Children of Eden (24 page)

“It's
not in the books, and the first children . . .” He breaks off, rubbing his forehead. “It's like they have no memory of it. I've tried to talk with some of our allies about it, and they get confused, or laugh, or flatly deny it. Craters? They say those must be from collapsed underground water reservoir tanks. But the second children remember. At least, the oldest do, and they passed it on to us.”

It was seventy years ago. The poor of the outer circles tried to seize more power for themselves, armed with stones and staffs and a few guns. Pitifully few. The Center retaliated. Brutally.

“Why don't the first children remember?”

“I don't know,” Lachlan admits. “Some kind of brainwashing? Mutual agreement to ignore the unpleasant parts of life? I have no clue. But the important part is that we can't square off against the Center with weapons and fighters. We'll fail, people will die, and the poor will be worse off than ever. Someone has to infiltrate the Center at its core. From there, influence, blackmail, yes even violence, will be put to work to effect change. In the end, all of Eden has to be behind us, rich and poor, first and second children alike. That's why it is so vitally important that Aaron Al-Baz's name remain untarnished. They won't all get behind me, or Flint. But Al-Baz is someone everyone can believe in. We need to have the people on our side, but then the major shift has to come from within. The ones in power have to concede to it, and give up their power to the people.”

“It sounds impossible. Why would they do that?”

“We won't give them any choice,” he says, and the steel in his voice makes me tense up. He feels it in my hand. “Don't worry, I'll make sure you're kept out of it. After tomorrow, that is. Once you take me to the cybersurgeon you can relax and enjoy being a real member of a welcoming society for the first time.”

He flops back on the bed, still holding my hand, smiling up at me.

But I don't think that's fair. “What if I want to help?” I ask. “There must be something I can do.”

He looks proud of me for making the suggestion, and I feel a little glow inside. But he says, “You've been through enough.”

“Not more than you,” I press.

“But no one should have to go through that much. If we win, no one ever will again. Peace, safety, prosperity, for everyone in Eden.”

I look down at him, lying on the bed weary and impassioned, and I'm overcome with a mad impulse. I remember Lark's kiss in that quiet moment together, the way it haunts me, confuses me, elates me. And I wonder, would kissing Lachlan be the same?

He sits up suddenly, as if he just realized his vulnerability. “I have something for you.” He fumbles in a pocket and pulls out something. He holds it out in his closed hand. All I can see is a bit of cord woven in and out of his fingers.

I put out my hand, and he covers it with his own, letting his knuckles rest there a moment before uncurling his fingers. I feel something drop into my palm. When I look, I find a stunning piece of pale pink crystal, two inches long, its six sides beautifully smooth.

It is so clear! I hold it up and look at Lachlan through it. His face is softened to rose tones.

“Every second child has a piece of crystal from the cavern. It is a symbol of our unity. You're one of us now.”

“It's lovely,” I say, stroking the cool stone. “It's perfect.”

Overwhelmed by the gift—and more by what it implies—I lean toward him, intending to kiss his cheek. At the last moment he turns his head, just a bit, and my lips touch his. Just
the lightest touch. I don't retreat. Our eyes lock, second child eyes, and I hover, his breath on my mouth, waiting to see what he'll do. What I'll do. The memory of Lark's kiss fills me, then fades a little as I look at Lachlan. I have no idea what I want. But Lachlan does.

Suddenly his hand is in my hair, pulling me to him in a kiss that is fierce, delightful, frightening in its intensity. I feel wildly alive . . . but as I reach to take his face in my own hands his fingers twine in my hair and pull me back. I gasp.

“You should get some sleep before we leave,” he says firmly, though I notice his breath is coming fast, too, and his pupils are huge and luminous.

I know what he means, of course, but I pretend I don't. I don't want to be alone.

“Good idea,” I say, and stretch myself on the bed beside him, my head nestled in the crook of his arm. I can hear his heart racing.

He doesn't tell me to leave.

Though my body is comfortable, I'm also too tense with the strangeness of it to fall asleep right away. My mind is whirring, bouncing from the terrible truth I discovered about Eden's hero, to the kiss, to Lark, and back again.

As I listen to the soothing sound of his steady breathing my mind clears, my body relaxes, and I fall asleep . . .

I AWAKE WITH
a jolt, thinking someone's trying to break the door down. I'm confused, first to not be in my own bed at home, then even moreso when I realize Lachlan is lying beside me. I'd thrown an arm over him in my sleep, and he peels it off to roll over my belly and spring to his feet. His gun is in his hand.

“What's wrong?” he asks as he pulls the door open, the same words he spoke to me when I knocked. He must always be on edge, waiting for the worst.

I shrink back, suddenly aware that I'm in Lachlan's bed in the middle of the night. Fully dressed, to be sure, but whoever is at the door is going to think . . .

“We can't find Rowan.” It's Flint's voice, and he sounds angry. “She's not in her room, not in any of the common rooms. You said she could be trusted. If she slipped out and betrays us . . .”

With an inscrutable smile on his face, Lachlan slowly pushes the door all the way open, revealing me sitting awkwardly on his bed.

“Oh,” Flint says, and looks at Lachlan with raised eyebrows.

“It's not—” Lachlan and I both begin at the same time, but Flint interrupts.

“Get up, Rowan. I need you. Now.” He starts toward me.

“What's this about?” Lachlan asks, and I notice that he subtly imposes himself between Flint and me. I'm indescribably touched by the instinctive protective gesture.

“We've captured an intruder snooping around the tunnels.”

“What do you need Rowan for?” Lachlan asks, glancing back at me.

“You'll see.”

Baffled, I smooth my disheveled hair and follow him. Lachlan stays close at my side. Once, I think I see his hand start to reach for mine, but he seems to check himself. Still, it's good to have him so close.

Flint leads us swiftly around the gallery and down two flights of stone steps. I stop dead when I recognize our destination: the interrogation chamber. I can feel the wet bag suffocating me, and I have to bend over, breathless, hugging myself as I try to breathe.

Lachlan has an arm around me, bends low beside me. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow. Easy. You're going to be okay.” It takes a minute, but my breathing returns to something like normal. I stand up straight and try to maintain my dignity, but it is hard when I remember the torture I received in that room.

Flint enters first, then Lachlan. He blocks my view with his shoulders, but I can see two people inside. One, a woman I met briefly beneath the camphor tree, holds something in her hand that looks like a small sock filled with sand.

The other person is tied to the chair and has a bag over their head, and my lungs convulse again, though I keep myself visibly under control. I see bare arms covered with bruises, and as I watch, the Underground woman—Flora, that was her name—cocks her arm back and hits the prisoner in the shoulder.

The prisoner groans. “Please . . .” The gasp is muffled
under the soaking bag, but I know that voice, know the down of golden hair on those poor bruised arms.

“Lark!” I shout, and surge toward her. Flint grabs me roughly by the shoulders and forces me back.

Her head inside the bag turns toward me. Suddenly I see her entire body go rigid, straining tightly against her bonds. I push against Flint but he won't let me go. Then Lark's body starts tembling spasmodically. Her head thrashes back and forth, then after a long moment her body goes completely stiff again, then slack.

“She has seizures,” I cry out, kicking uselessly at Flint's shins. “Let me help her!”

“Did you lead her here?” Flint growls, ignoring my struggles, and I remember that this is the man who tortured me. He's been so pleasant ever since, his tone cordial and inspiring. Now I recall the voice of my interrogator, and I try to shrink away from him. But he holds me in an iron grip and shakes me. “Did you send her a message? Who is she? Who is she working for?”

“Let her go,” Lachlan says, and if his voice is soft, his intentions clearly are not. His fists are clenched, his jaw set, and I think he's ready to attack the leader of the Underground. Flora looks over her shoulder, surprised, and Flint lets me go abruptly. The two men stare at each other for a long, tense moment. Then Flint takes a step back.

“You know this girl?” Flint asks, keeping a more respectful distance from me . . . and Lachlan.

“She's my friend,” I say. Lark's head is turned toward me now, and I want to rip the bag off her head, comfort her, but I don't quite dare.

“I thought you said she was kept strictly in her house all her life,” Flint says to Lachlan.

“She was, until just a few days ago. I don't know who this girl is, though.”

“She's
my brother's best friend,” I explain. “I met her when I snuck out. She knows I'm a second child, but she'd never tell—ever! She's an outer circle girl, and she . . . she helps people.” I really don't know what Lark does, but I know she's somehow involved in resisting the Center.

“What was she doing snooping outside?” Flint wants to know.

“Why don't you ask her, instead of beating her?” I say, looking levelly at Flint. Then I slip between the two men. No one tries to stop me when I start to fumble with the cords that tie the wet canvas bag around Lark's neck. The water has made the knots swell, though, and I can't undo them.

“Here, let me,” Lachlan says, and whips out a folding knife with a curved blade. He slices cleanly through the ropes, and I trust him so much I never even worry how close the deadly edge is to my friend's neck.

I pull the bag off, and strangely, it is Lachlan she sees first. The two people I've kissed, meeting face-to-face under these strange circumstances.

Then she looks at me, and her face floods with relief. “You're alive!” she gasps.

I use the hem of my shirt to blot her face dry.

“What are you doing here, Lark?” I ask, very close to her ear, so close it is almost a kiss.

“I've been looking for you. I had all my contacts from the Edge searching.”

“You're with the Edge?” Lachlan interrupts.

“Bunch of amateurs,” Flint mutters. “Deluded do-gooders.”

Lachlan shoots him a disdainful look. “At least they're trying. What's wrong with trying to do good? Anything is better than nothing.”

“Until they get in our way, or expose us, or bring the Center sniffing around where it doesn't belong.”

“What is the Edge?” I ask.

Lark answers. “The Edge is the opposite of the Center. We try to bring people together, people of all circles, all incomes, all educations.”

“A social club,” Flint scoffs.

Lark looks at him furiously, so impassioned even though she's still tied down that my heart thrills for her courage, her strength. “We're doing what we can. We let inner circle people know about the problems the outer circle people face. We raise money, we try to help the poor. We hide rebels. We help second children.”

Flint looks incredulous. “What second children have you ever helped?”

“Rowan, of course. She's the first I ever met. Ever since then members of the Edge have been keeping an eye on her house, following her when she sneaks out to make sure she's safe.”

I feel my heart sink in my chest, as Lachlan and I exchange looks.

“You
told
someone about me?”

“Only a very few trusted members of the Edge. I've known them for years. They're absolutely reliable.”

“You idiot!” Lachlan thunders. He steps toward Lark, looking furious, and for a second I'm afraid for her. But then I see that once again he's getting between Flint and his intended target. Lachlan is angry, but when I see Flint's face I start to shake. He looks murderous. I think if Lachlan wasn't between them, his hands would already be around Lark's throat.

“Lark,” I ask softly, “how could you do that to me?”

Her face falls. “I . . . I thought I was helping you. I trust them.”

“Then you trust a traitor,” Flint snarls at her. “Which makes you a traitor, too.” He jabs a forefinger in my direction.
“This girl lived in perfect safety until you told one of your ‘trusted friends' about her. Now her mother is dead, because of you. The Center is hunting her, because of you.”