Resonance (12 page)

CHA
PTER NINETEEN

Days until Tacet: 21

F
EELING BETTER?” LATTIMER GREETED ME
the next morning.

“Like a new person,” I lied, trying to appear nonchalant as the guards escorted us downstairs. Addie handled people better than I did, and I channeled her now, down to the way I tucked my hair behind my ears and folded my hands. Clearly they hadn't tied me to the incident on the train. Yet.

“How many people do you keep down here?” I asked as we approached Monty's cell. Ms. Powell had been stunned, not shot. She might be locked behind one of these doors. If she was alive, would she give me up?

I quashed the thought. That kind of thinking would lead me to the same place as the Consort; taking lives for my own preservation.

“The number varies. Your grandfather is our most recent arrival. We have the capacity to take more prisoners, but that hasn't been necessary for quite some time.”

Assuming he was telling the truth, Ms. Powell wasn't here. Which meant she was probably dead. Fighting to keep my voice
level, I said, “What am I supposed to ask him about today?”

“Our first priority is this weapon. What it's capable of, where it might be hidden. How to defend against it. Barring that, information about the Free Walkers he worked with during the anomaly would be helpful.”

I'd have better luck asking him where to find the local unicorn herd. “I'll do my best.”

Lattimer handed me the earpiece. For an instant I saw myself as he must—young and foolish and pathetic—and my hands curled into fists as he opened the door.

“I didn't think you'd come back,” Monty said as I crossed the floor, my boots squeaking on the tile.

“Neither did I.” I slipped into the chair opposite him.

“Randolph's leash is shorter than you realized, eh?” He sounded amused.

I bristled. “I thought I'd give you another chance. Tell me about the Free Walkers.”

He scrutinized me, but I kept my face impassive.

“I've told you everything you need to know. You too,” he added, tipping his head back to address the camera.

“Tell me again,” I said. “I'll get you started. You were a Free Walker.”

He hummed lightly, as if he didn't hear me.

“You've already confessed,” I pointed out. “Seventeen years ago. It's not news to anyone.”

“Then don't waste my time asking about it,” he snapped. “What other questions does he have?”

The earpiece stayed silent.

“Are you in contact with any Free Walkers now?”

His eyes gleamed. “The only person I'm in contact with is you.”

Guilt by association,
Eliot had said.

I pressed my fingers against the tabletop to keep them from trembling. “The Consort thinks you had help during the anomaly. That you couldn't have done it on your own.”

“Hard to believe, isn't it?” He grinned, letting me sweat. Payback for the last visit, for turning him in, for failing to find Rose. He lifted a shoulder. “How many times have I told you? Anything is possible.”

I exhaled in a rush of relief. “You haven't had any contact with the Free Walkers?”

“One,” he said. “An old friend, but according to Randolph, he's already been seen to. The rest want nothing to do with me.

“I'm tainted,” he continued, and for the first time I saw real sorrow cross his face. “Don't you think if I could have gotten back to them, I would have? Avoided everything you went through?”

“You don't have any way to find them?” I tapped the table lightly, emphasizing the next question. “Not even a map?”

The tiniest of smiles, the faintest of nods. “If I knew where to find them, the last person I'd share it with is Randolph.” His eyes flickered to the ceiling, then returned to me. “Why did you come back? It's not as if you need
my
help. Isn't that what you said last time?”

I didn't reply.

He shook his head. “I've told you everything you need to know.”

“Not everything. Not about the weapon, or where it's hidden.”

“In plain sight, I'd imagine. You'd be amazed at what people overlook, Delancey, even when it's right under their noses. Even you.” His gaze turned distant, his face went slack.

I didn't buy his performance for a second, but I played along, gentling my tone.

“They wouldn't keep it in the Key World.” I touched his sleeve. “Grandpa, even
part
of a frequency would help.”

“And what do I get?” he asked, quarrelsome and deceptively old. “I've lost everything, Del. My Rose, my family, my home.” He rattled his chains, the sound almost merry. “My freedom.”

“Your grandfather will never see daylight again,” Lattimer snarled. “Make that absolutely clear.”

“The Consort's already cut you a break, letting me visit. They're not going to let you out.”

“I'm not asking about
them
,” he said. “If I'm to betray a great cause, I need an incentive. What do I get from you?”

Son of a bitch. He wanted me to help him escape. If he thought I could break him out of an oubliette, he really was crazy. There's impossible and there's
impossible,
and this fell into the second camp.

“I don't have anything to give,” I said quietly.

“Then you're no good to me,” he said. “Come back when you've got something I want, and we'll make a trade, Delancey. Until then, I've nothing more to say.”

•   •   •

Lattimer met me at the door. “That was a shorter visit than I'd anticipated.”

“He wasn't in great shape today. It's hard to know how much to believe him, when he's in and out like this.”

“Perhaps he'll be more forthcoming on your next visit,” Lattimer said.

“He doesn't want to see me again. You heard him—he wants more, whatever more is.”

My freedom. Come back when you've got something I want.
I might as well help him fly to Mars, or sprout gills and ferry him to Atlantis.

“The Tacet will begin in mere weeks. If you fail to glean any useful information from these sessions, we'll have no use for him. Be more persuasive next time.”

C
HAPTER TWENTY

Days to Tacet: 20

W
ALKERS ARE USED TO KEEPING
secrets. We go through our days knowing the world we inhabit is one of many, the lives we see are only one possibility, and reality is more complicated and entangled than anything Originals could imagine. We know all of this, and we keep it to ourselves. Most days the power of those secrets fizzed in my blood like champagne.

But knowing the truth about Ms. Powell ate through me like battery acid. Concealing her death didn't just feel sneaky, or sad. It felt deeply, deeply wrong. The Consort had taken her life, but we'd taken the chance for people to mourn her.

The orchestra room had an air of freewheeling, good-­natured chaos. At the podium, Principal Sayers, a thin man with a dusting of dandruff on his shoulders and a fondness for knit ties, spoke with a woman who didn't look old enough to drive, let alone control sixty-odd teenagers.

Eliot bent and murmured, “Looks like they bought the note.”

“Great,” I said, but the words lacked conviction.

The sub looked fresh out of college—but drab and lifeless,
especially compared to the memory of Ms. Powell. I searched her face for a sign she knew me, but her expression was frozen in terror. When Dr. Sayers introduced her with a brief speech about Ms. Powell's unexpected departure, the baton trembled in her grip. Probably not a Free Walker plant, then.

By lunchtime, the school was buzzing about Ms. Powell's absence. The usual rumors sprang up: rehab or an affair with a student or something equally scandalous. Eliot listened, genuinely baffled. “How do they come up with this stuff? Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would know better.”

“You're giving them too much credit.”

By the time we were headed back to music, with our pocket-size sub and Bree's big mouth, things had shifted from speculation to accusation—and I was at the center of it. People fell quiet as we passed, whispers swelling in our wake. My skin itched under their scrutiny.

“This is not good,” Eliot said out of the corner of his mouth. “They're looking at us. Nobody ever looks at us.”

“As many of you have already heard,” Dr. Sayers began, launching into the same speech he'd given in orchestra, “Ms. Powell has been called away due to a family emergency. She has resigned her position effective immediately.”

“What kind of emergency?” Bree demanded.

Dr. Sayers tugged at his maroon knit tie before answering, “According to her letter, the situation came up quite suddenly.”

“Her letter? She didn't call? Or tell you in person?”

“I admit it's a shock,” he said, looking chagrined, “Not to mention highly inconvenient, but—”

“It's not a shock. It's weird. And it's a lot like Simon Lane.”

“Maybe they're together,” snickered a pothead senior whose attendance was even more sporadic than mine. “Holed up in some hourly motel, and he's hot for teacher.”

One of his friends leaned across the aisle to high-five him, braying with laughter.

Bree wheeled on him. “Shut your mouth, you cretin.”

The principal cleared his throat. “I can assure you that Ms. Powell's absence is perfectly legitimate. I think it would be best for all involved if we look forward instead of back,” he added. “Ms. Powell may not have shared information about her home life, but that was her right.”

“I bet she shared with Del,” Bree said. “She was Ms. Powell's favorite, after all.”

A murmur of assent rippled around the room.

“Sorry,” I said, shrugging. Next to me Eliot went still. “I barely saw her outside of class.”

“What about Friday? I could swear I saw the two of you walking downtown. Wouldn't she have told you if something was going on?” Bree asked.

Now the principal turned to me. “Del?”

“Orchestra,” I said. “There's a Debussy sonata she wanted me to polish up; she thought I had a shot at getting into a conservatory. But she didn't say anything about family stuff.”

“Such a weird coincidence,” Bree said sweetly. “I mean, you
were the last person to see Simon before he disappeared. You were the last person to see Ms. Powell before
she
disappeared. Better look out,” she said to Eliot. “The people she likes don't seem to last long.”

He nodded. “Imagine what happens to the people who piss her off.”

“Enough,” said the principal. “This is not a good use of our time. Ms. DeAngelo will be your teacher for the rest of the year, and I'm sure she'd like to get started.”

But he watched me as he left, narrow-eyed and thoughtful.

•   •   •

“This cannot be good,” Eliot said at the end of the day. He leaned against the locker and stared at the light fixtures, pencil spinning faster and faster. “I told you Bree was a problem.”

“Bree is not a problem,” I replied, throwing a book in my bag and slamming my locker. “Bree is an annoyance, same as always.”

“Two people have disappeared from this school in the last month. You have connections to both of them. People are going to ask questions.”

“Amelia has answered the questions about Simon. And Ms. Powell wrote that letter. No matter how they analyze it, it won't come back to me. The Consort's the problem, not some drama queen with an unrequited crush and an ax to grind.”

“Strangely, I do not find that reassuring,” he said.

I pulled on my coat, wound my scarf around my neck, and set off, Eliot easily matching my pace. “If we want to avoid the
Consort, we need to figure out where that map leads. The Free Walkers are the only way out.”

“For you, maybe.”

Not for Eliot. Even knowing the truth, he was still unwilling to cast his lot with the Free Walkers. And if Eliot couldn't be convinced, what chance would the Free Walkers have with the rest of our people?

CH
APTER TWENTY-ONE

Days until Tacet: 18

T
HE FUNNY THING ABOUT TROUBLE
is how quickly it grows, like a snowball rolling downhill, swelling and silently picking up speed, and you only notice a split second before you're flattened.

Trouble likes you to know it's coming, but only if you can't run.

I should have known something was off when I saw how cheerful Bree looked, two days later, standing outside math class with her friends, marking my progress. It's never a good sign when someone who loathes you looks happy to see you, but my mind was too full of maps and secrets to pay attention.

Trouble likes it when you don't pay attention.

I slid into my seat, pulled out my notebook, and started doodling Rose's song. Late in the period, a squawk and crackle rent the air. I jolted in my seat, my heart kicking like a jackrabbit, looking for the pivot.

“Yes?” called Mrs. Gregory. I slumped. The intercom.

“Delancey Sullivan to the office, please,” came a nasal, disembodied voice.

Bree sat a little straighter, tossing her hair over her shoulders.

“Naturally,” sighed Mrs. Gregory, and waved me toward the door.

One of Bree's friends leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She nodded in reply, but didn't giggle. Whatever triumph she was feeling—and it
was
triumph, I could see it in the lift of her chin and tilt of her shoulders—it was strained.

I grabbed my bag as I left, texting Eliot as I went.

Trouble. Office.

“Go ahead,” the secretary told me when I arrived. “You know the way.”

Even if I hadn't—which I did—Principal Sayers was waiting outside his office.

“Thanks for coming in, Del.” He followed me inside and shut the door behind us. I dropped into my usual seat. A quick glance at the two plate-glass windows, blinds open, showed that the office staff was planning to watch our conversation, even if they couldn't listen. Instead of sitting behind the desk, the principal lounged against the corner, trying to look casual.

Walkers know that keeping your options open is a literal thing: Indecision manifests as eddies of air, pivots caught in a formative state. The air around Principal Sayers was thick with uncertainty.

“Did I do something wrong?” This was a different kind of trouble than the Consort. A wrong answer here wasn't going to get me killed. But I remembered the satisfied look on Bree's face, and stripped the sulkiness from my voice.

Trouble loves when you're overconfident.

“We're hoping you could help us answer some questions. About Simon Lane.”

I said nothing.

“We understand that you two were seeing each other?”

“Yes.”

“Have you heard from him since he left?”

I ducked my head, trying to look embarrassed. “No.”

“Did you know he was going to transfer?”

“We weren't big on talking about the future.”

His face turned a red so dark he nearly matched his tie, and he cleared his throat. “I see.”

“Simon left more than two weeks ago. Why are you asking me about him now? Is it because of Ms. Powell?” I scoffed. “The stoner kid's not exactly reliable, you know. That much pot would make anyone paranoid.”

He sniffed. “Ms. Powell's departure is inconvenient, not sinister. We're concerned because Simon hasn't checked in with anyone since he left.”

“Does he need to?” I asked pointedly. “His mom signed off on the transfer, right?”

“She did. But considering her situation . . .”

“Amelia's cancer,” I said, and he shifted, as if saying the word out loud might make it contagious.

“It's important Simon is adequately supported during this difficult time. We'd like to help.”

I scoffed. “Bull. You're not worried about his support
network. You want Simon to come home because the basketball team has lost their last five games.”

“I like to think of Washington as a family,” Principal Sayers said stiffly. “And when our family loses a member, it's important that we understand why.”

“Simon
has
a family. And I doubt she appreciates this kind of harassment.”

“We're not harassing anyone, Del. There are some irregularities”—­he tapped a file on his desk—“and we're trying to sort them out.”

I glanced at the cream-colored folder, suddenly nervous. “What kind of irregularities?”

“I can't share the specifics.” He slid the file beneath another stack of papers. “We're simply trying to ensure Simon hasn't come to harm. If we can't resolve this—establish some kind of contact with Simon, or verify his whereabouts—I'm afraid we may need to involve the authorities.”

That's trouble for you: a swift, sneaky son of a bitch.

•   •   •

The bell had rung while Sayers was grilling me. In the hallway outside the office, a small crowd had formed—Bree and her friends, mostly, and a good chunk of the basketball squad. Eliot shoved through the gawkers and dragged me away, his mouth a flat, angry line

“What happened?” he asked.

“There's some sort of problem with Simon's records, and
now they're worried he's dropped off the radar, ” I said through gritted teeth.

He whispered, “Do they think you killed him?”

“He's not dead,” I pointed out. “Can you do something? Work some computer magic? They're going to keep hounding Amelia.”

“I don't think the records are the problem,” Eliot said. “Nobody's heard from him.”

I ran through possible explanations, trying to find one that would hold up against Principal Sayer's scrutiny. “Maybe Amelia can say his relatives are homeschooling him.”

“They're not worried about his course credits. He's old enough to drop out, and they know it. They think he's
missing
.”

“Fabulous.” I looked around, reflexively. I did it all the time, searching for Simon in the halls or on the street. Knowing is not the same as believing; if it were, no one would ever hope, or have their heart broken. “Ms. Powell was going to ask the Free Walkers to help us out. Guess she didn't get the chance.”

“What if we took a picture of an Echo Simon—something with the date visible in the frame?” he asked.

“Like a kidnapping victim?”

“They want proof of life, don't they? Why not give it to them?”

Bree—and the rest of the school—wanted more than a photo­graph. They wanted answers. They wanted Simon to come back, lead the team to victory, and be everyone's favorite guy. They wanted life to be the way it was before.

I did too.

“If wishes were horses,” I mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing.” We rounded the corner into the hallway where Simon's locker stood. Wishing wasn't going to bring him back, no matter how often or how desperately I sent up a plea to the cold and feckless multiverse.

That's what I thought, anyway.

And then I saw him.

Simon.

My Simon.

Standing by his locker, mobbed by people—Bree included. I could only see his hair, brown as cattails, and his smile, sharp and sly.

I froze, my heart beating so hard and fast that it must have been audible in space, terrified I was hallucinating, terrified I was dreaming, terrified I might wake up.

His eyes met mine across the hallway, crinkling slightly.

“Del—” Eliot reached for me, but I shook him off. As in a dream, my feet moved without thinking. Slowly at first, stumbling and shuffling, then faster, my boots ringing out on the linoleum in the suddenly quiet hallway. The crowd parted, and he was steps away, and I was running, heart in my throat, tears in my eyes.

He opened his arms and I practically flew into them, ­fusing my mouth to his. The Key World frequency rang through his touch, traveling through me like a nuclear blast. His hands went around my waist and he lifted me up, spun me around, and
pressed me into the lockers, fierce and possessive and almost punishing. I twined my arms around his neck and breathed in the scent of snow and canvas, so different from the soap I was used to, and my brain stuttered. His mouth never left mine, and the kiss was like none we'd ever shared—a clashing of tongues and teeth and strange tastes. I gasped for air, drew back to look at the face I'd only seen in dreams and Echoes for far too long.

I ran my fingers over his cheeks, along the line of his jaw, through the softness of his hair, longer than I'd remembered. “You're here,” I breathed.

“I'm here,” he said, his mouth curving slyly. I traced his lips, swollen from our kiss, my fingers lingering where his scar should have been.

Should have been, but wasn't.

I drew back as the heat fled. With shaking hands, I pushed my hair away from my face, searching his eyes for some explanation.

“Miss me?” He moved in for another kiss.

“I don't miss,” I murmured.

And punched him square in the face.

END OF FIRST MOVEMENT