“I know. I’m sorry.”
Tesla’s voice never alters, nor does his expression change, but the threat still sends a shiver of dread up my back. “Your duty is to preserve the time stream at all costs. Sometimes that cost is high. But you must not turn from it. If you ever again disregard my orders, I will cast you out. Is that clear?”
“I understand. It won’t happen again,” I say, glancing once more at the police report. But even as the words leave my mouth, they feel like a lie.
They don’t seem to notice my deception. The Tesla projection vanishes, and Flynn squeezes my arm. “Let’s go get that bump on your head looked at, shall we?”
I nod and let him lead me out of the room.
“So, tomorrow is your final Trial. Are you excited?” Flynn asks.
“Nervous. Petrified, to be honest.” I’m rambling now, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “I mean, not scared or anything. Just, more like, you know. Anxious. Like before Christmas. If Christmas was terrible and possibly deadly. Like that kind of Christmas.”
He grins and hits the keypad. The door to the hospital slides open. The rest of the center is always a little cold, but this place is sterile. It looks more like a really clean mental institution than a hospital. I feel the goosebumps breaking out across my arms.
“Is that why you look like you haven’t been sleeping?” he asks, his voice concerned.
I bite my lip. Did I dare tell him about the dreams? The truth is, I haven’t slept a full cycle in months. I’ve been training for almost a year, and now it’s time for the test that will either carry me from recruit to operative or send me packing to whatever corner of the time stream they want to drop me in if I fail. Of course, those are the most optimistic outcomes. The odds are, if I wash out, I’ll just die.
Then the dreams started. As time went on, the dreams grew more detailed, more intense, until I realized they weren’t bad dreams at all. They are my memories surfacing.
Some deep sense of self-preservation keeps me from going to anyone about it. Mostly I’m afraid they’ll take them away again. I hear rumors of recruits who begin remembering things. Supposedly, the Institute has a way to fix that, though no one is exactly sure how.
And I want to remember so badly.
I didn’t even know how badly until the dreams began, but now I cling to each new nugget of history like a lifeline. I mentally file the pieces away until the day I can put my old life together.
“Ember, relax. You’re grinding your teeth so hard they’re going to be stumps when you finally open your mouth again.” Flynn smiles and pokes me in the cheek. “Oh, that reminds me. I have something for you.”
From his pocket, he pulls out an old-fashioned skeleton key. It has a brass and green patina with a small leaf design on the tip. The keys are sort of a thing between us. He gave me the first one when I woke up in the hospital right after I arrived. He’s been bringing them to me ever since.
“Thanks,” I say earnestly, just as Doc arrives to bandage me up and send me on my way.
Back in my room, I’m still flustered. We have training today, and after the monumental beating I received yesterday, I’m not sure I can muster up the strength. I sigh, picking out one of the sparring outfits from my large closet: black sweatpants with a single red stripe up each side, a simple grey shirt, and add a soft brown vest with lots of pockets and hooks for my various tools. The vest isn’t strictly part of the uniform, but it’s comfortable so I put it on anyway. I pull on a pair of black-and-gold-striped arm warmers and strap the brass cuffs on over them. My stomach gives me an angry growl. I thought the pangs had just been guilt and nerves, but now I realize I’m hungry. Like, haven’t eaten in a month hungry. Maybe I can grab a protein bar and a juice before class.
I button my vest, just about to sprint for the cafeteria, when a knock at my door makes me jump. The doors have a chime if someone is requesting access—the tap is metallic and hollow-sounding by comparison. Ethan and Kara are standing there in full sparring gear—sweatpants and loose grey T-shirts—ready to head to class. Kara looks almost as colorful as I do, and the bruises from our battle with the Hollows are in full bloom along her jaw.
“Hurry up, slacker. We’re going to be late,” Kara chastises playfully. I know full well she’d just as soon miss class altogether. Today, I would be tempted to ditch too, but I’m already skating on thin ice.
I snort. “I thought we were beyond the reaches of time.”
Ethan shakes his head. “Time moves everyone, Ember. Even us. Maybe especially us.”
I can’t argue with that.
My breath comes in short, shallow bursts. I can feel the warmth of Ethan’s body radiating like a tuning fork against my back. In front of me, there is only darkness. I strain, listening, waiting for the next wave of attack. The leather straps holding up my suede harness dig into the skin of my shoulders, but the ache only sharpens my focus. The urge to turn around is strong, though I know better. Months of training have taught me exactly what happens when I turn my back to the darkness. So I listen, honing my senses until I catch the sound of Ethan taking a small step forward, away from me. My eyes are useless, so I close them. Knowing my attackers are well paid for their ability to move in silence, there is little hope that they will give themselves away. We need another strategy. As if reading my mind, Ethan picks up the conversation we were having earlier.
“All I’m saying is, maybe you need the extra practice,” Ethan says, his tone mocking. Even without being able to see him, I can sense him moving, beginning to circle counterclockwise. I know he’s trying to draw them out, to bring the fight to him. It seems like a sound strategy, so I jump on board.
“Oh, yes, because it isn’t like she turned around and kicked the crap out of you, too.” I’m mimicking his movements now. My voice is flat, free from emotion, and my words are empty. I can’t see him moving, but I can feel him, as if we’re connected by a million invisible threads.
“How am I supposed to just punch a girl?” Ethan asks. “And I was tired from taking the guy out like five seconds earlier.”
“She isn’t a girl. She’s more like a pissed-off kangaroo in a top hat. She has a nasty right hook, I’ll give you that.”
I hear the sharp whip of air as a bamboo pole cuts through the darkness, headed toward my face. Even with our phony argument going on, I’m able to hear it coming before it lands. I bring up my hands and block the blow with my forearms. The impact stings, bruising the bones there, but better my arms than my face. With a movement perfected after one too many blows to the head, I grab the pole and pull it aside, dragging my attacker with it. As he closes in, I drop the pole and lock arms with Ethan. I flip over his back and kick out, knocking my attacker to the mat. As he struggles back to his feet, Ethan spins into my place, delivering a secondary kick that sends the man flying into the wall with a dull thud.
“Yeah, but she’s scrappy,” he says.
“Scrappy? Is that boy code for you couldn’t stop staring at her rack?”
Behind me, I feel Ethan duck a blow, then land one of his own before pressing his back against mine. “I…that’s not…I didn’t even…I mean…” he sputters.
I smirk. Busted.
Footsteps approach, but we keep sparring. I bend over, using my attacker’s own momentum against him as I put my shoulder into his gut and stand, propelling him over my head and onto his back on the mat. I don’t need to see my victory to realize what the maneuver has cost me. A muscle in my lower back seizes, and it’s all I can do not to drop to my knees in agony. I clench my fists until I feel my fingernails cut bloody crescents in my palms. There is no way I’m going to be the weak link—no way I’m going to let Ethan fight alone. Back-to-back, that’s how Rifters are trained to fight. And Ethan always has my back.