Dualed (29 page)

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the tray with hands as steady as they’re going to get and head upstairs toward his bedroom. I don’t even bother knocking. I can’t. I can’t afford to hesitate, to let myself doubt.

Muted gray light flows in from the window. On his desk is a pile of the old tablets and cells that he and Luc used to mess around with, the ones they lifted from recycling units to refurbish or mine for parts. There’s also a separate stack for school stuff—the tablet he set aside for his own use, some textbooks, papers, a flexi-reader.

He’s still in bed, but he’s not asleep. I can tell, despite the arm thrown over his face so it’s hidden from view. I wonder if he’s actually slept at all.

“Chord.” My voice is hoarse and so tentative it doesn’t even sound like my own. I clear my throat and try again. “Chord.”

I’m met with silence. Then, quietly, “What is it, West? You okay?” He moves his arm and slowly sits up. No shirt, despite it being winter outside. His shoulders are broader than I’d have ever guessed, cut and defined by angles both soft and sharp.
I can’t miss the slow, languid play of muscle and bone within them as he turns to face me.

For a long moment, I just let myself look at him. Completely overwhelmed that he wants me, loves me, still stunned that I’m actually going to meet him halfway.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I was so shaky inside, more than walking into any strike. And not just from what I’m about to set in motion. From the way he’s staring back at me, his eyes unreadable. “How’d you sleep?”

“All right, I guess,” Chord says lightly, almost lightly enough to convince me that he’s forgotten what happened last night. Unsure of what to say, I hold my breath as he points to the tray I’m still clutching. “What’s that?” he asks, sounding immediately suspicious.

My shoulders stiffen. “Food. What does it look like?”

He laughs. “You? Making me breakfast? In bed?” He shakes his head. “No way this is happening, West Grayer.”

“Shut up,” I mutter. I’m too uncomfortable to laugh at his reaction, even though it makes total sense. Never in a million years would I have done this before today. But I don’t have any other choice.

I walk over to the bed and slap the tray down in front of him. Too hard. I almost swear at how the food jostles dangerously. But the orange juice doesn’t spill. I take another deep breath, try to calm down. “Here, eat. I just … I thought you might be hungry.”

He glances down, then back up at me. “Where’s yours?”

“I’ve been up for a while, and I was starving, so I already ate. Sorry.”

“Oh. Well, thanks, by the way. It looks good.”

I watch him pick up the fork. I can’t leave until I know for sure it’s worked. But instead of eating anything, he puts it back and reaches for my hand. Tugs me down until I’m sitting next to him. There’s heat coming from him, and I lean in closer, wanting to thaw out the chill that’s in me, even if it’s what is going to get me through this.

“I’m sorry,” Chord says suddenly, very softly. His eyes are dark and luminous and full of the same sadness that’s been there for too long. “About last night, I mean.”

“It’s fine, Chord.”

“It’s not. I had no right to … push you that way.”

Unable to meet his eyes, I can only look at his shoulder. But I entwine my hand with his so he knows I’m listening, even if I can’t speak. Whether he’s talking about me finally finding the guts to kill my Alt, or him telling me how he feels about me, or both, I’m not sure. But I can’t let myself think too much about anything right now. I just have to … do.

“West, you’re almost out of time.” His voice is low, trying to hide the desperation there so he doesn’t send me running. He knows me too well … but not completely, not yet. He doesn’t know how far I can go.

“I know.”

“Before it self-detonates.”

“I know.”

“When it won’t be up to you anymore. Or her.”

“I know.”

Chord starts to say something and then stops himself, before finally asking in a tight voice, “So what are you doing today? Not sticking around, I’m assuming? Got a job lined up?”

There’s a giant lump in my throat, heavy with sorrow and everything I wish I could tell him. I cover it up as best I can and pick up the orange juice. Hold it out to him. “Something like that. Here. Drink this, okay?”

It’s the perfect response. The typical West nonanswer that he’s heard for years. His face harsh with impatience, he grabs the glass from my hand and chugs the orange juice down.

“There. Happy?” He slams the empty glass on the tray. It falls over.

Gently, I set it upright again. I hope that I calculated the dose correctly. Too little, it won’t do anything but make him groggy. Too much, and he goes into a coma from which he might never wake.

A feeling too close to grief is already clouding my mind. It’s squeezing my heart with vicious relentlessness, making my insides ache. Silently, without looking at him, I lift the tray from the bed and place it on the bedroom floor.

Chord glances over at me. “What are you …”

I can’t stop myself from sliding under the covers until I’m next to him. I push him down until he’s on his back. Curling myself up against him, I press my face into his neck, smelling his skin. Feeling safe for as long as I can.

He turns toward me and wraps his arms all the way around. Weaves his fingers into the hair at the back of my neck. “Hey, you okay?” he asks. Husky again, but this time not just from sleep.

I can only nod. I don’t trust myself to speak. And I need this. The calm before the storm.
It’s not good-bye, Chord. It’s just see you later, okay? I swear
.

For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. I hear nothing but the whistle of the wind outside and the steady, drumming beat of his heart through his chest. Still strong.

“Talk, West,” he murmurs. “You’re starting to freak me out.”

I breathe out a sigh. Sounding far from steady, however I try to convince myself. “Sorry, I’m just … tired.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says. And he does sound tired. It’s not my imagination, I’m sure of it.

“Go to sleep, then,” I tell him.

Chord shakes his head. Even in the faint light, I can see the first glint of confusion in his eyes. His words are starting to slow. “Can’t. We need to get moving before it’s too late. It’s not safe here … for you. Not if … she really means to … come back.” He frowns, moves to sit up, as if it’s possible to get rid of the sudden blanketing fog that way.

I pull him back down with my arm. “Stay, Chord. I don’t want to get up yet.”

He squints as me. “What? You should know we … can’t stay.…” He rubs his eyes with his hand. “Man, I’m beat. I feel … weird.”

I stay quiet, my leg lying over his. I touch my hand to his cheek and turn his face to me so I can see him and he can see me. Already his eyes are blurring, and he’s fighting the urge to close them.

I run my hand along his jaw. “I’m doing it for myself, and for you,” I say to him. “For both of us together, all right?”

I can see he doesn’t understand at first, but then his eyes go bright with alarm, even as they’re starting to fall shut. I press my mouth to his, the softness of his lips heartbreaking. “For what it’s worth, I love you, too, Chord.”

I don’t know if he hears me, or if he’s already gone too deep. I think in some ways, it’s better not to know. I’ll have something to ask him when I get back, then.

I’ve got about twelve hours, give or take, if I’m not too off my guess of Chord’s weight. Now I just have to pray that she shows in time.

I kiss him once more before pulling myself off the bed.

As I smooth the blankets back on top of him, I give myself over to the coldness again—closing myself off, shifting back to that earlier numbness in which I nearly lost myself … lost Chord. What’s left is West the striker and the pure, distilled instinct to kill or be killed.

It was always Chord who yanked me back from drowning, no matter how much I fought him. This time, I’m jumping back in to save us both.

A quick but thorough check of my house and I know she’s not anywhere inside.

Alone in the kitchen, I lock the back door behind me. The motion is almost lazy, careless, as if I have all the time in the world. The day no longer exists within normal boundaries. Nothing matters beyond what happens in the here and now, this chunk of time that has been cut out and set aside for just the two of us, my Alt and me.

My usual seat is the one that faces the kitchen window, where I can look out and see the backyard. Walking over to the table, I slip off my bag and place it down. Then I pull out my chair and slide in, as smoothly as if I never left.

The past tries to sneak in—the way the dawn’s light is eking in through the partially open blinds reminds me of thousands of early family breakfasts that will never happen again—but I shove it away with an ease that both surprises and reassures me.

Unzipping my bag, I pull out my gun and my switchblades and lay them out in front of me. The shapes of them, all
menacing lines and deadly curves, stand out against the warm amber grain of the beaten pine tabletop.

I stare down at what has become my life. Other than Chord, they are the only constants I have left. What frightens me is that I don’t know if I can ever let them go, even if I do manage to survive the day. Lifeboat, anchor … I can’t decide which I would rather they be. If I even have a choice.

With quick, sure movements of my fingers, I reload the gun. Place the remaining ammo back in my bag.

Next are the switchblades. I examine them in the cool, gray light. The handles are grotty and embedded with dried blood gone black. But none of that is important. Appearances mean nothing, as long as they won’t fail me when I need them. I open each one in turn, searching for nicks, bends, sticking joints. Nothing.

The last switchblade is Glade’s. It stands out from the rest, simply because it’s virtually brand-new. Given that and his fresh marks, I’m almost positive I was his first assignment, off the books or not. And it’s hard to pinpoint exactly how I feel about it. Satisfaction that I beat my Alt in some way, was the one to take away
her
Chord. And sorrow, too. For making her hurt in the worst way possible … she who is nearly me.

The quality of the blade is excellent, so it’s not a hard decision to make. I slip it into the right front pocket of my jeans—backup if my gun should ever be lost to me. Another blade is in my right back jeans pocket, as always. My left shoulder is still sore enough to give me doubts about relying on it as I normally would. Still, I shove another blade in my left jacket pocket. Just in case.

I push back from the table and stand up. My mind races as
I do a slow turn, taking in the layout of the room, the positioning of the windows. I’ve lived here for my entire life, but now I’m seeing it through the eyes of an active, a striker, and someone with more than her own life at stake.

It’s going to have to be the window over the sink.

It’s the smallest window in the room, which is both good and bad. Good because once I see her through the paned glass, I’ll know I have the best shot I’m going to get. Bad because it’s going to limit how much I can track her movements before she gets there. It’ll be as if she’s popping out of nowhere, like a jack-in-the-box springing up, sadistically gleeful.

But there’s no way around it. Not if I want to do this as cleanly as possible.

I move over to the window and pull the string to the blinds.

Fake wood slats roll up with a screech. Dust motes fly everywhere, a delicate shimmer stirred to life by my rude disturbance. As I’ve done for as long as I can remember, I peer through the window, and look out at the same view I’ve seen for years.

Our backyard, butting up against the backyard of the house directly behind us. The house is the same as always—white siding, dark red brick accents, brown trim that needs to be repainted—so my eyes don’t bother to linger. Instead they zero in on what’s in the far corner of their yard, slightly off center and to my right.

The old tree house. A very old, very well used, and perfectly situated tree house.

I hope it can still hold my weight.

I head back to the table and reach for my bag again. Feel inside for the interior patch pocket, the one that contains what
I need. Seconds later, it’s in my fingers, nearly weightless but at the same time heavy with significance.

A tangle of black and silver, of string and hammered metal. The sight of it reminds me how I snapped it free from around Glade’s neck without even knowing why I wanted it. Or maybe I did know why, deep down. Because here I have the necklace in my grasp; it’s closer to a talisman than I ever guessed it would become.

My last strike in Leyton Ward nearly slipped away from me, and I came within inches of making a mistake that could have been a million times worse. Because of a freak diversion that came in the form of a girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But a diversion can be turned into a decoy—and work for me rather than against me this time.

I move back to the kitchen counter and gently place the necklace down, right in front of the window. It’ll call to her, draw her exactly where I need her to go. If he was anything to her, it should be enough.

The one last thing left to do has me walking to the front room, over toward the picture window that looks out onto the street. Whether she means to come here or go to Chord’s, I know without a doubt she’ll be coming for us from that direction again. My Alt’s slept in my bed, sat down on the couch with a drink—how could she not be confident enough to keep taking the most direct route?

And if it’s Chord she’s looking for today, I’m going to head her off at the pass.

At the window, I draw back one of the curtain panels, parting it from the center so there’s a gap. Only about a hand’s width—large enough for her to notice from outside … and small enough for her to see as sloppy carelessness on my part.

If I can make her think I’m starting to break down and am hiding in here from her …