chapter NINE
0 Days, 9 hours, 51 minutes
Justin’s corpse proved Casler had committed murder—no, worse than that. He had punctured the boy’s channel and drained his sacred connection to Emma Mist into a vial, killing them both.
And he claimed he cured half death.
Aaron turned away from the corpse and faced the house. A surge of prickly blood blurred his vision. Rain boiled off his skin, and he stumbled forward and crossed the meadow. He snapped off fistfuls of gnarled stalks, splinters and all, and wiped his face. He reached the door in the east wall of the house and yanked the handle.
The door creaked open, and he stepped inside a laundry room. Murderer or not, Aaron just wanted his f*cking cell phone back.
As soon as he was inside, static scampered across his skin. The floor vibrated from the drone of Casler’s machine. Once again, he noticed the sore spot at the back of his head, like a finger pressing out from the inside.
Aaron climbed the nearest staircase. He found Clive’s room empty, but what he saw from the doorway knotted his stomach. There wasn’t a square inch of wall exposed—Clive had plastered images of Amber’s face into every last corner.
His collage of her was complete.
Aaron heard voices from the living room down the hall. Just as he spun and marched toward them, though, the voices faded. Aaron hesitated, hearing only his jerky pulse. He crossed the hall, backed into the shadow of an armoire, and peered around the corner.
Seated in a black leather couch opposite a fireplace, Clive and Dominic were speaking in low voices. In the glow of dying embers, their mouths hardly moved. Aaron crept closer.
“ . . . Father wants to test it again.” Clive tapped something metallic against the coffee table then covered it with his fingers, which were trembling. “He’s found a way to reseal the channel once he’s made the cut, so that not that much leaks out.”
Dominic swirled a glass of whisky, and the ice clinked and crackled. He shook his head. “Not after what happened to Justin.”
“But he’s fixed it—”
“Then he can test it on himself,” said Dominic. “No one else gets involved.”
“He needs someone who hasn’t met their half.”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “And who might that be?” he said. “Me? Amber?”
Again, Clive tapped the metal thing against the glass. “He wants Harper.”
“Harper? You’re kidding.”
“When my father examined him, he noticed something really weird about his channel. Said it looked like . . . like . . . ” Clive whispered the rest, and Aaron missed it. Damn.
“I seriously doubt that, Selavio.” Dominic drained his whisky and slammed it down on the coffee table. “It’s been long enough. Let’s go fetch him. You can tell him what you told me . . . maybe he’ll even volunteer.”
“No. He stays there until after my birthday.”
“It’s his birthday too, f*ckface. We leave him down there, his family’s going to sue us.”
“I don’t care. He thinks Amber’s his half.”
“So what? Maybe she is,” said Dominic.
“She’s not, okay? I just don’t want him messing anything up—” Suddenly, the metal object slid from his hands and buzzed across the glass.
Aaron’s instinctive reaction was to clutch his pocket, but his pocket was empty—of course. His cell phone was vibrating across the coffee table.
“Unbelievable,” Clive muttered, lifting the phone. “That’s the third time she’s called him.”
He cleared his throat and answered the call. “Amber, you should be in bed. If you call this number one more time—”
Even from across the room, Aaron heard the click on the other end.
Clive swallowed and laid the phone back on the coffee table, his knuckles white. “Unbelievable,” he repeated. But then his head jerked toward the hallway, and his eyes widened. Dominic glanced back too—as Aaron, hands casually in his pockets, strolled into the light.
***
Aaron wiped his nose and picked at the dirt caked on his knuckles before he spoke. “You guys haven’t seen my phone anywhere, have you?” He glanced up. “Ah—”
Aaron plucked his phone off the coffee table. “Must have slipped from my pocket,” he said, “lucky you picked it up.”
He winked at Clive and walked back to the hallway. Clive and Dominic didn’t budge until he reached the top of stairs, probably too stunned. Finally footsteps sounded behind him, and Aaron spun, ready for a fight. Clive bounded toward him with Dominic at his heels.
As they closed the distance, the back of Aaron’s head throbbed. All at once, the ache sharpened into a burn, scorching deeper with each step Clive took. “Jesus!” Aaron flinched away from him, clutching his scalp. “Get away from me!”
Clive halted, and a smirk crossed his lips. “Does that hurt your head, Harper?” His pale eyes gleamed. “I didn’t even touch you.”
“Alright, who’s the f*ckface bleeding on my rug?” said Dominic, kneeling over a red spot on the floor. “If this leaves a stain . . . ” his dark eyes targeted Aaron, “you’re dead, number eleven.”
Aaron stared at the red spot, and a chill sank through his skin. He touched the back of his head, and slowly, hands trembling, lowered his fingers before his eyes. But there was no blood. His gaze snapped to Clive.
“Selavio, it’s you,” said Dominic.
“What?” Clive twisted, and another drop of blood struck the carpet. “Where’s it coming from?” Eyes frantic, he scanned his hoodie.
“No idea, but you’re dripping all over the place.”
Then, just like Aaron, Clive felt behind his head. He pulled his hand back and leveled his index finger in front of him. They all fell silent. A single drop of blood teetered on his fingertip and dripped to the floor.
“We need to get your dad,” said Dominic.
“No!” said Clive. “We’re not telling him a goddamn thing. I’m fine.” He glanced at Aaron, and for a split-second, terror flared in his eyes—before he fled down the hall.
“Number eleven, get out of my house,” said Dominic, and he raced after him, leaving Aaron alone.
Except for the melted ice rocking gently in Dominic’s glass, there was no sign of life. Aaron felt his heartbeat pulsing in the back of his head. Clive hadn’t even touched him; he was eight feet away, yet Aaron had actually felt his presence.
And was it just a coincidence that Clive had started bleeding at the same exact moment? Or was it some kind of backlash? Aaron didn’t finish the thought, though. Around him, the living room lamps faded. The orange bulbs winked out, and blackness immersed him. They must have been on a timer.
He could feel Clive pacing in the back rooms, his movements pivoting in his skull like a compass needle. Aaron jumped at a scratch, a patter of footsteps. But only his own erratic breathing pierced the silence. He backed against the wall and tiptoed downstairs.
Aaron had only just reached the front door when a car’s high beams glared into the marble entrance hall. The headlights flooded the room with blue light.
Doors slammed, tires kicked up gravel, and lanky shadows arced across the ceiling as the car drove back down the driveway. Male voices approached the front door and the handle twisted. Aaron flattened himself against the wall just in time, as Casler Selavio and Father Dravin stepped inside, both of them in red cloaks.
It was four in the morning. What the hell were they doing here?
Casler flipped on the lights, and Aaron realized his hiding place wasn’t a hiding place at all. He held his breath, but they didn’t turn around. Casler led Dravin straight across the room, and they ducked into the wine cellar. For a moment, the aitherscope’s silver orb beamed beyond the door before it clacked shut and silence flooded back.
Aaron let out his breath and headed for the front door, but he paused, hand poised at the handle. He glanced behind him. The wine cellar led to the dungeon.
It was four in the morning. Why were they even awake? So instead of leaving, Aaron followed them.
***
Aaron emerged at the bottom of the slimy stairs and tiptoed into the cavernous dungeon. While Dravin perused the laboratory, Casler booted up his laptop at a battered desk. The machine droned behind them. Its metal edges appeared blurry, almost transparent. Like a projection.
Aaron edged closer and slid behind a rack of medicine bottles.
“Just one more thing,” said Dravin. “I was under the impression that only the water molecules in the two vials were entangled. But when you introduced the red dye into that first vial, it clearly colored both. Dr. Selavio, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems the molecules of red dye jumped as well.”
Casler smiled, pulled off his red cloak, and tossed it onto the chair. He wore his lab coat underneath. “You’re very perceptive,” he said, “but I’m afraid the demonstration was simply a magic trick designed to prove a point. The real fluid was pinched from me some weeks ago.”
Dravin raised his eyebrows. “And it wouldn’t be the first time Mr. Lilian did you a favor. May I ask how the trick was accomplished?”
“A pinhole in the top of the vial,” said Casler.
“But a magician never reveals his secrets,” said Dravin.
“I’m a doctor, not a magician,” said Casler.
“It seems to me you’re neither,” said Dravin, setting his own cloak on the desk and stepping over to the machine. He wore a black, clerical robe underneath. “You’re a politician. Is this it, then?”
“All two-hundred million volts of it.”
“And what is the machine’s secret?” said Dravin. “A pinhole in space?”
Casler’s smile widened as he typed in his password. “Very perceptive indeed.” He flicked the touchpad, and files flashed across the screen. “Although the entrance to the channel is slightly larger than a pinhole.”
“And where, may I ask, did you find the entrance?” said Dravin.
“I’m afraid it requires drilling,” said Casler. “It’s on the inside of the skull, just behind the visual cortex. I give my son credit for the discovery—” He laughed quietly. “His awful headaches.”
Dravin placed his palm on the machine and circled it slowly. “Dr. Selavio, how is this machine different than the machine you tested eighteen years ago?”
“This one reseals the hole.”
“So the subject lives?”
“The patient lives,” said Casler. “Forgive my sensitivity, Father.”
“But he lived the first time,” said Dravin.
“Not entirely,” said Casler.
Dravin paused at the open panel behind the machine and peered inside. “I pray to God I never understand what you mean by that.”
“You always were squeamish,” said Casler. “Here, I’ve got it loaded. This is from that kid you met on Wednesday. It’s a video of the inside of his channel, recorded directly from the aitherscope.”
Dravin patted the machine and headed back to the desk. “You mean the rugby player?”
“The other one. The one who left early.”
Aaron shifted to get a better view, and his wrist cracked.
Dravin whipped around. “Did you hear that?”
“Trust me, we’re quite alone,” said Casler.
Aaron stayed perched on his fingertips until Dravin’s eyes finally returned to the laptop. Then he eased himself into a crouch, praying his slamming heart wasn’t audible over the drone of the machine.
“Okay, watch this—” Casler played the video, and in slow motion, the screen displayed exactly what Aaron had seen through the aitherscope—three and a half seconds of flashing static—before it went blank.
“No regular clairvoyant signature,” said Dravin.
“I noticed that too,” said Casler. “Fairly typical for a patient who’s sustained trauma to his channel, and that was my initial diagnosis. But I filtered out the static and . . . ” he tapped a few keys, “I want you to watch it again, from my angle.” Casler slid over, blocking the screen from Aaron’s view.
The priest leaned in, and a moment later, his eyebrows furrowed. “Is that a branch?”
“You tell me.”
“But . . . to where?”
“Father, I’m beginning to wonder . . . It’s too much of a coincidence that this boy shares Clive’s birthday.”
“We checked the Registry, though,” said Dravin. “No one was born opposite Amber—except, of course, your son.”
“I know, I know . . . ” Casler rubbed his temples, “but we knew the operation would affect both ends of the channel, both halves. We just weren’t sure exactly how. Supposing the machine skewed the synchronization. The Registry might have clocked the boy’s birth a few seconds late . . . or maybe even registered him as a stillborn. Stillbirths aren't always recorded accurately. Maybe that’s why we didn’t know about him.”
Dravin nodded. “Then deal with him before he becomes a problem. And for your son’s sake, don’t speak of this again . . . not even to the potentate.”
In the frail light, the shadows elongated under Casler’s high cheekbones. “Of course.” He reached out and closed his laptop, his hands trembling.
“Clive seems very much in control of himself lately,” said Dravin. “He’s come a long way.”
“Yes, he has,” said Casler. “But there are still times when he lashes out—”
“As with all of us.” Dravin straightened his glasses and focused on Casler. “You may wish to know your son has been chosen as the heir.”
Casler rose from his seat suddenly. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened them again, a tear slid down his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I am pleased to hear that.”
Dravin appraised him with cold eyes. “I only wonder if he’s mature enough,” he said. “If he can’t control that half of his—”
“She will submit to my son,” said Casler.
“Mr. Lilian is in full agreement that you should do everything in your power to make his daughter complacent for our heir.” His lips curled into a smirk. “Quite a prize, she is. You won’t tarnish her face, will you?”
“You won’t even see the scar,” said Casler. “It’ll be at the back of her head, underneath her hair.”
Aaron’s shoulder bumped the medicine rack, and the bottles rattled.
Casler glanced at the rack, and his eyes narrowed through the gaps.
Dravin laughed. “Another one of your tricks, Casler?” He pulled his cloak around his shoulders. “Until tomorrow then.”
“Do try to dress nice,” said Casler, his eyes still on the medicine rack. “It’s my son’s birthday.”
“It’s the birthday of our heir,” said Dravin. “Oh and Casler, about the bruises he had Wednesday—that will need to stop.”
“That will stop when he obeys me and quits sneaking into my studio,” Casler said loudly, peering intently in Aaron’s direction.
As soon as Dravin left, Casler marched to the wall. Aaron watched him between two beakers, as he flipped a switch—and a hundred halogen lights ignited and blazed all around him. Their blinding blue glare grilled his skin.
“Now—” Casler’s voice boomed. He faced the medicine rack, which was now hardly more than a stained glass window. “Let’s find out who’s sneaking around my studio.”
***
As Casler swept toward him, Aaron coiled his fingers around the throat of a medicine bottle and yanked it from the rack. He cracked it against the floor, stood, and raised its jagged edge.
“Hold it there—” he said, as clear, chilled liquid dribbled down his arm and soaked into the gauze.
“Aaron?” Casler halted.
“Who’d you think?” said Aaron.
“I thought you were Clive—” Casler’s face softened and he grinned despite the broken bottle in Aaron’s hands. “Aaron, what brings you down here?” he said conversationally.
Aaron kicked over the medicine rack, and the roar of shattering glass echoed off the walls. Chemicals sizzled on the floor. “Why do you keep pretending?” he said.
Casler eyed the steaming liquid rushing toward his feet. “Pretending?” he said. “Did something I say upset you?”
Aaron’s wet arm felt warm and itchy. “If you even touch her,” he said. “I’ll gouge out your son’s eyes, I swear.”
Casler smiled and stepped carefully around the steaming puddle. “Aaron, we’re all very taken by Amber’s charm,” he said, “but you do understand how much of a nuisance her constant disobedience can be sometimes.” His face blotted out the halogen lamps. “Just one tiny prick, though, and we can drain out the feisty parts. She won’t even know anything’s missing.”
“You’re out of your mind,” said Aaron.
“I’m afraid this isn’t my choice,” said Casler. “A man’s half must be obedient.”
“So you’re going to suck her dry?” said Aaron, and he pictured the woman in the car outside the Juvengamy meeting. That was what Casler meant by obedient.
“She’ll be quite tame when it’s done, and much improved, you’ll see. Now was there anything else?” Casler grinned, and he stepped closer, teeth sparkling.
Aaron thrust the bottle forward, halting him. The cut on his wrist felt hot. “How about the kid you murdered?”
“Sorry?” said Casler.
“I saw the body,” said Aaron.
“The body?” For a moment, Casler peered at him as if he was the crazy one, before his eyes flashed with awareness. “Ah—that body.”
“There’s more than one?” said Aaron.
“Just the one,” said Casler, beaming at him. “I was supposed to return it to the coroner—”
An invisible fire seared Aaron’s wrist, and he dropped the broken bottle. His fingers tensed, clawlike, and he tore at the gauze around the knife wound. Singed hairs curled on his forearm, and the chemical smell of dissolving flesh parched his nose.
It was the liquid on his arm.
Casler rushed to his side and lifted his hand. His thick fingers probed Aaron’s skin.
“Hydrochloric acid,” he said, kneeling and rummaging through the bottles on the floor. He caught one as it rolled away, unscrewed the cap, and doused Aaron’s arm.
White foam hissed out of Aaron’s wound and off his skin, and the pain vanished immediately. Casler poured until the bottle was empty.
Then he sighed and squeezed Aaron’s shoulder. “You had me frightened,” he said. “Let’s wrap this up so it doesn’t scar.”
Aaron stared at him in disbelief.
At that moment, Clive appeared at the foot of the stairs. “Father, are you busy?” he said.
“Always,” said Casler, still examining Aaron’s swollen forearm. “Grab a bandage for us, would you?”
Clive noticed Aaron in his father’s shadow, and his eyes contracted into white slits. “Father, can I speak with you in private?”
“Get the bandage first,” said Casler.
Clive’s shifty eyes darted between them. “It’s urgent,” he said.
At first, Casler didn’t say anything, but his fingers closed on Aaron’s wrist, stiff as iron, and the low sound of his breathing rose over the machine. “Get us a bandage, Clive. Aaron’s hurt himself.”
“Father, you must listen to me.”
Casler scrunched his eyebrows together, released Aaron’s wrist, and stood to his full height. Slowly, he faced Clive. “I asked you for a bandage.”
“Father, can you do it tonight?” Clive stuttered, pointing a trembling finger at Aaron. “Can you to put him in the machine tonight . . . please?”
Before Casler could turn around, Aaron raced past him and rushed the exit. Clive stood his ground, but at the last moment, shrank away from him. Aaron shoved him out of the way and lunged up the stairs. Up in the cellar, he flew past the aitherscope. The intercom clicked above him.
“Dominic—” Casler’s voice thundered in every room, a hundred times louder than it should have been. “Make sure Aaron doesn’t leave. He’s hurt himself and I need to treat him.”
Aaron was already at the entrance, the door right in front of him. Freedom. But as it turned out, Dominic Brees was drinking another glass of whisky in the kitchen when Casler made his announcement.
And Dominic Brees was the second fastest rugby player in the league.
***
Aaron heard two sets of footsteps streak across the dark marble. He reached the door first and yanked it open, but Dominic slammed into him and they both tumbled out onto the granite steps.
Aaron kneed the rugby player in the face and leapt up, and then there was nothing but cold wind whipping through his hair. He tried to hurtle a dead rosebush, jammed his foot ankle deep in thorns, and toppled face first onto the brick driveway. Dominic went the long way, but the dark blur of his torso closed in fast.
Aaron veered toward the wilderness on the far side of the property. His thighs burned, and his chest threatened to cave in, but he could hear Dominic right behind him, panting, his hot breath on his heels.
They plunged into the pitch-black forest. Branches materialized two feet in front of Aaron’s face, like disfigured human limbs. Too late to duck. He lowered his shoulder and charged through them. Splinters showered behind him.
Then he shoved his foot against a root, swerved, and collapsed into the shadow of an oak tree. Dominic flew by, oblivious, and his muddy splashes faded into the distance.
Aaron waited until there was silence, until only the restless clicking and creaking of the forest could be heard through the trees, then he retraced his steps back to the driveway. Beneath luminous rainclouds, a breeze rippled in the meadow. He knelt at the gate and caught his breath, and inside his rib cage, his heart ricocheted like a bouncy ball.
But he shouldn’t have rested so soon.
Aaron heard a click behind him. He spun, but too late. The fleshy hollow of Dominic’s elbow clamped down on his throat. He felt the switchblade wedge into the side of his windpipe, and then he heard wheezing in his ear.
“How’d you get out of the well, number eleven?”
“I climbed out,” Aaron spat. “It was easy.”
“No way. Those walls are like a slip ’n slide.”
“Yeah?” said Aaron. “My grandmother could have done it.”
The knife’s pressure increased and Aaron struggled to breathe.
“Sounds like you need a doctor,” said Dominic.
“Fine,” said Aaron, “take me back to him . . . play his little lapdog.”
“Don’t insult me,” said Dominic. “I don’t answer to any Selavio, and I never will.”
“Then why’d you let him get away with it?” said Aaron. “He drilled a goddamn hole through Justin’s head. I saw the body.”
“I know what he did, f*ckface . . . it’s the same thing he’s going to do to you.” Dominic uncoiled his arm and shoved Aaron away from him. “Lucky for you, it’s Clive’s birthday today, which gives you a one day head start to leave the country. Now get off my property before I change my mind.”
“It’s my birthday too,” said Aaron.
“No shit,” said Dominic, “and you’re going to wish it wasn’t.”
***
At four-thirty in the morning, Aaron scaled Dominic’s gate then stood terrified on the dark road. In all directions, the street’s gloomy houses were concealed behind knotted, cancerous growths of vegetation.
Instead of being sound asleep like the street’s inhabitants, he was fifteen miles from home, alone, with six and a half hours to make his appointment—and all he could think about was Dr. Selavio’s hideous plans for Amber.
First, he had to tell her.
Aaron dialed her number and pressed his cell phone to his ear, but he got her voicemail.
“You’ve reached Amber,” she said, giggling. “If you want me to call you back, try leaving a message.”
“Amber, pick up your phone. Please.” Aaron snapped the phone shut, and a little more of his hope evaporated. She was asleep like everyone else at this ungodly hour, oblivious to the danger she was in.
Or was she oblivious? How often had Amber told him nothing and pretended everything was fine? How often had she hidden her life from him so he wouldn’t try to protect her? How often had she disregarded the future—because she didn’t really have one?
The truth was, Amber had known from the beginning—and that was the hardest part to take.
She knew she was being molded into a prize for the Brotherhood’s heir, domesticated. That the undesirable parts of her would eventually have to be removed. She never told him because she never wanted him to know.
Because after the operation, the scar at the back of her head would heal, but the hole inside her would not. Her eyes would be empty, extinguished forever of their dazzling flare—like all the other juvengamy women.
Aaron’s stomach did queasy somersaults at the thought. He had to get her away from everyone. From Casler, from Clive—from her father.
With trembling fingers, he dialed her number again. Again her voicemail.
Aaron slipped the phone back into his pocket. Damn it, Amber. He started walking.
He could go to the police. First they would interrogate Amber’s parents, then her half, Clive. Both conversations would convince them that Aaron was just causing trouble, that he was just a boy who had fallen for the wrong girl. He had no proof.
And in six and a half hours, the entire Juvengamy Brotherhood would be watching her, the heiress. She would be untouchable. Aaron inhaled through his nose, and the stale morning air churned inside him. Its usefulness was rapidly ticking away.
Except there was proof. In the woods behind Dominic’s house, the body. Proof that Dr. Selavio, the figurehead of Brotherhood, was a murderer. The police couldn’t ignore a body—
Aaron’s cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. Amber’s ringtone.
He flipped open the phone. “Are you okay?”
“I have something to tell you,” she said.
And she sounded deliriously, impossibly happy.