“Yeah. I get it.” It seems to me Lyra’s more worried about getting to Hailstone than the cure, but whatever.
We lie quietly for a moment, both lost in our own thoughts, staring at the ceiling as if a magical solution will flutter down on us. Finally, Lyra sits, picks up her satchel from the floor, and tosses it onto my lap.
I startle, instinctively, curling my body away from the bag. “What’s this?”
“Some things that might be useful. We got a new shipment of weapons today. Surveillance equipment came with it. Spy stuff. Trackers, tiny cameras, microphones. That sort of thing.”
“Oh, yeah?” I start to open the bag.
Lyra shakes her head. “Better not be too obvious with those. Remember, everyone still thinks tu es folle.” She winds a finger around her temple. “And I wouldn’t give a crazy person those kinds of things.”
A heavy sigh pushes past my lips. I’m so sick of this place, of hiding and pretending to be someone I’m not.
With my desire for revenge against Elliot stifled at every turn, my presence here feels more useless every day. Add to that the fact that most communications have gone low-tech, making my hacking skills about as useful as roller skates at a nursing home.
Grumbling, I stash the satchel under my bed and lie back down. As soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind races away from this place, a common occurrence, lately.
As is most often the case, my thoughts drift to a small neighborhood north of here. There, I find a two bedroom/one bathroom house with a small porch and green siding. Across the street, a one-story rambler sits quiet and empty. A boy with red, fireman boots used to live there years ago. I don’t know why I revisit these places so often. There’s nothing left there for me, just old things and fraying memories. Yet, so much more than what I find here every day.
I long to go back.
I stand in the middle of the street, eyes shut. The silence is overwhelming, unnatural, so unlike all the memories I have of this place. Evenings like this one used to be noisy with kids chasing balls or riding their bikes, neighbors playing their stereos too loudly, and noisy mufflers announcing the passage of the tough kids from down the street.
Now, there’s just the wind rustling the trees and crickets chirping louder than they ever have, two sounds that will never make me think of home.
Turning right, I face my house and open my eyes. At the sight of it, a hook embeds itself in my heart and tugs so fiercely that my knees tremble. Xave’s house is at my back, and I fear that laying eyes on it might hit me with an emotional blow that will knock me to the ground. I don’t look. Not yet, at least.
There are bad memories in my old house too. Last time I was here, Luke was inside, waiting for me. I had come home, reeling from Xave’s death, still believing I could count on my family. Instead, dear Luke tore my already-broken world into smaller pieces, stealing my mother in the worst imaginable way. An Eklyptor. They turned her into an Eklyptor. Bastards!
And even though some time later DNA evidence proved that Luke and Karen were nothing to me, that day, I lost my family and was left utterly alone and confused.
I lace my fingers behind my neck and squeeze my head between my arms, wishing I could evict those ugly memories and leave only the good ones. Karen brought me home from the hospital, thinking I was hers. She used to smile and feel proud of me. I was safe under this roof. I was happy, at least until Dad died when I was five.
Dad.
He’s a big reason I risked coming here. Traveling alone through the streets of Seattle is risky even for a Symbiot who can pass as an Eklyptor. Running into a member of a different faction—Hailstone in my case—would be a death sentence. They blame Whitehouse for the death of their leader, Zara Hailstone. I wonder what they would do if they knew it was an Igniter who shot her point blank.
I take one slow step at a time until I reach the white-painted door I remember so well. I’m aware of just how heavy it will feel when I push it open and how much force I’d need to slam it shut. God knows I did that enough.
I think of the narrow table in the foyer and the shoebox I placed on top of it. I wasn’t strong enough to open it then. But today, I’m ready to see the things Xave left at The Tank, things Oso gathered for me because the kind man thought I’d like to have them. I swallow and fight back the tears brought on by their memories.
My hand shakes as it moves toward the door knob. The key is in my pocket, but I’m certain Luke and Karen didn’t bother to lock last time they were here. A sinkhole could devour my home, and they wouldn’t bat an eye.
The metal is cold in my hand as the knob gives without opposition, just as I thought it would. Slowly and reluctantly, I turn it all the way, fearing what I may find inside. Human squatters? Eklyptor beasts? A ransacked mess? My heart picks up its pace.
As the door swings open one inch at a time, my right hand moves automatically to the gun at my hip. I hold my breath. Trapped air burns my lungs and throat as I wait. A gloomy interior reveals itself in stages. The house seems totally empty. I step inside. A musty smell greets me, making me feel I’ve walked into a foreign place, not the only home I’ve ever known.
My first instinct is to close the door behind me, but I don’t. An old habit makes me flip the switch on the wall, and when the lights don’t come on, I’m not surprised. Eklyptors control the power plants, and make sure only the necessary ones run. Only enough electricity is generated and delivered to downtown Seattle and its southern suburbs, where the bulk of Eklyptor factions are concentrated.
Without removing my eyes from the dark depths of the house, I switch my backpack to the front, take out a flashlight and click it on. As the empty hall reveals itself, I exhale in relief. My heart quiets a bit, enough to let the thought of that shoebox jump to the forefront. I swing the beam of light to the foyer table to find nothing but a decorative set of candles and a thick layer of dust.
A stab of sharp pain goes through the middle of my chest.
Where is it? Where is Xave’s box?!
I shake my head, trying to recall. Did I put it somewhere else? Maybe it’s in the kitchen or my bedroom. I wasn’t thinking straight that day. Yeah, that must be it. I’m not remembering correctly.
I take two more steps forward and shine my light into the living room to my left. The sofas and bookshelves cast elongated shadows on the floor and the wall. Everything looks undisturbed, just the way it did the last time I was here. I press forward, but not without casting a quick glance over my shoulder. Past the front door, the evening melts into a deeper darkness.
On the right, the master bedroom door is closed. I have no desired to open it—none whatsoever, but I have to check every room if I want to keep my heart from hammering its way out of my chest. I push the door open and peer inside. After a quick inspection, I walk in and check the closet. For added peace of mind, I even check under the bed. Only dust.
Of its own accord, my hand points the flashlight to the night table. I inch closer toward the circular beam of light that spotlights a picture frame. I pick up the photo. My index finger caresses the side of the metal frame as my eyes drink the familiar image: a snapshot of Karen, Dad and me at the beach.
“Dad,” I say in a shaky murmur. There’s a broad smile on his face and his brown eyes sparkle as if he holds the secret to happiness. I stand in the middle, wearing a pink bathing suit, my smile so much like his. Karen looks happy, too, but out of place—more than ever before. Her wind-blown, light hair and blue eyes don’t belong. She never felt like my mother because she wasn’t. I wonder if she knew. I’m sure she felt