The Ward

14


10:15 P.M., SATURDAY


“You . . .” I start, unprepared, jumping off the stool. “You’re here.”

So he has no idea I met with Dunn, or that I know he’s not really with the DI.

At least until I get some answers, I’d like to keep it that way. Whatever he knows about the water, I want to know too. Not just ’cause Chief asked me to, either—so long as Aven’s involved, it’s information I need. For myself. For her.

Though I wouldn’t turn down the green. It’s not like we don’t need it.

Justin cocks an eyebrow, clasps his hands behind his back. “You thought I might not show?”

I realize I don’t know what I’m thinking, because it hits me that Justin Cory could be anyone. He could be worse than the DI—a corporate bigwig with money to burn, looking to be the first to get his hands on a gold mine.

My throat parches. Wish I hadn’t sipped on that drink. Suddenly, meeting up with him seems like a very bad idea. . . .

Anxious, I scan the dance floor for any hired help he might have tagging along. A muscleman, maybe. Then I look to the corners of the club. Coast seems clear, but with so many people around, there’s room for error.

I keep my eyes down, away from his. Pointing in the direction of the bathrooms, I yell, “Follow me,” over the music, and lead the way through the pulsing lights.

Heads turn as we pass. I’m already known in the Ward, and this guy sticks out like a sore thumb. Shoes shined, suspenders for holding up his pants—he’s dressed the way the Derbies wish they could but don’t have the money to pull off. My chest buzzes with all the attention we’re drawing, and not in a good way.

Inside the bathroom, glad to be away from the crowds, I swallow my relief and check under the stalls to make sure we’re alone. Then, I lock the door.

Almost immediately, Justin leans his back up against it.

In my throat, my breath catches, and I hope he don’t notice. I don’t like this, him cutting off the exit. Feels like a threat.

Then, all politeness, he says, “I’m sorry to hear about your accident. It must’ve been terrifying. I can’t imagine doing what you do.”

He’s so clearly not with the DI, I don’t know how to even reply.

Spotting the cuts on my face—what’s left, anyway—Justin leans in. Gives me the same look Derek did. Only his reads more amazement than anger. “You didn’t have this scar yesterday. . . .”

“No,” I answer, wary. “Slight scrape from the crash.”

“And it’s already healed?” His stance is casual—back still up against the wall, knee bent—but the words sound shrill, tense. Excited.

He knows something.

Tucking his hands into his front pants pockets, “So. Let’s talk,” Justin begins. But then he stands up straight, says, “Oh, yes—” and reaches in his breast pocket.

The envelope he pulls out is crisp and white. Tells me how loaded he must be, since neither the Isle nor the Ward harvests trees. That’s only done Upstate, or on the Mainland, and imported goods are pricey.

“For you,” he says, passing it over. “I’m one to keep my word. I said you would get your money. Whether or not you were successful.”

Who is this guy? Even the tassels on my Hessians are amazed—he’s keeping his promise.

I open the envelope, count the money. It’s all there, neatly paper-clipped together. A sum that would amount to my winnings if I hadn’t thrown the race. Stuffing the green into my bra, I relax a bit. Whoever he is, he seems decent. More decent than most of the Derbies or dragsters. Far more decent than the DI.

“You’ll get the extra.” He eyes the scarring across my temple and with a nod adds, “Depending on whether or not you tell me what you found.”

He seems so sure I found something. . . .

A rap on the bathroom door cuts my thoughts short.

“Occupied!” I shout back, while I replay the last thirty seconds in my head. The way he nodded to my cut—there’s no doubt about it. He believes the two are connected.

To Justin, in a whisper: “It’s not just freshwater, is it?”

Someone is still banging their fist against the door. “Ren? You in there?” Ter’s voice calls from the other side, a sharpness that I’m not used to. Like he’s afraid.

I reach for the knob, but Justin blocks it with his body.

“It’s Aven,” Ter shouts, and now the sharpness makes sense. “She’s not feeling well . . . something’s wrong. You should come out.”

No . . . I think. She was fine not ten minutes ago.

I reach for the knob again and look up at Justin, expecting him to try and stop me. I’ll fight him if need be. But his clear, baby-blue eyes drop, concerned. There’s worry there. Without hesitation, he slides out of the way. Even opens the door. He’s letting me leave?

Again, his decency is a shock, but there’s no time to wonder at it.

Immediately, Ter drags me by the arm. Cuts straight through the dance floor rather than walking the long way around. The way he grips my wrist, his speed, how he pushes people aside—he wouldn’t be rushing like this if . . . if something weren’t wrong. Really wrong.

Panic clenches my stomach, the slow fuse of a bomb, waiting, waiting. Combined with the heavy beats pounding away, my heart’s pace rises too many notches, too fast. I have to force myself to breathe.

We reach the other side of the Tank, and I spot her. She’s crouched against the glass wall, head hanging low. Her near-white hair glows, a purple halo draping around her shoulders, hiding her face.

I drop to my knees, clutch the tiny bones of her ankles. Using the back of my hand, I push the long, pale strands over one shoulder. Tipping her chin, “Feathers?”

“Renny, you’re back,” she mumbles, breaths heavy. A feeble smile. “I’m okay. . . . It’s nothing. Just a little weak, that’s all.” She leans her head on the wall, glances from Derek to Ter. “See, guys? I’m fine.”

Fine. She’s definitely not fine . . . but maybe it’s not as bad as I thought. Of course she’s weak, she’s been in bed for months. Her muscles ain’t used to any of this. It was too much, too fast. Still, the panic ticks in my gut.

Gently, I wrap my arms around her, lift her to her feet. “Let’s get you home.”

She sways, falls against me. Two years younger, my sister is still a few good inches taller. I stumble backward, catching both of us. A hand low on my back, firm, steadies me. From over my shoulder, Derek yells for Ter to help and rushes to grab her waist.

Aven’s knees buckle; she collapses onto Derek’s side. I watch as her eyes roll back in their sockets, leaving only white behind.

“Aven?” I choke out.

The panic in my stomach detonates. Shock waves rock my body. I can’t breathe, there’s nothing for me to breathe. It’s like I’m back in the Strait, ice water flooding my lungs, numbing every muscle and bone from the outside in.

No, it’s worse.

That I could control. I could swim up, I could find air. This, now . . . There’s nothing I can control. I can’t help her—

Her limbs stiffen; she starts trembling, shaking. Convulsing. It’s too much to watch.

What have I done? How could I have let her stay?

My fault . . . this is all my fault.

At the realization, my brain pixelates. Turns to static. A blank, gray-white screen with nothing on. Somewhere else, a world spins in its orbit without me. The club funnels into darkness. Distant, faraway music wails in my eardrums, liquid metal spilling into a mixing bowl with computers. Notes drag, everything skips.

Even in my mind, only one image skips, stuck on repeat: Aven’s eyes rolling, rolling, rolling back into her head.

I can’t stop it.

“Your shirt!” a voice yells from behind me, right at my ear.

The closeness of the words, their strangeness—it draws me out of my stupor. Grafts me to the present. A shirt? Why? I don’t understand. How is any of this happening?

Then Terrence’s top is off, and I’m back in real time, still watching, still not able to stop anything. Aven’s body writhes on the floor.

She’s on the floor? How did she get on the floor . . . Your sister is on the floor and you didn’t even see it happen?

Ter tilts her head to the side. He holds up his T-shirt while vomit falls from her mouth. Drips down her cheek. She’s blank faced, irises invisible. She doesn’t even know that she’s just thrown up. Her mind’s not there, she’s not there.

She is, though—I let her come down. I said it was okay. Only an idiot would’ve done that, I never should have agreed.

But she was better.

This whole time I’ve been blaming myself for allowing her to stay, when there’s so much more. Fresh guilt floods my face with heat—I let her drink from my canteen. What kind of a sister am I?

Who would let anyone—much less their sick sister—drink untested water?

“What should I do?” I think I ask. No one hears me, and I realize the words never made it past my lips. Everything feels so heavy, my limbs, the air, the music. There’s a lump, a brick, in my throat, but I’m too ashamed to cry. I want to move to her, to push her hair away, or rest her head in my lap like I do at home when the headaches get real bad, but my feet are anchors. I don’t move. Can’t move.

Go to her, I tell myself. She needs you. This may be my fault, but she’s still my sister. . . . I have to force my guilt to take the backseat, and I do. But when I try to take a step forward, I realize that someone’s been holding me up this whole time.

In my ear, Derek whispers, “You’re back. . . .” and unfolds one arm from my waist.

I can only assume he’s talking to me as I stagger forward. I can’t reach her, though—one of the Bouncers pushes me to the side. He doesn’t even push, not really. One moment I occupy the space, and another it’s his. Like displacing air.

The Bouncer pulls out his scanner and lifts her arm. Anytime someone falls sick in the Tank, it’s standard protocol for Bouncers to take their VEL, even though they already did. The scanner flashes green: NOT CONTAGIOUS.

He shakes his head—the brackhead isn’t even bothering to hide his disappointment as he calls into his cuffcomm for an ambulance. To him, the fact that she’s sick at all is irrelevant. He’s not making any money on her.

He’d probably be happy if she turned up contagious.

Red, molten anger bubbles to the surface.

“She’s going to Ward Hope. Step aside,” he says, motioning for me to move as another Bouncer wheels over a stretcher. When I don’t budge, he places his two huge hands on my hips, like he’s going to move me by force.

“Don’t put your grubby hands on me,” I spit, fighting back a slow, swelling rage. “She’s my sister—I’m going with her.”

He laughs, his grin uneven, like one side of his mouth got caught on a fishing line. “Sure she is.”

I can’t help it—all the fear and guilt and shame of the last fifteen minutes wants an outlet. It needs a new home, and it lands on a perfectly good target. Instinctively, my hand balls up. It also instinctively pulls back and flies into his arm.

Okay, if I’m being honest with myself . . . this is more about poor anger management than about instinct. And the moment my knuckles make contact with the shining nylon black-and-yellow fabric of his jacket, it occurs to me that this was not entirely well thought out.

I barely feel bone. It’s all mush and muscle under there.

The Bouncer, he don’t even flinch. Not a dent, a scowl, a sign that yes, my fist did in fact make contact with his body. Nothing.

He’s ignoring me.

He can’t ignore me—I have to go with her. He has to let me go with her.

He’s lifting her onto the stretcher, wheeling her away. I rush after, bodychecking him to the side.

With him out of my way, I lean over Aven. I hardly see the Bouncer behind me as his knee buckles and he staggers backward.

When he holds on to the stretcher for balance it rolls out of his grip, and then I see him. He’s right behind me—

We collide.

He elbows me in the ribs at first, tries to push me to the side, but I’ve got Aven’s hand in mine now, and I won’t let go. Then I feel the bulk of his elbow like an anvil as it connects with my temple.

I go down hard and heavy, hearing a chorus of curses with the use of only one ear. In the way, way back behind my eyelids, starlike fish swim in the void. And I’m underwater, and I’m underwater.