The Butterfly Code (14 page)

A
few days pass
. I spend the time trying to work out new bars to my composition. Unfortunately, they won’t come.

Victoria and I do basic exercises to bring mobility back into my hips and shoulders. My left hand is now fully functional, which gives me hope. The wires and monitors are gone. She supplies my medication—two red pills in the morning, the strange silver one at noon, two blue pills at night—checks my blood, listens to my heart, sits with me while I eat.

The fear that I won’t be better by September is rarely far from my mind.

Yesterday, we argued.

"I want to know about that security booth," I’d said. "I’m pretty sure taking someone’s blood is illegal."

"It’s private property. No one asked you to stick your hand in there. If you don’t like it, too bad. You shouldn’t have stolen that pass. Personally, I think it’s quite clever to have a DNA record of people trying to break in. Move your arms up and down. That’s it, ten more reps."

Even with the casts, the mobility in my shoulders was coming back quickly. "Wait, that’s right, I heard you talking about my blood sample in the operating room."

"I very much doubt that."

"No—I did. Someone said they recognized me and I think . . . you were afraid or . . ."

"Afraid?" she demanded. "And how would you know that?"

I examined her face, and for one crazy moment, I wondered if she was testing me.

She waited, arms crossed. I tried to recall the words I’d overheard. They were gone.

"You know," she said, "in my experience, it’s people like you, the innocent-seeming ones, that end up causing the most trouble."

"Well, that’s a blanket statement."

"You’re here, aren’t you?"

Today, in comparison, Victoria is subdued. She combs my hair as I watch in a hand mirror. Thanks to Dad’s helmet, even though the visor had been up, I’d suffered little damage to my face. It’s healed now.

Her gentleness surprises me. She’s almost mothering. I’m embarrassed at being cared for by her in this way.

"I was tired of looking at your stringy bedhead," she tells me.

Strangely, I find her pointy attitude better than pity. I laugh.

In fact, I think I’m coming to like her for all her harshness. I don’t think she’s actually malicious. Maybe the opposite.

Maybe her jagged manner is a wall because she cares too much.

T
he sound
of incoming mail pings on my iPod. It’s a message from Professor Darcy.

Goose bumps race along my arms. All morning I’ve been listening to my favorite sound track: Ólafur Arnalds’s haunting music for the TV drama
Broadchurch
. His work and life are an inspiration.

To think I could follow in his footsteps, write scores to gripping stories—it just seems impossible. Like a dream that fell out of the sky. It’s everything I want—to get paid to compose. I could juggle it with the Philharmonic. I know I could.

And if not?

I can’t think that far ahead. I click on the link. They want samples of my compositions. I attach two. It’s surreal. What if they don’t like them? Maybe I shouldn’t do this. I’m baring my soul, and, after Hunter, I’m not sure I could weather another rejection.

My finger hovers over my iPod.

Then I hit send.

T
he following morning
, Edward—formal Edward who is amazingly strong, given his elderly, tall, slender frame—lifts me into a wheelchair and conveys me out for a stroll.

"It’s too much trouble," I try to tell him.

"For me or for you?"

"For you, dragging me out here."

"I assure you I’m quite up to the task."

"That’s not what I meant," I try to twist around to see his face, without luck.

"Besides, technically I’m not dragging you. That would no doubt cause quite a bit of discomfort on both our parts."

"You’re teasing me."

"It would appear so. Here we are."

We turn alongside the house and out into a vast, English-style garden.

"It’s beautiful."

"I would have felt personally responsible had I not taken you here during your visit. Especially since, as you say, peonies were your mother’s favorite flower."

I inhale deeply and look around. More and more I question the oddity of this place. A horse barn, gardens, beautifully furnished rooms. Hunter’s choice of clothes.

The sun sends long shadows slanting among the giant peony plants. The blooms are huge. Blush-pink ones that exude a rich, heady perfume. Lazy bumblebees flounder around them, sinking and rising as they move from bud to bud.

The sound of a man humming makes me turn quickly. For a heartbeat, I think it’s Hunter, and my pulse races out of control.

A flash of red hair appears beyond a hedge.

Ian.

My spirits sink. He scares me, although I’m not sure why. I shrink back in my wheelchair, longing to escape. As if seeing my trepidation, Edward comes to stand behind me, putting the weight of his steady hands on the push handles. I wish he would bear me swiftly away.

Ian wears a lab coat over his waffle henley and cargo pants. It’s the first sign I’ve seen to suggest that research really is being done here. Even if, like Hunter, he doesn’t match my clichéd image of how a scientist should look. Yes, his pockets are sagging with pens. But his shoulders are huge and his waist is lean, and I doubt there’s a millimeter of fat on his six-foot frame. They must have a killer gym in this place.

A liquor bottle dangles from one hand, two thirds of its amber liquid gone. The other holds a cut glass tumbler that sparkles in the sunlight. Catching sight of me, he scowls.

My left hand clenches and starts to sweat.

"Hello," I call in a voice suddenly hoarse.

Ian raises his glass to me and takes a slug.

"Healing well, are we?" His tone is clipped.

"Yes, thank you." He makes me nervous. "I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble."

He stares into the amber liquid. "Yeah, well. Promise me one thing."

"What’s that?"

"Take your meds."

I’m stunned. That’s his request?

"Religiously, exactly as directed." His face is stiff.

"Of course."

His fingers tighten around the crystal glass. I’m afraid he might crush it. "This isn’t a joke. I need your promise, Aeris."

"Yes, I promise."

Ian’s eyes go to Edward’s face. "You damn well better keep it."

I watch him go, my stomach roiling.

If I’d wondered before, now I’m certain. The treatment is suspicious, something they’re working on here. I call after him. He ignores me and keeps walking.

I’d wanted to ask Edward to take me to the barn to see Blaze. Now, however, I want to go back to my room. Nerves are turning my legs to jelly in my casts.

Before we leave the garden, Edward cuts a bouquet of peonies and I hold them in my lap. As I finger the soft blooms, my mind spins with questions. Something’s not right about this lab. Or about the people who work here. Hunter’s beyond strong. Or had I imagined the speed and strength with which he’d saved me? And I still can’t get past that flash I’m sure I saw in his eyes. And then there’s Iron-fist. What is it that he’s desperate to get his hands on? The pills I’m taking? I can almost taste the strange, acrid silver ball. What’s in it? Will there be side effects? I feel fine now, but do they even know?

Back in my room, I watch Edward arrange the blooms in a vase.

"I’d like to stay in the chair for a while."

"You sure you’re comfortable?"

"Perfectly."

"Very good. Will you be needing anything else?"

"No thanks, Edward."

"I’ll check on you in an hour."

I wait until Edward’s footsteps have died away. Then I test out my ability to wheel my way out the door. For the first time, I’m moving through the house alone.

I
’m surprised
at the strength in my left hand and arm. I wheel down the hall and peer through each door in turn. Despite the casts, I feel good. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I guess I’ll know when I find it.

There’s a sitting room with floral-print chairs and a clean fireplace. Next come two unfurnished rooms. Farther on, I find a game room with a billiard table, a dartboard, and a liquor cabinet. A decanter rests on a side table next to a half-full glass. I picture Ian tucked in the depths of some leather armchair, so I hurry past, turning one corner and then another, not stopping until I feel safe.

I reach a hall hung with paintings. Landscapes, mostly. A shiny brass door handle catches my interest, and I decide to have a look. It’s unlocked. It swings open, and I find myself staring into a man’s study.

Hunter’s leather jacket lies folded on a chair.

My heart stutters.

How is it he still has such a maddening magnetic pull on me?

I enter and shut the door. This room is definitely his. His presence is everywhere, from the faint woodsy scent to the heavy oak furnishings to the packed bookshelves full of medical tomes, field guides on flora and fauna, bioengineering textbooks with titles I can’t even begin to understand. It practically crackles with his aura.

I’m intruding. I shouldn’t be here. But neither can I go.

Slowly, I approach his sprawling desk. The teak floor creaks under the wheels. I continue until my knees are pressed against the side.

The broad surface holds oddities from medical instruments to calculators. Next to a half-empty glass of water lies an open notepad. I back up and maneuver around to it. From the way he threw the pen down and left his drink here, it’s like he’s about to return. Then a horrible thought hits. He can’t actually be here, avoiding me, could he? I push aside the idea as ridiculous and study his notes.

The tiny drawings and calculations are so dense the pages are nearly black. I pore over them and can make no sense beyond references to blood types.

I glance up and see a framed photo. It’s clearly old given the clothing worn by the couple in the picture. The man looks like Hunter, although sterner somehow. The woman’s smile is kind, and she has his eyes. It must be his grandparents.

I avert my gaze, feeling bad for snooping. I’m reminded of how I searched Dad’s office all those weeks ago. I hadn’t learned anything about the PRL, or about Hunter. But I’d found Mom’s cryptic journal entry with her warning about human genetic modification.

Hunter and I had talked about it the day he and I went riding. I’d asked him if he thought it wrong for a doctor to seriously modify a person’s genetics if it could save the patient’s life. He’d gone all stiff and I had to press him to reply. What had he said?

"I don’t believe anyone has any business playing God."

But if Ian was telling the truth about me, that I was dead, isn’t that exactly what he’d done? Played God?

I turn my attention to a thick folder. It contains investment information about a company called Vogel Instrumentation. Nothing that promises answers.

"Where are you, Hunter?" I whisper into the silence.

The faint tick of a clock is the only reply. I should go back before someone finds me here.

On my way out, I pass the chair with Hunter’s jacket. Unable to help myself, I pause and pull the heavy object into my lap. Then I hug it to me and breathe in his scent. I let myself dream we’re back in the barn. None of this ever happened. We’re safe. We’re going to that concert.

Chest aching, I press my face to his coat.

The instant I do, I double over in pain.

My teeth clench as heat roars up my arms and spreads along my neck and into my mind. Lurching forward, I nearly tumble out of the chair. My breath comes fast and sharp. For a second, the pain falters, breaking off, and then comes again. Like a radio broadcast, tuning in and out. Raging and then dull, static and then coming through loud and clear.

As sweat pours down my sides, it dawns on me that this is not my pain. It’s coming from outside me. Coming from a distance, radiating in and out.

Then I sense a rush of emotions. Masculine and angry. And protective, fiercely protective. I recognize that emotional signature. I know whose pain this is.

Hunter’s.

Did I infect him, then? Is that what this is? Is that what happened?

Or am I going crazy? Am I imagining all this?

Desperately, I try to reach out to him, to feel for a response. The flames grow so intense tears leak from the corners of my closed eyes.

Hunter, what is this? Where are you? Tell me. Show me. I want to help!

In response, I feel myself being thrust backward. It’s so powerful I’m thrown back in the chair and the jacket slips from my arms. A wall slams down between us. I realize my ears had been roaring, because now the room is dead still.

I’m sweating beneath my casts. My left hand is drenched. I reach down and pick up Hunter’s coat.
Don’t shut me out
, I think, even as I begin to question my own sanity. Cautiously, I press my face to the leather again. This time nothing happens. I try and try.

There’s no point. I’m going mad. That’s the only explanation.

Abandoning it on the chair, I turn and wheel myself out into the hall.

Footsteps sound from around a corner. They’re drawing closer. I want to be gone. Frantic, I start to push myself along.

Then I hear Victoria’s voice. "Hunter said he left it on his desk."

"I hope so," comes Ian’s reply.

Any second, they’ll see me. I try the nearest door. Locked. The second one whispers open under my urgent push. Swiftly, I enter. The room is dark. A moment passes before my eyes adjust. Closed curtains block off the far wall. I make out lumps of what must be furniture draped in sheets. Then I catch sight of the piano, and I forget everything and everyone.

A Steinway.

I cross the room in an instant. I can’t help myself. It takes some effort to shove the bench clear. Then I’m sitting at the keys, and I begin, very softly, to play. One-handed. My fingers are stiff. They don’t respond like they used to. Fear wells up, yet I shove it down. I’m playing, and that’s enough. Here there is music. Distorted or not, I’m playing.

"How did you get in here?" Ian demands.

I swivel in my seat. I realize my face is damp with tears. I scrub them quickly away.

He’s wearing his lab coat. Now, however, across his left side is a dinner plate–sized crimson stain. Is that . . . blood? My eyes snap to his. I sense worry flowing from him. It blends and swirls with my own uneasy fear. What caused that ugly blotch?

Should I bluff? And say what?

"I was tired of sitting in my room."

"Who told you you could go snooping around?" Ian demands.

"No one."

Victoria pushes in behind him. "There’s no point getting uptight, Ian. I would have done the same thing."

"This area of the facility is off limits!"

"It doesn’t look much like a facility," I counter. "I don’t see any high-tech labs or anything. It just looks like a house to me. And if this room’s so top secret, why is the door unlocked?"

"This room isn’t—that’s not the point," he growls, fuming.

"I’ve never been in here before." Victoria strolls past him, glancing at the shrouded furniture. At the piano, she runs a finger along the dusty top. "You play pretty well one-handed."

"Thanks," I say.

"I didn’t know this was here. I would’ve brought you. It’s a lot better exercise than what we’ve been doing." She moves around the room, lifting covers and peering underneath. "We don’t use this part of the house much. But you know what our facility’s called, right? You know what we do?"

"Exactly my point," Ian interjects. "You can’t just go sticking your nose wherever you feel like. It’s called Phoenix Research Lab
for
Highly Contagious Diseases
for a reason. I don’t give a damn if you’re bored or whatever the hell drove you out here. What if something happened to you? Isn’t it enough that we saved you once already?"

"I’m not trying to cause trouble."

His glare shifts to Victoria. "It was a mistake putting her in this chair. Who authorized it? You? Edward?"

"Calm down. There’s no harm done," she says.

He flaps his arms. "Oh great. Really?"

"I want to go home," I say. "Now. I’ve been enough of a burden. Call my Dad, and he can come get me."

"You can’t." Ian’s voice is flat.

"What do you mean?" I demand.

"It’s not safe," Victoria says. "There’s no way you’re ready. You’re not recovered enough. You still need rehabilitation. And your drugs need monitoring."

"What kind of drugs are they, anyway? I mean, why do I need drugs for broken bones?"

Ian starts to say something, but Victoria raises a slim hand. "It wasn’t just your bones. You were injured internally. You experienced near organ failure. You might feel fine, but you’re not. Not yet."

I consider her words. Then I raise my eyes to Ian. "You said I was dead. I heard you say it."

His mouth opens. Beneath his flaming red hair, his forehead puckers. "I said what?" He starts to laugh. "I said you were dead?"

"I heard you!"

"Look, I’m right in the middle of an experiment, and I don’t have time for this." He’s laughing now.

"I know what I heard," I say.

He scratches his head. "If you were dead, Aeris, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’m good at what I do, but I’m not that good. If I were, I sure as hell wouldn’t be slogging away in some lab. I’d be waving my magic wand over terminal cancer patients and getting rich."

His outrage is so thick I can’t help wondering if he’s telling the truth. Emotions are not like words. They don’t carry the same information. Am I wrong? Did I dream what he said? I was unconscious for a long time. Three weeks.

Uncertain, I stare at the piano keys.

"Okay, are we done here?" Victoria asks.

"I know I am," Ian says.

"I can make my own way back to my room."

"I’ll take you," Victoria says.

I sense Ian’s relief. "Make it quick. We need to get back to work."

"Right-o, slave driver."

He rolls his eyes.

We part ways in the hall.

"Ian gets his back up, but he’s not that bad when you get to know him. He’s just a little overprotective and he worries," Victoria tells me.

I mull this over, not sure I agree with her assessment. "He looked pretty upset."

"It’s good to shake him up. Keeps him on his toes."

This is just the sort of comment I’ve come to expect from her.

I can’t help grinning. "He’s always so serious. Is he ever nice?"

"I’m not sure. No, I don’t think he is. Oh wait, there was that one time—on second thought, that may have been a mistake."

"Are you serious?"

"Kidding. Stick around long enough and you’ll see he can be quite funny sometimes."

I know in that moment I won’t get the chance. As kind as Victoria and Edward have been to me, and Lucy, too, with her short, friendly visits, I have to leave.

I recall what happened to me in Hunter’s study. I’m going mad cooped up in this place. Forget the questions—forget all of it. I want to get back to my life. I need to put this behind me. I’m getting out.