Deviation (26 page)
“Why a six-digit number?” another voice asks. This one is fainter without the help of the microphone. I have to strain to hear. “I mean, can’t anyone figure out your number, tattoo it on their own body, and impersonate you that way?”
“Great question,” Titus says. His confidence dashes all of my hope at the point the reporter just made. “The mark will not only include a six-digit number specific only to you but also a small image of a tree. The ink for both images will be embedded with ultra-violet and high-sensor refractive ink. Think something akin to your thumbprint, which, by the way, used to be the primary method of unique identification until it too was hacked by the terrorists responsible for crashing our financial infrastructure. The mark I’ve designed, complete with embedded DNA coding that is more advanced than vein screening, is something not reproducible without my equipment.”
Murmurs circulate. They sound like agreements being made or some adding their two cents.
I inch closer, around a corner and up to the edges of a partition wall erected to keep the crowd out of the area Linc led me to. A woman on the fringes of the crowd turns to her neighbor and says, “My aunt’s second cousin said her entire bank account was wiped out at once. They took it all. Poor thing had to move to Eurasia with her daughter-in-law’s family and start over on a truffle farm. She feeds pigs now.”
“Baby Jesus …” The second woman crosses herself and bows her head. “So many of our kind reduced to serving others and laboring for a daily wage. What has this world come to? Those marauders deserve to hang for stealing from us.”
Both women take turns agreeing profusely with the other’s rants until Titus quiets the room again.
“Ven?” Linc hovers at my side, his body a solid reassurance.
“No,” I say, positive if I try to speak beyond the single word, I’ll lose it.
He doesn’t budge. I’m not aware enough of my own skin to decipher whether I’m shaking again. For all I know, I could be holding it together just fine. “Ven, let’s just—”
“No,” I repeat, louder this time. The two women I’ve been eyeing turn to investigate the noise. It’s enough to shut Linc up for the moment.
Not thinking. Not thinking. Not thinking.
“… Which is why we see an immediate need for this product,” Titus is saying, “and it’s also why we made sure we were ready to put it into action by the time we unveiled it. Alton, if you’ll come up here.” Titus gestures.
I shift and inch forward until I have a side view of the stage. The sight of Titus makes my skin crawl but I need to see. I need to know. Alton joins Titus on stage, working to roll his sleeve aside as he walks. Titus takes another question. He points, “Yes, you, in the unfortunate sweater.” He gets a few chuckles for that.
“And when will this mark become available?” asks the reporter in a timid voice.
“It already is,” Titus answers, gesturing with a flourish to the dark ink on Alton’s now exposed forearm.
The room erupts in a burst of awed voices and raised questions. Some of the media surges toward the stage for a closer look and are pushed back by security I didn’t notice before but appear in swarms now. The women I’d eavesdropped on earlier are buzzing to each other about the security this mark will provide but “oh my word, I hope they don’t use needles. Those things sting something awful.”
All of the voices reach my ears through a roaring tunnel. I stare at Alton, at the mark on his arm, and my cheeks blaze with heat. It spreads lower into my chest and stomach and then I can’t feel my hands. Still, I stare.
“Ven?” Linc whispers at my ear.
“I’m hot,” I hear myself say. This isn’t happening. But yes, it’s already happening. Alton. All along I thought he was one of us. But no, he’s only pretending. He’s imitating an Imitation. Is there anything worse?
I heave and my shoulders lurch. Nothing comes up.
“Ven!” Linc swings around to bend toward me. Obadiah joins him. I didn’t even know he’d followed. Their brows wrinkle in matching worry.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I manage to say while still holding down the champagne that threatens to bubble its way up my esophagus.
“Get her coat,” Linc snaps at Obadiah.
“But they’re calling for her,” Obadiah whispers.
“Then get her coat fast,” Linc hisses back.
Obadiah spins away and disappears. There’s more being said on stage. I don’t want to hear it but I think I should. “Ven, look at me.”
Linc’s talking but, for once, I can’t bring myself to listen. For once, his voice isn’t enough to pull me back. “Linc, it’s too late. We’re too late,” I whisper. Despite the crowd and knowing full well what it’ll mean if I lose it here, my eyes well with tears.
“No, we’re not. It’s one guy. It’s one mark. We’ve got plenty of other options.” Linc’s voice is hardened steel, twice as determined as usual. Probably to counteract my desperation. I manage to blink the tears back.
Titus is speaking again, drowning out everything else. “… to show you what I mean, and to prove to you this mark is not only harmless, but also trendy, as I know some of you women are worried about, I’ve also tested the mark on my beautiful daughter. Raven, would you come out here please?”
I lock eyes with Linc. His are wide and just as panicked as mine.
“Raven?” Titus repeats. A hint of impatience shows through.
Around the corner, in the hall leading to the stage, there is movement between the suits. I catch a flash of blond hair before muscled shoulders obscure it.
“Linc?” I whisper uncertainly. He’s rigid as stone beside me, clearly undecided about what to do next.
“Ah, there she is,” Titus says in a smooth voice. Another flash of blonde, a sweep of fabric. The crowd claps and I realize someone has joined him onstage. Someone who, from my vantage point, is every inch a Raven. Someone who is not me.
“Shit,” Linc breathes as Titus makes a show of sweeping the girl’s hair aside and showing off a tattoo. I strain to see if her numbers match mine but my view is limited, the distance too far.
One thing is clear, Titus has replaced me.
Obadiah appears with my coat. “Here,” he says, panting slightly. He holds it out so I can shrug into it. He’s already wearing his own. He stares up at the stage until twisted lines appear at the corners of his pressed lips. Finally, without a word about the other me onstage, he turns back. “How are we doing this?”
“Huh?” I say, thoroughly confused. Or maybe it’s the panic. I can’t take my eyes from the girl onstage. She is me. I am her. Or are we both someone else?
Linc is quiet for a moment. I don’t know if he’s caught up for the same reasons I am or it’s something else. “Crawford, come on,” Obadiah hisses. “They’re looking this way.”
That gets my attention. I follow where he points and spot a few of the men in black jackets and earpieces conferring with each other down the hall. They’re all watching the three of us intently.
“Linc,” I begin.
“They’re going to switch her out,” he says, as if he can’t quite believe it. I glance at him. His mouth hardens and he doesn’t look thrilled with his own answer as he adds, “Let’s go.”
He extends a hand and I take it, letting him guide me back down the hall along the edges of the crowd. Here and there, we pass an entryway that leads back to the party. It exposes me for a few seconds at a time, a second Raven in a world where there’s only ever been one. But no one notices. They’re all too hung up on the mark being displayed by the lovely Raven onstage. Their ticket to completely freeing themselves of the threat posed by half of their city. The half they’d rather stomp on than lift out of the depths of poverty once and for all.
Even without a mark, they make me sick. I know with every ounce of artificially-created life inside of me, I’d rather die an Imitation than live as an Authentic.
I hear Titus opening the floor for questions as we wind our way along. I don’t turn. Linc’s hand pulls me forward and I concentrate on not getting separated from him. His touch is like a lifeline.
“Where did our shadows go?” Obadiah asks in a low voice.
I sweep the room, but I don’t see the men anywhere either. We’re surrounded on all sides by champagne-buzzed partygoers.
Somewhere behind us, there is a commotion. Voices are raised and feet shuffle. The crowd surges forward, pressing in around me. Panic spikes. I’m terrified the suited men have caught us. I can’t go back to Twig City. I can’t be replaced. My stomach threatens to twist inside out again. I press my lips together and keep my head down. It would be very bad to vomit on someone’s nice shoes.
Linc grunts and stops abruptly. I look up to see what’s in his way—hopefully the way out—but he’s not facing the exit. He’s turned back to look at the commotion behind us. The look on his face makes my blood run cold. “Linc?”
He doesn’t answer. I refuse to turn and see for myself. It’ll only add to the panic I’m fighting—and barely keeping at bay. “Uh, Ven, you might want to see this.” Obadiah’s voice is strained.
I exhale and do as he says.
I scan for the reason for Linc’s frozen state. The press conference drones on. People are getting over the thrill of the initial announcement and are starting to sound concerned about body placement and discomfort. Understandable. This crowd doesn’t like anything that resembles pain and god forbid some of them think it’s gaudy. Mental images of gold-encrusted tattoo lines fill my head.
My eyes flicker over the muted monitor to the right of the stage and move on but then swivel back as the image displayed catches my eye. In the bottom left corner, beside the constant stream of news running like a ribbon across the bottom of the screen, Daniel’s face is displayed in vivid color.
The pointy-nosed news anchor whose face fills most of the screen is animated but muted. Titus wanted a news presence here but nothing capable of stealing the spotlight from his big show.
I squint and read the ticking headline as it rolls by next to Daniel’s smiling face. “… Received an anonymous tip on the whereabouts of Daniel Ryan, son of Senator Ryan. Daniel Ryan was reported missing over three months ago. Police had no leads until now. According to the tip received, Daniel has been aiding and abetting a terrorist sect living within the city and is, in fact, alive. A raid is being organized on the location and police are hoping Daniel will lead them to the rest of the group. More details to come.”
I go still and no longer feel Linc’s hand in mine. I feel nothing beyond the beating pulse of panic in my chest.
I check to see if anyone else noticed the headline but the crowd is fixated on the stage where Titus is demonstrating the tool that will be used to ink the mark onto their flesh. Alton is still standing next to him, acting as his assistant and fetching props. Neither one seem to have noticed the news monitor or the three of us winding toward the exit.
The news ticker moves on to the next story: a poodle named as a million-dollar heir set to appear in probate court. I turn back to Linc. He’s already watching me, waiting.
“We have to get home,” I say. “Now.”
He doesn’t waste any more time. We’re moving again, faster this time. Linc bumps a few people out of the way and I hear a couple of surprised exclamations about rudeness and personal space. We ignore them and reach the doors. The lobby is mostly empty. A few people mill about. They look official in their just-short-of-formal black jackets and discreet ear pieces.
“Shit,” Linc mutters, confirming my suspicions. “Keep moving.” He drops my hand and Obadiah picks up my other one, tucking it into the crook of his arm.
“Headed out?” the man closest to us asks, wandering closer.
“The young lady isn’t feeling well,” Linc explains.
“Shall I call for your car?” the man asks.
“No, thank you. I’ve got it handled,” Linc says.
The man nods. “Good night, then.”
We mumble a reply and hurry out. I’m three steps from the door when someone calls my name. “Raven!” The smooth, confident voice isn’t hard to recognize. I debate whether to turn.
I’ve just decided to pretend I didn’t hear when my name is called again, closer now. I grimace. “Hi, Caine.”
His brows wrinkle as he looks back and forth between Obadiah and Linc. “Where are you going?” he asks.
“Home. I don’t feel well. Obadiah is escorting me,” I tell him by way of explanation. I know in Caine’s world, Linc’s presence is inconsequential and requires no explanation.
As predicted, he ignores the boy on either side of me and says, “Let me take you.” He leans down and adds, “Bet my car is faster than yours.”
I give him a tight smile. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ve already called for the car. It’s waiting outside. Rain check?”
Caine nods, clearly disappointed but musters a smile. “Sure. When you’re feeling better we’ll go for a ride.”
“Deal,” I say.
Linc growls.
Caine shoots him a look but doesn’t comment. “I hope you feel better soon. And I hope it wasn’t all that spinning on the dance floor that made you ill. I had a lot of fun with you,” he says.
I tilt my head as I realize the truth in my words. “Me too,” I agree. There’s something different about Caine Rafferty tonight. Maybe Daniel’s absence and the lack of competition brought out a better side of him.
The reminder of Daniel is all it takes. “I have to go now. See you,” I say.
“See you,” Caine calls from behind me as I push the doors open and hurry to the car waiting at the curb.
When we’re settled inside the car, Linc knocks on the partition and the driver eases forward. “Can’t you tell him to go faster?” I ask.
“Not without him asking for an explanation,” Linc says.
I sigh and resign myself to the next few minutes feeling like years. Linc takes my hand and wraps it in both of his.
Across from me, Obadiah is watching me intently and chewing his lip.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Probably nothing,” he says.
“Tell me anyway.”
“Taylor was watching us before we left. Well, you mostly, but she had a really weird look on her face. Not the normal Taylor look, but like she was thinking hard about something.”
“She and I had a fight. She told me we aren’t friends anymore,” I explain.
“About what?”
“She’s convinced I’m different since I hit my head. That there’s more going on than I’m telling her. She’s been bugging me about it for a while. I thought I could distract her with something else but she didn’t believe me. She said she won’t be my friend unless I tell her the truth.”
“What did you tell her to distract her?” Linc asks.
“I told her about you.”
“You told her about you and Linc?” Obdiadah asks.
“It’s not like Titus doesn’t already know. I figured it was the lesser of two evils. And she’d know if I tried to lie again.”
“Yeah, you kind of suck at that under pressure,” Obadiah says. I glare at him. “Well, you do. In the meantime, we need to discuss what we’re going to do with golden boy, provided we beat the police to the house.”
“Do you think they’ll already be there?” I ask.
“Let’s pretend we’ll get there first,” Linc says.
“And the suits?” Obadiah asks.
“We’ll have the element of surprise, at least at first,” Linc says. “I doubt any of them expect us to actually attempt to go there.”
“We can fight the suits. We can’t fight the police,” Obadiah says. “Besides, you’re forgetting about one thing. She’s got a kill switch still inside her.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Linc says quietly.
“And you don’t look worried because …?” Obadiah’s brows raise.
Linc doesn’t answer. Our eyes meet. I remember what Obadiah said the day they tried to kidnap me and get me to run away. Linc had brought the supplies with him then. Obadiah had expected him to remove my GPS by the time we got there. I think of Anna’s arm. Red and swollen after her own chip had been removed. I had no idea how it was done on her but I suspected my own removal was going to be even less comfortable.
“Do it,” I say.
Linc slides a brown leather pouch out of his pocket and nods at Obadiah. “Hand me the bottle of vodka in the cabinet behind you,” he says.
Obadiah hands it over, his mouth closed and eyes wide. Linc uncaps the vodka and douses the small, thin blade he’s unwrapped from the leather pouch. No one says a word. I resist the urge to shift in my seat. I’ve never inflicted pain on myself willingly. I am determined to get through this as bravely as possible. Linc rubs the blade clean and then turns to me, sorrow in his eyes.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod and bite my lip. He takes my arm lightly in his hands and turns it over, exposing my forearm. His fingers curl over my wrist. Slowly, he lowers the blade toward my skin. No one speaks. I can hear my own breath, ragged and heavy already. I force it slower, quieter, and stare at the shiny metal in Linc’s hand. It’s so small, slim enough to be innocent looking. But I know it is not. It is deadly. It is pain. I suck in a breath as Linc lowers it and presses lightly against my flesh.
The car hits a bump. The blade sinks in, drawing a spot of blood. Linc swears and sits back.
“What’s the problem?” I ask. I stare at the blood a second longer, surprised and intrigued as the spot of red pools. It doesn’t even hurt.
“I can’t do it. I can’t hurt you on purpose.” Linc hands the blade to Obadiah, who holds up his hands in surrender.
“Nu-uh. NO way. I’m not doing it either,” Obadiah says.
“We’re wasting time,” I say. “Please. We have to take it out.”
Linc hesitates. I resist the urge to snap at him. If it were me in his position, I would feel the same. Instead, I take the blade from him and, before anyone can tell me not to or I lose my nerve, I press the tip to the small opening already made and slice downward.
Both boys yell.
I gasp.
It’s not so much pain as a rush of feeling. Adrenaline. Energy. Blood pools. The car hits a bump. I pull back and reposition, slicing across and then down until I’ve severed a square of skin the size of my thumbnail.
I whimper and blink back tears. Now it hurts.
“Hell, Ven, you’re making a mess,” Linc says. He looks lost, his eyes wide with panic. He’s on the edge of his seat, like he wants to run or jump up and help somehow. There’s really no way to do either.
The car goes left. We’re off the freeway now.
Stinging pain shoots into wrist and hand. My fingers flex and curl. Blood pours from the wound on my arm, running in two thin rivets down my arm and dripping onto the seat and floorboard. I drop the blade onto the seat beside me and look to Linc. He’s helpless and stricken as he stares at my cut.
I know what to do next, I just don’t know how I can.
I grab Linc’s hand in mine and squeeze. With my other hand, I reach over and press my finger into the opening in my skin. The sting of pain becomes a sharp, cutting agony. I cry out and then clamp my jaw shut, gritting my teeth. I can’t stop. I have to get it out.
Every second it’s in there is a roulette wheel, a stopwatch of certain death. My finger moves against my cut flesh and a tear escapes. White, hot pain burns through my arm and into my shoulder. I don’t stop.
My finger hits something hard. The car jolts and my finger presses down. The object recedes deeper into the raw flesh beneath it. I scream and it takes everything in me to grab the tiny chip between my finger and thumb and tug. It catches on flesh and sticks. I yank again and, with a final cry, it finally comes free.
I fall back against the seat, winded and exhausted. My arms and legs are shaking, either from the effort or the pain—or relief from being finished with the worst of both.
Neither Linc nor Obadiah says a word.
Blood continues to run down my arm. I barely notice.
The pain is nothing now compared to what it was. Even so, black dots dance against the edges of my vision.
“What are you doing?” Obadiah asks.
I open my eyes to find Linc peeling off his jacket and balling it up in his hands. “She needs to put pressure on it,” he explains as he presses the fabric to my arm.
“What, no first aid kit? I thought you were the ultimate boy scout,” Obadiah says. Linc glares at him, fire in his eyes and Obadiah’s grin vanishes. “Sorry, just trying to lighten the moment,” Obadiah mumbles.
