Earthbound (32 page)

“What are you talking about?” I demand. I step forward, my chin raised. “I’m an Earthbound. My soul is immortal and tied to this earth for all time.”
Rebecca’s voice again.
I don’t push her away; she knows what she’s talking about.

“That’s what we’ve believed for thousands of years,” Sammi replies. “But thanks to a Reduciata
Earthbound who came to us a few decades ago, we’ve discovered that’s not entirely true. We’ve tried to keep it quiet, but you need to hear the truth.”

I feel shaky and have to lean against Benson’s chest to stay upright. Though I can’t remember all my lives—any of my lives, really—I can sense a bedrock of truth that goes back thousands, maybe millions of years, that there’s
always
another day, another life, another chance to do better, be better. Even the hint of a threat against that shakes me to my very core. “My existence is dependent on my choice of boyfriend?” I snap, my voice dripping with disbelief.

Sammi looks at me strangely as Elizabeth steps forward. “You don’t remember why you have to find him, do you?”

I’m afraid to answer. To look stupid and dependent on them.

“This isn’t about romance, Tave. This about life and death—your curse.”

“The one for creating humans?” I ask shakily.

Elizabeth nods. “You know how the things you create disappear in about five minutes? Once you reconnect with Quinn, they’ll stay permanently.”

“Which is actually the
less
important part,” Sammi adds. “The powers of the Earthbound are like …” She pauses. “What’s the best way to explain this? They’re like a battery. And each lifetime you find each other is like charging that battery. Your powers become not only permanent, but stronger. And each lifetime you don’t connect, they weaken.” She glances at Mark and I don’t like the fear in her eyes. Not fear
for
me, fear
of
me. She’s afraid to tell me this. Afraid what I’ll do. “And like batteries, they eventually go dead.”

“No,” I say, dismissing her words. “We’ve existed since the beginning of time. We don’t just
go dead
.”

“You do if enough lifetimes pass.”

I say nothing.

It’s
impossible
.

“For centuries we’ve believed that the Reduciata are motivated by greed—mainly a desire for power. And while that
is
true, it’s worse than we thought. Both the brotherhoods keep meticulous records. The
Reduciata discovered it first, but once we found out, it was easy to confirm. Earthbounds have some kind of finite source of power, and it takes a great deal of that power to reincarnate. If they don’t find their partner for long enough—replenish that source—eventually, they run out of the energy necessary for their soul to … migrate.”

I hold out my hands as if I can stop her from speaking. As though it won’t be true if she simply doesn’t say it.

“So eventually, when you die, you’re gone. Just like the rest of us,” she adds in a whisper. When I say nothing, she continues, probably as much to fill the awkward silence as anything. “That’s what the Reduciata are trying to do. They believe that if they can permanently kill enough sets of Earthbounds that their power will revert to the remaining gods. They’re trying to return themselves to the level of strength the Earthmakers—the Earthbounds before the fall—were originally endowed with. And they’ve done a fairly good job already.”

“How many?” I whisper.

“How many what?”

“How many lifetimes?”

Sammi hesitates. “Seven.”

The math is instantaneous. Two hundred years since I was with Quinn. “This is my seventh lifetime, isn’t it?”

Sammi nods.

“And Logan’s?” In my mind he has already reverted to his new self, his new name.

“As far as we can tell, his too,” Sammi confirms.

The message is brutally clear: if I run away with Benson, Logan and I both end as soon as we die.

And maybe the world perishes with us.

Five minutes ago, I thought I would give anything up for love—but now, will I have to give up love to save the world?

I let my head drop and Sammi interprets it as concession. “You won’t regret this,” she says, a flutter of excitement in her voice.

Before I can contradict her, she sifts around in her briefcase for a few moments, then steps toward me with something held between her palms. “When I first met you,” she begins, “when you were Sonya, you were so afraid of us. Afraid of being discovered by the Reduciata, especially. And then when you found out Darius had been killed, you … you never wanted to remember that life. At all. You wouldn’t give us anything to do a memory pull with, never told us more than was absolutely necessary. But one day I came in and you had been lying on the floor reading and, without thinking, you braided the edge of the carpet. It wasn’t much, but technically, you made it.”

“Do you mean I made it with my powers?” I ask, not understanding.

She shakes her head. “I’ve been telling you for months that being an artist is integral to who you are. You don’t have to do anything supernatural to create something that will help you remember—or else what would Destroyers be left with? You just have to
make
it. Generally in the form of art, painting, sculpting, or”—she gestures at my necklace—“jewelry. Simple as it is, I’m pretty sure this bit of carpet counts. I tied both ends and cut it off. It shouldn’t have mattered that much; a memory pull with a creation from any of the lifetimes should restore them all. But I kept it just in case. And now?” She raises her eyelashes, showing intense blue eyes. “I don’t know if you do want to remember that life or not. Whatever happened to make you so paranoid, you didn’t tell us. Maybe it’s better left buried. But I think that’s a choice
you
should make for yourself.”

I’m afraid to reach out my hand, but I don’t have to. Sammi is already shaking her head.

“Don’t touch it,” she says. “Don’t even look at it. Not until
you
decide if you want to. Those memories
might
be somewhere in your head—but if Elizabeth is right, you may need
this
to get Sonya’s memories back. I’m going to tuck it in here.” She slides a Ziploc bag into a small pocket of my backpack and holds it out to me. “Now it’s up to you.” Then, before I can even process her confession, she’s walking away.

“I’ll call the pilot and have him start preparations. Grab anything you want to take with you from this car that you
borrowed
,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’re leaving it here. Maybe it will find its way home.”

I turn to Benson and lean my forehead against his shoulder, drawing strength from him as his arms wind around me, pulling me close. I feel like my whole body is devoid of energy after everything I’ve learned and heard today.

Hell, the last several days.

He’s my anchor to reality. No, more than that—my own sanity.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my lips close to his ear.

“Let’s start with collecting our stuff,” he whispers. “That way, if you want to run, you’re ready. But”—he pauses—“if you
do
still want to, maybe it’s best if we go with them tonight and run tomorrow. At least we’d be thousands of miles away.”

“Forgive me if I don’t share your confidence in a plane getting us anywhere safely,” I say darkly.

He squeezes my hand in understanding before reaching into the center console and grabbing his phone. He holds it, looking down at it for a moment, and then his expression grows hard and he throws it as hard as he can into the trees.

I eavesdrop on Sammi as I fill my backpack to bursting with all the things from the dugout and the journals from the front seat. I look up when Mark curses. He’s staring at his ringing phone but not answering it. “It’s Daniel again. I have to answer eventually. What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Anything but the truth,” Sammi says wryly.

“Who’s Daniel?” I ask, recognizing the name from the conversation I overheard in their bedroom.

Another conversation that included hiding the truth from this Daniel person.

“Bigwig in the Curatoria,” Elizabeth answers for Sammi.

My heart pounds in warning. “Then why don’t you trust him?”

The three adults look back and forth at each other and don’t speak.

“Oh please,” I say in such a bitter tone that all three heads jerk up. “We got into this mess because you wouldn’t talk to me. Have you learned nothing?”

Sammi nods and beckons me closer. “We’ve been seeing some signs of … corruption, so to speak … among the higher authorities of the Curatoria. Regarding your case, specifically.”

I think about Sunglasses Guy, not to mention everything else that’s happened since. I was certain they were Reduciata assassins, and Sammi indicated that they were too. Are we both wrong? I grit my teeth, wishing I could remember whatever it is that the Reduciata thinks I know.

“So, just to be safe, we’re trying to keep our plans as out of their hands as possible. Even the six guns I brought,” she says, pointing to the trees, “are old friends of my dad’s who know not to report to their superiors. We could be wrong about everything,” Sammi hurries to add. “But we want to keep you safe.”

I swallow, Quinn’s words echoing in my head.
Trust ye the Curatoria but tenuously.
Tenuously indeed. Apparently that’s how much they trust themselves.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sammi says, making a gesture to her hidden bodyguards and leading the way.

“No.”

The word is soft, almost inaudible, but Sammi hears.

“Tavia—”

“No.” I say it louder now. I hold out the files. “Thank you for these, but I won’t be your pawn.”

“It’s not about that.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to make this decision on my own. And that means not going with you tonight. That doesn’t mean I won’t help with the virus,” I add before she can speak. “But the fact is, I don’t trust Curatoria.”

“Tavia,” Sammi begins. “Don’t make me force you. I don’t—”

“Let me walk away, and I promise you’ll hear from me again. And soon. Show of good faith,” I say, challenge in my eyes. “But if you try to …” A movement over her shoulder catches my eyes and I nearly gasp when I realize it’s Quinn.

Vision Quinn, not real Quinn.

He’s in the same coat and hat he was wearing when I first saw him and he looks out of place standing close to the Honda.

He’s not looking at
me
; he’s glaring up the pathway we drove down hours ago.

I feel like I’m fixed in cement. Benson pulls away and says something, but I’m deaf to his words as I stand there gaping.

Quinn takes half a step forward, thrusting his chin toward the path with that same studious gaze. Then, with no warning, his head whips around and that glare is directed at me for a fraction of a second before he begins to fade from sight.

And I understand.

We stayed too long.

“They’re here,” I whisper, my head spinning to look in the same direction Quinn had been glaring.

All motion stops—everyone is silent.

“They’re here!” I shout, some forgotten instinct taking over. I hear only a sharp crack, a blinding light, before I’m enveloped in an explosion of searing heat and blistering flames.

S
omething inside me wrenches away control of my mind and I fall to one knee. My hands swoop out to the side and swing over my head, pages of files scattering to the ground around me.

The space around me vibrates with a sound that pierces my eardrums and yet is strangely muffled. Hot air fills my lungs and I stifle the urge to cough.

Then it’s quiet.

No, not quiet; fire crackles and roars. But the explosion is over.

I touch my arms.

I’m not burned.

Dancing orange flames lick up the trees, devouring the crackly leaves. I look up, but there’s only blackness. I’m standing in shadow.

“Ow! Damn it!” Benson swears beside me after scrambling to his feet only to clang his head on something above us and sink to the ground again.

We’re in a rounded shelter of something black. I lift my hands to it, my fingertips skimming the surface, almost hot enough to burn me. “Cast iron,” I whisper, recognizing the material. Just like the shield that protected Quinn and Rebecca from the bullets two hundred years ago.

Well, at least I know who to thank.

“Tavia, Benson,” Elizabeth snaps. I turn to her with wide eyes as I realize what happened.

“I made this!” The words burst out in a shriek. “Holy shit, Elizabeth, I did it! I—”
I saved more than just me this time.

“We have to get out of here,” Benson says, his hand squeezing mine so tightly it hurts. “I can’t—why—
this is all my fault
.” He releases me and runs both his hands through his hair, ragged gasps loud in the tiny space.

“Ben, it’s all right,” I say, trying to grasp for his hands, but they flutter just out of reach.

His eyes meet mine and it’s like he just realized I’m here. He throws his arms around me and his fingers grasp against my back. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against my neck. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to get away.”

“Benson, what are you—”

Benson rises to his knees and pulls at his jacket, yanking it down his arms. He grips my leg to get my attention. “Scissors, Tave.”

“What?”

“Make me some scissors. Please,” he adds.

There’s no time for my ethical quandaries. Not when there are three lives to save. I can do this!
Scissors.
I close my eyes and force my mind to focus. A weight fills my hand and I give a pair of sewing scissors to Benson.

They’re identical to the ones that used to reside in my mother’s sewing basket. Hauntingly familiar. It’s like the locket I accidentally created. Somewhere at the periphery of my consciousness a firefly memory glows.
I make what I know.

Benson grabs them and begins cutting his jacket. I still don’t understand what he’s doing, but I trust him with my life. With Elizabeth’s life.

“Water,” he says before coughing. But I’m ready this time.

Liquid spills from my upturned palms and he soaks the pieces of cloth and hands one to each of us.