Altruist (The Altruist Series Book 1) (16 page)

“The journal over there,” he nods towards the desk, “that belongs to you. I’m Judah and that is your journal. I kept it for you, figured it might help you fill in some blanks about…” He gazes around the room and then lands on me. “About all of this. Goodnight, Cate.” He smiles, though only slightly and by the time I’m able to catch it, it leaves his face and he turns, promptly leaving before I’m able to question him further.

His face seemed nearly wounded, though I very much doubt he cares about what I think or that my barbed words may have inflicted him. I stare at the blank wood frame that used to hold my reflection. I stare as if I can still make out the blood-matted hair that adorns my face. I don’t want to become this person, the person that doesn’t care about who I hurt.

I swallow hard, forcing the flood of self critical thoughts away and walk towards the door, flipping the old time switch that controls the electricity to my room. Unlike the rest of the city, this house must run on its own energy source and requires manual disconnection of power to turn off the lights. It’s odd and makes me feel like I’m in a different time, and if I allow myself to, I know that for a moment, I can make myself believe that I live in a time where I understand everything about who I am and what I must do. The wires in the wall that connect to the switch crackle and a buzzing overhead light illuminates the room. It’s not the electric blue that I’m use to seeing in the City. Instead it’s a burning orange-yellow that mimics the color of an actual fire. Actual fire, something else I’ve seen only a few times as uncensored fire is prohibited in the city. I stare at the bulb, flickering and crackling in this thing of beauty. And for a moment I wish it were real.

I make my way to the desk by the light of the false fire mixed with that of the rising moon but before I pick up the journal the metal cage catches my eye. I kneel down to get a better look. It doesn’t seem to open but if I pick it up and shake it, I’m sure I could get those pebbles out. What an odd decoration to have in my room. Written in the broken down and aged wood are the words:
don’t forget your humanity.
I don’t like the way reading the words makes me feel so I push the box underneath the desk and out of sight. Standing, I grab the journal and get into bed twisting the switch that turns on the reading lamp on my headboard and open the cracked leather cover and am surprised to find my handwriting. The lines are faded with age but I can still clearly make out the words.

January 12
th
, 1918

There was a mining explosion today in North Staffordshire, I heard of it through telegram from Shoshanna. They are calling it an accident, some terrible tragic mishap that took the lives of 155 men. Blaming firedamp, completely unaware of what actually occurred. Completely unaware of the fact that The Guild was working to unearth lost charges, unearthing weapons that could be used to hold off the Nasai. Completely unaware that this was a terrorist attack planned by the Brotherhood to damage our chances of survival. How can the world continue to go on this way? How can massive devastation be swept under the rug, said to be an accident, and we accept that? This has to end. Abel tells me that there is a time and a way to go about these things, but I’m getting so very tired of waiting. Exhausted with the promise on an eventual offense. Tired of being reactive to their threats, playing perpetual defense. When does the offense come? When do Eliath and Abel bend and realize that the time to fight is now, not at some far off point that has yet to be determined. The “mining accident” is the last straw for me. Those Tylins had faith in me
, in me,
they followed
me, me
, and I failed them.

My eyes burn as I bring the journal onto my lap and I realize that it’s not only now that I feel incapable of the momentous task ahead. I have always felt this way.

Chapter 18

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The early morning three-beep succession has been synonymous with that elated feeling of anticipation and joy I get knowing that he's woken up thinking of me. Turning to my side, I lean over the bed and pick my phone up from the floor. It's been two weeks since my arrival at the Manor and I’ve gotten use to Abel acting as my alarm clock, though I wouldn't at all be upset if rather than texting he decided to wake me up with a kiss. I tell myself that his lack of affection and playfulness is a symptom of his focus, that he's trying to prepare me for whatever attack comes next.

My days here have been filled with drills designed to expand on skill sets that I never knew I had. In the mornings, Abel works with me on hand-to-hand combat and it feels more comfortable than I expected it to be. That in itself is alarming. Eliath trains my mental alertness. The idea of being prepared for an attack at any given time is exhausting. Shoshanna has been attempting to help me hone my metaphysical abilities, including the telekinesis that I apparently possess, which I’ve learned the Tylin call Hylin. It seems like an impossible feat and has only shown itself once, during the encounter I had with Pricilla Thyne in the woods months ago. The concept of moving something with my mind feels so far away and foreign and I can’t help but feel like a disappointment. Beyond that, I’ve learned that being afforded the power to see the past and future is something they call Opticai. It explains my previously inexplicable dreams though Shoshanna tells me that only a finite number of Tylin’s possess the ability and that it’s more difficult to control so I shouldn’t worry too much about its sporadic nature for the time being.

I slide the contact bar on the small bright screen to unlock the message within. My eyes drift to the empty space that occupies an empty corner as memories of hidden secrets use to occupy these texts.

             
You ready?

My eyes scan the words more than necessary, there's no hidden meaning to be found here. What use to be inside jokes are now logistical instructions. I exhale as slowly as I inhale. My bones hurt, my mind hurts, everything hurts. The loud house with the red door seems like a far away dream of a time when I was happy, when I was allowed to be happy. I pull my body upwards and swing my legs over the side of the mattress. My fingertips trace a bruise that spans from my right mid-thigh to my knee. Yellowing around the edges, drifting and blending into a deep purple and blue, specks of red highlight the center. The aftermath of losing my first sparring match to the training bot. I cried. When it happened, I actually cried. I am strong, at least I think I am. At least I thought I was. But the sheer force of physical pain is something very, very new to me. I press my thumb into the bruise, it looks worse than it feels now.
Battle wound
, I think and a smile creeps across my face.

             
I'll be there in ten.

My reply is equally distant, and I don't know why. I don't know why he and I have fallen into this cyclic realm of 'who can be the strongest'. Which in our case means who can show the least emotion and behave most like a stranger. I hate it, when I'm honest with myself, I hate it and if I allow myself to think about it too much, I will cry. And I don't want them to see me cry. I don't know what is more upsetting, that I don't want to cry in front of them, or that I know they don't want to deal with me crying. It's that small detail that shines light on a supremely simple fact. This is not my family. I am not a Decatur, I am, and will always be a Quill. 

Walking towards my duffle bag, which I've failed to unpack, I pull out the last pair of clean jeans and a green v-neck t-shirt. I grab a pair of black boots from the closet and head for the door. The green glint of my currency pin catches my eye from the duffle bag strap, where I pinned it hastily on the way here. I tilt my focus toward the small object that up until recently dictated who I am, and who I would have been. I swallow hard, and the space on my chest where it used to rest feels bare, I feel a little less like myself without the status symbol. Was that the point? To make me feel like I need it? Like I'd be lost without it? Like my identity is the sum total of a house with a red door and a green and gold pin. Like my identity is the sum total of how quickly I can break someone's nose and how fast I can run. Neither is true. Neither is who I am and neither is who I will be. I will make something of myself that is entirely new, and unique to this life that I am leading right now. Neither the Guild or the Nassai can dictate my next move, just like the Council can't. I am my own individual, capable of independent thought, and that, that in and of itself is something that they all should fear. I am not a pawn.

Abel meets me at the a pair of twin, black marble doors and walks into a room beyond the training facility doors, the entirety of which is white.

“What happened to sparring?” I ask, irritation rolling off the tip of my tongue with the slightest tinge of contempt. Abel clears his throat and subtly rolls his eyes. Mission accomplished. We walk in silence, through twists and turns of a long black hallway. The walls shine against the yellow light, refracting from the Edison bulbs that hang from the ceiling.
Edison, how I’ve always preferred Tesla
. My mind drifts away, away from the sound of my boots against the marble floor, away from the sound of Abel’s boots matching my steps. My steps, which speed up as we turn right, making our way down another identical hall. Faster, louder, hitting the floor until my muscles scream with delight and my legs reach out in front of me, Abel close behind. I look back at him and laugh, racing down the hallways, left and right, lungs warming and the bulbs of light stretch against the speed of our sprints and the hall is ablaze with the beauty of intangible yellow streaks. Abel knocks me into the wall and speeds past. Steading my footing I race to catch up until I notice him slowing down ahead. Our steps quiet as we come to a stop in front of a large arching door, the likes of which, I have never seen. Black doors, etched with gold streaming patterns, loops and curves, triangles and circles, interweaving. I stretch my hand towards the doors, daring to disturb the gold flakes sleepy slumber, but before I make contact the marble creaks to life and the doors begin to open.

I step forward and in the distance I see a single desks. Lights flicker overhead with each step I take, rumbling the ceiling and coming to life.

Judah sits at a desk that takes up the sole furniture in the blank room. "Ready?" He asks and I nod even though it's not true, disregarding that I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Sure, why the hell not
.

He stands, his slender frame moves towards a metal bed to the side of brilliant white doors behind the desk, obsidian designs scarring the marble. He looks back and Abel.

“You can go.” He says.

It sounds like a dismissal, though I’m sure that’s not how meant it.

“I’m staying.” Abel says sternly, “thanks though.”

My eyes dart from Abel to Judah and the tension creeps against my irritability and I sigh, joining Judah.

Judah motions me to lay on the bed and I do. He attaches sticky nodules against my forehead and returns to the desk. I hear him tap against a keyboard and as I stare at the ceiling clear, curved glass begins to raise from the left side of the bed, stretching over me until it locks into place on the opposite side of the bed. Encapsulating me, the glass holds me into place and my heart races slightly, triggering a machine and beeping.

“Everything okay?” Judah asks, his focus remains on the computer.

I take a deep breath and settle my nerves.

“Yeah.” I say.

Judah stands and walks toward the bed, tapping the formerly beeping machine. A small circle in the side of the glass opens up and Judah raises a gun, filled with red liquid.

My eyes widen and I stiffen.

“It’s okay.” He says, licking his lips and social nervousness.

My eyes lock onto his and I remain on alert.

“This is to help with the exercise. I promise.” His eyes dart down, staring at the bed and avoiding eye contact. Normally, I would take that as a sign of dishonesty, but for whatever reason, I have the feeling this is simply his way and that he has no ill intentions towards me.

The needle at the end up the gun stabilizes against my skin. It’s cold and sharp, as it’s bite pierces my skin and the warm fluid runs through my veins, burning and heating my skin. As he pulls the gun away, the glass circle closes and my hands shoot to the surface of the tube. My fingers curl into fists and hit violently against the medical cage.
It’s too hot, something is wrong, my body is heating, it’s going to reach my heart.
I feel the fire reaching up through my arms and chest until, suddenly, I am outside of the tube and standing at the doors. It’s quiet, and my heart rate stabilizes.