Chasing Before (18 page)

“I think you’re afraid of what I’ll find out about you.”

Neil glares at me. “You are unbelievable.” He gets up from the sofa, stalks across to the table, and throws the note on top of it in disgust. “Go ahead and do what you want. I don’t care anymore.”

Maybe this is what it was like for us back on Earth, and our breakup there began with these same kinds of words.

I slip my hand under the neckline of my shirt to rub the spot on my chest that burns in fury, and my fingers brush up against the skep charm. “Fine! I will.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, a pulse like an electric shock sears through my body. The floor shakes under us, rattling Neil’s framed portrait on my wall. There’s a painful screeching sound followed by a series of gigantic thuds. We both race to the window and pull aside the drapes to look out. Neil slams his palms against the windowpane and then keels over, clutching his stomach.

The Muse Collection Library lies in ruins, and the lawn around it is pure chaos. The Morati have struck again.

twenty

I PAT NEIL’S ARMS and back. “Are you okay? Did you feel the electric shock too?”

“Some of my classmates were heading to the library for a tour after class, but I rushed back here to hang out with you and then I met Keegan.” He rights himself, hands drawn into fists at his side. “I have to go check on them.”

“I hope no one was hurt.” And I hope all those memories weren’t destroyed. Or that they made backups.

He looks over at me, dazed. “What?”

I touch his arm gently. “Should I come with you?”

“Not yet. But keep watching out the window for when the site is secured. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Be careful.” Our anger from before is momentarily
forgotten, and Neil draws me into a tight hug before leaving.

I survey the damage from the safety of my window. This bombing was different from the last one. It seems to have been something akin to an electromagnetic pulse rather than a gunpowder type of explosion. There’s no trace of smoke, or ash, or blackened stone. Instead it looks like someone pressed a giant die-cutter into the Muse Collection Library and environs, cutting grooves in the shape of a perfect circle into the earth. What kind of bomb does that?

After a few minutes of watching people in agony, I can’t take any more.

To keep my mind off the horror, I concentrate on searching for Julian’s brain waves. I lock onto them. He’s on the top floor of the dorm, and as I make my way toward his room, I pass my fellow students, and the heightened unease radiates off them onto me. They talk in low voices about the bombings and how they can’t trust Furukama or his security team to keep them safe.

When I get to the room that must be Julian’s, I don’t bother knocking. Julian’s space contains only the eggplant-colored sofa Mira was so fond of in Level Two, and he’s lying facedown on it, wearing a pair of board shorts. That combined with the way his hair is tousled makes it look like he’s been at the beach, not in jail. When I approach him, my insides are in a topsy-turvy whirl of worry. I nudge his thigh with my knee, and he lifts his head.

“Felicia,” he mumbles. So he knows who I am again. That’s a huge relief.

I sit down on the carpeted floor in front of him so that our faces are inches apart and run my fingers along the skin of his forearm. He’s no longer glowing, clammy, or foaming at the mouth.

“How are you?”

He squeezes his watery eyes shut, and a couple of tears escape. “I have a headache. I’ve never had one before.”

“You’ve never had a headache?”

“Thanks to our excellent control over our minds and our unique physiology, angels don’t usually have to feel unless we want to. But since I was exposed to the brimstone . . .” Julian trails off, his meaning clear.

“Can you sit up?”

“I’d rather not. When I do, I get dizzy.”

“What are your other symptoms?” I rise to my knees and start massaging his temples. “How does that feel?”

“It hurts more in the back of my head. My thoughts are fuzzy, my muscles are sore, and my throat hurts.”

The position I’m in, leaning over Julian, is awkward and doesn’t give me enough leverage to apply adequate pressure. I stand up and look him over, trying to figure out how to help him. I kneel on the sofa near his hip and throw my leg over him so that I’m straddling his narrow waist. As I look at the broad expanse of Julian’s back, I’m struck by how Neil would never so casually lie around half-naked. Not around me, in any case. Lead us not unto temptation but deliver us from the evils of bare skin.

I flex my fingers and slide them into Julian’s thick
hair and press circles into his scalp. “That okay?”

“Yes,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You’re really tense. Long overdue for a massage.” I work on the left side of his head for a few minutes and then ask him to face the other direction. After I concentrate for several minutes on his right side, his body relaxes under me. I relax too, and I don’t understand why, but I feel compelled to run my fingernails lightly over his skin. First under his shoulder blades, then right above his hipbone.

He flinches. “Are you tickling me?” His voice is ragged, like he’s having a hard time talking. And not just because of the effects of the brimstone.

I mentally kick myself. What am I doing? “Um . . . sorry. That was very unprofessional of me.” I continue with his massage, kneading his neck, his shoulders, down his backbone and ending right above his tailbone. “I hope you don’t ask for your money back,” I joke. “Because I tickled you.”

He shifts under me, turning completely around so that my hands fall onto his chest. It catches me off guard. The look in his eyes is so intense, it brings me right back to my living room in Germany, the day we shared our first kiss. Never breaking his gaze, he lifts himself into a sitting position until our chests are nearly touching. He’s propped up with one arm, and the other is on the nape of my neck, so hot it might be burning a brand into my skin.

He parts his lips, leans even closer. I’m under his spell, and all I want is to lose myself in his kiss again. I remember the taste of him, intoxicating like a summer wine, and my
thirst becomes unbearable. Every nerve ending in my body is on fire, begging me to close the gap between us.

But then he winces in pain, and our strange connection is broken. I scramble up off him and stumble over to the window, not daring to face him until I can cool off. I have no idea what possessed me to give Julian a massage, let alone to straddle him and practically seduce him. Seeing the dust clouds still billowing from the ruins of the library sharpens my mind again. What almost happened between Julian and me is not allowed. I love Neil, and I won’t betray anyone else I love because of Julian.

“Did you know there’s been another bombing?” I ask, needing to put emotional distance from the moment in Julian’s arms.

“I heard it. But I didn’t get up to see what was hit.”

“The library.” When Julian doesn’t reply, I risk a glance at him. He’s collapsed back onto the sofa and stares at the ceiling. I materialize a wooden chair and set it so the back of it forms a barrier between us when I sit down.

“The Morati delivered one of my memories to my room today,” I tell him. “It’s the third memory I’ve viewed of my stolen life, after the two Nate showed me.”

He tilts his head in my direction and squints. “And you absorbed it.” Julian knows me all too well.

“Of course I did,” I say forcefully. “It belongs to me.”

“Hey, I’m not judging you. But you do have to admit it is odd timing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You view a memory, and then . . . boom!” He says the last word so strongly that I jump.

He’s suggesting that the Morati strike every time I view a memory. The first, that Nate showed both Neil and me, was followed by the bombing that hurt Neil. The second, that Nate showed me in my room, was followed by the murder of all the healers. And now the third, delivered to my room, was quickly followed by the destruction of the library. But it has to be a coincidence, because the alternative is too troubling to contemplate—the possibility that each time I view a memory, it comes at a high price to all of Level Three, and it’s my fault. But I don’t know how that would be possible or probable, so I dismiss it immediately. I’m being paranoid.

In fact, it’s more likely that the Morati are targeting me. The blast that injured Neil went off right next to me. The healers might have been killed to make me more vulnerable. And I went to a muse class, so the Morati might have assumed I’d be on the library tour. But then the Morati wouldn’t have given me a memory if they just wanted to get rid of me. It doesn’t add up.

“In any case, you have to realize that absorbing the stolen memory will cost you something,” Julian says. “Whoever gave it to you has plans for you.”

“So what are you saying? You think I should tell Furukama if I get another one?” If I do alert the authorities, it’ll be “So long, memory.” But if even Julian won’t support me, maybe it’s time to give up.

“What? No.” He reaches out and rests his hand on the middle slat of the chair, like he wants to reassure me with his touch but it’s too much effort for him. “We’ll come up with a plan. We have to figure out who left the memory in your room.” He lets his hand drop.

“That’s where you come in.”

“As soon as I recover. That may take a while.”

“But you know how the Morati operate. What do you think their plan is?” I ask.

“Their goal is to ascend to the highest level they can to regain their former high positions. After the Morati were cast out of heaven and trapped in Level Two as servants to humans, we called out for eons to the higher levels, petitioning for an audience and hoping for a second chance. We never got a response. A radical faction formed, and the members aren’t afraid of employing extreme measures to be heard. There are presumably only two ways for them to get to Level Four. The first is to serve many long years in an afterlife career and then be awarded a retirement spot. The second is to get selected to the seraphim guard.”

They might have the patience to go for option one, but I think it’s more likely that they’d pretend to be humans in order to win a coveted spot on the seraphim squad. They have to be good, of course, but not so good that they draw suspicion. “Lucky for me, I passed the initial testing for the guard today.”

“You did? Congrats.”

“But Furukama might find them first. I mean, couldn’t
he expose all the candidates to brimstone and see which ones weaken?”

“Someone would have to tell him the Morati might be attending his classes with ascension in mind. And then he’d have to take every single candidate in training down to the jail,” Julian says. “But he won’t do that because he doesn’t want word to get out that the jail contains a one-way passage to the negative levels.”

“Why not?”

“Think about it. For example, a seraphim guard position is the most sought-after job there is. Training is highly competitive. If a candidate knew about the jail, what would stop him from pushing a rival down the hellhole? It’d be a concern, I’m sure.” Julian has a point about Furukama’s possible motivation to restrict knowledge of the jail’s features to only a few guards. Trainees might be working on detachment from their human lives, but that doesn’t mean they’ve lost their humanity and all the good and bad that goes with it. Furukama must really trust Brady and Wolf.

“Can’t I suggest to Furukama that you attend a class? Then you could look at all of them and see if you recognize them.”

“They’re disguised as humans. I’d know them only in their angel forms.”

I sigh. “And you’re too weak to look into their memories right now.”

This time he makes more of an effort when he reaches his hand toward me, and his fingers brush against mine.
“Keep your eye out for suspicious behavior. Angels can show you what they want, even fabricate whole pasts for themselves.”

I get up from the chair and carry it over to the corner of his room. “I will.”

He props himself up on his elbow, and a full-blown smirk forms on his lips. “Thanks for the massage.”

Now that Julian’s brought it up again, the shame settles in the pit of my stomach. I have the urge to find Neil and silently beg for his forgiveness for my near brush with infidelity.

I go downstairs and check both our rooms, but don’t find Neil. And he’s not down in the common room either. I go outside, and walk toward the ruins of the Muse Collection Library.

The bombing has left its traces in the hollow eyes of those who stumble by me, in the displaced clumps of soil and shrubbery, in the rubble that litters my path. Miraculously one of the towers of the library is still standing, and the stone gargoyle atop it looks down on me with what I imagine is disapproval.

The cleanup crew is out in full force, and the gusto with which they are already dematerializing debris makes me think it won’t be long before the physical proof of the bombing will be erased forever. It will take longer to heal emotionally. If Neil hadn’t hurried back to meet me, he might have been in the library. He might have been killed. The thought chills me. Instead of plotting with Julian, I should have come here with Neil to offer my help.

Victims that survived the blast have been brought to a makeshift tent near the explosion site. But with the healers gone, I expect their prognosis is grim. I duck into the tent. Maybe it’s not too late for me to offer my assistance. The tent is packed with people, some lying in cots, most standing. Straining to see over those in front of me, I step on my tiptoes, and I spy a familiar head of curls at the front of the tent.

The first strains of music hit me with déjà vu. It’s the song “Blessed Be the Tie That Binds,” the song that Neil played the first Sunday I met him.

twenty-one

LIBBY SITS BESIDE NEIL with her hand on his shoulder while he plays. How dare she touch him so possessively? Why are all these people clapping along to the music as though nothing is wrong? Shouldn’t they be in their rooms?

I lurch back, accidentally stepping on someone’s foot. “Excuse me,” I mumble as I turn.