But I think their mood has more to do with the unsettling ramifications of what Valerian said, right before I prevented Dahlia from informing her that we didn’t find the GX07.
I can’t worry about any of that right now. My head’s still reeling from the information I saw on that computer. I press my palms against my forehead. Cole, being held by those crazies in the Priory. And who knows what this U.I.P. procedure will do to him.
And that video of Digory. He was actually alive for at least a few minutes after I left him. But if he was being kept in that research facility for study, then I just witnessed him die all over again. It’s overwhelming.
The doors to the ward slide apart, startling me out of my reverie. A lone figure enters, holding a tablet. Dr. Marquez, whose snow-white hair contrasts with his youthful face.
Marquez glances around the room, consults his tablet screen, then turns his attention to the display of chart holos projected in the corner. His face is immersed in their shimmering, greenish glow, as if his head’s underwater. He waves his hand in the air regularly, leafing through the images as if they were printed pages, using his fingers to highlight and zoom in and out as he studies the readouts. A smile flits across his face that seems as perfunctory and planned as his perfectly pressed cobalt scrubs. Then he’s striding toward us.
“So what’s the scoop?” Rodrigo calls.
“Yeah, when do we get out of here?” Dahlia chimes in.
Marquez ignores them and stops at the foot of my bed, which is closest to the door. “How are we all feeling this morning?”
Reaching over the side of the bed, I thumb the button that elevates the headrest until I’m at eye level with him. “Hmmm. Let’s see. Other than all the bruising and aching from being attacked by infected psychos at that research facility, barely escaping incineration in the mushroom cloud that destroyed the station, not to mention being sore from all the needle poking and prodding and being confined in a place that increases my possible exposure to contagion, I’m doing great. How ’bout you, Doc?”
A thin smile splinters across his face. “You forgot to deride the quality of the hospital food. It has quite the reputation for being inedible.”
“Food’s actually pretty good,” I say.
“Your tests came back,” Marquez says, nodding at the charts. He pauses.
“And?” Arrah gestures with her hands as if she’s trying to scoop the rest from him.
Marquez waves a palm and the charts blink out. “Everything checks out. You’re being discharged today.”
The ward erupts with cheers, applause, whistles, and palm slaps.
Marquez holds up his hands to quiet us down. “The nurses will be here momentarily to remove the IVs and bring you your uniforms. Your squad leader will arrive within the hour to collect you.” He pauses on his way out and turns… to me. “Oh! I almost forgot. All except you, Spark.”
My abdominal muscles clench as if trying to crush my internal organs. I bolt upright. “Excuse me, Doc?”
“As soon as you’re dressed, you’re to report to the rotunda on the observation level.” His eyes are like two sharp pinpricks. “It seems you have a visitor.”
Then he’s gone, the doors knifing through the air and sealing behind him with a loud whisper.
The silence that follows is palpable. Even Leander and Dahlia, who’d normally make some crack about the Fifth Tier being coddled, don’t utter a word, which in itself speaks volumes. I sit still and avoid their gazes, confident that they’re all thinking the same thing that I am.
Who’d come to visit Lucian Spark? And why?
I stare at the nearly drained IV bag still lodged in my vein, imagining that each drip is laced with dread that slowly invades every cell, every artery, in my body until I’m literally burning with anxiety.
What if they suspect what I’ve been up to? What happens to Cole then?
The fact that there are two armed Imposers flanking the lift to the observation level when I approach does nothing to neutralize the acid burning through the lining of my stomach. We trade silent salutes, then I enter, taking in a deep breath as the elevator zooms up and stops.
As soon as I step through the parted doors, they slide shut behind me and the light fades up. The entire room is comprised of clear windows that provide a breathtaking, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the entire Parish as the chamber slowly rotates. Above me, a high domed ceiling of glass shifts from a reflective state to a transparent one, revealing an unobstructed view of the gray sky. The horizon is already soaked in a deep orange twilight bruising to a vivid purple. A flurry of snowflakes flutters toward me, and—to my shock—seems to go through the glass and right into the rotunda with me, sprinkling the room as if with a giant, invisible salt shaker.
I hold out my palm. Instead of a few flakes pooling there and giving me the frosty sensation of holding a handful of slush, the flurries go right through my hand, fading away once they reach the floor.
A computerized simulation. How cozy.
“Hello, Lucky.”
The voice freezes me. I turn.
And look Cassius Thorn dead in the face.
He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him—both of us standing on that ramp, his thick auburn hair writhing in the wind. His eyes, which before his recruitment had sparkled like emeralds, were rotted over with reptilian green. He’d pleaded with me then, his hand outstretched, beckoning me to leave Digory to a gruesome, lonely death and join him instead.
I’d almost succumbed, in order to save Cole’s life… almost…
Until I realized that aligning myself with Cassius would only have damned my brother.
“I should have known it was you,” I finally say. My eyes hold his. Cassius is the one that flinches, a millisecond twitch of the cheek that’s gone before I can even blink. He must sense the change in me. Maybe he shouldn’t be here without his trusted bodyguards to protect him. Then again, I’m probably being watched by unseen eyes. This is Cassius, after all.
“You’re looking well. Seems like trainee life agrees with you.” His lips curdle into a thin smile.
And to think there was a time when the thought of those lips against mine—I shove the vile memory back in its niche.
“It’s not like I have much choice in the matter,” I say.
He shakes his head. “That’s not true. There’s always a choice. If memory serves, I seem to remember you making quite a few during the Trials.”
If he’s trying to goad me into an emotional reaction, he’s wasting his time. “What’s so important that it would drive the Prefect himself here? It couldn’t be concern for my health.”
His footfalls gouge a deliberate path across the stone floor until they stop directly behind me. “Despite whatever you may think, you’re always in my thoughts.”
The words are like alcohol poured into a gaping wound. A chuckle escapes my lips. “Is that why you let Ophelia try to kill me after I refused your little offer?” I snap. “Your thoughts don’t seem to be a good thing for my health. Do me a favor and forget I ever existed, Sir.”
His fingers clamp around my shoulders like talons, spinning me to face him. “I was angry. Hurt. I would never have let anyone harm you.”
He’s so close I can feel the hot flecks of his saliva peppering my face. I wipe the offensive matter away with the palm of one hand and prod him in the chest with the index finger of the other, punctuating each word with a jab. “Don’t… touch… me… again… Sir.”
He releases his grip and backs off. “You think you’ve grown so much, but you’re still that same naïve little boy who couldn’t even tie his shoes without my help.” His smoldering features cool into a smile at the memory before turning to stone. “You’re no better than anyone else. No better than I am.”