Failed. I stared at the wall, numb. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was all a coincidence.
Parker took a step back. “But we do have the other things he left behind.”
I couldn’t speak—my mouth was too dry, my throat too tight. But Parker must’ve seen my face, because he turned and went to one of the many chests lining the room. He lifted out a few papers, glancing at them and then setting them aside. Eventually he found what he was looking for.
It was a small box, no bigger than a backpack. He hadn’t left much behind. I sat down on the floor, ignoring the way the stares of everyone in the room burned holes in my back. There were a few commonplace objects in there. A lighter, a canteen, a roll of bandages and a tube of ointment. A flashlight. A pocket encyclopedia, a couple of other small books. A few parts from unidentifiable machines.
And a paper bird.
My fingers stopped a hair’s breadth from the crumpled, grubby paper object in the bottom of the box. Eyesight blurring, blood roaring in my ears, I almost missed Parker’s question. But only almost.
“Do you know who wrote the journal?”
“My brother.” I swallowed, but it didn’t help. My voice still sounded strange, like it didn’t belong to me and never had. “The journal belonged to my brother, Basil Ainsley.”
CHAPTER 13
Oren came to my room that night after I’d managed to swallow a few bites of dinner.
I had eaten apart from the others on Parker’s advice, both to let myself have some time, and to let the others come to terms with my existence. Apparently, the “girl in the journal” was almost like a religious figure among the resistance movement. I was the only name associated with the person who’d unwittingly founded their anti-Prometheus movement. There were those who thought that Lark Ainsley was the one who’d written the journal. A few even thought I’d come back to finish what I started and take down Prometheus once and for all.
I’d taken the box of Basil’s belongings with me when I left the War Room and spent the time sitting on the cot in my tiny room, searching each item for answers. I couldn’t quite bring myself to read my brother’s journal, not yet—it was too much like reading his last words, bidding him farewell.
After I’d answered his knock, Oren stood in the open doorway, characteristically quiet. His eyes rested on the objects strewn across my blanket, didn’t lift to look at me. He was looking better—less like he felt the need to pummel the nearest bystander, at least. I’d gotten used to the sky after a few days, so maybe he was slowly getting used to being underground.
“They don’t know what I am,” he said eventually, surprising me. I’d expected him to say something about my brother— no doubt he would’ve heard any number of things at dinner.
Part of me resented the fact that Oren, the monster, could move freely amongst these people, with no one staring at him or whispering his name. But I saw how much more settled he looked, how his shoulders had dropped and his barely scabbed-over hands had relaxed, and I couldn’t keep the resentment burning.
“I think there’s enough magic in the air here that you’d be fine, even if I wasn’t around.” I dropped my eyes back to the blanket. The paper bird my brother had carried with him lay next to mine. But for the fact that his was dirty, more crumpled, and torn, it could’ve been the twin of the one that had rested in my pocket since the day I fled my home.
Oren made a noncommittal sound, still lingering in the doorway. It wasn’t a big room, but I wished he’d decide whether he wanted to come in or leave. Abruptly, I remembered the chill in his voice when he said that saving my life in the woods by giving me food was a mistake.
“You could stay here, you know.” I kept my eyes on the birds, the identical folds and creases. “You wouldn’t have to risk hurting anyone else.”“Are you going to stay?”
The question caught me off guard, despite the fact that it’d been lurking at the back of my thoughts for hours. How could I stay in a city ruled by the man who killed my brother? And yet—where else could I go?“I don’t know yet.”
I heard him shift, the metal doorframe creaking a little as he leaned on it. “Parker says that Prometheus is one of the best manipulators of magic anyone’s ever seen. He’s responsible for almost all the machines here, and for the magic in the air. The lights, the air filters, everything.”
“But he does it using Renewables as slaves. And he’s a murderer.”
“Maybe.”
I looked up to find Oren watching me, his usually clear, fierce eyes troubled.
“But they say he’s been studying the—the shadows, as you call them.” His lips twitched around the word “me,” but he didn’t say it aloud. Our hallway was hardly private. “I’d be interested in finding out more about his research.”
I knew what Oren was after. If he was cured, he could live anywhere and never have to worry about the monster inside him ever again.
Despite the way he leaned against the doorframe, he seemed taller, more assured. He wasn’t sweating anymore, and he’d gotten a change of clothes from someone. Gone were the patched pants, the transparently thin shirt. He’d washed the Eagle’s blood from his face and hands. But for a few bruises, he could’ve fit in anywhere.
For a strange, confusing moment, I missed his ferocity. In my mind that was who Oren was—all action and quick thinking, instincts honed for survival. Strong, uncompromising. Even when he was afraid in the outside city, it was the fear of a caged animal waiting to be set free.
But now he had purpose.
“Then you should definitely stay,” I said, forcing myself to look down at my blanket.
The doorframe creaked again as Oren stopped leaning against it. He didn’t speak right away. I tried to imagine him hesitant, uncertain, but I could only see his new sense of purpose, changing him.
Eventually, he just said, “Good night, Lark.”
When I lifted my head again, he was gone.
I stared at the empty doorway for a few moments, then got up to shut the door with a screech of rusty hinges.
Why wasn’t I more excited for Oren? If Prometheus had information that could help him, it would change his life. The life I’d ruined by revealing his secret, the one he didn’t even know he had. If I’d never come along, Oren would never have known what he really was.
But if he were cured—it would change everything. He wouldn’t have to hate me for what I’d done to him. I wouldn’t have to feel that same disgust, imagining the things he’s done, every time he touched me. I’d be able to kiss him and not taste blood.
And yet. If he were cured, there’d be nothing tying him to me. He’d no longer be forced to stay close to me, leeching my magic to stay human.
I tried to shove thoughts of Oren aside and sat back down on the bed. I piled everything Basil had left behind back into its box, but for the books and the journal. Leaning back against the wall behind the cot, I sorted through the tiny pile. There was an encyclopedia of plants, languages, animals, geography, and basic science—everything a city boy would need to survive beyond the Wall. It was marked with the same line of ownership as the journal. The other books, however, had no seals of ownership. Either he’d gotten them later, elsewhere, or he’d stolen them from the Institute and not given them a chance to claim them. One, a heavily worn paperback, was a handbook on aerodynamics. Another was a small, thick book on magical theory—it was ancient, nearly falling apart. Probably from before the Renewable wars. And the third—I stopped and reached for it, frowning. The last one was a book of stories. Basil had never shown much interest in stories beyond those he made up to tell me as a child when I had nightmares. At home, he was never that interested in reading at all unless the books were about machines and magic, because he dreamed of becoming one of the vitrarii, the glassworkers who created the circuitry to carry magic.