Chapter Seven
Titus is not at breakfast the next morning. It is a welcome relief until the maid brings me the note he’s left in his absence:
Your early dismissal of Daniel last evening leads me to believe you are not yourself after all the excitement of the past few days. Gus will escort you to the gym after breakfast. Exercise is paramount to mental health. –Titus
I read it over three times before I am convinced there is no hidden threat. Titus doesn’t know what happened last night. Not truly. But the last line is a stark reminder of what I am. The fact that it’s written here gives me pause. It is the same slogan painted in block letters above the gym doors and on multiple walls throughout Twig City. Again I wonder how Titus knows so much about where I come from.
I am no longer hungry but I’ll need the calories now, so I fold the paper and lay it aside while I finish eating. The routine of exercise is nothing new, but I’m still weak from the hit I sustained on the rooftop. Plus I haven’t been sleeping well. I doubt any of this will matter to Gus. I dread what sort of activity awaits me.
I swallow the rest of my eggs without chewing and chase it with juice. Gus is there before my plate has been cleared. I rise and follow him out. He leads me down a hall I don’t recognize and we take a flight of stairs down to a lower level I didn’t know existed as part of this apartment. I pay close attention to details like doors and exit signs before I curse myself for the futility. Although I know I’m imagining it, I swear I can feel the GPS in my arm pulsing to the beat of my heart as I walk. Taunting me. Reminding me there is no escape. Only duty and purpose.
“You can change here,” Gus says, stepping back and ushering me forward.
Gus leaves me alone in a small room with a cabinet full of sports bras and Lycra shorts. There isn’t enough material on either for my taste, and when I emerge, I feel naked. Gus gives me a cursory glance but the other two guards who’ve positioned themselves near the exits give me a thorough once-over that makes my skin crawl. I do my best to ignore them and follow Gus to a wall-mounted cabinet that contains fencing equipment.
My experience with this particular sport is limited. The equipment in Twig City is second-rate because the women get the men’s hand-me-downs. The foils are all dull by the time they reach us, dangerous in their disrepair. Lonnie loves it, though, so I am often talked into it against my better judgment. I usually walk away with some bruise or another when we abandon the foils and it deteriorates into a wrestling match.
Ida always fusses at that.
I grit my teeth and force my concentration back to the equipment Gus is handing me. I slide the gloves on and then the mask. My injured cheek smarts as I slide it over my face. It smells stale, not of sweat but as if it hasn’t been used in a while. I wonder if Authentic Raven is a skilled fencer. I am tempted to ask Gus so I know what level of skill to strive for, but I keep silent. I remember my encounter with Titus and how Gus stood by and watched in silence. I don’t want to talk to him any more than I would Titus.
The door opens and a girl enters. I’ve never seen her before. She is young with dark features and reminds me of the kitchen staff with her olive skin tone and full lips. She spots Gus and then me and begins to make her way over. She is dressed like me, although she has a shirt covering her torso where my halter leaves my abdomen bare. Again, I feel naked.
“Raven, this is Sofia. She is your fencing partner,” Gus says.
We nod at each other, matching dips of our chin, and then Gus shoves a foil into my hand and walks off. Sofia pays me no attention as she goes about adorning herself with protective equipment. She is all business, absorbed in her preparations.
I look to Gus and the unnamed security guard who stands to his left. I wonder where Linc is. I haven’t seen him all morning and his absence always makes me nervous. My fears are infinite. That he’s somewhere else, fighting and killing for Titus, or otherwise in danger. That he has been removed from my protection detail against his will—or that he’s asked to be reassigned. After our conversation last night, I think it is likely his choice to avoid me.
A thousand different things could be keeping him away. None of them should matter. He shouldn’t matter but I can’t help that he does. It’s a problem I haven’t quite figured out yet.
Soft footsteps behind me alert me that Sofia is ready. I turn and find her watching me through the screen of her mask. Her expression teeters on boredom but I can feel Gus watching and I know this is a test, one of a million small things that mean nothing—unless I botch it. I face Sofia and press my teeth together, determined to show myself at least capable.
I swing down and then up and around with my foil, testing the weight of it in my hand. I focus on how it feels, how I feel with it in motion. Gus and the security guard are no longer on my radar. Sofia is nothing more than an oncoming blade. I stare just past her temple, allowing my peripheral to capture abstract movement rather than specifics. My reflexes take over and then I am moving, our thrusts and steps a tandem and spontaneous dance.
I shift my weight from front to back. I parry and cross, driving Sofia back as she advances. Perspiration dots my lip. Inside my mask, it’s stuffy. Several minutes pass, and it isn’t obvious that I’m losing, but I am. I know it and by the certainty of her movements, Sofia knows it too.
I am winded. The rise and fall of my chest has graduated from rhythmic and deliberate to a lung-screaming necessity. I feel Sofia’s jabs begin to change. She is more aggressive, sensing my exhaustion. It won’t be long now.
“That’ll be all, Sofia,” Gus calls, ending my defeat inches early.
Sofia immediately steps back and lowers her foil. I do the same. She nods primly at me and retreats, already stripping her mask and gear. I remove the mask and shake my hair out behind me in a move I hope is practiced enough to appear confident of my imminent victory had the match continued.
Gus frowns at me. “You do not fence?”
“My experience is limited.”
“Hmm. What do you do?” he asks in a way that implies he doesn’t expect anything worthwhile. It grates on me. I want to prove him wrong.
“Tennis,” I say finally, knowing it will make me think of Lonnie and Ida but it is easily my best sport.
“Tomorrow you play tennis,” he says. “For today, just run laps.”
He’s already walking toward Sofia. She’s removed all of her gear and now stands near the exit watching me in concentration. When Gus catches her eye, her expression clears and she gives him her attention.
“Laps? Where?” I ask.
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Through there is the track,” he says without looking back.
I head for the door where a lone security guard stands. He holds it open for me as I approach. I look up to nod him thanks, but he is looking so far through me, I wonder how he even knows I am here. I pass by without a word and fresh air, crisp and cold, hits my face in a blast of wind.
My elation is so sharp it hurts my chest. I had no idea I was so close to outside or I would’ve tried harder to get here. Set before me is a track, exactly as Gus said. The far side juts up to a railing and then a drop-off where this portion of roof ends. To my left are giant air handlers. Their purr reminds me of the humming pipes of Twig City. To my right is a set of stairs that leads up to the next level of rooftop. I can just make out the net of a tennis court as I pass by onto the track.
It takes me a moment to realize I am alone. I’m so used to a shadow. Between a room full of Imitations in Twig City or my full escort of guards and cameras at Rogen Tower, privacy feels foreign. Out here with the wind blowing, the expanse of blue sky so big I feel dwarfed under it, the aloneness is so amazing I can taste it on my tongue.
My feet hit the black rubber of the track and immediately I pick up speed. My head aches from the strain of the fencing match. The security guard watches me through the small window in the door, but I am alone out here. The only warm body, the only heart beating on this roof, and it makes me want to run.
After three laps, my headache graduates to explosive.
Another dozen yards and I cannot put one foot in front of the other without wincing. The pounding of my feet is like a gong between my temples. I’ve never experienced such horrific pain, not even when the plugs were pulled and I was woken from the incubator. Even then, the very air on my skin stung; everything felt raw and new. But this … this is like nothing else. All I can think is how to make it stop.
Two more steps. Could Titus have hit my kill switch? I wonder if this is what it feels like to terminate.
Imitations do not die because, scientifically speaking, we do not actually live. But I know termination must be painful or why would we fear it? If all that exists on the other side is oblivion—no consequences, no higher power, no answering for wrong actions—then why else would I care whether I stay or go? It must be pain. Fear of pain. The staggering headache that beats in my skull makes a convincing argument.
I make it to the gate that leads off the track and stumble. I grab onto the railing and hang over it, gasping and blinking profusely against the white-hot agony that has taken up residence behind my lids. My chest heaves, pulling oxygen in and out while I try to maintain a standing position. My knees threaten to buckle. It seems all my body’s energy is being sent to the nerve center in my brain, so it can scream at me lest I forgot how much this actually hurts.
Someone’s hands close around my arms, guiding me slowly toward the door. I am vaguely aware how disappointing it feels when I pass through the doorway and the feel of the crisp air against my bare skin evaporates, replaced by the faux warmth of the gym. I let the hands direct me and fight the urge to scream. Every footfall feels like a hammer inside my head.
One foot in front of the other. Again and again.
I end up inside a small room on a narrow cot that is covered in a thin layer of white paper. It crunches and crinkles as the hands push me down against it. I lie on my back and wince against the light that penetrates from overhead and threatens to burn through my lids.
I hear a whimper and it takes me a moment to realize it belongs to me. The hands on my shoulders disappear. I have the sense I am alone.
Minutes later, footsteps sound against the linoleum and someone shuffles in, fabric rubbing against fabric as they sit and scoot toward me in their chair. I wince and turn away from the sound, curling onto my side. A cool hand lands against my cheek, gently pressing as it moves upward inch by inch until it caresses my forehead. The fingers are thin and dainty, and somehow I know it is a female. The pressure disappears and the chair scrapes back. The noise grates on my nerves, but I don’t utter a sound.
Papers are shuffled and the chair returns. “Raven?” a woman’s voice asks. Tentative, soft.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
“Raven, I am Josephine. I’m a doctor. Can you open your eyes?”
I turn her words over in my heavy brain. A doctor. After everything I’ve been through, been left to heal from on my own, now they send a doctor? What does this mean? Am I terminating? The urge to ask these questions is drowned out by my fear. I am terrified that if I speak, whatever small part of sanity left will snap and the pain will overtake me and I will end. So I keep my lips firmly clamped against my teeth and remain silent.
“Raven, I’m here to help. I—I know what you are.” She lowers her voice and leans closer as she adds, “I have been to the City.”
That gets my attention. I strain my lids, forcing them open. My left one cooperates but then slams shut again as light penetrates. I let out a cry and roll away.
“I understand if you cannot speak. Maybe you can nod so I know your symptoms. Does your stomach hurt?”
I manage to shake my head. No.
“Your head?”
I nod emphatically, desperate to communicate the problem and hoping she can fix it. She knows what I am, where I’m from. She must know how to cure me.
“Your head hurts,” she repeats, letting me know she understands. “Anything else?” she asks. It is a more open-ended question than the others but again, I simply shake my head. The pain behind my forehead is the priority. “Give me a moment.”
I hear her stand and move around the room. Cabinets are opened, items are shuffled. I can hear her muttering but the words sound foreign. My fingernails dig into my arms where I’ve clenched them around me but I do not let go. The pressure is an outside stimulus that counteracts the internal pain—however minutely effective it is.
Josephine returns and her cool fingers land lightly on my arm. I shrink back but she doesn’t let go.
“It’s all right,” she murmurs over and over until the sound of her voice lulls me into stillness and I give her silent permission to touch me if it means making me better.
Something beeps overhead. It’s not worth risking a peek, so I lie still and wait for whatever’s next. Josephine is extending my arm, straightening it and exposing my veins. Her fingertips pat gently at the crook in my elbow. She rubs something against my skin and I wrinkle my nose at the sterile smell it leaves behind. Then something sharp pricks at my skin.
The pain is quick and biting. I suck in a breath and hold it until the pinching subsides. The entire episode is reminiscent of something, somewhere … I cannot quite put my finger on it but I know I must’ve experienced this very feeling before.
Before I can guess, the pain in my head lessens. I imagine a wave receding from the shoreline and brace myself for the impact of the next one but it never comes. Gingerly, I pry an eye open. I find Josephine staring down at me expectantly. Her face is round and framed by strands of brown hair that have come loose from her bun. Though older than her voice made me think, she is very pretty.
The pain dials back another notch and I lick my lips; a strange sweetness coats my mouth. Josephine continues to watch me without a word. “What was that?” I ask when I find my voice.
“The drug? It’s a painkiller. It’ll taste funny for a bit.”
“No, I mean, the prick I felt.”
She holds up a plastic tube with a needle attached to one end. “You mean the injection?”
“Yes, that. What is it?”
“It’s a syringe. The medicine I gave went into your vein. It’s more effective that way,” she explains. I take her word for it. I don’t remember ever having been administered medicines this way, but I’m grateful for how quickly it has worked.
“Do you know what caused my pain?” I ask.
I’ve rarely experienced physical ailments and when I have, they are always short-lived. Twig City spares no expense on medicines but their first priority is making us so healthy in the first place that we have no need for treatment.
“I’m not sure, but I took a quick scan before I injected you. I should have the results back in a day or two and I’ll let you know if I find anything.” I nod, assuming she refers to the beeping I heard. “You have a pretty significant bump on your head. That probably contributed.” She hesitates and then asks, “Has this happened before?”
“No.”
Her voice softens as she asks, “And the bruise on your cheek?”
I look away. I’m more angry than ashamed but I’m fighting both. “It didn’t cause my headache.”
“No, it didn’t,” she agrees. I sense she’s waiting for more but I don’t offer further explanation.
“The scan you took, it will tell us why this happened to me?” I ask.
She rises, offering me her hand. “We’ll see. Do you feel like you can stand up?”
“I think so.” I decline her help and push to my feet. I am standing toe to toe with this woman and we are close enough to the same height that we are also eye to eye. There is something trustworthy in her, but just the same, I am cautious. “How do you know what I am?” I ask quietly.
She glances toward the closed door and then back again. “I have been to the City. I have treated Imitations there for Mr. Rogen on occasion.”
“Is that why you’re here? To treat me?” I ask.
She nods. “Yes.”
There is something behind her simple answer but I don’t know the right question to ask. The door opens and Gus pokes his head inside. “Better?” he asks.
“Seems so,” Josephine answers for me.
He grunts and swings the door wide, motioning for me to exit. I share a look with Josephine. I have so many more questions and she knows it. None will be answered now, if ever, so I make my way past her and out the door.
I am delivered to my room where Maria is waiting with a drawn bath and fresh clothes. I don’t argue or wave off her attempts to help me. I am too afraid of my own thoughts if I were left to them.
“I heard you fenced with Sofia earlier,” Maria says when I’m dressed and seated at the vanity. She is methodically running a soft-bristled brush through my wet hair.
Between that and the lingering drugs in my system, I am so relaxed I answer without thinking, “Yes, she is much better than I am.”
Maria’s hand hesitates only briefly before continuing her even strokes with the brush. “Truly,” she agrees. “She is most gifted.”
I curse myself for my admission. Even with Maria, I must continue to be her. Haughty, condescending, confident. If Titus finds out, I am positive I will have another bruise to match the first—or worse. Still, I can’t help but recognize the note of pride in Maria’s voice.
“She is special to you? Sofia?” I ask.
She nods as she brushes. “She is my daughter.” I can hear her reluctance to admit this. I wonder if she is afraid Raven Rogen would use that sort of affection against her. Probably.
“She is very lucky to have such a caring mother,” I say.
Through our reflections, our eyes lock. Finally, after what feels like a million years, she nods. Her expression never changes. “Thank you,” she says, and I know it is the only nice thing I have ever said to her.