The Retribution of Mara Dyer (33 page)

Those words did something to him, lit a spark in him. He looked alive, really alive, for the first time since he’d been back. His hands cupped my face as he said, “Never say that again. You’ve been lied to. Manipulated. Tortured. It’s not your fault.”

I shuddered, from his words or the contact, I didn’t know.

“It’s not your fault, Mara. Say it.”

“Noah,” David said. There was a note of urgency in his voice and I began to panic.

“There’s no
time
, Noah.”

“Say it and I’ll—I’ll give you the shot.”

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard what I thought I’d heard.

“I can’t with the—the knife. I’ll see it forever,” Noah said. His voice sounded different. Like something had broken inside of him. I wanted to smooth the crease between his brows, take his face in my hands, kiss him, make it better. But I was the one hurting him.

I swallowed my sadness, for him, for myself.

“It’ll just look like I’m going to sleep.” I glanced at the laptop. Jamie’s eyes were wide with horror. My brother’s were closed. I realized I’d never see them open again, and that was the moment I started to cry.

“Jamie,” I said, catching my breath, “Tell my brother—tell him I love him.”

Jamie nodded silently. Tears streamed down his face.

“Tell him I’m sorry.”

“Mara,” my friend said.

“Tell him he’s my hero. And, Jamie?”

He sniffed. “Yeah?”

“Make him forget what he knows about me. Make him forget all of this. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you try?”

His chin trembled. “God, you’re so demanding.”

A laugh escaped from my mouth.

“I’ll try,” he said. “You know I’ll try.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I know,” he said back. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Yes I am.”

“Mara,” David said. “You should hurry.” He didn’t say it unkindly.

I hated him, but it was a cold, distant kind of hate. I would see him in hell, someday, and punish him there. But right now
I just wanted to love Noah. I wanted to leave the world feeling that.

I looked at the boy I loved, the one who saved me, every day. He was so hurt. I didn’t know what to say to him, but he seemed to know what I needed.

He scooped me up from the table and carried me, the way a groom would carry a bride. We walked a little bit, but not far; I needed to be able to see my brother. I wasn’t ready to leave him yet.

David and Jude gave us space. They knew we weren’t going anywhere. There was nowhere else to go.

Noah unfolded me into his half-kneeling lap. He wrapped one hand around my stomach and the other over my chest. My soft cheek was against his rougher one, his mouth pressed against my shoulder. Once upon a time his lips on my skin would have made me forget myself. I could laugh and joke and pretend with him, and his voice would drown out the thoughts inside me that no one should ever hear. But he couldn’t change me. No one could. I was still poison, and even Noah couldn’t make me forget it anymore.

My chin trembled as I said what Noah needed to hear. “It’s not—it’s not my fault,” I whispered.

“Again.”

“It’s not my fault,” I lied, louder this time.

Noah uncapped the syringe, his face ashen, and I held out my arm.

I think that was when I knew, for real, that there would be no SWAT team barging in to save us. No epic battles would be fought in some cinematic climax. There would be no screaming, no explosions. It was just us. Two people and a choice.

“I won’t even feel it,” I said, trying not to imagine all of the conversations we would never have. That was what I would miss most, I realized. Just being able to tell him things. There was still so much to say.

“I love you,” I whispered against his neck. Noah held me tighter, not saying it back—I knew he couldn’t speak. Then, without warning, I felt a tiny prick in my arm, which deepened into a burning sting. I managed a crappy smile as Noah plunged the contents of the syringe into my veins. “Thank you,” I said when he was done. He held his fingers over the puncture wound. His breath caught, trapping a silent sob. He was so brave.

“If Daniel’s still—” My chest felt tight, and I opened my mouth, trying to swallow more air. “If he’s still sick when I’m—and your father doesn’t—”

“I will,” Noah said hoarsely. He looked so fierce and beautiful. I would miss that face.

“Find him,” I said. My words slurred, and my eyelids drooped. My breath was too shallow. “Fix him,” I said with my last one, and then the world went dark.

60

BEFORE

Laurelton, Rhode Island

Naomi gave birth to a healthy baby boy that day. You have just been born.

When your mother was pregnant with Daniel, I spent countless nights wondering if he would be Afflicted, like me. But within hours of his birth, the professor declared him safe and healthy. The second I saw you, I knew you would not be so blessed.

The professor told me about the Shaw child, what he would become, but not the consequences of it—that you would become something too.

I’ve discovered what actually happened on that night when I believed I seduced the professor.

He had known it would happen. He knew that your mother would be born, that you would someday as well. I’d thought I was his partner, but I was only a tool.

I raged at him for what he had allowed to happen. For what would someday happen to you. He lied, said he couldn’t have changed it. Said,
“She cannot become other than what she is.”

He is right about that.

You will make a difference in this world, child, whether you want to or not. Most people are like sand, the impact of their lives washed away by years. They cause no lasting damage, no lasting benefit.

You are not most people.

You are like fire; you will burn wherever you go. If contained, channeled, you can bring light, but you will also always cast a shadow. You can choose to end life or choose to give it, but punishment will follow every reward. And if your fire is unchecked, you will burn through lives and history. The closer anyone gets to you, the more at risk they are of falling under your shadow, or being consumed by your flame. You will have to pretend to be other than what you are. You must wear enough armor so that no one can see or touch you. It isn’t your fault. It’s nothing you did. You cannot change who you are, any more than you can change black eyes to blue. You can only accept it. If you fight yourself, you will lose, and fighting leaves scars. But you will survive them. I have survived many. You will do good things you will regret, and bad things you won’t, but you must keep going, for my daughter’s sake if not your own. She loves you so much already.

I want you to know that I would have wished for a different life for you, and for my beloved daughter, who will never know about any of this if I can prevent it. Sometimes I wonder, if I had chosen a different name for myself, might I have grown into a different person? Might I have become someone else? There were days when I felt that a dragon slept inside me, and exhaled poison with every breath. I flirted with suicide more times than I can count. But I know now why I never did it. I was saving that day for you.

There is a chance, however slim, that if I die before you manifest, the cycle for my bloodline might end with my sacrifice. I don’t know what the odds are, but I’m willing to take them for my daughter; I can’t change the past, but I can choose my future.

I should warn you, though, that the professor will find you someday, as your fate is tied to the boy’s. He might ask you to help him, to join him, to make a difference. He picks at history like a child at a scab, and might offer you the same opportunity. But know this: He has more knowledge than anyone else alive, but it has not brought him happiness. It hasn’t brought me much, either. I’ve known many people over many lifetimes, and the ignorant ones seem more content.

But you must decide for yourself. If you wear this, he will know of your choice.

I don’t know where to leave this for you so that you’ll find it, when you’re ready, without your mother seeing. If I shared the professor’s Affliction, perhaps I’d have some idea. But I will make the best choice I can with the knowledge that I have, and hope.

Letter in one hand, doll in the other, I made my way to the kitchen for a knife. I slit Sister’s doll open from groin to chin, then slipped my letter inside. I stuffed the doll back up, and began to sew before I remembered the necklace. I carried it back to the doll in my closed fist, then pushed it inside with one finger. I sewed it closed.

There. Done. I would wait three days, and then I would leave the world as I’d entered it—alone.

61

NOAH

I
HOLD MARA IN MY
shaking arms as her pulse fades to nothing. My father doesn’t even wait until she’s dead before he soils the air with words.

“You did the right thing, Noah. I’m proud of you.”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had trouble with feelings. Other people get scared, or nervous, or shy, or excited, or happy, or sad. I seem to have only two settings: blank or empty.

I feel neither of those things now.

The pain of losing her is physical. Every breath of oxygen tastes like poison. Every beat of my heart feels like a hammer to my chest. How could she possibly have expected me to bear this?

“I’m going to take care of her brother,” my father says as he types something into his phone. “Her whole family. They’ll never want for anything.” He holds the phone up to his ear, and I hear a ring echo from somewhere inside the building.

Inside the building.

Daniel has been here the whole time.

It’s a double blow, one I can barely process as I stare at her unnaturally still body. I’ve spent too many nights with her to be able to pretend, even to myself, that she’s only sleeping.

“Noah?”

Jamie’s voice cuts through the static in my brain. I look over at the laptop.

His tear-streaked face is anxious, afraid. “Something’s happening. The machines sound weird.”

My father puts his hand on my shoulder. I can’t muster the energy to tell him not to touch me.

“I’ll go find out what’s happening,” he says. “He will be all right, Noah. I promise.”

As if his promises mean anything to me. But if he’s wrong, I will make him suffer every day for the rest of his worthless, pointless life.

He entreats Jude to watch me—so I won’t do anything crazy?—and when Jude agrees, my father leaves me to choke on my grief alone. Or almost. I am aware of Jude’s presence, the way his eyes have been hungrily staring at the knife my idiot father left here. I know Jude will reach for it. I’m not
sure what he’ll do next, but I am sure that I don’t care.

“What are you waiting for?” I say.

He turns to make sure my father is gone, and then, as predicted, he reaches for it. Jude looks at me, his eyes filled not with hate but with hope.

Freak. “Go on, then. Do it.”

“Put her down,” he says. “And I will.”

I do. He does.

62

L
IGHT STAINED THE BACKS OF
my eyelids red. I bolted upright as if someone had plunged a syringe of adrenaline straight into my heart.

I remembered hands that weren’t mine sewing a letter into a doll. I remembered what the letter said. I remembered deaths I hadn’t wished for, families that weren’t mine, trees and beasts, ships and dust, feathers and hearts.

I remembered everything. Every feeling, every scent, touch, sight. I brimmed with echoes of my grandmother’s memories, her knowledge, my inheritance. They rose at the back of my throat, and I was bursting with the urge to tell Noah everything.
But it wasn’t Noah’s face I saw when I opened my eyes.

Jude grinned, showing both dimples and looking like a child on Christmas. He held a syringe. “I knew you’d come back once you’d manifested. Doctor guessed you would, when you were finished changing.”

I didn’t care enough to ask him what he was talking about, or to think much about what he was saying and how creepily he was saying it. I had only one question, but my heart knew the answer before my eyes could confirm it.

I turned around to see Noah’s body stretched out behind me. The knife was still in his chest.

63

NOAH

I
HEAR THAT VOICE BEFORE
I see that face.

“You are not going to die,” Mara says. Her distinctive alto has an edge to it now. Angry. Hopeless. She’s a terrible liar. Always has been, at least compared to me.

I manage to open my eyes. I watch hers travel my body, and revel in the weight of her fingers on my chest. She looks so determined, so furious.

For some reason I think of the first time I saw her, kicking the shit out of the vending machine that refused to release her candy. Before that day, every hour of my life had been exactly like the one before it. Relentlessly boring. Painfully monotonous. But then she walked out of my waking nightmare and
into my life, a complete mystery from Second One. Her presence was a problem I needed to solve, a problem that finally interested me. And then, somehow, she made me interested in myself.

Mara began as a question I needed to answer, but the longer I’d known her, the less I felt I actually knew. She was constantly surprising, infinitely complex. Unknowable. Unpredictable. I had never met anyone more fascinating in my life, and all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough to ever know her.

But now I want that time. My mind closes around memories of her, the feel of her hands in my hair, her cheek on my chest, her voice in my ear, her breath in my mouth. It’s so classic. I’ve spent most of my life waiting to die and now that I am, I don’t want to anymore. I manage a small, wry smile. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.