Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) (30 page)

“Hey. You ready for this?” I ask, gritting my teeth.

“I’m ready to quit dawdling and find Flicker.”

“That’s what we’re trying to do. Unless you have a better idea on how to go about that?”

She doesn’t answer, just leads the way across the parking lot. Jeannie Marks lives near the College of Charleston, so we’ve got a bit of a hike ahead of us. We’re supposed to meet the others at the corner of King and Market, and Reaper and I walk the rest of the way in silence. Irritation urges me to lash out, to grab her and force her to tell me what the hell is the matter, but I don’t. She’ll spill when she’s ready and not a moment before. With everything we’re facing this afternoon, fighting with her seems an unnecessary addition.

My emotions tangle like a ball of yarn that’s been batted around by a litter of kittens. Trepidation over meeting Jeannie Marks—what she’ll be like, if she’ll tell us anything, what she’ll tell us if she does. An odd kind of sorrow that after this afternoon it won’t be just the ten of us Cavies anymore. Our world is about to expand to include people we don’t know, maybe can’t trust.

Then there’s the guilt over upsetting my father, and knowing it’s going to happen again and again until we figure out how to be safe.

Fear overwhelms all the rest, because it’s hard to believe that’s ever going to happen. How can the ten of us, even with everything we can do, hope to convince the
government
to leave us alone?

I’m a hopeless snarl by the time we reach the corner of Market, which is pretty much a ghost town this time of day, and see Polly and Mole waiting. Their faces are wound so tight that if they started ticking, it wouldn’t surprise me. Reaper greets them with the same lack of enthusiasm she generally reserves for me, which should make me feel a little bit better, but doesn’t really.

Haint walks up next, a little out of breath, and the twins show up five minutes later with Geoff in tow. I don’t know whether they managed to wrangle him a pass out of the hospital or just stole him, but I’m glad he’s here. I’m still not used to seeing him up and around, and this is the first time he’s been with us outside the Clubhouse.

His bright smile says that he’s thrilled, and less bothered than the rest of us by the afternoon’s task, but it’s hard to blame him. If we find out who gave us those injections and they confirm it’s going to continue to increase our abilities, Geoff will probably kiss them.

I’m not so ready to embrace the changes as improvement. Not without knowing whether there are other, less positive consequences of those shots. If it’s all good stuff, why the mystery? Why not just send us all e-mails and ask to get together?

Not to mention that seeing more details about people’s deaths is only good if I can fix them. If not, it’s only going to torture me more.

We’re all here now and Pollyanna takes the lead toward the college. The address is a few blocks off Calhoun, in an apartment above a vintage clothing shop. We didn’t call ahead, so of course there’s no way to know whether or not she’ll be home, but if she’s not we plan to wait. This way there’s no risk of her running away from us.

The breath we hold in the shadows outside number 2E feels collective. No one reaches out to knock until Reaper shoulders Mole out of the way and uses a fist to bang on the door.

There’s nothing but silence for about thirty seconds. I’m about to concede that I’m going to have to live with my bouncing nerves for at least a little while longer when the sound of shuffling feet and a raspy voice asking us to hold on a second barge through the sagging wooden door.

Once it swings open, the woman who stands on the other side appears as disheveled and unwashed as the man who attacked me on the street. She’s got tattoos everywhere—on her neck, down her arms, blooming across the part of her chest that’s exposed underneath a flimsy tank top—and her hair’s matted into stringy dreadlocks that might be blonde, were they clean.

She squints at us, a cigarette dangling from her cracked lips. “Shouldn’t you kids be in school? What is this, some kind of mass Jehovah’s Witness initiation?”

Everyone must be as tongue-tied as I am by her smell and off-putting appearance, and it’s Geoff who finally finds his voice. “You stabbed me in the neck with a needle.”

The accusation is more of a statement, really, without malice as much as confusion. The woman squints harder, then her eyes pop open. “Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit, I
did.
You’re looking fine, vegetable boy! I can’t wait to tell Chameleon how well this version is working on your fucked-up ass.”

“Excuse me?” I breathe out, half insulted on Geoff’s behalf and half flabbergasted that she’s admitting to being one of the people who inoculated us.

“Well, come on in, why don’t you? You’re letting the cold air out.” None of us moves, and she rolls her eyes, tossing her cigarette onto the ground at Reaper’s feet. “I expect the lot of you have some questions, and I have one of my own, which is how on earth y’all found me.”

She turns and stomps back inside, leaving the door open and us staring dumbly at one another. Reaper steps over the threshold first, the set of her shoulders making it clear the rest of us are being morons. This is why we’re here. To get answers.

And this woman, no matter how brash or insulting or odiferous, has them.

The inside of the apartment matches Jeannie’s appearance. It’s dingy, dirty, and unkempt, with dishes spilling out of the sink in the kitchen and ashtrays overflowing in the living room. Smoke hangs in the air, coats everything, and clings to my hair and tongue and clothes in less than a minute.

My father’s definitely going to have questions.

She motions us all to the sagging couch, which is too small to fit more than three of us, and we all decline without discussing it. “Suit yourselves.”

“Did you grow up at Darley, too?” Geoff asks, as though he can’t hold it in another second.

“Just jump right in, don’t ya? How about this? My name is Jeannie Marks, I lived at Darley Hall until I was about twelve, and they called me Gills, on account of the fact I can breathe underwater.”

It’s a little bit bizarre that she’s telling us all this as though it’s no big deal, as though it’s not a huge secret, but she knows Geoff’s one of us—like her—for sure.

Before any of us can reply she points her finger at Mole. “Shiloh Adams Lee, aka Mole. You can incinerate anything within about two hundred yards, but I’m guessing that distance has increased.”

Jeannie, or Gills, gives a similar recap for each one of us, leaving no doubt that she knows all about us.

“How do you know all of that?” Pollyanna asks, her arms folded over her chest, maybe to hide the fact that she’s breathing way too fast.

“We have our ways. Talents, mostly, the same as yours.”

“Who’s we?” Athena fires.

“You can call us the Olders. That’s what we mostly refer to ourselves as, as long as there’s a current generation of Cavies being raised up for the slaughter. We’re the ones that are left, anyhow.”

The ones that are left.
Jude’s father mentioned that a good percentage of the previous generations had died, and hearing her confirm it kind of blurs my vision. “How many?”

“Olders? Fifteen.”

Fifteen. If each generation since the thirties had ten, there should be many more. “What happened to the rest of them? Of… us?” My tongue feels like lead. Unmanageable.

“Most of the early attempts are dead. Only three from the first generation survived ten years. The success rate has improved drastically with research and technology, but you’re the first group to have all ten get this far along, even though three of you are Unstable.” She casts an approving look toward Geoff. “Two now, I suppose. You’re welcome.”

“Yes, thank you for invading my personal space and stabbing me. Did I forget to say that?”

She ignores him. “The rest of the survivors are either rebels, like me, or Assets—willing or unwilling.”

“What does that mean?” Mole asks the question, which is good because it feels as though my body is failing one system at a time.

“It means, dear boy, that in the coming weeks you will all have a choice. You can choose to go underground, to keep researching and developing better ways to live with your mutations on your own, or you can let the government have you.”

Gills throws us out about five minutes after that revelation, refusing to tell us anything more without the rest of the Olders present. She insists that she’s not in charge, that there are still things we need to know about our origins at Saint Catherine’s—although she did confirm our suspicions that the manipulation of our genes was done at the home, in utero.

It’s crazy to think that we were bred to be different. For a purpose, she claims, because both Saint Catherine’s and Darley are owned and operated by some branch of the government. The Olders don’t know which one, even after decades of working as Assets themselves.

She wrote down our phone numbers and promised to text us with meeting instructions in the next couple of days. I’m not sure if giving her our info is smart, but then again, they found us on the street. Our phone numbers are probably superfluous.

The eight of us wander down King, which has started to bustle with shoppers. We stop at an empty café, make Haint order something so we can sit without getting dirty looks from the middle-aged man behind the counter, then stare at each other in silence.

“What do you think?” Mole finally asks, broaching the in-general subject.

“I think she’s bats, for one,” Pollyanna grumps. “Maybe they’re all bats, running around with needles and talking about hiding from the government. They don’t know anything more than we do, about what we were bred for at Darley.”

“Maybe the willing Assets are the ones who have it right,” Reaper comments, her eyes cast out the window at the shoppers and students and people on their way home from work. “I mean, maybe they don’t live like paranoid hobos. Maybe they’re doing good things.”

“I don’t think we’re in a position to make that call.” Haint sips her fruit smoothie, looking discouraged. “We need to hear everything they have to say—about the injections, their research since leaving Darley, and what they know about the Cavies that have been lost along the way.”

Reaper stares us all down. “If they know anything about where the Assets live or are being held, it could lead us to Flicker. That’s why we’re doing all of this, remember?”

I flinch at the reminder. Not because I forgot, but because it stinks to think of her as an Asset, especially one being hurt. Kept against her will.

“We haven’t forgotten her, Reaper. We’re all trying. Listening to the Olders is the best idea we’ve got at the moment, that’s all.” Mole reaches out to take her hand but she shifts away, so subtly that it might be unintentional.

Or it might not.

My irritation with her scratches under my skin, and the only way to make it stop is to say something. “Maybe it’s time we stop skirting Dane Kim and just ask him what he knows. He’s all but ignoring me now, and no matter how many lunches Reaper eats with him, we’ve gotten nowhere. He knows
something.
It might be where they’re keeping Flicker.”

Pollyanna grows thoughtful. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I say we don’t wait on the group of crazy homeless people, not when Flicker’s life is at stake and we have another potential source of information.”

“What do you think, Reaper?”

She shifts, looking uncomfortable. “I want to find Flicker. But I don’t think he’s going to tell us anything.”

“We can make him talk,” Mole adds, quietly.

I don’t like the way he says it—flat, no emotion behind the words. No humanity in his pea green eyes. It’s not that Dane and I are friends, or ever were, but something in my gut says he’s not a bad guy. He couldn’t have faked the connection we had in the graveyard that day, or during the easy conversations that followed.

“I agree with Mole, Gypsy,” Haint admits, just as softly. “We need answers. Who knows if these Olders will come through, or if they can help, but they don’t exactly seem like the most reliable bunch.”

There’s a pit of dread in my stomach the size of a watermelon, but there’s a sprout of hope, too. Maybe Dane Kim does know where Flicker is. Maybe our budding friendship hadn’t been bogus, and I can convince him to tell me the truth. Maybe he’s not even what we think.

There’s only one way to be sure.

“Let me or Reaper try talking to him first.” Their eyes are skeptical, but in the end, none of them voice an argument. “I’m not saying it will work, but it’s worth a shot before we go the route of scaring him. Or hurting him.”

At the end of the day there’s a chance he’s just a guy doing his job, and we can’t cast ourselves in the role of the bad guys. I’ve read the synopses for enough superhero movies by now to know that people will do that for us, eventually.

Reaper doesn’t say anything else, but for once she doesn’t argue with me, either. I wonder if there’s more going on between them than friendship, or if she’s thinking about what Mole said and knowing that if we end up having to force Dane to talk, she’ll be the one turning the screws.