Chasing Before (29 page)

Over the next few weeks I fall into a regular, punishing schedule: class, training with Julian and Brady, and then deep meditation.

I see Neil most mornings. He picks me up and we walk as far as the administration building, where he meets for healer training. Though he’s a sweet, steady anchor to my days, we never have the chance to have any meaningful discussions, because of the constant interruptions from fans. Officially we’re still a couple. He still holds my hand, still gives me a good-bye peck on the cheek. Unofficially I dread the inevitable day when he decides we’ve drifted too far apart to stay together.

But instead of dwelling on it, I throw myself into training, going through mental and physical drills with a ruthlessness that surprises my fellow trainees. They don’t know the darkness that drives me, and the slim hope that if I face down the Morati, I might once again see the light.

I’m careful to never be alone with Julian. I arrive at his room with Brady and leave with Brady. When it’s my turn to touch Julian’s palm to sift through his memories, he sometimes teases me with images of our kisses, but I become adept at skimming over them, of avoiding getting pulled in.

Sometimes I go to Neil’s concerts. I stand in the back so he doesn’t see me and so I won’t accidentally infect the crowd with my bad moods. Sometimes I linger in our hallway in the evening, hoping for a glimpse of him, wishing he would smile at me the way he used to. Sometimes I miss him so much, it aches.

Usually I go straight to bed after my sessions with Julian. Nights are for meditating my way to a sleeplike state. A time when I do my best to ignore the memory globe swinging on its wire hanger, thumping against the bed skirt like Poe’s tell-tale heart.

Just when I am beginning to grudgingly accept my Spartan existence of training and mediation, Furukama makes an announcement in class.

“Attention please.” He claps his hands together. “Today we put your skills to the test. Each of you will participate in a double elimination tournament. If you lose two matches, you will be in danger of immediate expulsion.”

All thirty-nine of us gasp. Only a fraction of us will be chosen to join the guard on Ascension Day, but to be kicked out entirely? It is unexpected and unprecedented.

I’m especially freaked out. I’m so close to a breakthrough. Every day more power unlocks inside me. I might even expose the Morati tomorrow, but I won’t be able to if Furukama bars me from further training. If I lose my two matches, I might lose everything.

Furukama instructs us to line up single file around the gym. He draws names from a hat to pair us up. The object of the spar is to be the first to extract the image from your opponent. Furukama goes down the line, starting with Brady, and inserts images into our minds. When he reaches me, he lifts his hand to my forehead and inserts an image of an apple.

Solemnly Furukama calls the first two names. “Felicia and Wolf. You may begin.”

Wolf tries unsuccessfully to mask his displeasure at having to fight me. We’ve sparred in training, and nine times out of ten I’ve beaten him. But in a tournament like this, it takes only one slipup. I rub my hands on my pants.

Planting his feet in front of me, Wolf lifts out his palm to connect with mine. He chooses his default defense—the steel wall he used with Furukama during their demonstration, and something I’ve now torn down numerous times in the past few weeks. While I work on breaching his wall, he pokes around, looking for weaknesses in my force field. When I get through the first layer of steel, I find that Wolf has erected a brick wall behind that. Clever. Within a minute,
though, I break through that, too, and grab the image of a katana sword.

I shout, “Katana.” Furukama declares me the winner as Wolf curses. Furukama directs me to the opposite side of the gym to wait for the next winner, and directs Wolf to stay put to wait for the next loser.

Next up are Brady and Zhu Mao. They circle each other as they engage in their mental battle. Brady extracts Zhu Mao’s bamboo tree image and joins me in the winner line.

Furukama continues with the pairings until all of us are either in the winner or loser line. Then he goes down the loser line and gives them each a new image to spar with.

My first fight in the winners bracket is with Brady.

“Ready, Twitchy?” he asks. I nod, though I’m dreading this fight.

He lifts his palm to mine, and we spar. Brady is inventive with his defenses. He creates a densely wooded forest, and as I try to pass, branches scratch at my face and arms. I concentrate so much of my energy trying to protect myself while on the offensive that I leave my force field vulnerable. Brady snatches the apple image, lifts his hand to his mouth, and makes a crunching sound as he snaps his jaw, as if he’s taking a big bite of the piece of fruit. “Apple,” he says loudly enough for Furukama to hear.

“Well played.” I slink over to the first-time loser line. At the end of this series of fights, there are three lines: the winner line, consisting of those who have won both fights; the first-time loser line, consisting on those who have lost
only one fight; and the second-time loser line, consisting of those who have now lost two fights. The two-time losers sit on the floor.

Furukama goes down the first-time loser line and gives us each a new image. Mine is of a cherry blossom tree in full pink bloom. I wouldn’t mind sitting under one of those with a bento box instead of having to spar.

My next match is against Zhu Mao. I can’t lose this, or I’m probably out. She extends her palm languidly, but as soon as I connect, her arm goes rigid. I’m shaky at first, but I manage to get through her walls and extract her image of a cat. She pouts as she joins the rest of the two-time losers on the floor.

I have one match left. When I face off against Emilia, I bundle up my cherry blossom tree and set a barrier of fire around it. When our palms connect, I’m blinded by the whiteness of a blizzard. I dig deeper and deeper, shivering all the way, until I find myself trapped inside the Morati’s mainframe again.

The point of view switches, and I’m looking at myself trapped inside the mainframe. I raise my eyes until I’m staring at Emilia’s face reflected in the shiny surface of the mainframe, her glowing alabaster skin framed by silver hair. Libby was right when she said I could be the one to expose the Morati posing as humans.

Because Emilia is Morati.

thirty-two

I TEAR MY PALM AWAY and shout, “Morati.”

Emilia’s eyes grow wide at the same time mine do. I squeeze my hands into fists and wince as my fingernails cut into my palms. I did it. I exposed one of the Morati. Her pupils dart back and forth, as if she’s looking for an escape route. But then she laughs. “No. That’s not the image Furukama gave me.” She shakes her head like my accusation is crazy. Like I’m crazy.

I’ve seen into her hidden memories, seen her in Morati form, and I’m certain she’s one of them.

Quicker than a heartbeat, Brady is at my side, issuing commands. “Wolf! Moby! Help me pin her down.” The
tournament is forgotten. It is no longer top priority now that a suspect has been identified.

Wolf and Moby spring into action immediately, grabbing Emilia by the arms to immobilize her. She struggles against them. Furukama strides over to where we’re standing, Emilia still protesting that she has no idea what I’m talking about. “Test me yourself,” she cries to Furukama. “She’s wrong!”

“Everyone outside except these five.” Furukama indicates me, Brady, Wolf, Moby, and Emilia.

The trainees don’t need to be told twice. They rush out of the gym like it’s on fire.

“I trust Felicia,” Furukama says. “A stay in the brimstone jail should clear this up.”

Grunting, Emilia kicks at Furukama, but he glides out of the way before her foot can connect.

We arrive at the entrance of the jail, Emilia fighting us the whole time. The two daytime guards open the heavy stone door for us. Furukama dismisses Moby and me, and enters with Wolf and Brady. Furukama can handle Emilia’s interrogation, but I wish I could be there. I wish I could do more to help. If I had the chance, I would ask Emilia so many questions. Who are the other Morati? Where are the rest of my memories? Why did they take them? What is their plan for me?

Moby excuses himself, claiming he left something back at the gym. I walk back to the dorms in a sort of daze. Is it
my imagination, or has the low constant hum of the Morati’s presence grown louder and more insistent within me? Now that I have exposed Emilia, the other Morati may strike to protect themselves.

When I reach my hallway, Neil leans against his door, waiting. He’s alone; there’s not a single fan in sight for the first time since the night I fled from his bed. He gives me a tentative smile, like he doesn’t know what to expect from me, and all at once I’m done with this distance between us. He’s here and I’m here, and a storm might be brewing outside and everything could change tomorrow or in fifteen minutes, but I have right now. And right now I want Neil. I push him up against the door in a desperate kiss.

He turns the knob behind him, and we stumble backward into his room. I kick the door closed. We fall onto his bed, our hands all over each other and our mouths unable to get enough.

I pull at the buttons on his shirt. To be close to Neil is all I’ve ever wanted, and with our bodies entwined, I can’t fathom what kept us apart.

My lips find his earlobe, and my teeth can’t resist biting down. He shudders under me, and his muscles go taut. I kiss him at the base of his jaw, which is his Achilles heel, and he jerks his neck. “Wait.” He pushes against my shoulders, gently, and sits up. “Before we do this, I have to tell you something about me.”

Neil’s words bring me back to reality, to the secrets between us, to all the broken promises I want to forget. I
swing my legs over the side of the bed so that they dangle next to Neil’s. “What?”

“Every day I wrestle with myself. Every day I say, ‘Today will be the day I tell the truth.’ ” He stares at the door. “But then I chicken out, and I go back to living this lie.” He sniffles and then beats a fist on the bed.

I put my arm around him gingerly. “You’re the most generous, good-hearted person I know. How can that be a lie?”
Too good for me, for sure.

Neil wipes at his wet cheeks with the back of his hands. “That’s just it.” His voice trembles. “I’m not good. Not at all.”

“What—” I start to ask, but he cuts me off.

“Don’t.” He draws in a shuddering breath and then crawls back onto his bed and curls into himself. “Can you . . . please . . . I need . . .”

I stare at his shaking body. What does he need? For me to leave or for me to comfort him? All I know is what I need. I lie down next to him and hold him as tightly as I can.

What could Neil have possibly done that he thinks is so bad? He’s not like me—easily corruptible. He’d never have kept all the memory globes to himself. He’d have turned them all in. He certainly wouldn’t have one under his bed right now, taunting him, whispering to him. But whatever he has done, it must be a big deal if he’s so upset about it that he’s crying.

After a while Neil shifts to face me. “Thanks for staying. I’ve missed you lately.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

“Would you mind sharing a sleep memory with me? One of our naps back on Earth?” He holds up his palm tentatively, as if I might refuse him.

“Of course not.” Should I tell him about Emilia? No, not now. Not when we’re finally connecting again. I won’t ruin this moment with talk of the Morati. The Morati have already ruined enough.

We slip under the blanket, and then I reach up so our palms can connect.

I let him choose and we end up in one of my favorite memories—an abnormally chilly late spring day after school when we huddled together under the down comforter in his bed.

“Did you like the strawberries?” Neil whispers into my ear, his warm breath sending tingles down my spine.

“Yum.” My lips find the hollow right below his ear where his jaw meets his neck, and he jolts, like every time I kiss him there. I want to explore his entire landscape and find the other sensitive spots on his body, but I’ve been barred from most of the regions under his clothes.

“We could go get more.” He shifts beside me, moving the blanket and letting cold air in between us.

“Are you crazy?” I push the comforter up over our heads so that we’re buried under it, all traces of chill gone. I unbutton his shirt and press my cheek against his chest, so that I can listen to the thump of his heart. I swirl my fingertips down the bare skin of his sides and stomach,
and his heartbeat speeds up, and dances erratically.

My own heartbeat thunders in my ears as I inch myself lower, tasting the ridges and planes of his body as I go. Until I come to the hard copper button of his jeans. I start to undo the button, but he laces his fingers through mine and pulls me up again.

“Felicia,” he says, his voice cracking. “Look at me.” His eyes are intense, his curls cling to his forehead, and his bottom lip is stained red from the strawberries. My breath catches in my throat. The way he squeezes my hand tells me that his self-control might not last too much longer. Maybe I’m not as ready as I think I am.