He’d never been much of a fighter. He believed he had the heart for it, just not the training or skill. But believing it was different to knowing it.
There was really only one way to know for sure. He crept to the door and opened it as quietly as he could.
Wren was focused on the machine. It was complicated. Far more complicated than anything he’d ever imagined, let alone seen before. If his father had used this to control the Weir, it was far beyond Wren’s understanding. At first he’d just been searching for a way to connect, thinking that maybe if he showed he’d accessed the machine, it’d be easier to tell Aron and Connor that he’d really tried and couldn’t do it. But once Wren had gained access, he’d become intrigued by the system. Though it was far more layered, far more intricate, Wren had once glimpsed something like it in a moment of uncontrollable fear and rage. It reminded him of what he’d seen just before he’d… whatever it was he had done to his brother. When he’d sent him away.
It was like that, multiplied by a thousand. Or ten thousand, maybe. Except less organized. Or maybe more so, but with a system too advanced and on a scale too massive for his comprehension. It was impossible to tell, because of the depth of it all. Wren felt himself drawn towards it. Sliding nearer. And for a moment, he thought he might be falling helplessly into it.
But there was a shout from somewhere far away. Somewhere in another world. And then Wren realized it was in his world. His room. Everything came rushing back and he saw everything again as it was. Aron was there. And Connor. And someone else. A Weir. A Weir had come from the machine.
No, not a Weir. Painter. It was Painter. Come to help him.
Aron was fumbling for something inside his coat, and Wren tried to warn Painter, but it was too late. Painter didn’t need the warning. He leapt across the room, literally leapt, and struck Aron in a single motion. Aron’s head snapped back and his feet came up off the floor; he crashed head first against the wall behind him before collapsing down. He landed heavily, and his skull bounced when he hit. It made an awful sound.
Connor was making some noise, yelling maybe, maybe calling for help, Wren couldn’t tell. Everything still seemed like a dream at that point. And Painter — Painter was there, and his right hand flashed out and caught Connor by the neck or by the shirt, Wren couldn’t see for sure. But his other hand, his other hand was a fist and it smashed into Connor’s face. And again. And again. And Connor’s knees buckled and he went to the floor, still screaming. Painter rode him down, and his fist kept smashing. Again, and again. Until there was a wet crunch with every impact, and someone was screaming: “Stop stop stop!” — and Wren realized it was him.
Painter stopped, his hand raised for another strike and bloody, and it was like he was waking up from a deep sleep, from the way he looked at Wren. He was straddled on Connor’s chest. Connor was just laying there, still and silent, and his face was smashed in on one side and his eyes were open.
“Painter,” Wren said.
“Wren. Are you OK?”
Wren swallowed and nodded, but he didn’t feel OK. Connor was staring at him, and Wren could tell even from where he stood that there was no life left in those eyes.
Painter looked down at Connor and then stood up real fast, like he’d seen him for the first time. “What happened, Wren? What happened?”
“They came and took me. They hurt my mom.”
“Is he dead?” Painter asked, looking down at Connor, and then at his own hands. His left one was spattered all the way up his forearm.
“I think so.”
“What about the uh-uh-other one? Did I k-k-kill him too?”
Wren looked over at Aron, crumpled in the corner. He was motionless, and Wren could see there was blood pooling under his head. “I don’t know.”
“I didn’t mean to, Wren, I sss-sss I swear it. I thought they were hurting yuh-you.”
“They might have. They wanted me to do something… something I don’t think I can.”
“What do we do?”
“I think we better go, Painter.”
“I di-di-di… I di-didn’t mean to kill them, Wren.”
“I know, Painter, I know. Come on.”
Wren led the way out of the room, and back through the halls towards his mama’s room, his heart racing and his face cold with sweat. It all felt just like a nightmare, like waking up from a nightmare, except he knew he was awake and this was all happening, and all he wanted was to make sure Mama was OK. He could hear Painter right behind him, but Wren didn’t want to turn around and look — because he’d seen what had happened, and he knew if he looked at Painter now he was going to lose it — so he just kept looking straight ahead, getting back to Mama.
They got back to her room without seeing a single person in the compound, and that seemed wrong. But so much seemed wrong now. Connor and Aron had betrayed them, and who knew who else on the Council had gone along with it. Had they really betrayed him? Connor was right, Wren had said he would do whatever was necessary, if the Council agreed. What if they’d all agreed, and this was what they’d agreed to? Now Connor was dead, and probably Aron too, and no matter what, there was no way to come back from that.
Wren tried the door and found it was locked, but that was nothing to him, not anymore. He barely even had to think about it, and the lock flipped open, and he swung the door so hard it banged into the wall. Mama was still there on the floor, right where they’d left her.
“Help me,” Wren said, moving to her side, but even he didn’t know what he meant. He just knelt next to her and touched her face. She was warm, but limp.
“What do we do?” Painter asked, kneeling beside him.
“I don’t know,” Wren said, “I don’t know.”
Painter put his hand on her upper stomach and held it there for a moment.
“Look,” he said. “Look, she’s buh-buh-buh breathing. I think she’s… OK.”
“Can you pick her up? Get her on the bed?”
Painter shrugged, but scooted around behind Cass and scooped his arms under her shoulders. He stood up, dragging her with him. Wren tried to help with her legs, but it seemed like Painter was doing all the work. They got her onto the bed, though once she was there, Wren didn’t really know why he’d thought that was something to do. She was still out cold. Only now there was blood smeared across her shirt.
“Maybe you should go wash your hands,” Wren said. Painter looked at his hands, and then at Cass’s stained shirt, and then at his hands again. He nodded and went into the adjoining bathroom. Wren sat on the edge of the bed next to his mama and started stroking her forehead, her face, and her hands. Just hoping something would wake her. “Mama,” he said. “Mama, can you hear me, Mama?”
But no matter what he did, she didn’t respond. And he was so scared. So scared that she wasn’t ever going to wake up, and that someone was going to come and take him away, and that this was the end of everything they’d tried to protect. And that thought, the thought that everything was coming undone, really and truly undone, that’s when Wren felt it rising in him. It wasn’t the first time. He just hadn’t known what was happening before. But he was beginning to recognize the feeling now, when it started. And with it, Wren knew somehow he’d be able to do things he couldn’t usually do.
There was something inside him that felt like it popped, deep in his chest, down in his very middle, something so deep it almost seemed impossible that it could be inside Wren at all. And it hurt, and it scared him, but it also gave him strength. Wren stretched out a shaking hand, forcing himself to touch Cass’s forehead, and when he did, it seemed like he could see how she worked. Like a big complicated lock that needed opening. And, after a moment, he unlocked her.