House Immortal (3 page)

Since Left Ned was talking, I knew he was willing to bleed up the stranger a little more if that's what it took to keep him out of the house.

“I'm looking for a doctor,” the stranger said. “Dr. Renault Case.”

“He doesn't live here anymore,” Right Ned said calmly, everything about his voice the opposite of Left Ned's. “If you need someone to take you to a town doctor, I'd be willing. But there's no medical man here to help you.”

The stranger frowned, sending just a hint of lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. “You think I came here for help?”

I nodded toward his gut. “You are bleeding rather strongly.”

He looked down. An expression of surprise crossed his face and he shifted his wide fingers, letting a little more blood ooze out, as if just noticing how badly he was injured. If he was in pain—and he should be—he did not show it.

Shock, maybe. Or expensive drugs.

“I didn't come here looking for help from Dr. Case,” he said, cinnamon gaze on me, just on me, and the sound of his blood falling with a soft
tip tip tip
on my wooden floor. “I came here to warn him.”

“About what?” I asked.

He hesitated.

Left Ned spoke up. “Say it, or get walking.”

“His enemies are looking for him. For him and what he's left behind on this property. I come offering protection.”

It was a dramatic sort of thing to say, and he had a nice, deep, dramatic sort of voice for it. Chills did that rolling thing over my arms.

But there was only one problem.

“He's dead,” I said.

“What?”

“My father, Dr. Case, has been dead for years.”

That, more than anything, seemed to take the starch out of him. He exhaled, and it was a wet sound as he tried to get air back in his lungs. I almost reached over to prop him up, afraid he might just pass out and further mess up the clean of my kitchen floor.

He was a big man, but, like I said, I'm strong.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

I'd been twelve years old when the men from House Black, Defense, and House White, Medical, came to the farm. I'd hidden like my father had taught me, up in the rafters of the barn. I'd watched those men kill him. Kill my mother too. I'd watched them search our house and carry out boxes. I'd watched them pick up my parents' bodies, put them in a black van, then use our garden hose to clean up the drive so not even a drop of their blood was left for me to cry over.

My brother had come home from studying the old skills—electrical tinkering, metalwork, analog and digital system repairs—out on the Burnbaums' homestead about three months later. He'd found Mom and Dad gone, and me and Grandma trying to hold the place together. Right then, he'd started his crazy crusade for information and histories that had eventually made him unofficial head of House Brown.

The same crazy crusade that had left me alone on this farm for three years with an addle-minded grandmother, a two-headed farmhand, some impossible creatures, and the communication hub for the scattered, off-grid House Brown folk my brother promised to look after.

My brother might still be alive, but not my parents.

The image of their bodies being carried away flashed behind my eyes again.

“I'm very certain,” I whispered to the stranger.

“I . . .” He swallowed hard, shook his head. Didn't look like that helped much. His words came out in a slur. “I thought . . . I should have known. Sooner. We thought . . . all our information. That he lived.”

“Neds,” I called.

The stranger's eyes rolled up in his head and he folded like someone had punched him in the ribs. I put my hands out to catch him, got hold of his jacket shoulders and pivoted on my heels, throwing my weight to guide him down to the floor without knocking his head too badly.

I crouched next to him. This close, I thought maybe there was something familiar about him.

Neds strolled over. “What are you going to do with him, Tilly?” Right Ned asked.

“I don't know. Check his pockets, will you? See if he has a name. If he's really House Gray, we might have trouble on our hands.” I was already pushing his hand to one side so I could get to his wound. It was deep and bad. Might be from a crocboar. Might be from any number of beasts that grew up hungry and mean out on the edges of the property.

I could mend him enough to get him to a hospital hours away in my old truck on these old roads. If he hadn't lost too much blood, he might survive.

I stood. “I need the sewing kit. The medicines.”

“Tilly,” Right Ned said. “I don't think that will work.”

I was already halfway across the kitchen toward the bathroom, where I kept all the supplies for taking care of Neds and Grandma.

“Tilly,” Left Ned snapped. “Stop and listen, woman.”

I did not like being bossed around by that man. Either of them. I turned.

Neds hunkered next to the stranger, his shotgun in easy reach on the floor beside him, his shoulders angled so the shirt stretched at the seams. He'd pushed the man's jacket sleeve back to reveal his arm up to his elbow.

Stitches. The man had a thick line of charcoal gray stitches ringing his entire forearm. Not medical stitches, not medical thread. Life stitches, like mine.

I instinctively held my own hands out, turning them so they caught the light. Thin silver stitches crossed my
palms and circled my thumbs, making the gold-brown of my skin look a little darker. Just as those same silver stitches tracked paths across my arms and my legs, and curved up my stomach, my breasts, and around one shoulder. Just as stitches traced my left ear to the curve of my jaw and ran a line across my neck. I kept my hair free to cover them up. If I wore gloves and long-sleeved shirts and pants, no one knew I was made like this.

Made of bits.

Not quite human.

Stitched like my father's other illegal creations.

The only other people in the world who were stitched were the galvanized. Warriors, historians, counselors—they were prized and owned by the heads of the Houses. Rumors said they were owned against their will and put on display in the fights during the annual Gathering of Peace, and any other politically influenced event. Owning a galvanized was proof of the House's wealth and power. Rumors said they were the reason the Houses were no longer at war with each other, because the galvanized refused to be involved in House-to-House conflict.

Rumors also said they were immortal.

The galvanized began as a medical curiosity, then went on to become oddities, supersoldiers, historians, while remaining technological and medical guinea pigs. Tired of being owned and used, the galvanized walked away from the Houses. It became known as the Uprising, and once people saw that the galvanized refused to follow House rules, they too defected from House control.

The Uprising saw thousands of people fleeing from multigeneration debt to the Houses and forming their own House—House Brown—which they intended to run democratically as a loose collective of people unhappy with House demands and injustices.

The galvanized stood with them. In an attempt to kill House Brown and its promise of freedom, the other
Houses banded together to wage war on House Brown, vowing it would never be recognized as a legitimate House. Years of guerilla resistance and war nearly brought the world's system of resource management crashing down. The Houses finally agreed to a peace treaty drawn up by the galvanized.

House Brown would have no voice in world affairs or the affairs of Houses, but they would be left alone. In exchange, the galvanized would return to the Houses; give up their rights to be considered human; and become servants, slaves, and subjects once again.

The galvanized had agreed to those terms. No one knew why.

I'd never once in my life met a person stitched like me.

Until this man. This stranger bleeding on my floor.

“You'll need the other thread,” Right Ned said. “Hospital out here won't know what to do with him, or with us for having him.”

I was nodding but my body seemed far away. “He's . . . he's . . . like me. I thought galvanized were different. Immortal and perfect.”

“He's hurt.” Neds strolled over to me.

He touched me only in the most urgent of times.

Contact for him, he had told me, was an intimate sort of thing. He knew an awful lot about a person if he put his hands on their skin for too long. He said he respected me too much to do that, to know things about me I wouldn't want him to know.

But he touched me now, his warm fingers brushing oh so lightly across my palms.

It was a strange enough occurrence, it snapped me right out of my drift.

“You'll need the medical supplies at the pump house,” Right Ned said again, his blue gaze searching to see if I was listening. “Your father's supplies.”

I glanced between him and Left Ned, who seemed a
little disgusted. But, then, Left Ned was always a little disgusted when he touched me. Right Ned never let that show. Right Ned never made me feel like I should be ashamed of what kind of things I was made up of.

“I'll be back quick,” I said. “Watch him. Watch Grandma. And make up the spare bed. Clean sheets are in the linen drawers.”

I jogged out the door, wanting to move, to be away from that stranger and the questions he had brought into my kitchen. What enemies? How close were they? And which House did he belong to exactly?

The sun pushed up over the tree line. The birds couldn't seem to sing enough about it, but there was no heat to the day yet. I jogged down through the trees, down past the ramble of blackberries until the rush of the stream outsang the birds.

The pump house was a long stone building set beside the stream. It generated electricity for the farm and the computers and other off-the-grid equipment we used for communication and for keeping our place out of sight. It pumped fresh water up to the house and out to the water troughs in the field and barn for the beasts.

On the inside—or, rather, the underside—was my father's workshop that my brother had forbidden me to enter when we were young.

That moratorium had lasted one week before I picked the lock, hacked the code, and let myself in. He hadn't found out about my frequent visits to the lab for almost a year, and by then, I knew the secrets of the place better, even, than he did.

I pushed open the door and stepped into the cool dark and damp. I didn't bother switching on the light. I knew exactly which stone in the back wall to pull free to expose the lever for the hatch.

I pulled that lever, the sensors within it accepting my fingerprint signature. The floorboards lifted, revealing
wooden stairs. I hurried down those and flipped the light switch.

Bulbs popped on, burning with such cool intensity, I closed my eyes and counted to three before opening them again.

This steel room beneath the wood and stone and dust of the pump house looked like it belonged in a spaceship.

Every wall was covered with steel and burnished to a soft shine, drawers and shelves built from ceiling to floor. Some of those drawers were locked in such ways, I'd never been able to open them. Others I never wanted to open again.

In the center of the room was an empty metal table wide enough for two people to lie on it side-by-side. The floor was carved and burned with symbols, lines, and figures that made my head hurt if I stared at them too long.

I'd asked Quinten what the symbols represented, but he just shook his head and said he hadn't figured it out yet. Some of the things on the farm were old. Older even than Dad's research and experiments. Maybe older than Grandma. Dad had never explained them and the records were seized by the Houses back when Dad had been killed.

Mysteries at my feet, and all around.

I strode to the drawers, counted three in from the corner and pulled on the smooth, cold handle.

Inside were a dozen master spools of thread, each filled with glassy silver strands of different thickness.
Filum Vitae
, or life thread. It was my dad's concoction, made of the minerals and organic matter that filtered from the soil and river to spin out here—nanowitchery and devilry included.

Next to the threaded spools were empty wooden bobbins. I hooked the heaviest threads into the notch of two bobbins.

I pressed my thumb on the button on the side of the
drawer, engaging the machinery. Bobbins spun, filling with thread from the master spools. As soon as the bobbins were fat I let go of the button and a diamond-edged blade cut the threads.

I put the bobbins in my pocket and gathered up a sheet of needles, surgical scissors, and clamps.

Most of my knowledge of how to use my father's medical supplies was taught to me by Quinten, the genius that he was, whose hand at stitchery was even finer than Dad's. Over the years he'd left for months at a time, leaving me to repair the beasts Dad had pieced together. Leaving me, sometimes, to repair myself.

I was human—I ate, drank, laughed, and cried. I'd grown from a baby to a girl. Then I'd gotten sick and almost died.

Quinten had spoken of it only once over a bottle of moonshine he'd gotten for repairing the Phersons' radio. When I'd almost died, I'd been eight, and he'd been thirteen. He'd stolen me out of bed when Mom and Dad weren't looking, and with that genius mind of his, he'd done . . . something to me.

Made it so my memories, my soul, and all the
me
of me were picked up and transplanted into the sleeping mind of one of Dad's hidden experiments: a stitched-together girl child who had been sleeping for a couple hundred years.

Dad had been furious. Mom had been horrified. But shortly thereafter, my original body failed and my stitched body survived.

With me in it.

I was our biggest secret: the real monster the outside world would tear apart if found.

So, yes, I was human. But I wasn't
only
human, since the sleeping girl's body was a remnant from a failed experiment that had happened so long ago, she'd been forgotten. Dad had smuggled her out when he left House White.