Ten Thousand Skies Above You (4 page)

When the other Theo took ours over, he took that drug for months on end. My Theo—the one who stood beside
me that night, our elbows brushing—he had to go through the withdrawal. Worse, he had to live with the memories of another Theo using his body to endanger and betray us all.

“It's not always like that,” I said quietly. “Paul and I take care of our other selves. We try to live their lives, as much as we can. We'd never make them do anything they wouldn't want to do on their own.”

Though at least once, in the Russiaverse, I might have stepped over the line.

“Not judging you guys. I know it's different, the way you and Paul handle the journeys. It's just—” Theo went very still. “I've seen who I am as a traveler. I justified some of the worst stuff you could ever do to anybody, because I told myself I was ‘protecting' you. Really I was delivering you straight into Conley's hands.”

“Hey. Nobody got hurt.” I nearly touched his shoulder before I remembered I was wearing wet rubber gloves.

He shook his head, and his smile was hard. “No thanks to me. Come on. I helped them kidnap Henry.” Theo gestured toward my father, who at this point might as well be Theo's adoptive dad too. “I framed my best friend for murder. And I dragged you off on an extremely dangerous trip, just to prove Wyatt Conley could use you after all.”

“
You
didn't do any of that!”

“A version of me did. You've said a hundred times—every one of our other selves out there is the same in some important way. We have the same framework or essence or soul, whatever you want to call it.” Theo leaned against
the refrigerator and sighed. “Listen to me. When a physicist starts talking about souls, we are officially off the map.”

“I don't think it's silly or crazy—talking about souls.” I never did, really, but after these journeys began, I learned how real they are, how much they mean.

Theo shrugged. “The point is, we've all seen the danger. Apparently, when I get a little bit of power, it goes to my head. Never, ever would I want to turn into a guy who could do
anything
like what that other Theo did to all of you. So I think it's better if I stay on the sidelines.”

Although I wanted to reassure him, I couldn't. I've come to believe that there really is something that flows through every version of us, one common identity that outweighs our different situations in the various worlds. The ruthlessness and self-delusion of that other Theo—they have to be a part of this Theo, too, don't they?

When our eyes met, I knew he could tell what I was thinking. Theo cast down his dark eyes with shame for things he never even chose to do.

The shadow that had haunted us these past three months fell between us again. He turned back to the dishes, attacking them with new vigor; I took my place at his side just like before. Neither of us spoke, because there was nothing more to say.

Afterward, Theo buried himself in his work, taking his laptop onto the back deck. “I need some quiet,” he said, and my parents had the good grace not to ask why. Paul walked him out, though, and it took all my self-control not
to eavesdrop on their conversation.

As soon as the door to the deck was closed, Mom blithely said, “Is Paul staying over?”

“Mom.”

“I'm not prying.” She took her seat at the rainbow table again, ready to get back to work. “I simply need to know what I ought to plan for breakfast.”

Our living room might as well be an unofficial university dorm. When grad students work that closely with my parents, they practically move in.

But Mom wasn't asking whether she should grab blankets for the couch.

Most parents would be freaked out even thinking about their teenage kids having sex. Mine haven't got around to the freaking-out stage yet, because they are
so completely thrilled
Paul and I are together.

(Back in January, during that first conversation with my parents about my new relationship with Paul, Mom—prompted by absolutely nothing I'd said, by the way—made a suggestion. “You'll need a method of birth control. We'll have to review efficacy rates for condoms, birth control pills, hormonal inserts—”

“Oh, my God.” My face had to have turned carnelian red. “That's—we're not—it isn't an issue yet.”

Which was not addressing what happened in the Russiaverse, but that's between me and Paul. And another Marguerite, a few dimensions away.

“Will be eventually,” Dad said smoothly. “You and
Paul are young, you're healthy, obviously attracted to each other—it's only a matter of time. And you don't want to fall pregnant this early in life, do you?”

Mom brightened as she looked at Dad. “Though the genetic combination—their various talents and potential—think of it, Henry. Were they to reproduce, our grandchild would be extraordinary.”

“Wouldn't she? Or he?” Dad leaned back on the sofa, where they were relaxing and I was staring in disbelief. “The two of you should have a baby together, by all means. Just not now.”

“Whoa. Slow down.” I held up my hands, like I could physically stop them from this whole line of thought. They didn't listen.

“Pregnancy and child rearing would seriously interrupt your art studies, and Paul's defense of his dissertation, at least in the immediate future,” Mom mused. I think if I'd handed her a calendar, she would have started counting off months until the ideal conception date.

Dad took her hand. “You know, Sophie, we could help out. Even be primary caretakers while Marguerite and Paul finished their education. We always wanted another little one around. So the kids might as well get started.” My mother beamed at him, like this was the best idea ever.

When I could speak again, I said, “You guys—you're—you two are the
worst role models ever
.”

“We are, aren't we?” Mom's smile became so wicked that I finally realized they'd been putting me on—mostly.
I balled up one of Josie's discarded T-shirts and threw it at them, which made them laugh. Much later that night, as my mother and I sat out on the back deck, she finally spoke to me more seriously. “You know how much your father and I like Paul. No—how much we love him.”

I nodded. We were side by side on the wooden steps that led down into our small, nearly vertical scrap of a backyard. The light around us was provided by the strings of tropical-fish lights Josie had put up a long time ago. “This isn't going to mess things up between everyone, is it?”

Mom put her arm around me. “Marguerite, as dear as Paul is to me, you are my daughter and always my priority. If you and Paul have problems, or break up, I'm on your side. Even if you're in the wrong! You know you come first.”

Which was really sweet, but not what I'd been asking. Splitting up with Paul—that wasn't ever going to happen. Really I was worrying about Theo.

She continued, “We are all very much a part of each other's lives, and our work. To some extent that will always be true. No matter what happens between you and Paul in the future, that connection will remain.” Her fingers combed through my hair, just as curly-ratty as hers. “Lifelong relationships are complicated. It's a great deal for a new romance to carry.”

“I know,” I said. But I'd already realized Paul and I were meant to be. Destined, in a real, literal, provable sense. You can't fight destiny, and I didn't even want to try.)

Paul hasn't slept over at my house since we got together
in this world. Partly that's because we feel hyperobserved, partly out of consideration for Theo's feelings, but mostly because we're taking this slow. Making sure the moment is right.

In the Russiaverse, we rushed it and then some.

That night when they discovered the risk of splintering, Dad returned to the great room just when Paul came in from the deck. As he took my hand, Paul said to my parents, “Do you want to run the numbers again?”

Mom and Dad exchanged a look before she said, “We've got enough for tonight. We'll run it through at the lab tomorrow morning and take it from there.” She raised one eyebrow. “In other words, yes, you two have some free time.”

This was less of a treat than they seemed to think. Making out in my room isn't as much fun when I have to wonder if my parents can hear, or worse, if they're cheering us on. I used to be considerate and listen to my music on headphones. These days, I turn the speakers up to eleven.

Paul stood there awkwardly; he still hasn't figured out how to navigate the path between “respect for his mentors” and “desire for their daughter.” So I did the talking. “Okay, we'll just—”

That's when we heard a thump on the deck.

“Theo?” I let go of Paul to walk toward the sliding door, but Dad got there first. He pulled it open, startled, and swore as he rushed outside. I hurried after him, then stopped short, frozen in horror.

Theo lay sprawled out on the deck. His laptop rested
where it had fallen a few feet away, and the light from the screen illuminated Theo's face—the blankness in his eyes, the slackness of his mouth.

Oh God. Is he dead? He looks dead—

Theo's body shuddered, then convulsed. His limbs tensed as they started shaking so hard they hammered against the deck. I gasped. “Oh, my God. He's having a seizure.”

“Call 911,” Paul said, just behind me, and I heard Mom's footsteps pounding as she ran for her cell phone.

“What do we do?” Dad said as we both kneeled by Theo's side. “Do we put something in his mouth so he won't swallow his tongue?”

“No! Definitely don't do that.” I'd heard that was a bad idea with seizure patients, but I didn't know what else to do. “Just—be here with him.” Could Theo hear us? I had no idea. I only knew that my blood seemed to flush hot and run cold, back and forth, over and over again. My hands were shaking. As frightened as I was, I knew Theo had to have been so much more scared than me. So I whispered, “It's all right. We're going to get you to the hospital, okay? We've got you, Theo.”

Dad muttered, “Has he ever mentioned—any illness, any other episodes—”

“No.” Paul looked grim.

Could he be sick? Please just let him be sick.
But we all knew Theo didn't have epilepsy. We knew what was to blame.

Nightthief. The drug Wyatt Conley's spy had pumped into Theo's body over and over again, for months—the stuff
he had told me still gave him the shakes—it had done more damage than we knew. Theo hadn't been getting better; he'd been getting worse.

Conley had told us he didn't like relying on Nightthief for his dimensional travelers; we knew the drug could be harmful. But that night was the very first time I realized just how serious this might be.

The first time I realized Theo might die.

And the night Paul decided to do whatever it took to save him.

THE WIND BLOWS THROUGH THE GLASSLESS WINDOW OF
the Castel Sant'Angelo, ruffling the veil I wear over my curly hair. “You knew Paul would have to come to the Triadverse,” I say to Conley. “To look for a cure, for Theo.”

“I can give you that, too. You can save them both.” He chuckles softly. “You'll be rescuing Theo from the effects of his Triadverse self's journey to your dimension—and rescuing Paul from the consequences of his journey into mine.”

“You deliberately . . . splintered Paul?”

Conley just grins wider. “Guilty as charged.”

Now I know why the reminder didn't work. It could only have awakened Paul's soul if—if his entire soul were within this world's version.

But Wyatt Conley has torn Paul's soul apart.

Nothing I could scream at Conley would be foul enough.
There are no curses to carry the obscenity and fury in my heart.

Instead, I throw myself at him.

Our bodies collide as I slam him against the wall, knocking the breath out of Conley in a surprised huff. We both topple to the side, but I'm able to catch myself. He lands flat on the stone, red robes a puddle around him. I wish they were blood.

A terrible calm comes over me. Maybe this is what people feel like before they commit murder. “You
killed Paul
.”

“Not kill,” Conley pants. He's still fighting to breathe normally. “I splintered him. Not the same thing at all.”

“You tore his soul into pieces! You broke him apart!”

Conley's grin isn't as cocky when he's sprawled on the floor. “But you can put him back together again.”

What does he mean? Then I look down again at the Firebird, at that reading I've never seen before.

“Reminders can serve another function, it turns out,” Conley says. “They can reawaken someone's soul
or
capture an individual splinter. You thought you'd lost Paul, but you've already rescued him—part of him, that is.”

A splinter of my Paul's soul hangs on this chain, in a locket I hold in my hand.

I lean over Conley to grip his robes in one fist. “Tell me where you hid the other splinters of Paul's soul.”

“If you want that information,” Conley says, “You'll have to earn it.”

Five nights ago, at the hospital, my parents were able to stay with Theo, while Paul and I were stuck in the ER waiting area. If I ran a hospital, I would try to make a space like that feel comforting. Instead, the room seemed like it was designed to punish us: stark fluorescent light, uncomfortable chairs, a pile of dog-eared magazines at least a year old, and a television blaring in the corner with some obnoxious TV judge yelling at people stupid enough to go on the show.

Paul and I held hands, but we were too freaked out to comfort each other. We just hung on.

I whispered, “Theo never said anything about still feeling bad. He admitted he still craved Nightthief, but nothing like this.”

“He hasn't confided in me much lately.” Paul stared down at his beat-up gray tennis shoes; he even has to buy his footwear secondhand. “I believed his silence was about you. About us. It never occurred to me to think he might be more worried about something else.”

All the awkwardness of the past three months—all the odd silences, the times Theo didn't come around when we expected him—why did I assume that was all about my relationship with Paul? Because I thought Theo was jealous, or at least hurt, I never looked deeper. I didn't ask the questions I should've asked. All the while, Theo suffered alone.

Paul murmured, “I should have known.”

“He hasn't been around enough for us to see it.” True. But it was amazing how little that helped.

“The signs were there. I failed to put them together.” He
slumped forward in his chair, shoulders hunched, like he'd just picked up something heavy. “I noticed that he hasn't been driving as much. That he went out less. I thought—after what happened, I thought Theo simply wanted time to pull himself together. But I should've known he'd never skip spring break.”

With that, Paul buried his head in his hands, and I leaned against his shoulder. I don't know whether I was trying to give him strength, or take some from him. Either way, it didn't work.

My parents didn't emerge until nearly one in the morning. The light washed them out, highlighting every wrinkle and gray hair, but that's not why they seemed to have aged ten years in three hours. Fear had hollowed them out.

My voice cracked as I said, “How is he?”

“Not good.” Dad sank into a chair across from us. “Theo's in no immediate danger, but his vital signs, his blood work—the doctors have no idea what to make of it.”

Mom started counting off points on her fingers as she paced between the rows of chairs. “He's anemic. His lungs show signs of damage, as if he'd been suffering from untreated tuberculosis for years, which of course he hasn't. And the muscles in his feet and lower legs—the degeneration made one physician suggest Theo might have early-stage distal muscular dystrophy.”

I bit my lower lip, hoping the pain would keep back any tears. Paul's voice sounded thick as he said, “He doesn't, does he?”

My mother shook her head. “Possible, but doubtful. We all know the most probable cause.”

Nightthief.

“Whatever negative effects the drug had on Theo's body didn't end when he stopped taking it,” Mom said. “Apparently the damage had already reached a point of no return.”

Her meaning was obvious, but I didn't understand. I wouldn't let myself understand. Something in my brain refused to take in the words. “He'll get better, though. Right? Now that he's finally seeing a doctor?”

Dad spoke gently. “At this point, we don't know. The medical team doesn't understand his condition, which means they can't form any meaningful prognosis. But the fact that his condition has continued to worsen this long after his final dose of Nightthief . . . well, that worries me.”

Mom made a small sound in her throat—the sound she makes when she won't let herself cry out in pain. I'd heard that sound from her only once before, when she opened the door to see a policeman standing there, his hat in his hand. It was like she'd known she was about to be told that my father was dead, but she refused to believe it until the moment she had to.

That night, she believed the worst about Theo.

He might die because Wyatt Conley sent a spy to drug him over and over and over again, for months. Because of Conley's power play. Because of his grandiose dreams of dominating the multiverse.

I hadn't thought it was possible to hate Wyatt Conley more than I already did. I was wrong.

I beat myself up about it that whole night.

Why had I acted so stupidly around Theo? He accepted that I'd chosen Paul, and he never once tried to make either of us feel weird about it. If I'd taken Theo at his word, believed him that he was okay with Paul and me being together, maybe we would've spent more time with him. Then maybe I would have noticed things going wrong.

The next day, after Josie arrived, I told her as much, but she didn't buy it.

“Listen, Marguerite.” Josie stood in our kitchen, drinking her third cup of coffee. The caffeine was supposed to make up for the fact that she'd changed her flight to 6:30 a.m. to get home ASAP. “You didn't know because Theo didn't want you to know. He hid his symptoms from everyone, and that's on him.”

“It's not like Theo to keep that kind of secret,” I protested. Paul? Sure. He locks his feelings and his fears inside, sometimes for too long. But Theo likes to gripe about everything from hockey teams to parking in Berkeley. “If he didn't feel strange about being around me and Paul, he would've said something.”

Josie put down her mug and placed her hands on my shoulders. “I know it's been easy to lose sight of this lately, what with Triad treating you like the Holy Grail, but not
everything is about you, okay?”

That stung. “Then why did Theo stop telling us everything all of a sudden?”

“Honestly? My guess is the symptoms scared him. Probably he was trying to deny anything serious was going on. He couldn't tell you guys what was happening until he admitted it to himself.”

I weighed what she said, and sensed there was truth to it. No, it wasn't the whole story. But at least I felt like I could breathe again.

“When can we see Theo?” Josie asked. “Gotta be visiting hours already, right? When do his parents get here from DC?”

“Didn't Theo tell you? They're not in DC anymore.” The Becks work for the US Foreign Service, which means they move all around the globe. Most of the time they're in Washington—learning new languages, doing diplomatic work there—but Theo was born in Chile, went to kindergarten in the Philippines, and attended middle school in Iceland. Sometimes I think that's why he's such a hipster; he's trying to prove he's mastered American culture, that he's even better at it than the rest of us. “Two months ago, his parents got transferred to Mongolia. It's not exactly a quick trip back. They won't be able to get here for a couple of days.”

“His mom and dad have got to be freaking out.” Josie sighed and rubbed her temples. “Well, we can take care of Theo until they get here. So where's loverboy?”

“Please stop calling Paul that.”

“Why?” Josie smiled for the first time since we picked her up at the airport. “He's not your loverboy yet?”

The pacing of my sex life is none of Josie's business. Although I can tell her pretty much anything, Josie doesn't understand the need Paul and I have to take it slow. She's always gone for brief, intense romances herself.

So that morning I said, “You'll embarrass him. He's still figuring out how to navigate—this.” I made a vague gesture meant to take in the house, the tangled interrelationships we have, all of it.

“Paul never went out with anyone before, did he?” Josie asked.

I shook my head. He'd confessed that he'd kissed only two girls before me, and one of those was a single-second, closed-lips kiss that hardly even counts. This is what happens when a guy goes to college before he even hits puberty. Paul spent most of the past decade surrounded by girls five to ten years older than him.

That said, Paul got extremely good at kissing very, very fast.

Josie nodded, her expression overly innocent. “And you and Paul—you're good?”

“Yeah, we are.”

Paul drove me up to Muir Woods once, where we held hands while he explained the origins of the cosmos. I took him into San Francisco to see the Golden Girls Drag Show, which confused him nearly as much as it would've puzzled an extraterrestrial visiting Earth for the first time. We ride
the bus into Oakland so we can watch movies at the elegant old cinema at Grand Lake, then have coffee and doughnuts at this cool old bakeshop nearby. So we have our special occasions. But in some ways the best part is that Paul and I can just
be
. Some evenings, I'll paint for hours while he reads or works with equations, and by now we drift in and out of conversation easily, naturally. We're good together—better than I would ever have dreamed possible six months ago.

“I still can't wrap my head around it,” Josie admitted as she walked past me to flop down on the sofa. She wore the same fleece pullover and leggings she would for a 5K run. “You couldn't stand the guy, and now you're in love with him.”

“That's not true.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“
Can't stand
is way too strong. I just thought he was . . . kind of weird. That's all.”

“Paul
is
kind of weird,” Josie said. “But in a good way.”

“Then why are you being so strange about my getting together with him?”

Instead of answering right away, Josie sipped her coffee, deep in thought. Finally she said, “Right after you came home with Dad, when you'd first fallen for Paul—you told me you realized you loved him while you were in the Russiaverse.”

I remembered Lieutenant Markov waltzing with me alone in an enormous, ornate room of the Winter Palace, music playing from a phonograph in the corner, his hand warm
against the small of my back. “Yeah. I did.”

“Okay.” She hesitated, and I realized she was worried about offending me. Josie usually doesn't worry about offending
anyone
. I knew it would be bad. “Are you sure it's not just that world's Paul you loved? Because when you told me about it—Marguerite, you fell really deeply for Lieutenant Markov. And even though he's another version of Paul, they're
not the same guy
.”

Obviously she expected me to blow up. But I wasn't angry. Josie hasn't traveled to other dimensions yet. That means she can't grasp what I've learned.

“Lieutenant Markov isn't identical to my Paul Markov,” I said. “I know that. Still, something in them is the same. Something deep—the deepest, most meaningful part of who we are, that's the part that lives in every universe. In every person we could ever be. I fell in love with that Paul, and my Paul, because I fell in love with what's the same inside them—their souls, if you want to call them that. Or soul. Singular. One.”

My sister didn't look convinced. “You really believe that? That you're in love with every Paul, everywhere?”

“I don't believe,” I said. “I
know
.”

When we visited Theo at the hospital that afternoon, everything about his room there was depressing: the plain, cheerless walls; the TV hanging from a black metal adjustable arm, showing a generic action movie from cable; and above all the plastic-framed adjustable bed. Theo had propped himself
up, and he grinned when he saw us, but he was still so pale. Yet he sounded cheerful, for our sakes. “About time you two showed up.”

“I brought some things from your apartment,” Paul said.