Stunned (The Lucidites Book 2) (18 page)

“Oh, no thanks.” Samara laughs. “I get enough of that during the day.” She motions to the hallway we’re facing and says, “I’ll just keep moving forward instead.”

I smile and she passes, like a ghost.

With a huge wave of relief I let my head fall back and rest gently on the cold steel wall. I’m like this for only a few seconds when I hear footsteps. I don’t open my eyes or move. Honestly, I don’t really care who it is.

The person is only a few feet away. “Nice cover,” he says.

I peel one eye open, then pull my head back to its normal position. “I wasn’t covering for my brother for his sake. He’s slime,” I say.

“I know,” George agrees.

“I was just trying to protect Samara. The last thing she needs is to witness that,” I point toward the lobby. “It would break her heart to see Joseph making out with some giggling-astronaut-wannabe-girl.”

“I know,” George says again.

His dark blond hair always take on the color of champagne during dream travel. We all look lighter in this form, probably because we are.

“You know,” George says, breaking the gentle silence. It’s becoming easier to be quiet with him, without the usual need to talk unnecessarily. “The other day I read a poem I think you’d enjoy. It’s by Archibald MacLeish.” He stands so still in front of me. Not a fidget or nonverbal cue of any sort.

“I’ll look it up later,” I say.

“I have it in my room if you want to see it.”

I shrug my shoulders and look off, staring at nothing in particular. “Why were you working on the emotional modifier? That doesn’t seem your style.”

George looks in the direction of my focus, then turns around, concentrating on me. “It isn’t, but I did initially have a couple of good reasons.” He pauses, chews tensely on his bottom lip. “After you found out, though, the reasons didn’t feel good enough. I’m not sure where I stand on it now or if I want to be involved with the project.”

“And these reasons…” I prompt.

“First off, Trey asked me to do it and I respect him. I know you have your reasons for disliking him, but he really does care about this place and the people in it. Actually he cares about all people, Lucidites and Middlings.”

The last person I want to talk about is Trey. “What else persuaded you to work on it?”

“Well, I was happy to have a reason to stay. I don’t have much of a life to return to. There’s my mom, but she recently remarried and could probably use the privacy. She thinks I’m off at a summer camp.” He gives a fake laugh. “I guess this place is kind of like camp, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say indifferently.

“Look, I believe Trey wanted the emotional modifier created to erase negative emotions. It would be easier to battle certain people, like Zhuang for instance, if they weren’t overwhelmed by hate. Negative emotions color everything. They make it impossible for a person to reason clearly. All their decisions become tainted by these emotions.”

“Modifiers don’t work on Zhuang.”

“I know, but it could work on other people, like the Voyageurs.”

My eyes drift back to the distant focal point at the end of the hallway. “I guess.”

“Roya, I need to say something.” George’s tone is softer, a tender need behind it. It’s enough to beckon my full attention. “I’m sorry I hurt you and complicated everything the night of the party. It was unfair of me to demand to know how you feel. It was foolish. A mistake I won’t make again if I haven’t already ruined everything between us.” He stands staring at me; a soft pleading expression marks his eyes.

Between us?
He created friction that night, but does something still lie between us? If I’m going to start listening to this organ in my chest again then it’s telling me there is. “No, I get it. I forgive you,” I say.

Understated relief flicks across his face. There’s something to be said for a man with such a subtle nature. Something good.

A sliver of a smile graces George’s lips. Probably should have put a shield up before I went off having feelings about him.

“What you demanded was unfair. But I also realize that it’s difficult for you to feel people’s emotions and not always understand the thoughts that go behind them,” I say, trying not to be flustered by his unrelenting gaze. “Have you thought of hooking up with Samara? You two would make a perfect pair.”

George reaches out and grips my arm, tugging me toward him. “We both know I don’t want Samara.” He slides his arms around my shoulders, pulling me in closer. His warmth thaws my frozen insides. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was until now. With a small squeeze the space between us doesn’t exist anymore. My hands hold his sturdy back. Physical touch doesn’t have the same intensity in dream travel form, but right now hugging George is beyond powerful. A dozen sensations run through my body as he strokes my hair. I press my face more firmly into his chest, breathing him in. Comfort resides in his arms. And it’s what I needed, but didn’t even know it. Suddenly I feel better than I have in days.

George pulls back, peering down at me, a look of empathy on his face. “Roya, no one knows like I do the amount of pressure on your shoulders right now. I also know how alone you feel, but you’re not. Leaning on someone doesn’t make you weak.” He bends down and whispers into my ear, “I think you might find it gives you strength.” A chill shivers through my spine. With my hands still wrapped around his waist I pull him back, burying my head in his chest. I don’t want to leave the sanctuary of his arms, but it will all be ruined if someone sneaks up on us in this intimate moment. I ease back and say, “Show me that poem.”

George’s room is tidy and has an air of emptiness about it. It’s not that it’s lacking, but rather that it’s impersonal. Other than a stack of books and a notebook on his desk there’s nothing else personal in the room. Besides George himself, that is, who’s currently lying on his bed, his eyes closed, abdomen rising and falling with each breath. It should be weird to see him in both his physical and dream traveler forms, but it’s not. We’ve been through so much together already.

I take a seat at his desk. He picks up his notebook and removes a folded piece of paper from an inside folder.

“After the mission is over, are you still planning on leaving the Institute?” he asks, taking a seat in a nearby chair.

“I don’t know. I can’t think past the Grotte.”

George nods, chewing on his lip. “I promise I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not this time. Not now that I’ll be with you.”

I shake my head. “You can’t promise that and you shouldn’t. Also, I’m the leader and it’s my job to ensure the safety of the team.”

“And Aiden’s.” His words hang in the air. A tender knot rises in my throat. George looks subtly heartbroken. “Here’s the poem,” he finally says, handing me the paper.

Sweeping my eyes over the words I pretend to read it, but I can’t focus. George warned me when we sat on the steps at the Sydney Opera House that his relationships never work out. He warned me that his empathesis usually causes him to be paranoid and jealous. I didn’t want to believe him then. Now I do and I’m not sure if it changes how much I still find myself wanting what he can give me. In a million ways I feel torn, by him, by Aiden, and by another dismal event which threatens to leave me fractured. First I have to rescue Aiden. Then I have to make a decision, because I don’t have the capacity to love them both—not the way they deserve.

“You’re not reading,” George says, breaking the silence.

“No, I’m not,” I admit.

“You can have it. I copied it down because it reminded me of you.”

I give him a pained smile. I wish I would have read it, rather than felt pitiful in front of him. “Thanks.”

I return to my body feeling heavy and tired. Lying beside me is the iPod. I slip the buds in my ears, fire it up, and curl up in a tiny ball. Music lures me into restless sleep, where I dream of Aiden starving in a damp cave. I awake wanting to run to George’s room where his arms will ease my pain, but I don’t. This is all wrong. How can I need the comfort of one because the other is tragically missing? How can this all be possible? I push myself out of bed and do the only thing that feels right. I run.
 

Chapter Twenty-Five

T
he lights in the lecture hall are set on dim when I enter. I’m used to being the first one to every training session. Three steps into the hall and the automatic lights flicker on overhead illuminating the person sitting in the middle of the stage. Ren. Quickly I cover up my startled response. He must have been sitting still behind the desk for a while to make the lights go off. My presence isn’t greeted by the slightest look; he just continues to stare at a pencil like he’s trying to move it with his mind.

I slip into my normal seat and busy myself reviewing notes. I’ve already been over them twice this morning.

“Thanks,” Ren says in a low hush.

My head jerks up. Ren’s still-bruised face is looking at me. “What?” I say.

“Thanks,” he says, refocusing on the pencil. “You saved my life with your news report. Thanks.” There’s a cold sincerity in his voice. Maybe Ren isn’t the devil after all. He, just as much as the rest of us, feels the need to repay a good deed.

“You’re welcome.”

He shakes his head, like he’s trying to dispel a frustrated thought. “Well, now that we’ve got that ugly mess out of the way, maybe we can return to normal.”

“Because being nice to each other is somehow abnormal?”

“Nice isn’t my style.”

The normal dread that used to accompany his lectures had dissipated. I should have known it wouldn’t last. The old, abusive Ren is back and has probably stored up an arsenal of insults. “Well, I apologize for thinking that saving your life would improve our working relationship.”

“Hmmm,” he ruminates, an evil toothy grin on his face. “’Fraid it doesn’t work that way. I’ve saved your life plenty of times and you’ve been cross with me since the get-go.”

“Need I remind you that when we met you stabbed me in the arm?”

“Oh, let the past die, would you?”

“Yeah, right. And what do you mean you’ve saved my life plenty of times?”

“I mean exactly what I said. It’s really not my fault if you can’t understand plain English.”

Someone enters the lecture hall behind me. Within two paces I recognize the gait. George. With immense effort I pull my eyes from Ren’s sharp gaze.

George takes the seat next to me. A glance in his direction fills me with both pleasure and anxiety. I give him a weak smile and he returns it. No words are spoken between us, but so much is said. It feels as though in one night we entered into a silent partnership, one with expectations and benefits and a whole host of things that make me uncomfortable. George scrutinizes me, then writes a few words on the paper in front of him:

Just lean. Stop worrying. I expect nothing of you.

I flick my eyes up to meet his. They’re warm, full of sincerity. “Okay,” I mouth.

He folds the paper in two and hands it to me. “Just in case you need to be reminded later.”

“I’ve saved the very worst for last,” Ren says a few minutes later when everyone is seated. He extends his arms triumphantly. “You’re welcome.” He begins striding between our desks, thumping the top of each as he passes. “Duck. Duck. Duck.” Ren halts in front of Pearl’s desk, smacks the top, and says, “Goose!” She flinches, but holds a look of determination. “You’re it, little curly Sue. Tell me, what’s the worst thing a person can do to you?”

Pearl looks straight to me, like the answer is written on my face. “Kill you?”

“In most all circumstance the most obvious answer isn’t the correct one, and in this case that’s also true.” Ren strides forward, tapping desks again. “Duck. Duck. Goose!” He points a menacing finger at Trent. “Same question, what’s the worst thing a person can do to you?”

“Torture you,” Trent says, holding himself confidently.

“Well, well, well, you don’t lack as much imagination as I thought. However, that’s not exactly the answer I was looking for. Let’s keep playing, shall we?”

Tap. “Duck.”

Tap. “Duck.”

Tap. “Goose!” Ren’s pale hand slams down on the front of my desk. “Tell me, missy, what’s your answer to this prized question?”

“The worst thing someone can do…” I pause, stare at him, and tap my fingers casually on my desktop. I wait until I see his eyes grow impatient. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then I wait a few seconds longer. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Anytime now, missy,” Ren says, bearing down on my desk.

“Freedom. If someone takes away my freedom, whether it’s my ability to think or feel or choose. It’s all the same really, but without it I’m tortured. That’s the worst thing.”

Ren retracts from my desktop, staring at me with a semblance of awe and irritation. He charges off toward the center of the room. “Well, that’s a dreadfully good guess and although correct, it was still awfully executed.”

He draws in a wheezy breath, then turns around and faces us. “Yes, freedom is the answer to the question, but how it can be assaulted is the ultimate riddle. The greatest adversary you’ll face at the Grotte is someone who will not battle you for your freedom, but rather steal it from you when you’re unsuspecting. And once he has it you’ll want none other than the best for him, because that’s what he’ll intend.”

Ren charges back to our desk and begins tapping them again. Now we all sit stoically, unaffected by his intimidation. “Truthfully, the ultimate answer to my question: what’s the worst someone can do to you is…Chase.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Ren slams his hand again on my desk and stares, his green eyes intense. “Chase is the worst Voyageur you’ll ever meet. If you get past Pierre’s probe, and Allouette’s knives, then get ready for a real challenge. It will come from Chase. Of course, like me, he’s a performer. He won’t hurt you the way Allouette will, but what he’ll do will warp you in ways you never thought imaginable. It will change how you view reality.” Ren taps his head and says, “Mind control. That’s what makes Chase a sideshow. And if you’re in the audience to watch his act you might find yourself squawking like a chicken and trying to lay eggs, and that’s if he likes you. For those he doesn’t he’ll have you pick up a knife and slit your own throat. What a way to go, huh?”