The Ward

37


4:40 P.M., SUNDAY


Dust-covered black pianos. Gold-painted chairs stacked high, leaning to the side on top of a plush, velvet sofa. Rolled-up carpets in every corner. Trunks with brass handles, destinations papered to their sides.

Stuff, everywhere.

The space is huge, probably bigger than the inside of the Tank. I’d call it the base-base-basement, but basements don’t look like this, even if that’s what it is. This room looks kinda like how I’d imagine the inside of a dragon’s lair.

I know I shouldn’t waste time, but my eyes don’t know what to do with everything. I wanna know what all of it is. When Derek got it, since you can’t buy most of this stuff nowadays. I can’t help myself—I pick my way through, until I see a small desk leaned up against the exposed brick.

On it, albums. Stacks and stacks of albums, all dusty and worn.

I find the one that looks the oldest, and open to the first page: a faded black-and-white photo. It’s not dated, but the somber faces tell me this was taken before people started smiling in pictures.

Three men stand beside three women, all dressed to the nines. For the men, waistcoats and tall hats. The women, though, wear half–American Indian garb, half-white-settler fashions. Poufy, embroidered dresses, but also strands and strands of beads. Feathers dangle from their hair while pearls dangle from their ears. Moccasins for their feet, and stockings for their legs.

I lean in closer.

The first and second couple I don’t recognize at all, though one of the men looks a lot like Derek. But the last . . . Even without color, I know the distinct glint of his copper hair.

I almost drop the pack dangling over my shoulder. Why the brack is he still alive?

Guardian of a magical healing spring was one thing, but this? This is . . . this is immortality.

Maybe I should have known. Maybe I did know. Somewhere, in the way, way back of my mind. It’s just . . . Seeing him like this. It changes everything. I can’t deny it, or ignore the possibility.

I choke, cough, and in my stomach, a snake pit. I can feel it writhing. I’m writhing—he guards the water from people like Aven, who need it, and yet here he is . . . alive. For centuries. No wonder he’s quick to let us die—he’s juiced up on a spring that keeps him young. No expiration date.

But the picture shows me more than just that. I keep looking, hunched over the album. Next to Derek, a woman stands straight. Fearsome and commanding despite her lack of height. Glossy, pin-straight liquid metal. It’s Kitaneh, and his hand rests on her shoulder.

His hand. Her hand. Gold bands on the fourth fingers—

They’re married.

My eyes water, but like watching some horrible accident, I keep riffling through the album. Page after page, Derek and Kitaneh. Him in the militia, her the good colonial wife. Decade after decade. She’s smiling, sequined; he’s got a floppy grin on—New York City in the nineteen twenties. Thirties. On and on.

I slam the album shut and start opening drawers left and right, looking for . . . who knows what. More of the story. More answers. Forcing myself to breathe, I push down the feeling that I’m about to be sick. He kissed me. . . . How could he?

The drawers are mostly empty, or filled with papers.

Except for one. In it, a small wooden box with words carved on the lid: “Bellum Pesti—” I can’t read the rest, so I reach down.

Brack. Crisscrossed red laser lights web across the drawer. Overhead, a siren sounds. But the water? I’ve found nothing. . . .

Except, there’s no time.

Beelining to the airlock, I push aside ottomans and guitar cases, framed paintings and old leather trunks. The hatch is closing all on its own even though I left it open specifically so I could make a quick getaway. The alarm must’ve triggered it. I duck low to the floor and, sticking my feet through first, wiggle myself back into the pressurized room—

With only two inches to spare. And still in one piece. I get no chance for relief though.

My feet . . . they’re losing their balance—

The grate slides away. Opens up to a cavernous water-filled space below. I fall to one side, avoiding the gap. Pretty soon, though, there’s gonna be nowhere left to stand.

Then, from a dozen nearly invisible vents, clouds of vapor fog up the room.

What the hell is that?

I hold my breath as long as I can while trying to keep my footing. Looking down, I notice that not only is the grate moving, the water that drained down earlier is now rising up. I reach for the handle on the first hatch and turn, expecting it not to budge.

The wheel rotates easily.

This makes me stop—too easy. It makes no sense. Unless whatever just came out of those vents was supposed to do something to me, but failed.

Something tells me not to take the bait. Something also tells me not to stand around like an idiot. Call it a hunch . . . call it intuition. I think there’s a spring down there, wherever that water is coming up from. I brace myself, glad I’m wearing Callum’s neoprene suit, and kneel at the edge.

Then, I dive-roll in.

My forehead, and after that my cheeks, are the first to burn from the freeze. Neoprene keeps the rest of me warmish, but it’s still a shock.

A few feet down and light’s just a memory. I flick open my cuffcomm and activate the laser light on the side. It’s small, not made for this sort of thing, but bright enough to shine a path.

Too bad my frog stroke ain’t exactly conducive to keeping a beam steady. Every time my left wrist pushes through the water, the light shines backward in the opposite direction. I wish I had one of those silly flashlights that you attach to your head.

Though I know I’m swimming deeper, the temperature doesn’t seem like it’s getting colder. Warmer, maybe. But definitely not colder. My eyes start to burn from the brack water, but this tunnel is too small for me to want to keep my eyes shut.

Then the first pang of air hunger hits.

I swallow the gasp my body wants to take, and keep on.

Eventually, my fingers stop grazing the sides. The space widens. I wave my wrist ahead, just in time to follow the change in direction. A curve, and I’m swimming back toward the surface. My Hessians drag me down. I should leave them, kick them off.

Never. Now we’ve really been through too much together.

Air hunger pang two . . .

I open my mouth a bit, let some air escape. That helps, like there’s less pressure inside me. As I close my mouth, I notice the water—it don’t taste salty.

Once more, I take in the tiniest bit.

Sure enough, the taste is sweet. Somewhere in this tunnel, the water went from bitter brackish to fresh. I must have hit another pocket that bleeds into the Strait, mixing together.

Then, all of a sudden, I’m warm. Warmer than warm. The neoprene has locked in my heat, and I’m actually sweating. I must be close, but even with the light from my cuffcomm, there’s no way to be sure.

I keep pulling myself up and up.

Through the blur—I must be imagining it—the sides of the tunnel seem to be glowing. Bright green? Dots of speckled neon. Just as I grapple with air hunger pang three, my head breaks the surface.

I gasp, sucking down air, fighting the wave of dizziness that follows. My arms flail, exhausted, and my beloved boots keep trying to drown me—but looking around, I see I was right. Under the surface, all around me, the walls of the cavern are spotted with the stuff. I dunk my head again and swim closer.

Through the underwater blur, the stuff is unidentifiable . . . some sort of plant, I think, but what do I know? So I pluck a few from the side of the wall’s slick mushiness, and swim back for air. Once I’m breathing again, I look down into my palm.

The neon-green spots—they’re tiny, glowing mushrooms, with droopy tentlike caps and nearly invisible stems.

So, basically—aliens.

These must be the plants that the phytothingies come from. I should take a whole bunch of them, ’cause if I’m right, they’re probably going to have the antiviral goodies that the spring water was missing.

And . . .

I guess the jury’s still out on whether Callum will be needing my blood for this evening’s science experiment.

I swipe a few fistfuls of the extraterrestrial buggers from the tunnel walls for him, then pull the waterproof sack from my side to fill up with fresh. The weight of the sack, plus the liquid inside, drags me under slightly. The trip back will take longer for sure.

I don’t wait.

Sliding the sack over my shoulder, I take one final breath of air and dive under, following the cavern back the way I came. My cuffcomm lights the way, enough so that I don’t swim into the sides. I keep my feet kicking and wait for the air hunger pangs.

Every few strokes, I stick my tongue out. The longer I taste the sweet, the more anxious I become. Return trips always pass quicker, I remind myself.

This time, when the temperature shifts suddenly to cold, I feel it like a glacier. I’m chilled straight through despite the neoprene, and soon, my fingers are numb. Then, the first hunger pang hits.

I’m ready for it. I know how to swallow it, choke it back down to where it came from. I feel the round of the curve, start to swim up again. When I stick my tongue out again, the water finally tastes normal. Like brack.

I’m close.

Time passes—I’m gonna make it. I can see light coming from the pressurized room’s ceiling, and the tunnel has started to narrow. My fingers graze the sides. One final push forward . . .

I reach for air—the light’s right there, right on the ceiling. But instead, my fingers graze metal.

I’m touching the ceiling.

How am I touching the ceiling?

Then I remember . . . when I dove into the tunnel, the space filled up after me.

I open my mouth; I swallow gulps of brack water because there’s no air in the room. None at all.