Earthquake (7 page)

“Working,” she says, as though that were all the explanation necessary.

“On what?” I press, annoyed at being evaded, especially when the fate of the world is literally at stake. They certainly don’t look like they’re working to me. More like being served by subservient humans. From literal silver platters, in some cases.

“Lots of things. Developing technology, searching for other Earthbounds, teaching newly found Earthbounds about the time they’ve missed. We’re always busy here trying to protect our own and make the world a better place. The same thing we’ve been doing for thousands of years.”

I think of Audra and the other doctors and the special scanner they invented. That makes me feel a little better.
Something
is getting done. Maybe half of these people here are just on break.

Break. Sure.

I try to make myself reserve judgment. After all, if I remembered more of my past lives, maybe I would understand more.

“Ah, here we go. Off to Daniel.” The elevator doors open, and she herds us inside.

Instead of taking us up, as I assumed it would, the elevator begins to move downward as soon as the doors close. For some reason, I have the impression that we’re in a small box descending into hell. I try not to squeeze Logan’s hand too hard, but with each foot we go deeper into the earth, my fear grows and I grasp Rebecca’s necklace like a talisman.

Who is this man that Sammi and Mark—such loyal Curatoriates—were willing to lie to? To sneak behind his back? The thought inspires very little confidence.

But then . . .

It’s only seconds later that we’re exiting the elevator. I expect a hallway to greet us, but we step out into a tiny eight-by-eight-foot space, one wall almost entirely taken up by a beautiful and massive carved mahogany door. I hear a sound from behind me, and when I look, the elevator has closed and the woman is gone.

Logan gives my hand another squeeze, but it doesn’t do much to inspire confidence. My breathing is unsteady as we stand and wait.

And wait.

And then the enormous door begins to swing open.

I’m not sure
just what I was expecting, but the slightly short man with graying hair and soft blue eyes wasn’t it.

Of course, surely the great
Daniel
wouldn’t answer his own door—this is a . . . a secretary, an aide, something. But when he sees us his mouth tips up in a smile that crinkles the sides of his eyes.

“Tavia. At last.”

I stare at him in confusion, but the man doesn’t seem to notice.

“Logan. Nick of time, eh?”

The sheer absurdity of his statement-that-might-be-a-joke catches Logan off-guard, and he gives out a strange sort of cough-laugh.

“Please, please, come in,” the man says, holding the door wide. “I’m Daniel.”

My heartbeat speeds up at the now-certain revelation that the man before us is in the fact the leader of the Curatoria, and I half expect to hear the beeping sound that plagued me while trapped inside the Reduciate prison.

I’m somewhere else. I’m safe
.

To distract myself, I glance around the office. It’s huge—like everything else in this place, apparently—with half-open doors leading to rooms unknown. But unlike the foyer we just left, this space lacks opulence.

Which, strangely, doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

It has a simple hominess, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek when I realize it reminds me of the way my mother used to decorate.

Soft watercolors fill the walls, mostly of landscapes that are definitely
not
deserts. It makes me wonder if he misses green, housed here beneath the sand. The wood that makes the desk, the chairs, the tables, is a medium brown—probably maple or oak—instead of the stark but elegant espresso shade that practically filled the atrium. Pastel throws and pillows complement beige and sage-green upholstery, and potted plants dot the walls and corners, lending the only brilliant colors in the whole room.

Comfortable
, I finally settle on as the word to describe this space. Everything about it makes me want to sink down onto a couch or chair and read a book.

Or nap.

Or some of both.

I look back at Daniel and wonder just how much of it is a facade. I mean, he could remake this room a hundred times a day, couldn’t he?

I suddenly wonder if it’s all just a trap. The spider’s parlor.

As though sensing the dreary turn my thoughts have just taken, Daniel invites us to sit on a couch and takes his own seat in a cushy armchair across a low table. As I sit, I look up and catch Daniel studying me. His eyes glitter with interest and something else I can’t read. I wonder how much of what I’m seeing of him is real.

But he doesn’t look away when he catches me staring. Instead his eyes soften and he continues to stare, as though inviting me to study him as well.

I’m not sure what to think of that.

A strange feeling twists in my stomach as his face turns starkly serious.

“Tavia,” Daniel says, leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees, “though I’ve gone to great lengths to try to make you as comfortable as possible, we both know we’re not here to have a casual conversation.”

I nod, accepting the inevitable.

“I’m told you won’t join us,” he says in that same light tone, but I hear the bitter edge of rejection hovering just beneath the surface.

“I won’t,” I confirm, refusing to let my voice quaver.

He hesitates, then says, “But I hope you
will
be willing to work with us to put an end to all these deaths from this terrible virus.” Bitterness replaced by hope. This man changes so quickly I can hardly keep up.

“I don’t know why you think I’m so special,” I say, a hint of belligerence creeping into my tone, “but
if
I am, I will consider working with you.” I fix him with a hard gaze and add, “
Temporarily
and with the understanding that I am not one of you. I am
not
a Curatoriate.”

Daniel nods, and although I see disappointment in his eyes, he doesn’t appear surprised. Then, he turns to Logan. “Logan, even though it’s Tavia we need, you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like.”

Logan’s eyes look nervous, but he winds his fingers through mine and squeezes. “And am I free to leave when she does?” he asks, directing his question more at the table
than at Daniel.

“Of course,” Daniel says. He sounds neither offended nor surprised that Logan would inquire as much.

Which doesn’t make me feel any more secure. I get the feeling Daniel knows us. Knows
me
. And considering how little I know myself, I’m not a fan of the sensation.

“Now, Miss Tavia,” Daniel says, sitting back against his chair. “I know that Mark and Sammi didn’t trust me. That they tried to remove you from Portsmouth without informing the Curatoria and, particularly, without informing me, and that likely you carry the same mistrust. Am I right so far?”

I gape at him and hear the sound of shattering in my head.

He chuckles. “Answer enough. Just wanted to get that out of the way. The fewer secrets, the better, in my opinion.”

Before I can even begin to contemplate a response to
that
bombshell, he continues, his tone much more dire now. “I also know that your brain injury has . . . proven more extensive than anyone wants to admit. If you had the same perfect memory that most of us do, I think you would have figured out a while ago why you’re so special.”

I have no idea what to say as facts I didn’t think he could possibly know continue to come spilling from his mouth. Thoughts and doubts I’d considered only my own. Some I haven’t even had a chance to share with Logan yet.

Although I would have. Soon.

And what does he mean, that I would have figured it out? Is he referring to Sonya and the secret she was willing to kill herself to protect? Or the secret Rebecca spent her life hiding from the Reduciata? Or are they same thing? And how could he know?

“Logan,” Daniel says, still in the same tone. “You were literally plucked from the brink of eternal death-by-fire a few days ago.”

Logan forces a hard swallow down his throat, nodding.

“Truth is, you’re a very weak Earthbound. And that’s not an insult,” Daniel says, his hands lifted in a placating gesture. “It’s simply
fact
. And Tavia should be just like you. But she’s not.”

“I am—” I start to protest, but a look from Daniel cuts my words off.

“Logan, would you please create a book for me? Your favorite novel.”

Logan’s jaw is tight, but he tips his fingers toward the table, and Charles Dickens’s
A Tale of Two Cities
appears.

“Now you, Tavia. Your favorite book.”

I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I think of my dog-eared copy of
The Giver
, the one I left in Michigan when I boarded that fateful plane. The one I never considered asking Sammi to retrieve for me back when I thought she was my aunt Reese. I wonder where it is now.

With a deep breath I tilt my hand toward the table like Logan did, and my book appears beside his.

“Good,” Daniel says as he leans forward and picks up Logan’s book. He doesn’t look at it; he looks at
me
as he flips through the pages, showing me Logan’s creation. The beginning looks normal, but as the book continues, there are large sections of blank pages. Chapters that are nothing but short synopses. And then the end begins to fill in a bit more.

I glance at Logan, and he’s leaning back with his arms folded over his chest, looking grumpy for reasons I don’t understand.

“Now let’s look at yours,” Daniel says softly, and he opens my book and flips the pages the same way he did with Logan’s.

My book is complete.

More than complete. The typed text is there, word for word. But also the notes I’ve made over the years, tiny sketches in the margins, even the page I accidentally tore one day and then taped back together is there.

Still torn.

Still taped.

“I don’t understand,” I say, staring at the two books. “Why is mine . . . ?” I hesitate, looking for a word besides
better
. Whatever is happening here, it doesn’t make Logan happy, and I don’t want to add to it. “More complete,” I settle on.

“Because you’re stronger than him,” Daniel says, unapologetically. “And not
a little bit
—exponentially. Knowledge and creativity are the driving force of the Earthbound. Especially Creators. And how strong you are determines how much knowledge you need to create something. To create a book as complete as yours, Logan would have to have memorized every word. An Earthbound as strong as you could recreate any book you’ve ever read. In
any
of your lives that you remember. And possibly even those you don’t,” he adds, looking at me with such intensity—such awe, bordering on reverence—that I have to turn away.

Without thinking, I turn toward Logan, which may have been a mistake.

He sits there with his lips in a hard line—he’s obviously angry. Is it because he’s weak—or because I’m not?

“But why?” I ask. “We lived our maximum seven lifetimes before resurging last night. We should both be weak. That’s why Sammi and Mark were so worried about me.”

Daniel nods but doesn’t answer my question. “Logan,” he says, and I hear sympathy in his voice this time. Not pity, exactly, but understanding.
Wanting
to understand, maybe. “What’s your next favorite book? One from this life, perhaps.”

Logan mumbles, “
American Gods
,” and Daniel smiles. The irony of that admission isn’t lost on either of them.

“Excellent. Would you please turn your book into this
American Gods
?”

Logan sits up now. “That’s not how it works,” he sputters. “I
make
things. I can’t just
change
things.”

“Try,” Daniel says, utterly unruffled. “And Tavia, you as well. Change your book into your next favorite.”

Logan and I look at each other, and with my eyes I try to tell him that he doesn’t have to do this. But he shakes his head and flutters his fingers at the table with an almost dismissive gesture.

I smile in relief. As far as I can tell, he’s done it.
A Tale of Two Cities
has turned into
American Gods
.

“Your turn, Tavia” Daniel says.

Still confused, I move my fingers and replace
The Giver
with
Sense and Sensibility
, the same way I replaced the walls with air in the Reduciata base.

Again, Daniel’s hands go to Logan’s book, and he begins to flip the pages.

The blood drains from my face, and I force myself not to show my dismay. The book hasn’t changed at all.

The cover of Charles Dickens’s story simply has an additional dust jacket on it, and as Daniel thumbs through, loose-leaf pages fall out, covered in what must be snippets of Neil Gaiman’s book.

“Now yours, Tavia,” Daniel says, and that strange reverence is back, this time in the warmth of his voice. He reaches for my book, and something inside me wants to bolt. To run from this room and from whatever it is I’m about to learn.

I want to hide from it, to go back to normal life.

I can’t drag my eyes from Daniel’s hands as he opens the book. He pulls back the dust jacket of my special edition hardcover to reveal . . . the deep green casing—
Sense and Sensibility
stamped in gold foil. He flips the pages, and I see Jane Austen’s story flowing by, word-for-word, just like when it was
The Giver
.

I lean back and fold my arms, noting for half a second that Logan and I are now mirrors of each other. “So I’m strong and Logan’s not,” I say, not caring that I sound snippy. “I think you’ve proven that.”

“Where did
The Giver
go, Tavia?” Daniel says, ignoring my words. “
A Tale of Two Cities
didn’t disappear. All Logan could do was add to what was already there.”

“No, no, it’s just a different way of thinking of it. It’s
replacing
,” I argue. “You just create one thing
in place of
another. It’s nothing special.” I look to Logan, pleading. I want to be like him, I realize. I want us to be the
same
.

Daniel returns the book to the table and looks up at me with a depth of knowledge in his eyes that stretches down like a deep mine. “Creating is often considered the more powerful of the two abilities, for reasons we don’t need to go into at the moment. But I’ve never been convinced of that. Perhaps as a Destroyer I’m biased. But regardless, creating something out of nothing is a much-coveted ability, as I’m sure you can understand.” He leans forward, and the intensity in his eyes pins me to my seat. “But there is one limitation and one alone. You can only create. You can only add to what is already there. Creators are the masters of
more
. Not different, only more. You cannot
change
, you cannot
replace
, only
add
.” He leans back and clasps his fingers over his slightly rounded belly. “So again, Tavia, I ask you, where did
The Giver
go? Where did the walls of your cell go?”

I have nothing to say. Nothing I
can
say. The silence stretches long, and no one wants to break it.

After interminable minutes, Daniel rises, strides to his desk, and retrieves a folder. He walks back to the low coffee table and lays three pictures on it.

Even as my eyes fix on them I feel the urge to retch build up in my throat.

It’s my plane.

The wreckage.

My seat.

“We lost two Earthbounds and three human Curatoriates obtaining these photos a few months ago,” Daniel says. “All we knew is that
these
were what made the Reduciates stop trying to kill you and start attempting to capture you instead. It took weeks and weeks before we finally saw what they saw.” He points to the walls of the fuselage surrounding my seat.

They’re already burned into my brain from months of reading news stories. I don’t need to see them—don’t
want
to see them—and yet I can’t look away.

“Perfect,” Daniel says. “As though your section of the plane weren’t in the crash at all.” He sighs. “A few weeks ago one of my top researchers finally came up with a theory that, even as recently as this morning, I wasn’t convinced was possible. Not even after reports of what happened in your most recent escape from the Reduciates. But now I’ve seen it with my own eyes; I have no doubt. He was right.”