The Gathering (31 page)

His green eyes turn to mine.

“You don’t want me to go.”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why aren’t you trying to talk me out of it?” He definitely hasn’t had a problem trying in the past. Why isn’t he now?

“Would you listen if I tried?”

“Probably not.”

He shoots me a sideways look, one corner of his mouth quirked. “I have this battle going on right now. There’s the guy who’s your Keeper. And there’s the guy who’s in love with you.”

In love.

He said the words yesterday. Hearing him say them again is more intoxicating the second time around. “I didn’t know those were two separate guys.”

“They’re very, very different.”

“Sounds like Multiple Personality Disorder. Dr. Sheng might have medicine for that.”

Luka smiles. It’s short-lived, ousted by this deep, dark brood that belongs on a magazine cover.

“So what are they battling about?”

“The Keeper wants to find a way to stop you from going. The guy who’s in love knows that this is what you were meant to do.” He scratches the back of his head. “As someone who can’t do what he was meant to do, I would never wish that on you.”

I swallow. “Which side is winning?”

He grabs the underside of my chair and pulls me closer, the legs scrapping loudly against the floor. “The guy who’s in love with you. But can the Keeper please say something?”

“Of course.”

He brushes my hair over my shoulder and presses the softest of kisses against my cheek. “If you’re in danger, promise that you’ll startle awake.”

With his lips traveling to my earlobe in that way they do, I would promise him anything.

Gesundheit

C
live’s cloak is strong and warm. It hides Glenda, Cap, and me easily. Even so, I don’t feel safe. Because I don’t trust Clive. And yet, I’m giving him my trust anyway.

It’s an unnerving thing.

So are the iron bars covering the windows of the room we stand inside. B-Trix has three stateside homes—one in L.A., one in Miami, and another in upstate New York. Judging by the cloudy ocean view outside the barred windows, we’re in the dream-world version of her L.A. home. And judging by the furniture and plants, we’ve landed in some sort of sitting room.

Voices filter inside from somewhere nearby. It sounds like the television.

Cap waves us ahead and we creep out into the hallway. A woman dressed in a maid’s uniform walks toward us, her beady eyes moving left and right—another sign that B-Trix has been hijacked. Projections don’t move independently of the dreamer. Not in a real dream. It’s also a reminder that we’ve entered a hostile environment. We aren’t welcome here.

I hold my breath, press my back against the wall, and stare hard at Clive as the lady walks past. His cloak remains.

We tiptoe toward the sound of voices and come out into a large, open living room. B-Trix lounges on a leather sofa, her bare feet propped up on the arm rest, a pan of mostly eaten brownies on the coffee table while she and a girl watch a popular zombie show. Without all the makeup, without the flashy outfit, without all the lights and glitz that are as much a part of her celebrity persona as her music, she’s nearly unrecognizable.

“You really aren’t going on tour this fall?” the girl asks.

“My manager wants me to rest my vocal chords. Since sales on my last record are so bloody brilliant, he’s not too worried about it.”

“You finally get a break.”

B-Trix snags the last brownie from the pan and breaks off a bite. “And enjoying every second.”

The girl laughs. “That’s your fourth brownie!”

B-Trix wiggles her toes. “No tour, no dieting, and my trousers fit just fine. It’s a dream come true, really.”

Cap and I exchange a look. She has no idea.

Glenda taps me on the shoulder and points. Across the room, a man stands against the wall, his large hands clasped in front of him, his legs splayed shoulder-width apart. B-Trix is no doubt used to bodyguards. How convenient for the hijacker.

The four of us engage in a silent conversation beneath the safety of Clive’s cloak. Basically, how in the world are we going to get B-Trix alone? Not only is she with this girl, but we have the burly bodyguard to contend with. We stand there in the entryway for who knows how long, my mind spinning in useless circles. Just as panic sets in—because seriously, we could be here for a long, long time—B-Trix hops up from the sofa.

The bodyguard shifts. “Do you need something?”

“I’m going to scrounge up some nosh.”

“I can have someone get it for you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I need to stretch my legs.” She walks out of the room, right past us. The bodyguard follows. The lack of privacy would drive me nuts.

B-Trix, however, doesn’t seem fazed.

We follow a safe distance behind as she enters a pristine kitchen with marble countertops and begins searching the cupboards, humming one of her songs while Cap pantomimes a plan.

He will go into the adjoining dining room under the protection of Clive’s expanding cloak. Once there, he’ll cause a diversion. Hopefully, Mr. Bodyguard will go check it out and I’ll make fast work of convincing B-Trix that she’s being held prisoner inside her own mind. It’s amazing how much can be communicated without speaking. It’s also amazing how easily plans can go awry.

Just as Cap takes his fifth step away, Glenda’s nose twitches. The sneeze comes so fast, she doesn’t have time to cover it. The sound escapes in a high-pitched squeak, her face registers horror, and she disappears.

The bodyguard’s attention shoots in our direction.

Clive’s cloak remains steady.

My heart jumps into overdrive.
Glenda and her allergies!

She must have sneezed in real life, which jolted her awake, and now she’s left us here, in this dream, holding our breaths. None of us move. We have turned into a terrified tableau. I stand in place, paralyzed by fear while B-Trix—who must not have heard the sneeze—rummages for snacks.

Slowly, agonizingly, the bodyguard peels his attention away.

I release a silent, shaky breath.

Cap finishes the step he began to take before allergens attacked Glenda’s nose.

And the ground shakes. It rises up, pitching me backward into the wall. Cap stumbles. B-Trix shrieks and clutches the counter. The floor shakes again, so violently it knocks Clive off balance. His cloak falters, and for a split second we’re visible. He recovers, but it doesn’t matter. The damage has been done. The bodyguard has already seen us.

He stares in our direction, unconcerned by the earthquake, an enigmatic gleam in his eye as another, identical bodyguard appears. B-Trix is so busy clutching the counter and screaming, she doesn’t notice our new guest. Or the two others that arrive after him.

The edges of Clive’s cloak turn into the strange mist that circled my ankle when he tried out for our special ops team. Only this time, it wraps around the bodyguards and immobilizes them. But three more show up, and the ground shakes so hard it’s almost impossible to stay vertical. The hijacker knows we’re here. He’s trying to kick us out. I should do what Luka asked. I should startle myself awake, but Cap and Clive are fighting, and B-Trix stands not more than two feet away.

I grab her shoulders and spin her around.

Her panicked eyes are wide with terror. “Who are you? What’s happening?”

“This is a dream!” I rattle her shoulders harder than the rattling ground, desperate for the truth to sink down deep in the crevices of her brain. “You are being held—”

The temperature in the room plunges to ice.

An entire cupboard rips from the wall and hurls itself against B-Trix. She flies back, crumples to the ground, and lays in a motionless heap beside a man who looks nothing like the bodyguards. The hijacker is here. He flicks his wrist and another cupboard tears off the wall and slams into Clive. He lifts his arms and black mist rises up around us like the iron bars on the windows.

“Startle!” Cap yells.

I try, but it doesn’t work. I don’t wake up. Neither does Cap. We’re every bit as trapped as B-Trix.

The bodyguards surround Cap.

The hijacker sets his sights on me, prowling closer like a hungry lion. He stretches his arm in my direction and a blast of invisible ice slams me against the wall. I hit the ground with a loud
oomph
, momentarily breathless. The black mist creeps toward my foot and winds itself around my shin. It’s so cold, I scream. It’s so cold, I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. The same feeling that overtook me when Clive attacked me with his cloak builds now.

Panic.

White-hot panic. It scorches my insides and shoots through my limbs, so intense I act on instinct. I throw out my hands and hurl a shield at the hijacker. It slams into him. Only it doesn’t disappear like most shields do. It expands, growing in brightness. As soon as it touches the bodyguards attacking Cap, they disappear.

“No!” the hijacker yells.

More show up in their place, but my growing shield consumes them, too, and the hijacker’s yell turns into an enraged scream.

I fall to my knees and shake B-Trix’s shoulder. She needs to wake up. I need to explain. But the ceiling begins to break apart. Everything bursts into light. And I wake up in bed, drenched in sweat.

Arseways

L
uka hops a checker on the board.

It’s Sunday.

Like the hub, the routine is lax on Sundays. There are no classes, and only work that’s absolutely necessary to maintain life in Headquarters. Rosie finagled Luka into playing a second game of checkers, but he’s not paying much attention. Like me, he keeps staring at the news on the television, as if the anchors on CNN might offer up some answers.

Nobody has any idea what happened last night. Not Cap. Not Felix. Not Link. Definitely not me. We don’t know what happened to the hijacker. We don’t know what in the world I did to make the dream collapse. We don’t even know if B-Trix is free. It wouldn’t be difficult to find out. We have the dream simulator. I could hook myself up, try hopping, and if it doesn’t work, well, at least we know that much. But nobody will let me return.

They’ll be waiting for you
, Cap said.

It’d be highly dangerous
, Felix agreed.

I scratch my ear and glance toward the west wing door. Link and Ronie are working on getting in touch with Chief Fredrick. Apparently, they didn’t run into any problems. No sneezes or dreamquakes. With a little patience, they were able to get Fredrick alone, Link worked his magic, and Lexi and Connal fought off the hijacker so Fredrick could escape.

“Your move,” Rosie says.

Luka scoots a checker forward.

One of the CNN anchors says a name that has me sitting up straighter.

B-Trix.

The television screen pans to a press release, where the pale-looking popstar sits behind a table on a podium, cameras flashing as reporters shout questions.

“The truth is,” B-Trix says, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I’ve been suffering from lapses in memory. It’s a frightening ordeal to go through. After speaking with my team, I’ve decided to check myself into a private rehab facility. I adore my fans and I’m terribly sorry to cancel my tour, but right now the most important thing is that I get well.”

The camera cuts back to the two news anchors, who applaud her decision. They talk about how refreshing it is to see such a high-profile celebrity publicly admit her struggles. To set an example and take advantage of the services our country has in place.

“There’s no shame in that,” one of the anchors says.

I feel sick.

“I guess we have our answer,” Luka mutters. “She’s no longer being hijacked.”

And yet, it feels the opposite of victorious. We freed her, but it made no difference. She’s handing herself over to the enemy by checking herself into a rehab facility. How many of B-Trix’s fans will follow in her footsteps? How many will end up dead in a ditch?

“Unfortunately,” the news anchor continues, “this comes on the heels of some very upsetting news. Our own Chief of Press, Henry Fredrick, was found dead in his home earlier this morning.”

I stand from my seat, my breath turning shallow.

“Authorities have said that the injuries appear to be self-inflicted, but aren’t releasing anymore information at this time …”

I look at Luka. “I thought they said they got to him.”

“They did.”

“Then why would he commit suicide?” But even as I ask the question, a part of me already knows the answer. What happened to Chief Fredrick is the same thing that happened to Dr. Roth. It wasn’t suicide; it was murder. We set him free and the enemy killed him for it.

How long before B-Trix ends up the same way?

*

The soles of my shoes eat up the tread. My lungs burn. Sweat drips down my face and between my shoulder blades. Yet I increase the speed like I might be able to outrun my frustration. There’s no word from Joe, who left last night on his mission to remove Secretary Young. Chief Fredrick is dead, accused of a suicide he didn’t commit. And B-Trix will most likely be gone before nightfall.