The Isle (11 page)

           
Leave—the DI are coming to talk to Dr. Cory. Ter's got his Omni waiting at Sybil's Cave, but it's getting late. DI security tightens at 5—they're closing Castle Islet to the public. You have to leave now, or it'll be too dangerous.

           
Callum should stay put, act normal. They have nothing on him.

“
B
rack,”
I curse. Slamming my hand against the wall, I read the comm aloud. “We've gotta leave, right now, this minute. Please don't argue with me, Aven. Just get your things.”

I half expect her to pull the “You're not my mother” card a second time. She's fourteen; I probably should've seen it coming. Instead, I was blindsided—and damn, I had no
idea how bad it would hurt. My sister just threw my heart to a ten-headed, ten-jawed shark and she don't even know it. Thankfully, she leaves the room without a fight, and I answer Derek's comm.

           
Will you meet us?

His reply is instantaneous:

           
Don't wait up—I'll find another way off the island if I can't meet you.

“Where's your map, Callum?” I ask, looking around. “I need to find Sybil's Cave.”

He doesn't hear me; he's breaking down the tanks, muttering to himself. “I'm sure it'll be fine,” he says. “I was just one of Aven's doctors at Ward Hope. That's all this is.”

He disassembles the ecosystem in pieces—algae, fungus, rocks, and water. He ties them in small individual bags, then all together in one large sack. Into a second bag, he pours the serum with my blood added. He lowers both in front of me.

“Map?” I ask again.

“Of course.” He walks me to the closet door and points inside. It's massive. At the top, it reads,
The United Metro Isles and the Upstate Region (Southern Half Only)
. “Sybil's Cave,” he repeats to himself, searching the West Isle side of the map.

Meanwhile, I inspect the rest. Instinctively, my eyes find Falls—the city that once supplied us with water. Only thirty
miles north, we got slaughtered in the First Appeal. “A Dawn for Discourse” forgot to discourse that informational tidbit.

“Here we are,” Callum says, finally dropping his thumb somewhere along the Isle's coastline. His index finger drags southeast over water. “And here's Sybil's Cave,” he says. He traces the small green landmass of Castle Islet, and taps its far coast.

“How do we get there?” I ask, peering closer.

He taps the map, remembering something. “It's a stop on the historic ferry tour. My building's also on the route, as it's pre–Wash Out. Every hour, on the hour, weekdays nine to five.”

I check my comm—next boat arrives at four. “We have twenty minutes to get there.”

Callum hands me both bags of water. “We can't risk the DI finding them. And don't take the pathway to the docking area—exit out the back, you can cut through. Careful, though; the terrain is steep, and fairly wooded.”

He looks at me, his brows heavy and his face pale.

“We'll make it,” I promise. He nods, and I go for the hug first. I tackle his waist, crushing his abs with my cheek. “We couldn't have done any of this without you. I just hope we're worth the risk. I know how important the water is to you.”

Don't know why I just said that. It's not about the water anymore; it can't be. He's got different reasons for helping us.
Maybe I want to know what they are. . . .

Callum's first to pull away. He reaches for my penny charm necklace and tugs at the newer one—the one he gave me. “You don't really think it's about the water, do you?”

Shaking my head, I scoff. “Hell no. It's 'cause, secretly, you like living on the edge. I know the truth about you, Callum Pace.” Twice I poke the bony spot right over his heart. “Don't think you're fooling me.”

He hugs me again, presses his cheek to mine like I'm something warm and he's something cold, when really it's the other way around. There's a quiet in the room, but not because the room is actually so quiet. Burners are still hissing blue tongue flames, and different mixtures are bubbling in rows. It's the quiet of things better left unsaid.

“No, Ren. There's no fooling you,” he says.

We both let it be true.

Exiting through the rear of Callum's building, Aven and I race across a brittle lawn—then lurch to a stop. “Link arms with me,” I tell her, peering down a green, tree-veiled gorge that drops straight into the Hudson.

Aven doesn't say no, but she also doesn't say yes, 'cause now I'm the bad guy.

Instead, she steps into the ravine and takes off at a canter, sideways. One bag bounces against her back—in it, the cure with my blood. When she hits sunlight, her pale hair goes invisible, like she's got no hair at all.

Carrying two bags of my own—one with algae and fungus samples, the other a backpack filled with fresh from Callum—I take off after her. I dart around trees taller than some leftover buildings in the Ward.

Leaves underfoot, overhead . . . they block out the evening sun. We run through splotchy patches of shadow and brush,
grass and fallen branches. “Careful,” I say after nearly slipping. “It's steep.”

Aven adjusts the bird mask flopping at her collarbone. “I can see that it's steep, Ren,” she answers between huffs of air.

I slide down a pile of dead leaves like I'm surfing. “Hey,” I say. “Don't hate me, all right? I didn't want to lose you twice. That's no reason to be angry with me.”

Aven exhales. Farther down the gorge, she jumps off a rock and lands perfectly despite the incline. I bat away feelings of envy. The kid's two years younger, and inches taller. Her legs rival these trees.

“That's not why I'm upset, Ren. You know why I'm upset.”

“Yes,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I know why. And I'm asking you to have a little perspective. What you promised is downright impossible.”

“You've done impossible things before, haven't you?”

“Well, now I'm tired and I want a break! Isn't that allowed? Since when did saving everyone on the planet become my job? I'd like to, ya know, get back to living my own life at some point.”

Aven slows at a wire fence, dock in sight. She turns to face me. “I understand. I just never thought of you as selfish, that's all.”

I stop. My heart is gone—it's a jigsaw puzzle and every piece is missing. Keeping Aven safe has been my life. Am I selfish?

I never wanted to be without her.

“Ren. Don't you even wonder?”

“Wonder what?” I answer quietly.

“
You
found the water. If it were meant to stay hidden—if that's the only way to deal with this miracle—then . . . why?”

Catching up to her at the fence, I groan. She knows I don't ask questions like this. “Aven . . . sometimes things just happen, and there are no bigger answers. I did my part.”

“Yes, you did,” she says, palms on her hips, sweat beading down her neck. “And I'll find a way to do mine.”

I try to think of something snarky, but you know what? I'm glad she's mad. It means she wants something bad enough that she'd risk going back to that place. If she needs to believe in fate too, fine.

“I'm sure you will, Aven,” I answer, losing the sarcasm for once in my life. “I'm sure you will.”

“
A
ll aboard!”

A blue-and-white-striped double-decker paddleboat grumbles up to the dock. “Hurry!” I yell to Ren, irritated even though she's only a few feet behind.
I just can't understand her.

First, I toss the bag of water over the fence. Then I throw myself over as best I can without fingers. Ren, however, jumps it so fast, it's like she's not even human. We lower our masks together.

“All aboard!” a red-haired girl behind the wheel calls a second time.

The dock bucks underneath us as we run, the way I imagine a horse would. One that didn't want to give you a ride.
Reaching the ferry, our young captain holds out her palm. “Twenty greens, please.”

I glance at Ren, anxious. She digs around in her bag and pulls out a bottle of water, unopened . . . not even refilled: a gift from Callum, for the road. It's pure black-market fresh from the Falls, probably worth six times what the girl is asking.

“Can we afford that?” I whisper.

“Can we afford not to?”

The girl looks at us like we're crazy. She grabs the bottle, stowing our payment in a lockbox under the wheel. When we head for the empty lower level, she wags a finger. “Upstairs only.” Ren and I pass each other looks—we would have rather avoided people, if possible.

As we make our way through the upper deck, half the boat stares at us from under long, beaked masks. A teacher and her group of students; an old man in a red bow tie and loafers. They must've seen us pay with the water, and now they're wondering how we got so much and how we could give it away so easily.

Two teenagers, masks up, kiss like they're each other's oxygen tanks. As we pass, they make slurping noises. They're the only ones who don't stare.

At the front of the boat, we take two red connected plastic seats.

“Thanks for joining us on the one, the only,
Historic Star
tour boat, where I, Cap'n Mirabel, will be your time-traveling guide into the West Isle's past! Ladies and gentlemen, children on field trips and children playing hooky . . .” Here,
she looks pointedly at me and Ren, and at the teens still kissing.

“We'll start by waving good-bye to Troy Towers, one of the few remaining pre–Wash Out buildings still in habitable condition.”

The paddleboat takes the scenic route south, passing through the nicest blocks. We make a few other stops: a flooded church, the remains of a pre–Wash Out school. Ren checks her comm three times in as many minutes. I check mine too.

“It's only fifteen after, Ren. We'll make it there before five.”

She squeezes my knee, and we ride in silence.

Captain Mirabel takes a sharp left. “Before we reach Sybil's Cave, I'd like to draw your attention to the right. There you'll see the home of our very own Governor Voss. First called Stevens Mansion, it was so named for the university that once stood in its place, built in 1890. The mansion remains one of the few historic sites left untouched by the Wash Out.”

The girl continues her speech, but Ren and I have stopped listening.

There they are—
the Blues
. They surround the governor's mansion like flies in dark uniforms.

“They're early,” Ren whispers, and the
Historic Star
slows. On the sandy wooded coast, a small painted sign reads:
Sybil's Cave.
It points left, south. As we near, we see the Blues boarding docked boats, checking passengers' IDs.

“What do we do, Ren?” I ask, gripping her arm.
What if they find us?

I feel the knife again. It slices over both my wrists and
draws its blade against the front of my mind. The hands I don't have still shake.

Water churns under the paddleboat as the girl at the helm steers toward Castle Islet. People crane their necks to get a closer look at the mansion, but trees block the view.

“Sybil's Cave, everyone,” our chipper captain announces as she docks. “I'm sorry about the commotion, folks. I was told we could disembark until five. Let's see if they'll let us, so you can get a closer look.”

A man waves us over. He's huge. He wears a darker blue uniform than the other officers. His mustache and eyebrows are black. I recognize him immediately, even though I've only seen him once.

He killed Mr. Bedrosian.

Ren freezes. She grips the rail at her side. “Dunn.”

The DI chief stands on the shore, hands at his hips like a statue of a Roman warrior. I try not to panic
—it's gala security protocol
, Derek warned us.

The tour boat sidles up to a docking ramp, and its engine cuts out. Chief Dunn boards the
Historic Star
—we watch his every movement from under our masks.

Ren doesn't look at me. She doesn't even flinch. Kicking her bag under my feet, she says under her breath, “I'm jumping. Keep your mask on. Don't disembark until he's actually following me and I've got good distance. Then run, swim for it—do whatever you need. Just get to the cave.”

She gestures toward the sign. “Left, and you'll hit it. It's not far. I love you. More than anything else, I love you.”

That's the last thing she says before hurtling herself over my seat. She dives into the water, north off the opposite side of the boat. Away from the cave. She never looks back. She's a black arrow in a catsuit. The water doesn't even splash.

I'm alone.

C
hill brack curls up around me, all too familiar.

Did I just do the worst possible thing?

I don't know, and I won't until the choice has played out.

A low rumble travels underwater, but I can't tell where it's coming from—the sound's too muffled. There's more than one Omni purring out there, that I know.

A white spear—a dart—cleaves though the brack, headed straight for me.

I imagine getting skewered and my heart about stops. I paddle backward—the dart crosses in front of my nose. Its net billows past, narrowly grazing my knee. I gasp.

Water pours into my mouth and I swallow accidentally, gagging as it rushes up my nose.
I have to get air
—I kick
myself to the surface, spitting, breathing hard through my nose, and when my vision clears, I see the giant, steaming heap of brack I've landed myself in.

Dammit
.

They're everywhere—in Omnis and in regular ole boating mobiles. A pack of silver-blue metal hulls peel toward me, forming a circle.
I'm surrounded
. I gasp again, spinning. Nearest land is Castle Islet, about a hundred and fifty feet off.

I duck, ballooning my lungs so I can make the swim—but underwater, the sloping, sandy floor changes color. It lightens as I close in on the coast.

In an all-black catsuit, I may as well be wearing a target.

First, I need to lose them—I need to swim
impossibly
far.

Pulling back, I cut right and frog-swim up the coastline. I set my goal.
Five hundred feet—that's impossibly far.

I keep going and going, so fast my legs are hot, powered up with adrenaline fuel.
Don't stop.

The first air-hunger pang strikes, so I swallow it down. I could get gold medals for holding my breath. Still, it's harder when you're being chased. Plus . . . Aven.

With all the worry and the chasing, my heart blows up in my chest, making me want even more air than normal. I find a rhythm to my movement, something to distract me.

Push, glide, push, glide
. . . I make the seconds pass like they don't add up to distance and safety. Swimming around one coastal bend and back again, the second air-hunger pang hits—

I clench my fists and grit my teeth, all the while keeping
my lips tight, but my body's exhausted. Just imagining air does me in—
I need it. Now.

I don't know if I made it the impossible five hundred feet.

Floating upward, I flip onto my back, allowing only my nose and lips to break the surface. I swallow mouthfuls of air and get my bearings—I've managed to swim as far as the northern tip of the islet. The helis' rumbling grows louder and fainter in turns. From the sound, they're maybe four hundred feet southeast past the bend, searching for me in circles.

This is my shot.

Keeping low to the strait's muddy bed, I hold my breath and wait.

The growling dulls—they've turned away.

I don't broach the surface as I frog-swim for Castle Islet. When I'm nose-to-nose with the sandy floor, I launch like a rocket for the wooded area.

Propellors change directions tearing up air—they grow louder as I run.