Earthquake Read online

  My heartbeat speeds up at the now-certain revelation that the man before us is in the fact the leader of the Curatoria, and I half expect to hear the beeping sound that plagued me while trapped inside the Reduciate prison.

  I’m somewhere else. I’m safe.

  To distract myself, I glance around the office. It’s huge—like everything else in this place, apparently—with half-open doors leading to rooms unknown. But unlike the foyer we just left, this space lacks opulence.

  Which, strangely, doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

  It has a simple hominess, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek when I realize it reminds me of the way my mother used to decorate.

  Soft watercolors fill the walls, mostly of landscapes that are definitely not deserts. It makes me wonder if he misses green, housed here beneath the sand. The wood that makes the desk, the chairs, the tables, is a medium brown—probably maple or oak—instead of the stark but elegant espresso shade that practically filled the atrium. Pastel throws and pillows complement beige and sage-green upholstery, and potted plants dot the walls and corners, lending the only brilliant colors in the whole room.

  Comfortable, I finally settle on as the word to describe this space. Everything about it makes me want to sink down onto a couch or chair and read a book.

  Or nap.

  Or some of both.

  I look back at Daniel and wonder just how much of it is a facade. I mean, he could remake this room a hundred times a day, couldn’t he?

  I suddenly wonder if it’s all just a trap. The spider’s parlor.

  As though sensing the dreary turn my thoughts have just taken, Daniel invites us to sit on a couch and takes his own seat in a cushy armchair across a low table. As I sit, I look up and catch Daniel studying me. His eyes glitter with interest and something else I can’t read. I wonder how much of what I’m seeing of him is real.

  But he doesn’t look away when he catches me staring. Instead his eyes soften and he continues to stare, as though inviting me to study him as well.

  I’m not sure what to think of that.

  A strange feeling twists in my stomach as his face turns starkly serious.

  “Tavia,” Daniel says, leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees, “though I’ve gone to great lengths to try to make you as comfortable as possible, we both know we’re not here to have a casual conversation.”

  I nod, accepting the inevitable.

  “I’m told you won’t join us,” he says in that same light tone, but I hear the bitter edge of rejection hovering just beneath the surface.

  “I won’t,” I confirm, refusing to let my voice quaver.

  He hesitates, then says, “But I hope you will be willing to work with us to put an end to all these deaths from this terrible virus.” Bitterness replaced by hope. This man changes so quickly I can hardly keep up.

  “I don’t know why you think I’m so special,” I say, a hint of belligerence creeping into my tone, “but if I am, I will consider working with you.” I fix him with a hard gaze and add, “Temporarily and with the understanding that I am not one of you. I am not a Curatoriate.”

  Daniel nods, and although I see disappointment in his eyes, he doesn’t appear surprised. Then, he turns to Logan. “Logan, even though it’s Tavia we need, you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

  Logan’s eyes look nervous, but he winds his fingers through mine and squeezes. “And am I free to leave when she does?” he asks, directing his question more at the table than at Daniel.

  “Of course,” Daniel says. He sounds neither offended nor surprised that Logan would inquire as much.

  Which doesn’t make me feel any more secure. I get the feeling Daniel knows us. Knows me. And considering how little I know myself, I’m not a fan of the sensation.

  “Now, Miss Tavia,” Daniel says, sitting back against his chair. “I know that Mark and Sammi didn’t trust me. That they tried to remove you from Portsmouth without informing the Curatoria and, particularly, without informing me, and that likely you carry the same mistrust. Am I right so far?”

  I gape at him and hear the sound of shattering in my head.

  He chuckles. “Answer enough. Just wanted to get that out of the way. The fewer secrets, the better, in my opinion.”

  Before I can even begin to contemplate a response to that bombshell, he continues, his tone much more dire now. “I also know that your brain injury has . . . proven more extensive than anyone wants to admit. If you had the same perfect memory that most of us do, I think you would have figured out a while ago why you’re so special.”

  I have no idea what to say as facts I didn’t think he could possibly know continue to come spilling from his mouth. Thoughts and doubts I’d considered only my own. Some I haven’t even had a chance to share with Logan yet.

  Although I would have. Soon.

  And what does he mean, that I would have figured it out? Is he referring to Sonya and the secret she was willing to kill herself to protect? Or the secret Rebecca spent her life hiding from the Reduciata? Or are they same thing? And how could he know?

  “Logan,” Daniel says, still in the same tone. “You were literally plucked from the brink of eternal death-by-fire a few days ago.”

  Logan forces a hard swallow down his throat, nodding.

  “Truth is, you’re a very weak Earthbound. And that’s not an insult,” Daniel says, his hands lifted in a placating gesture. “It’s simply fact. And Tavia should be just like you. But she’s not.”

  “I am—” I start to protest, but a look from Daniel cuts my words off.

  “Logan, would you please create a book for me? Your favorite novel.”

  Logan’s jaw is tight, but he tips his fingers toward the table, and Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities appears.

  “Now you, Tavia. Your favorite book.”

  I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I think of my dog-eared copy of The Giver, the one I left in Michigan when I boarded that fateful plane. The one I never considered asking Sammi to retrieve for me back when I thought she was my aunt Reese. I wonder where it is now.

  With a deep breath I tilt my hand toward the table like Logan did, and my book appears beside his.

  “Good,” Daniel says as he leans forward and picks up Logan’s book. He doesn’t look at it; he looks at me as he flips through the pages, showing me Logan’s creation. The beginning looks normal, but as the book continues, there are large sections of blank pages. Chapters that are nothing but short synopses. And then the end begins to fill in a bit more.

  I glance at Logan, and he’s leaning back with his arms folded over his chest, looking grumpy for reasons I don’t understand.

  “Now let’s look at yours,” Daniel says softly, and he opens my book and flips the pages the same way he did with Logan’s.

  My book is complete.

  More than complete. The typed text is there, word for word. But also the notes I’ve made over the years, tiny sketches in the margins, even the page I accidentally tore one day and then taped back together is there.

  Still torn.

  Still taped.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, staring at the two books. “Why is mine . . . ?” I hesitate, looking for a word besides better. Whatever is happening here, it doesn’t make Logan happy, and I don’t want to add to it. “More complete,” I settle on.

  “Because you’re stronger than him,” Daniel says, unapologetically. “And not a little bit—exponentially. Knowledge and creativity are the driving force of the Earthbound. Especially Creators. And how strong you are determines how much knowledge you need to create something. To create a book as complete as yours, Logan would have to have memorized every word. An Earthbound as strong as you could recreate any book you’ve ever read. In any of your lives that you remember. And possibly even those you don�
��t,” he adds, looking at me with such intensity—such awe, bordering on reverence—that I have to turn away.

  Without thinking, I turn toward Logan, which may have been a mistake.

  He sits there with his lips in a hard line—he’s obviously angry. Is it because he’s weak—or because I’m not?

  “But why?” I ask. “We lived our maximum seven lifetimes before resurging last night. We should both be weak. That’s why Sammi and Mark were so worried about me.”

  Daniel nods but doesn’t answer my question. “Logan,” he says, and I hear sympathy in his voice this time. Not pity, exactly, but understanding. Wanting to understand, maybe. “What’s your next favorite book? One from this life, perhaps.”

  Logan mumbles, “American Gods,” and Daniel smiles. The irony of that admission isn’t lost on either of them.

  “Excellent. Would you please turn your book into this American Gods?”

  Logan sits up now. “That’s not how it works,” he sputters. “I make things. I can’t just change things.”

  “Try,” Daniel says, utterly unruffled. “And Tavia, you as well. Change your book into your next favorite.”

  Logan and I look at each other, and with my eyes I try to tell him that he doesn’t have to do this. But he shakes his head and flutters his fingers at the table with an almost dismissive gesture.

  I smile in relief. As far as I can tell, he’s done it. A Tale of Two Cities has turned into American Gods.

  “Your turn, Tavia” Daniel says.

  Still confused, I move my fingers and replace The Giver with Sense and Sensibility, the same way I replaced the walls with air in the Reduciata base.

  Again, Daniel’s hands go to Logan’s book, and he begins to flip the pages.

  The blood drains from my face, and I force myself not to show my dismay. The book hasn’t changed at all.

  The cover of Charles Dickens’s story simply has an additional dust jacket on it, and as Daniel thumbs through, loose-leaf pages fall out, covered in what must be snippets of Neil Gaiman’s book.

  “Now yours, Tavia,” Daniel says, and that strange reverence is back, this time in the warmth of his voice. He reaches for my book, and something inside me wants to bolt. To run from this room and from whatever it is I’m about to learn.

  I want to hide from it, to go back to normal life.

  I can’t drag my eyes from Daniel’s hands as he opens the book. He pulls back the dust jacket of my special edition hardcover to reveal . . . the deep green casing—Sense and Sensibility stamped in gold foil. He flips the pages, and I see Jane Austen’s story flowing by, word-for-word, just like when it was The Giver.

  I lean back and fold my arms, noting for half a second that Logan and I are now mirrors of each other. “So I’m strong and Logan’s not,” I say, not caring that I sound snippy. “I think you’ve proven that.”

  “Where did The Giver go, Tavia?” Daniel says, ignoring my words. “A Tale of Two Cities didn’t disappear. All Logan could do was add to what was already there.”

  “No, no, it’s just a different way of thinking of it. It’s replacing,” I argue. “You just create one thing in place of another. It’s nothing special.” I look to Logan, pleading. I want to be like him, I realize. I want us to be the same.

  Daniel returns the book to the table and looks up at me with a depth of knowledge in his eyes that stretches down like a deep mine. “Creating is often considered the more powerful of the two abilities, for reasons we don’t need to go into at the moment. But I’ve never been convinced of that. Perhaps as a Destroyer I’m biased. But regardless, creating something out of nothing is a much-coveted ability, as I’m sure you can understand.” He leans forward, and the intensity in his eyes pins me to my seat. “But there is one limitation and one alone. You can only create. You can only add to what is already there. Creators are the masters of more. Not different, only more. You cannot change, you cannot replace, only add.” He leans back and clasps his fingers over his slightly rounded belly. “So again, Tavia, I ask you, where did The Giver go? Where did the walls of your cell go?”

  I have nothing to say. Nothing I can say. The silence stretches long, and no one wants to break it.

  After interminable minutes, Daniel rises, strides to his desk, and retrieves a folder. He walks back to the low coffee table and lays three pictures on it.

  Even as my eyes fix on them I feel the urge to retch build up in my throat.

  It’s my plane.

  The wreckage.

  My seat.

  “We lost two Earthbounds and three human Curatoriates obtaining these photos a few months ago,” Daniel says. “All we knew is that these were what made the Reduciates stop trying to kill you and start attempting to capture you instead. It took weeks and weeks before we finally saw what they saw.” He points to the walls of the fuselage surrounding my seat.

  They’re already burned into my brain from months of reading news stories. I don’t need to see them—don’t want to see them—and yet I can’t look away.

  “Perfect,” Daniel says. “As though your section of the plane weren’t in the crash at all.” He sighs. “A few weeks ago one of my top researchers finally came up with a theory that, even as recently as this morning, I wasn’t convinced was possible. Not even after reports of what happened in your most recent escape from the Reduciates. But now I’ve seen it with my own eyes; I have no doubt. He was right.”

  He leans forward so close our noses are mere inches apart, but I can’t move. Can’t back away.

  “You did not create something to save yourself in those fateful moments, Tavia. You transformed the entire section of the plane around you into something else. And because you had not yet resurged with Logan,” he says, inclining his head to my lover, who sits silent and pale-faced, “a few minutes after the crash, that section of the plane reverted to its original form. As though it had never been in the crash at all. Because it hadn’t.”

  I look into Daniel’s eyes as the truth of everything he’s saying slams into me like a boulder. “How is that even possible?” I whisper. I’ve accepted so many impossible things in the last few weeks.

  But this?

  “Sometime in your past lives between when you were Rebecca and now, something happened. It turned you into something that is neither a Destroyer nor a Creator, but a hybrid of the two. A Transformist, I’m calling you, since such a phenomenon has never happened before.”

  Daniel stands now, his face finally leaving mine, and I gasp for air that isn’t shared by him.

  “Not only that, it appears to have returned you to your original level of power. Possibly even the level you possessed as an Earthmaker.”

  He looks down at me, and despite his next words, I feel very, very small.

  “Tavia, you are the most unique, the most powerful of any Earthbound in the world, and that is why the Reduciata will stop at nothing to have you.”

  TWELVE

  Nausea takes hold of me, and my heart feels like it’s fallen into my stomach. I sense Logan rising, and though my mind registers that he’s walked a few feet away, I hear nothing, see nothing, as my brain spins and tries to take all of this in.

  Again. Because now I see why Sonya was so afraid. The huge increase in power that I didn’t recognize. The unexplainable abilities I assumed were normal.

  She understood. I didn’t. But I do now.

  “But . . . but what does this have to do with the virus?” I ask as the tiniest stream of logic works its way through the storm in my head. “Sammi and Mark said the Reduciates needed me because of the virus.”

  Daniel sits again and pulls out a large cotton handkerchief, dabbing at his forehead. “My team wasn’t fast enough to prevent the fiasco that happened in Camden when the Reduciates found you, but we were able to retrieve the bodies of our Curatoriates afterward.”

  Bodies. Mark, Sam
mi, and . . . “Elizabeth?” I whisper.

  His lips press into a hard line. “I’m afraid there wasn’t much left of her, but yes, we did retrieve some remains.”

  I didn’t realize until that moment that I’d been holding on to the tiniest thread of hope that she was alive. I choke back tears—I will not cry in front of this man.

  “We . . .” he hesitates, and I know I’m not going to like whatever he’s going to say next. “We were able to retrieve tissue samples from Mark that still had active virus specimens in them and—”

  “Oh gods,” I say, letting my head fall into my hands, pretty certain I am going to be sick after all.

  “I know it’s hard to think scientifically about this, Tavia. But I promise you that using his body to save others is what he would have wanted.”

  People use that phrase all the time. It’s easy to say when the person in question isn’t there to contradict you. Will never be there again.

  “And in the last two weeks we’ve made some tremendous discoveries.”

  Daniel’s voice slowly begins to register again, and I try to focus on what he’s saying and not the image of Mark throwing his charred body over his wife as he hopelessly tried to protect her in their last moments.

  “As far as we can tell, the virus was intended not only to kill off the majority of the human population, but also most of the Earthbounds.” He laces his fingers together, and a wrinkle appears between his brows. “The Reduciates have this theory—”

  “That they can get their power back if the Earthbounds die forever,” I interrupt rudely. “I know all this. How do I fit in?” Because that’s the crux of it. How does my having become a Transformist help the Curatoria? And threaten the Reduciata enough to send assassins after me in my former life?

  Lives. They killed Rebecca too.

  “The virus mutated immediately after being released into water sources,” Daniel says calmly, ignoring my current attitude. “It’s creating the chaos you see now. The crazy weather, the rapid deaths. Over four thousand people died of the virus yesterday alone. Which wouldn’t be so bad for the Reduciates, except that now the vaccine they created to inoculate themselves against their own disease is useless.”