“Stefan, what is this dream world you’ve concocted? This fantasy? What are you thinking?”
“He’s my brother,” I repeated flatly. “He’s my brother and your son. And if you ever say he isn’t or do anything to cause him doubt, I’ll walk away and you will never see me again.”
“Stoipah, what . . .”
“Never.”
Chapter 29
Michael lived.
It surprised all of us, including me, and I’d seen him do some damn remarkable things in the healing department, although none were as miraculous as this. I survived too, more or less. The bullet that had passed through him and into my shoulder was nothing. As for my leg, a little fancy orthopedic surgery put it back together. I’d limp in cold weather for the rest of my life; it really wasn’t that high a price to pay, considering the work was performed on the second floor of the beach house by an alcoholic surgeon with shaky hands. I felt lucky to have a leg left at all. Beggars can’t be choosers, and neither could those of us on the run. The recuperation, Michael’s and mine, gave me time to think. Jericho had never conquered genetic replacement at all, on himself or anyone else. All his successful work must have gone on in the same way it had begun . . . with embryos. Perhaps he did it with surrogate mothers. Or, hell, for all I knew, he could’ve learned to grow the kids in jars in a lab. Regardless, as he’d said on the beach, he’d made them from scratch. I’d wondered if John had been a relative of Jericho’s, his son maybe. Now my best guess was that Jericho, the ultimate egotist, had cloned himself. If he couldn’t have that fucking festive power of killing with a touch, he’d make another Jericho that did. Only it hadn’t turned out that way. John had had a mind and a will of his own. He’d had a soul; made in a lab, of man and not nature, and he’d had the soul Jericho had lacked. Funny how things worked out—funny enough to break your goddamn heart.
Naturally, toward the end, Michael was up and around before I was, but in the beginning . . . heavy doses of painkillers and an unswerving belief in him were all that kept me sane, although that sanity was something my father would have debated.
Anatoly did as I asked; it wasn’t as if he had much choice. I was deadly serious in my threat to him. If he made one misstep, said one wrong word, I would’ve been nothing more than a memory to him. I can’t say he came across as World’s Best Dad, with a mug and shirt on order, once Michael woke up. That had never been him to begin with, but he tried, in a cautious way, to include Michael. If not as a son, he treated him as a rarely seen nephew, with courteous and cautious charm. My father was nothing if not charming . . . when he wanted to be.
As for Michael, he kept his distance. He’d just embraced a brother; he wasn’t quite ready to welcome a father with open arms. It was for the best, all the way around.
But when it came to me, it was different. In his eyes, I was his family. And he committed himself to that in the same way he committed to any project or endeavor, be it research or finding the best fast-food burger ever made. He did it with a wholehearted and stubborn ferocity. It was a humbling thing to see. It made it difficult for me to mourn Lukas. I should have, but in the bright light of day I couldn’t. To my conscious mind, Michael was my brother, recovered memories and unfeeling reality be damned. It was only when I slept and the nightmares came that I was able to give Lukas his due, and I gave it to him over and over again.
Those nightmares in turn brought to mind Michael’s dreams, the ones of sun and horses that he’d mentioned. They hadn’t been his dreams at all; they’d been mine. Or, a more comforting thought, they’d been Lukas’s. He’d had a heart, Lukas . . . far bigger and better than mine was. If he could’ve sent a message of hope to another lost boy, he would have. And if anyone could have received that gift, it would’ve been Michael. Jericho had tried to accelerate psychic growth in his subjects, and he’d succeeded in the darker areas. It could be he had as well in ways not measured in dying cells or exploding organs, but in light and luminous promise.
What had happened might never be explained, and that was all right. Faith in the unknown can be a tenuous thing for people like me. It was best to let it be what it was—a warm glow close enough to be seen and just far enough away not to be marred by a skeptical touch.