to be a long counter. His hands are planted on the surface, and he’s leaning forward in a manner so menacing it can’t possibly be accidental.

I would have recognized him in an instant, even without his signature shades.

Sunglasses Guy. The guy who followed me for two weeks in Portsmouth. Who shot at me, and terrified me, and dragged Benson away on that terrible night.

And just over his shoulders, painted on a gray wall so obvious I can’t miss it, is a black symbol, at least four feet high. An ankh, with one side of the loop curled up like a shepherd’s crook.

The symbol of the Reduciata.

I mean, I guess I knew. But seeing those two things in a juxtaposed tableau like that—utter proof that I’m in the jaws of the enemy—makes me understand how helpless my situation truly is. I’m certain of one thing though: when I leave this place it will either be through my own powers—and not a small amount of luck—or I’ll be dead.

Three other faces join Sunglasses Guy, and they study me the way I would a strange bug or mold in the fridge. Like I’m inferior, something there only because they allow it to be.

Which, admittedly, might be true.

The anger inside me changes to a simmering rage as they observe me with amusement, as if I’m some kind of joke. I’m already planning an—admittedly childish—revenge when a beep starts to sound.

“That’s the sign that your heart rate is rising,” a woman says, leaning down to speak into a small mounted microphone. “If you don’t want us to sedate you again, you’re going to have to calm down.”

I take three seconds to hate them with every fiber of my being before I close my eyes and count to ten, taking long, deep breaths as I do. After about a minute the beeping stops.

I haven’t given up. I’ve just reached a dead end in this maze, and the first step to finding another route is to pretend to abandon the search entirely.

I raise my eyes; the woman is sitting in front of the microphone with a pen in hand.

“Your name?” she asks.

What am I supposed to say? I know they know who I am. I consider giving a fake name anyway. Maybe they’re not 100 percent sure.

“Don’t kid yourself,” the woman says. The smile that curls across her face makes vicious butterflies take flight in my stomach. “We already know the answers to all the questions we’re going to ask. We’re just testing you. Seeing if you’re going to be honest with us.” An interested gleam flashes in the woman’s eyes. “And I hope you’ll play nice.” I’m not sure how, but she manages to be even more terrifying than Sunglasses Guy. “Name?” she repeats, leaning forward.

“Tavia,” I finally say. I guess I have nothing to lose. If I answer, maybe they’ll give me some degree of freedom. If I don’t … well, the rest of my life might not be very long one way or another. It’s probably worth the risk. “Michaels,” I add, just to prove I really am trying.

“Sum Terrobligatus; declarare fidem.”

My eyes widen, and I stare at her. Those are the same words I shouted at Elizabeth two weeks ago—has it really been two weeks since I demanded answers from my former therapist? It feels like forever.

But this woman isn’t screaming; she isn’t out of control the way I was. She’s calm; her voice is soft. Sinister.

And I know what the words mean this time. Sum Terrobligatus: I am an Earthbound. Simple concept; you give information before you demand it back. Declarare fidem: Declare your loyalty, Reduciata or Curatoria.

I remain silent. How can the woman claim to know the answers to all the questions they’re going to ask when this is one that even I don’t know? She breathes in slowly, and just as she opens her mouth to say something—probably to repeat herself—I say, “I don’t have one.”

A single blink is the only response I get.

“And I don’t intend to have one either,” I continue, forcing back the urge to cross my arms over my chest. I don’t need to look petulant right at this moment. “I’ve had bad experiences with both brotherhoods, and I don’t want to be a part of either.”

“Are you hungry?”

The question catches me off-guard. It seems silly that they would even care. I look up at the woman, and for a moment I think she’s staring off into space, but then I realize her gaze is focused over my shoulder.

On Logan.

He’s looking up at her with a strange expression that I vaguely recognize as hope, and it sickens me. That the Reduciates behind a plane of glass can inspire any sort of positive emotion in him while I instill nothing but fear makes me equal parts angry and sad.

He tries to speak, clears his throat when he fails, and starts again. “Maybe.” There’s a rebellious lilt to his voice, and I allow myself a slow blink of relief. I certainly haven’t won him over, but at least they haven’t either.

Yet.

“Are you the ones who destroyed my house?” He sounds tentative, even weak, but I can hear him getting to his feet behind me. He’s not broken. Thank goodness.

“I’m afraid it was necessary.”

“My family?” He’s trying so hard to be strong—to be brave. I don’t dare look back at him at the risk that seeing me would make him change his mind. Or snap his last thread.

“I’m afraid it was necessary,” she repeats.

Now I glance back. I can’t help myself. His jaw is clenched so hard I can see the muscles standing out like marbles beneath his skin. His eyes glimmer—just a sheen—as they tell him what he already knew. And in that moment, I see a glimpse of Rebecca’s Quinn—my Quinn. Quinn, who was so strong and could handle anything. He’s in there. I know it!

“Why was it necessary?” I say, when I sense he’s not ready to speak. Part of me is curious how the Reduciata will attempt to justify their actions. A larger part knows that if I can’t get Logan to remember—the chances of which are basically nonexistent in here—I’ll need to make sure that it’s me he sides with.

“To keep everything clean. The authorities will assume you died with them.” She addresses Logan brusquely, as though she weren’t speaking of the murder of four people, two of them Logan’s siblings, just children. “They’ll be looking for an arsonist, for sure, but not a missing person.”

“You killed four people to cover up a kidnapping?” he says, throwing the words at her as though they were a weapon. I wish they were.

“We killed 255 people to get to Tavia.”

Logan turns to look at me in shock and horror. I suck in a breath and hold very still as a wave of mourning washes over me. My parents were two of those 255. “Is that true?” he asks.

All my work. Undone. But I nod. I have to.

“None of that matters now.” The woman’s amplified voice cuts through me.

“How can you say it doesn’t matter?” Logan says hoarsely.

“Because once you remember, they won’t matter.”

I crinkle my brows. I don’t understand why remembering should change any of this, but I dismiss it as a vain attempt to pacify us. “So what now?” I ask. I want to rise gracefully to my feet, but I’m too weak. My hands slip on the smooth white walls as I drag myself up, but I manage to stand and plant my fists on my hips.

“Now you both need to eat.”

A veritable picnic appears—complete with a red-checkered blanket, which I don’t find amusing in the least—on the floor between us.

Logan snorts even as his eyes glitter. “Like we’d eat anything you gave us.”

At that, she laughs. She could have hidden it—not turned on the intercom—but she wants us to hear the easy, carefree sound. “Please, we could have added poison to your water and you didn’t mind drinking that, did you? We won’t kill you. You’re too important. Well, she is. But she needs you. So we need you too.” I close my eyes, frustration and mortification making me feel beyond weary. She would confirm that this really is all my fault. The Reduciates want my stupid secret. I hate myself for not knowing what it is.

“Why you?” Logan asks, barely over a whisper. He’s looking straight at me, but the hellish woman answers anyway.

“Maybe you should have listened to everything Tavia has been trying to tell you for the last few days.” Then there’s an audible click, and the microphone is off. The window is a mirror again.

And Logan and I again have the illusion of being alone.

He eyes the food. His face is pale, but I doubt it’s from hunger. Still, he’s going to need energy.

Hating my own frail human needs, I lower myself shakily to the blanket and begin sorting through the pile of food.

“Are you sure they won’t poison us?” Logan asks from far above me.

“Not until they’ve gotten whatever the hell it is they need from us,” I grumble. I say us, but we both know I mean me.

My stomach protests as I lay the food out slowly. Who knows how long they’ll wait before feeding us again? We might need to ration.

Of course, they could just make the leftovers disappear. I don’t know what to do. I’m so hungry, I’m sure that it’s got to have been a full two days since we were brought here. At least. I briefly wonder how many more people have died of the virus while these Reduciates have been toying with us, but I tamp that thought down and file it away. It’s not something I can do anything about right now.

Logan drops down to join me on the blanket when I hold out a piece of cheese, though he still looks nervous. “What do they want?” he asks, his voice so quiet I practically have to read his lips to understand him.

“I’m not sure,” I reply in that same hushed tone. “It’s … a little hard to explain. There’s some kind of secret that I know—except that I don’t. I used to—ugh!” I rub at my temples, the aftereffects of the tranquilizers making my entire skull ache and buzz like someone’s playing the timpani inside it. I take a few calming breaths and try to will the pain away.

“What kind of secret?” he asks, his eyes darting to the again-opaque glass.

I shake my head no, hoping that we still have enough of a connection that he’ll understand that I’m telling him that they’re listening no matter how quietly we talk. “It doesn’t matter,” I say in a whisper, even though that effort feels pointless. “The thing I need you to understand is that if we’re going to survive this, we have to be a team. I need to be able to depend on you.”

He looks wary, and I know I’m pushing him to his mortal limit. But like me, there’s a hidden core of strength in there. The strength of an Earthbound. Of a god. And I’m counting on it.

“They will do anything—kill anyone—to get to this secret that I have …” I hesitate, not wanting them to know I don’t know what the secret is. “The key to that secret is you,” I finally settle on. Nebulous, but enough. “So as long as we work together, we can keep each other safe.”

“How am I the key?”

I can’t answer that. Not even cryptically. “I’ll tell you when I can,” I say, my voice raspy around the near lie.

The food is gone quickly and I’m feeling better—even a little overfull. I have to wonder why they fed us at all. Food is the fuel for my powers—if I were them, I’d have starved me.

But I’m certainly not going to question my advantages.

I rise and resume stalking the perimeter of the room, feeling much like a tiger in a zoo. What can I make to get us out of here? I lay my hand against the wall and wonder if I know enough about bombs to make one. Excitement zings through me as I add, make one inside the wall, to my thought. I try to remember the chemistry class last year in Michigan when my teacher taught us how to make gunpowder. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. A metal casing. A fuse. I can do this!

I’m so wrapped up in the thoughts whizzing through my head that I hardly notice when a beeping begins to sound, then speeds up. Logan is calling my name, but as the beeping gets louder, faster, two sharp pains prick the skin on my arm and my knees buckle as I sink into unconsciousness.

Again.