“Someone told us the real patriots are Expats,” I say, repeating words I first heard from Isaac.
Adam’s eyes light up.
“I was thinking we could maybe work together. Your people. Our people. We might have more success united.”
“You know,” Adam says, a small grin appearing, “I had the same thought when we decided to answer your call.”
We reach for each other, and in one curt handshake, I strike an allegiance with the Expats.
THIRTY-FIVE
WE LIFT INTO THE SKY and I instantly feel nauseous. I keep a hand against the window, watching Burg disappear from view. It is still bursting with explosions of light and chaos. I worry about the rest of Bleak’s people, wonder how they are holding up. At least with the Expats’ aid they stand a chance of surviving. There are others still fighting by air behind the Wall, and just before we took off, I heard Adam give an order to keep it that way until the Order was defeated.
Clipper is conscious again, clutching Sammy’s hand beside me. He keeps making these horrible noises, gasps of pain so unbearable I wish a bomb could go off and temporarily deafen me again. The boy’s face looks hopeless. Like he just wants it to be over.
I press my head against the window and will the pain to pass. The pain in my leg, my chest, my mind. I start drifting in and out of consciousness, reality and dreams blending.
I see the Forged version of Emma in the clouds, her jacket dripping with blood. You have to wonder about that day you found Emma with Craw, she says. Was it really her? Or was it me? Is your Emma even alive? She giggles lightly, and carries on in a singsong manner. I won’t tell. Never. Not ever.
But I already know. I don’t want to admit it, but I know it was my Emma, the real Emma, that day in Taem. I was disguised as Blaine, and yet she touched my face and knew it was me. She was crying, full of emotion. And I screwed everything up by not taking her with me right then. I bet Frank even saw that reunion—his cameras are everywhere. By the time I returned for Emma, he knew the truth: that I was Gray, not Blaine. That I’d take Emma back to Crevice Valley with me. That he could plant a spy right into my eager, outstretched hands.
So clever, Emma sings among the clouds. Only it’s too late. Far, far too late.
Bree’s voice in the distance: “Keep your eyes open, Gray.”
But Emma is morphing into the girl from Burg’s tunnels. My children ain’t old ’nuff to die, she says. Nobody here asked fer this and ya brought the Reapers right to our door.
I blink and she’s Xavier, a hole clear through his skull. You pushed Emma too hard. You didn’t think she’d do it, and now look. Look!
But I can’t, and when I don’t, there’s Jackson, a line of ragged red across his neck—Some ally you are—and Bo—I was finally out, finally free. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
The world shrinks, narrowing like I’ve set foot in a tunnel. Bree’s hand is in mine. I feel her fingers, miles away, but squeezing. No words, just a reassuring grip. My vision steadies slightly as the helicopter greets land.
I’m off the vehicle somehow, an arm wrapped behind Bree’s neck. We’re moving, but she’s doing most of the work. There’s a squat white building ahead. And a woman with auburn curls, running to meet us.
The ground shifts beneath me. It happens slowly, like I’m suspended in time. I turn to Bree because I want to warn her of what’s coming, but I manage to say only her name before collapsing in the snow.
I wake in a foreign bed, feeling thirsty and downright exhausted. Bree is asleep in a chair beside me, one hand resting on the mattress near mine, almost as if our fingers were laced together before she drifted off.
By the look of the place, we’re in an average home. The bedroom’s walls are a dusty peach, the windows dressed with curtains so thin the first light of dawn filters through them. There is a nightstand beside the bed, a glass of water sitting on its worn surface. I grab the drink and down it in several gulps. The liquid sloshes in my stomach, which has been empty for too long.
Gritting my teeth, I sit and push back the sheets. The leg of my pants has been cut off high around my injured thigh, the wound seen to and bandaged. I climb out of bed. Putting weight on my leg is unpleasant, but I manage.
It’s not until I’m standing, bracing against the steady ebb of pain, that I notice how small and vulnerable Bree looks. I haven’t seen her sleeping before, not in such clarity, and now the morning light is basking over her and all I can see is this calm, peaceful girl, so different from the one I usually face. Her forehead is smooth because she’s not scowling it full of wrinkles. Her eyebrows arch elegantly; her lips part with grace. Everything about her is softer when she dreams. I feel like I’m witnessing some great secret, seeing this gentle side she never shows the world.
She flinches; makes a small, tiny sigh. She’s going to wake with a horrible pain in her neck if she stays in the chair, so I lift her and transfer her onto the bed.
“Gray?” she murmurs. She’s still dreaming and my name comes out tinged with panic, like she might be having a nightmare. She’s even scowling now.
“I’m here,” I tell her. “I’m here and we’re fine.”
Her lips twitch into a smile and her face goes still, like the dream has steadied.
And in that moment I forget everything she said to me below Burg, because this is what I want: to make her fears melt away. To calm her and steady her and to simply be there when she needs me. Always.
I watch a few strands of blond hair flutter in rhythm with Bree’s exhales. I know I should go find the team, but all I want to do is climb into the bed. I want to fall asleep with Bree’s back against my chest and my arm around her waist, because if we’re together we’ll be okay. I’ve known her barely five months, but it feels years longer. When I wasn’t looking, she became my second half, and now the thought of braving the storm raging around us seems impossible if I have to do it alone. Truthfully, the thought of braving anything without her seems utterly absurd.
She was right. About us. About the fact that I was fighting it. Why does she always have to be right?
I put a hand on her shoulder, but I don’t wake her. I don’t know how to even begin to apologize. I was wrong about everything . . . I do need you, us, the fire, to be scared and challenged and pushed . . . I was wrong and I’m sorry.
None of it seems like enough.
So I kiss her forehead, tuck the blanket beneath her chin, and leave to find the others.
THIRTY-SIX
THE AMWEST WOMAN IS WAITING when I step into the hall. She introduces herself as Heidi and tells me Clipper’s injuries have been seen to and that he and the rest of the team are sleeping. I ask to see them, and she insists Adam needs to talk to me first. When I press the issue she tosses around words like urgent and imperative, so I reluctantly follow her.
We head through a sitting room littered with books and plush couches, a kitchen that smells of warm bread and soup, and down a flight of stairs before finally entering a large, windowless room. It’s packed with computers and displays and other devices I’m sure Clipper would know how to use blindfolded. Adam is standing in the center with his back to us, talking to the woman I remember rushing to greet the helicopter before I passed out last night. Her curls are pulled back and her freckle-covered cheeks are flushed.