Earthquake Read online

  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.

  FIVE

  I smell him before I open my eyes. It’s Quinn’s smell. Unique. My head is lying against something soft and warm; it must be him. Without conscious thought, Rebecca’s arms reach out, pull him close. She buries her face in that perfect smell that means safety and love and home.

  A groan escapes my mouth as I nuzzle against Quinn’s warm, soft shirt and the yielding skin beneath. My hand is searching for a way to get under his clothing when a sharp “Tavia!” pulls me all the way out of unconsciousness.

  I open my eyes and see his face—Logan’s face. Worry and disgust color his features.

  I yank myself up and away from him, fire filling my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mutter, though my skin burns where I pressed against him—tingling with want and need and other emotions I should not be feeling in a Reduciata prison.

  “What happened?” My voice is hoarse. Again. I wonder just how much of that tranquilizer stuff I’ve had. How bad the aftereffects are going to be this time.

  “I’m not sure what you were planning.” We both jump as a voice comes over the loudspeaker. It sounds like Sunglasses Guy. I spin toward the mirror, but it’s still just a mirror. They’re not interested in letting us see them this time. “But it was something exciting enough to raise your heart rate.”

  I remember the beeping that got faster and faster right before they shot me. Damn it!

  “We’re not stupid,” the guy continues calmly. “You’re not getting out until we let you. Until we’ve gotten what we want.” A low chuckle. “And I guess at that point we’ll probably just kill you.”

  My jaw is shaking with fury, and I roll my shoulders to attempt to calm down before the stupid beeping starts again. As I move, the left joint sends out a sharp stab of pain. “Ow,” I say in surprise and look down at my arm. The shirt I’m wearing has short sleeves, and when I push it up, I see that my entire shoulder is reddened and starting to turn purple.

  “You fell against the wall pretty hard when they took you out,” Logan explains sheepishly. “I managed to get to you before you hit your head, but I wasn’t fast enough to stop that.” He points at the darkening bruise.

  A tingly feeling zips up my spine, and I barely manage to hide the sappy grin that threatens to reveal itself. He helped me. He tried. “Thanks.” I clear my throat and look away, trying not to show him how pleased I am. It’s not the time.

  “So what now?” Logan asks. It’s something just less than a whisper. He practically breathes the words.

  I glance at the mirror, but it looks no different than before I got knocked out. Again. I incline my head at Logan and start scooting backward until I’m leaning against the wall. He joins me and I curl closer so my lips are right next to his ear. “Do you trust me?”

  His nod is just enough of a motion for me to feel it.

  “Rub my back, softly. Help me stay calm.” Then, before he can argue, I shift so my legs lay across his lap and I let my head rest against his shoulder, my face turned toward him so it can’t be seen. I breathe in the scent of his shirt—fabric softener, a light aura of sweat, the clean kind that smells earthy—and close my eyes when his arms drape over me, his fingers gingerly kneading along my spine. I’m surprised at his soft touch, but in my head, Rebecca clearly isn’t. I let myself listen to her and slump against Logan, breathing steadily.

  My heartbeat speeds again at his nearness, but I’m counting on that. They’re watching, analyzing, but now they’ll think this is my baseline. I try to lose myself in the hypnotic massage, pretending it’s my mom, or even Sammi. Anyone but Logan. Once I’ve detached the feeling of those soothing hands from their owner, I start to let myself think of science again. Of my teacher Mr. Peterson lecturing in his boring fashion. Even explosives were tedious when he was trying to explain them.

  I hold the image of his crisp shirt and tie in my mind, recalling the nasal sound of Mr. Peterson’s voice as he dryly listed off ingredients. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Over and over in my head until it doesn’t feel exciting anymore. I let out a heavy breath like I’m really enjoying this backrub and stare out from beneath my eyelids. I glare at the wall and then, as I let the air out like I’m breathing through a straw, I create a metal casing. Inside the wall.

  I don’t see anything.

  Nothing cracks.

  That was the risky part.

  The ingredients of gunpowder float along in my consciousness, and I remember mixing a small amount in class. I double, triple, quadruple that in my head and—again, as I breathe out—I fill the metal canister.

  I’m so close, adrenaline tingles in my fingers. I toss my head back and pull closer to Logan, turning the simple backrub into something sensual—I need to hide my increased excitement. Logan’s body clenches up beneath me, but he doesn’t fight as I pull him close and rest my lips against his neck. I can sense the Reduciates watching my every move and nearly gag at the thought of actually being romantic in front of them.

  Like. I. Would.

  But apparently they don’t know me that well because they don’t do anything to stop me. I’m all the way on Logan’s lap now, and I can feel sweat start to trickle down his back as he grows more and more uncomfortable with the intimacy I’m forcing on him. But we’re almost done. I pull his head down, close to my chest—not sure just what that is going to look like. Then, as I set my head down on his back, my arms wrapped around him—covering him, protecting him—I create a spark.

  Debris shatters out of the wall, ricocheting off the other walls and pelting Logan and me. “Come on!” I say, staggering to my feet as I try to pull him with me. “Run!”

  I clench my fingers around his and dive into the smoke, hoping there’s actually a hole all the way through the wall. I can’t see—I can barely hear after the blast—but I keep moving forward, one hand stretched out in front of me, the other hanging on to Logan for dear life.

  I bounce off something warm and squishy enough that it must have been a person, but I keep running. I pivot to my left and run toward light. What I think is light. I trip over something and go sprawling, but because I refuse to let go of Logan, he follows my trajectory and lands on top of me, pushing the air from my lungs. I landed badly on my wrist, but I can’t let that stop me. I don’t need my arms to run.

  Pushing the pain away, I yank Logan to his feet. I’m desperately thinking of what I can make to help us escape when something hard hits me across the stomach and I double over, gasping for breath yet again. Arms wrap around me, and I try to scream but I have no air yet, and I fight against my own muscles as my lungs burn. Finally I get out an enraged shriek that’s way higher pitched than I intended it to be.

  I slam into a wall, and the back of my head clangs against something. A sob of fiery pain escapes my mouth and blackness invades my periphery as my cries reverberate in my aching head. My knees have no chance, and I collapse onto the floor, my whole body quaking in fear and agony.

  A blurry face invades my fading sight, but I can’t even raise my hand to block the view of Sunglasses Guy, two inches from my nose.

  “Sit,” he says
, and I dimly feel a fleck of spit from the T at the end of the harsh word. “Stay.”

  He rises to his feet and he looks even taller from where I lie crumpled on the floor. As he walks away I fight to stay conscious, but the pain is overwhelming and it’s a relief when I slip away.

  I have no idea how long it is before I wake, but the pain is even sharper than last time. My ears are ringing—probably from the noise of the bomb exploding—and my entire body is sore and achy. I try to take stock while cradling my head in my hands. Throbbing, puffy lip; I probably bit it. My shoulder is still tender. But the worst is my wrist—it’s swollen twice its normal size and purple bruises are starting to form. I move it and cringe. It’s either broken or very badly sprained. I’m stiff from sleeping—well, lying unconscious on the ground—but that particular discomfort is so minor in comparison that it barely registers.

  I push up onto my knees with my one good arm and peer blearily around. I don’t care what I look like to them. Not this time.

  I’ve been relocated into a much, much smaller room. The walls are the same glaring white, same bleachy tiled floor, but probably half the size. Worse, the tiny box is lined with an even smaller cage of bars. That’s what I must have hit when I was literally thrown in here. There’s another two-way mirror, but it’s on the other side of the bars, where I can’t even attempt to reach it.

  My mind is having trouble thinking clearly, but I know I’m missing something. Something is wrong. Something big. I close my eyes and rub hard at them before I remember.

  Logan.

  He’s not here.

  I have a feeling I’ve just been put in Reduciata solitary confinement.

  SIX

  The hum of the air conditioning unit kicking on pulls me from my stupor. Ah, new tactic then. They’re going to keep me cold, stiff, and devoid of energy.

  Sunglasses Guy did warn me they weren’t stupid.

  The Reduciates seem to want me alive, but the state I’m in is apparently unimportant.

  I push myself off the hard floor and start pacing to keep myself warm. I’m guessing it’s been about an hour since they separated me from Logan. I rub at my temples, willing the throbbing to go away. The stark halogen lights hurt my eyes and make it hard to think. But thinking’s all I’ve got at the moment. I reflect on what I’ve figured out thus far.

  They want something—something in my head. A secret.

  The memories of whatever the secret is come from Rebecca. She knew. And if my dreams can be believed, Sonya knew too. But for some reason it remains locked inside my brain, dancing away like shadows from a flickering candle whenever I think about it. How do the Reduciates think they’re going to get it out of me when I can’t get it out of myself?

  I had assumed they were trying to get Logan and me to resurge—even Mark had said that was the key. But why? I’m certain Logan doesn’t know. That it was too dangerous to tell him. I’m sure of that. But since they’ve separated us apparently our re-awakening is no longer a priority for them.

  Here’s the thing, though: it is a priority for me. I’m officially done playing their games. I’m not going to get less tired or hungry as time progresses.

  It’s now or never.

  For the first time, I wish I were a Destroyer. I could simply make the prison around me disappear.

  My mind latches on to that idea. It seems like I should be able to do something like that. I consider how I change my face into my mother’s when I’m in public. I mean, her nose was longer than mine, so I guess you could argue that I’m creating cartilage there? But my eyes change color too.

  Maybe it’s simply a matter of creating one thing that replaces what was there previously.

  Could I replace a wall with created air? Is it all about the way you think about it?

  I certainly have nothing to lose by trying. And everything to gain.

  I pull in as much oxygen as my lungs can hold and clench my eyes shut as I push the air out. When I open my eyes, the walls on three sides of me are gone.

  That’s Step One.

  I nearly faint with relief when I leap to my feet and see Logan sitting on the ground a mere ten feet away, staring at where the walls used to be. At a glance I see he’s in the same room we were both in an hour ago. Two? Yesterday? I have no freaking clue.

  I expect the sting of tranquilizer to hit me at any moment, but I still feel nothing as I scramble to Logan. I guess I’m just harder to hit when I’m moving.

  So I better keep doing that.

  “Come on!” I grab his arms and yank him to his feet. “Don’t you dare let go of my hand,” I say, ignoring the throbbing pain in my leg and shoulder. Without waiting for a response, I start to run.

  Get Logan: Step Two.

  “Tavia!”

  The voice startles me into absolute stillness. It almost sounded like—

  I can hear noise—shuffling, shouting, something that certainly could be a weapon—behind me, and I race forward, clenching my teeth as I drag Logan along. I create a dense cloud of smoke behind me, checking off Step Three in my head as I do so. My hands shake, but I’m already committed to Step Four as a fully loaded handgun fills my palm, making my injured wrist sear in pain. I grit my teeth against the agony and create more smoke behind me, trying not to cough as it tickles my throat.

  The smoke is for the people behind me; the gun is for the people in front of me.

  Time for Step Five. I pick a hallway and start running, replacing every obstruction in my path with harmless puffs of air.

  My plan works for twenty seconds.

  The hallway dead-ends.

  No problem.

  I replace the wall with air, and the innards of a large building are revealed. More replacing, more layers peel away. I can see light. One more layer vanishes and sun pierces through, and I have to throw my arm—still holding the gun—over my eyes to block the blinding rays.

  But I keep running.

  And hit a solid wall of cinderblock.

  My elbow burns, and I can feel blood trickling. I make the wall go away again, but it returns in an instant. I wonder if I should make more walls disappear, but I’m risking this unknown structure collapsing in on me as it is.

  I don’t have a Step Six.

  Whirling, I realize the Reduciates are so close even smoke isn’t going to work. Logan has staggered to his knees, but I clamp my arms around his chest to keep him with me.

  It’s going to have to be the gun.

  I hold it out in front of me and brace my shoulders against the wall, pointing it wildly at the shadowy figures surrounding us, my eyes darting too fast to make out any features in the smoky air.

  Can I do it? Can I pull the trigger? For myself?

  For Logan?

  For Logan.

  I scrunch my eyes shut and start to flex my finger, but the wall behind my back suddenly disintegrates and something snakes around my neck, catching me before I can fall and cutting off half my air. The chilled edge of something metal touches my temple.

  So much for my gun.

  The circle around me stills, their eyes wide, and for a moment I remember the identical scene in my dream about Sonya.

  “Hold on to that boy,” the voice whispers to me, and though I certainly didn’t need anyone to tell me that, I do, gripping Logan so tightly I swear I can feel the bones in my wrist scraping against each other from the pressure.

  Then, to the others, in a loud, scratchy voice, “One move—a single Earthbound trick—and her brains splatter the wall.”

  Oh. Good.

  He drags me backward, and I pull Logan, my wrist screaming in pain. A mere foot or two and the wall reappears—hiding the Reduciates from sight but not thick enough to completely muffle their cries of outrage.

  “Help!” the man calls as his arm falls from my neck and he reaches for Logan.

>   “No!” I scream, not willing to let him go.

  “Hurry,” the man says to the black-clad masked figures that surround both Logan and me. They shuffle us toward a loud noise that I finally take note of. A helicopter! There’s a small feather and flame emblem near the nose of the helicopter. Curatoria. Is that good news or bad news? I’m paralyzed by indecision, but the helicopter blades spin so fast the wind threatens to knock me over until a person I can’t see pushes me forward, toward the ramp, despite my resistance.

  The same one they’re dragging Logan up.

  I give up my struggle. At least I’ll be with Logan. If we’ve gone from one dangerous situation to another, I’ll have to decide what to do about that later. For now, I reach out my hand for Logan, and with my fingers gripping his, I follow them up the ramp.

  Inside the helicopter is chaos, and I’m shoved down into a seat that—though cushiony—jars my shoulder and thumps the back of my head. A small groan sounds in my ears.

  My own.

  Then there’s a woman in my face, her cheeks red and flushed, probably from the mask now pushed up on her forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just a precaution.”

  Something covers my face, and I gasp in a surprised breath of something strong and sweet. I think briefly to hold my breath, but whatever I’ve inhaled has already made my head fuzzy and my eyes roll strangely as I continue to breathe, my eyelids going heavy. I get one last look of Logan sprawled over two seats, surrounded by people in black clothing. I’m not sure whether I imagined the feeling of the helicopter leaving the ground, but sleep is too tempting, and I let my eyes close.

  “You’re safe now,” a low voice whispers, just before I fall asleep. “Both of you, you’re safe.”

  I try to open my mouth, but my jaw feels like a heavy steel trap and I can’t even mumble, “I don’t believe you.”

  SEVEN

  “You can wake up now,” a calm voice says. “We’re out of danger.”