The Butterfly Code (26 page)

What demon hangs over his head? What horror is he keeping bottled inside? Is it just King that he’s worried about? Or is there something else? I sensed a vast, dark shadow inside him back at the hangar. A painful, roiling wound that lingers in the depths of his being. What horrible dread is he keeping bottled inside?

M
orning
light floods Charlie’s long, gently sloping backyard. I admire it through the polished kitchen windows, enjoying the warmth on my bare skin. I’m dressed in one of Hunter’s shirts, the cuffs pushed above my elbows.

Every time Hunter and I pass each other, energy trembles between us. The air is supercharged. I try to empty the dishwasher, to get my mind in order, except I don’t know where anything goes.

"Leave it," Charlie says. He’s fussing over his Cuisinart, blasting up a batch of Hollandaise sauce for the simmering poached eggs.

Unlike last night, he looks oddly disheveled; his faded red hair is flattened on one side. There are fresh creases in his lined cheeks, and shadows are smudged beneath his pale gray eyes. I can’t help wondering what project kept him up last night to have him looking so drained. As he removes the Cuisinart lid, it slips from his hand. Pale yellow Hollandaise drops splatter as it skitters across the floor.

"Got it," Hunter says, scooping it up and rinsing it in the sink. "Long night, old friend?"

At this, Charlie turns sharply and gives him a fierce look. I’m shocked at the intensity of his affront to such a seemingly banal question.

"Old friend?" he growls.

A tense silence follows.

Hunter says quietly. "We’ve known each other for a long time, that’s all I meant."

"Indeed we have." Charlie continues to glare. "That’s what it is to be old. Take a good look. One late night and the whole world wants to know your business."

"Point taken," Hunter says.

"You’re not that old," I say, trying to break the tension. "We all grow older."

Hunter clears his throat. "So. What can I do to help out here?"

Charlie says, "Yes. Moving on. Slice some bread for toast. There’s orange juice in the fridge door."

At his command, I go out and arrange a Provençal tablecloth with a bright blue-and-yellow pattern over a round table in the backyard. We cart everything outside and set to eating among the flowers and the birds and the bees.

"It’s beautiful back here," I say.

"I enjoy it," Charlie replies. "I’m not one of those fastidious trimmers you see in magazines. Nature should be allowed to grow over a little. Wouldn’t you agree?"

I nod. Things have grown over more than a little. Forsythia, hyacinth, and other flowering bushes I can’t name sprawl across the lawn, surrounded by skirts of colorful fallen petals. The grass slopes downward, forming a lush green path between the blooms. In the distance, a low wood fence marks the bottom of the garden.

"Is that a park on the other side?"

"It is," Charlie tells me. "Quiet on most days unless there’s a baseball game under way."

Hunter butters a piece of toast. "I’ll walk you down after breakfast."

Charlie wipes his mouth with his napkin. "Yes, do." There’s a peculiar look in his eyes. "I’m sure she’d like to see what’s there."

"Why’s that?" I ask.

"Charlie’s teasing you. It’s nothing earth-shattering, unless he’s added something I’m not aware of?"

"No, no, it’s the same old haunt."

"After that, I’m going to have to abandon you two for a few hours," Hunter says.

"Where are you going?"

"Thought I’d head into town and find a mall. Grab you some proper clothes."

"Wait, what?"

"Me. Buy clothes. For you."

"Okay, caveman," I say with a grin. "But I can’t make you do that. I should come."

"You don’t trust me? Ah, ye of little faith."

"No! I mean, well, you don’t know my size."

His eyes rake over me. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea."

I smirk. "I’d rather go myself."

"Yes, well, in a perfect world, you would. It’s just not worth the risk."

Charlie stands. "I’ll clear up. You two enjoy your walk."

"Absolutely not. We’re helping," I say.

Hunter loads at least two-thirds of the table’s contents into his capacious arms. "That was the best eggs Benedict you’ve made yet."

Charlie turns away. "Been working on the recipe. Knew you were a fan."

C
louds have rolled
in from the west when Hunter and I step back outside. I’m surprised at how rapidly they’ve appeared. When we were eating, I’d seen no sign of a coming storm. In the distance, thunder rumbles, electric and tense.

We walk together in silence, down among the broad bushes. I glance up at his face, so masculine and strong, and wonder what he’s thinking.

At the bottom of the garden, we pass a shed so shrouded in clambering rose vines to be almost invisible. A door handle gleams in a shaft of sunlight that shoots from beneath a cloud. We keep walking until we reach the fence. It’s chest high and sturdy, if somewhat in disrepair. Hunter stops and leans, half sitting, against it with one foot on the lowest rung. His face is at my height now, and a shadow of stubble is just beginning to show. His hair is tousled and his amber eyes are warm. He couldn’t possibly be any more breathtaking if he were a god.

"It’s pretty here," I say, and then gulp at the wolfish look he gives me.

His gaze strays to my mouth and back to my eyes again. "That’s for sure."

My skin tingles. I’m finding it hard to breathe.

He brushes a hand along my arm and draws me closer. I melt against his chest. The veil between us slips a little.

"Can you know how I feel?" I ask.

In reply, his energy sweeps around me, and we plunge into the ocean of each other.

"I could drown in you, Aeris Thorne," he murmurs.

It seems like eons, the two of us surrounded by fluttering dragonflies and cool gusts that promise coming rain. His lips are on mine and the mind-blowing sensations of outer and inner are exquisite beyond words. I wish I could stay with him like this forever.

C
harlie’s puttering
around his dining room table, examining items in his Etruscan collection with the aid of a magnifying glass. He glances up as we enter. I swear I’m probably glowing as bright as the northern lights.

"Off, then, are you?" he asks Hunter.

"Just have to grab my keys."

"Will we see you for lunch?"

"Can’t make any promises. Shopping isn’t exactly my forte. Any last-minute advice?"

"No frills," I say.

"What? And here I’d planned to find you a Victorian gown with a lace skirt."

"I suppose just one gown would be all right. For special occasions, of course."

"Of course." He captures my hand and plants a kiss on my palm. "Until then, my lady. Oh, by the way, don’t worry if you hate what I get. They’re temporary. Victoria’s picking up clothes from your dad’s and bringing them down next week."

"Speaking of my dad, I need to make sure he’s okay. And I have to find out if there’s any news about Gage."

Hunter glances at Charlie. "We know your dad’s safe. As for Gage, I promise, we’ll tackle looking into that when I get back."

I blow out a sigh. At least I know Dad and Sammy are fine. Hopefully, before long, I’ll know exactly where things stand with Gage.

C
harlie is wonderfully obsessed
when it comes to his artifacts.

"I could spend several lifetimes cataloging the pieces in this house and tracking their history and never grow tired of it," he tells me.

I pick up a slender glass object that reminds me of a candlestick holder. "What’s this?"

"That’s to hold perfume, a tear bottle."

"A tear bottle, what an odd name."

He tells me about it and some of the other things. His enthusiasm draws me in, sweeps me up in Etruscan fever.

"Oh dear," he exclaims, glancing at his watch. "I’ve just remembered an order I put in for two pounds of smoked trout. I hope you don’t mind if I leave you to nip out and get it?"

"Not at all!"

He brushes off his hands. "I won’t be long. Feel free to explore the house. You never know what treasures you might find."

I laugh. "I’ll do that. Take your time."

After he leaves, I poke around, but his amazing collection is unable to distract me. All I want to do is go back outside and stand by the fence and think about Hunter.

Despite the heavy clouds, the back porch is dry and the air is still warm. I walk barefoot through the grass, the soft blades tickling my toes. I return to the bottom of the garden. It’s so beautiful. Like a fairy-tale garden, straight from a picture book.

The old fence is soft and smooth with age. I climb up and sit on Hunter’s and my spot—or so I’ve already come to think of it.

To my horror, the whole section groans and sinks to the ground. I leap clear and cringe as I survey the damage. I’ve ruined Charlie’s fence. Maybe I can lever it back up. I climb to the far side, crouch under the main post and put my back against it. One, two, three—I shove and the fence flies up as if it were paper. I spin to see it’s now flopped the other way.

That’s odd.

I pull on the fencepost. It wrenches up easily, too easily. Right out of the dirt. As I shove it back in place, I’m reminded of Gage’s display of strength on the road when he twisted the signpost into a pretzel. I’ve gotten stronger. A lot stronger. It’s baffling. Disturbing. The genetic modification is supposed to be growing weaker. So what’s happening to me?

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe the fence is constructed of superlight wood?

There’s only one way to find out. Among the tall grass lies the stained bowl of an old birdbath. I flex my fingers and then grab the disk on one side and brace my foot against the other. I pull up hard. Nothing. It doesn’t split or splinter or anything.

I put my weight into it. And I’m almost laughing with relief. Of course I’m not that strong.

With a snap, the concrete bowl splits in two.

Shards explode left and right. I stand there, gripping one broken half.

Seriously?

I drop it and step away, trembling.

Something flashes on the shed in my periphery. Rosebush tendrils wave in the light breeze, lifting to reveal a square of metal in the center of the door. It’s gleaming in the faltering light. Some sort of plaque.

Charlie’s words from this morning come to me.
I’m sure she’d like to see what’s there.

Carefully, I climb over the fence and make my way toward it.

Four feet away, I freeze. Then my fingers touch my parted lips as I stare at the plaque’s familiar motif: a black Labrador retriever chasing a pointed-winged bird. The last time I saw something identical was on the huge gated entry into the Phoenix Research Lab.

I reach out and try the handle. Locked.

Apprehension whispers around me. It’s in the wind. In the rosebushes that prick at my bare forearms and leave delicate scratches that well with crimson beads. I wipe at them and they heal as I watch. No—they weren’t deep. That’s all.

There’s a keypad under the door handle, with alphanumeric symbols. I run my fingertips over the tiny raised keys.

What could the code be? I try out various words.
Hunter.
Too obvious.
Cayman.
Nope, also too obvious.
Charlie. Phoenix. Victoria. Switzerland. Thirteen. Phoenix 13. PRL 13.
It could be anything.

Out of the blue, a thought comes to me. Wouldn’t it be sick if it were Mom’s name?

I bend close and touch the letter
J
. The silvery key clicks down. Next comes
U
. Then
L
,
I
,
A
. Then her last name,
P
,
E
,
R
,
D
. . . This obviously can’t be it. My index finger presses the final letter,
U
.

The lock releases with a click.

I’m so stunned I nearly black out.

M
y hands rush
to cover my mouth. I stand, rigid, as my insides turn to ice.

They’ve been keeping this from me. Both of them. Dad and Hunter. Mom was involved with the PRL. But what on earth are they keeping inside this place?

What am I going to find out about Mom?

I turn the knob. It rotates. The door swings inward and a light switches on.

Shooting a furtive glance over my shoulder, I wonder how long Charlie will be away. Then again, do I even care? I’m frightened and furious all at once.

My legs are jerky as I step over the threshold. I shut the door behind me. My palms have turned slick. I clench and unclench them, and stare at the tiny landing that gives way to a set of descending stairs.
What’s down there?

My bare feet shuffle across the bloodred paving tiles. When I reach the steps, I place a steadying hand against the pale stucco walls that descend in an arch. Painted butterflies dance along, appearing to fly up and out the door. Their flame-orange wings are identical to those painted on the operating room ceiling where Hunter healed me.

I feel an urge to flee. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and descend the curving stairs. I count forty-four, and then I’m at the bottom. A winding corridor bends away. The air smells of dry plaster and stone.

I creep along the hall, my hand sliding over the warm surface, following it as it wends right.

Overhead, the painted butterflies are thicker, a flock of escaping brilliance.

Soon I come upon an arched wooden door. There’s no lock. I push it partway open and peer into the chamber. It’s oblong, oval with a ceiling that curves gently up and over. I’m reminded of a bear cave—or perhaps a cocoon. Yes, that’s it. A cocoon.

But it’s not the shape of the chamber that makes me take a step inward.

It’s the box.

A long glass box. A human-sized glass box. The sort of box you expect to find holding a sleeping Snow White, trapped in suspended animation.

Except it’s empty.

Light shines down on it, streaming from a recessed halogen in the ceiling’s highest point. Rays glint over the polished object, catching a set of jet-black carbon-fiber hinges. I back away from it and stumble against the door. Clutching at it for balance, I hurry out.

I’m baffled and more than a little scared.

Thoughts of Charlie returning make me walk quicker.

Down the hall are three similar rooms. All the same shape, all with a long glass box in the center. The fourth is slightly different: The box is slimmer. A faint, barely there perfume wafts toward me, clinging to the chamber’s walls. I’ve smelled that perfume before. On Victoria.

I can’t help myself. I step inside to search for proof she’s been here. The door swings shut behind me. Panicked, I grab the handle, twist, and wrench so hard I pull the door partway from its hinges. Fear is getting the better of me—the door wasn’t locked.

And there’s another thing. The door is now hanging slanted. I’m scary strong.

I grimace at the damage. There’s no way to fix it. Not without tools and fresh screws. They’ll know someone was down here.

I try to prop the door at a less incriminating angle and notice something odd. There’s a clothing hook mounted in the center. It’s the kind of hook you have in your bathroom for hanging a robe while you take a shower.

What is the point of that?

Beyond confused, I edge out into the hall, determined to find answers. All I see, however, are more cells. Two-thirds of the way down, I find a cell that’s larger. And inside is a box for two. I run my fingers across the glass. Edward and Lucy. This is yours, isn’t it?

But, Mom, what does it all have to do with you?

The underground facility comes to a dead end, with one last cell to the right. Its box is wider in the shoulders than most of the others.

It’s his. Hunter’s. I know it.

Twelve cells in all. A space for each of them?

I swallow the lump in my throat and stare ruefully at the long container.

What is this place, Hunter? What are you, really? What do you do down here in these silent glass boxes?

My feet are like ice as I approach the case and press my hands to it, looking at the empty spot where his head must lie.

"You said you’d tell me everything. But you didn’t. Did you? What is this? And why is my mother’s name the code to the front door?"

I’m tired of being kept in the dark. I’m tired of letting Hunter call the shots. I’m unable to even call my own dad. To find out if Gage is all right. I asked him straight up about Mom yesterday. Nothing. Not a word of acknowledgment. And then this? I’m a rat in his cage. Fed just enough information to keep me under control. I spin away and punch my fist into the wall. I scream and punch again. Plaster breaks away in blood-flecked shards, and still I keep punching. Kicking. Screaming.

Worry flares in the distance, blending with my frenzy. Worry and fear. Not mine. Hunter’s.

He’s trying to probe me, desperate to know what’s causing this distortion in the fabric of my emotions. But they’re not his to know. Not anymore.

"Get out!" I cry, pressing my fingers to my temples. "Get out!"

With all my energy, I raise imaginary hands and push him as hard and far from me as I can. Hunter. Them. All of them.

The world suddenly goes silent.

My head and heart are empty, inhabited only by me. And then I realize just how strongly I’ve been feeling them all this whole time. Sensing their low-level emotional chatter. I’ve shut them out. I’ve slammed up a wall so solid that no one can get through. I hold it around me like a steel aura. And while it should be a struggle to keep it there, it’s not.

I’m impenetrable.

I think of Hunter out at some store buying clothes for me. I see him picking shirts and pants off racks, trying to imagine if I’d like them. I see his handsome face debating some purchase, his knotted shoulders huge among the racks of feminine clothes. I see it so clearly that a sob catches in my throat.

Everything has gone completely wrong.

I won’t let myself cry. I gulp down my despair and brush the plaster dust off my clothes. No—his clothes. His soft shirt and tightly tied pants. My knuckles should be throbbing. They’re not. I pull the sleeves down to cover them and walk determinedly toward the door. I’ll go outside and talk to Charlie like nothing’s happened.

When Hunter returns, I’ll find out the truth.

Then I’ll demand he take me back to Dad’s.

T
hunder rumbles as I emerge
, yet the air is bone-dry. I wrap my arms around myself and hurry toward the back porch. Halfway there, I glance up and spot Charlie standing in the shadow of the awning. I quicken my pace.

His faded gray eyes pin me on the bottom step. "Out for a wander?"

"Oh, yes." I’m shocked at my ability to act nonchalant. "It’s beautiful out. Did you get your trout?"

"Hunter’s never let me down there, you know."

My feet go still. "Down there? To the bottom of the garden?"

"I saw you come out of the shed." His tone is unnerving.

"Did you?"

"In all the years he and I’ve known each other—and believe me there have been plenty—he’s never allowed me to see the high-tech lab or secret facility he’s hiding in my garden. But you’ve seen it. And I’d like to know what’s down there. Please enlighten me."

"I—I didn’t really get a good look around," I lie, unsure why I can’t bring myself to tell him about the glass boxes.

"Ah." He scrutinizes my face, clearly not believing a word. "I see." Something about his eyes alarms me.

I try to hide my unease. "Actually, Hunter doesn’t know I went down, either."

"Really."

"I snuck in."

"How did you know the combination?"

"Lucky guess. Please don’t tell him, Charlie. I want to ask him about it myself."

He drums his fingers on the deck railing. "Very well."

From overhead comes the noise of a helicopter. I glance up but see only heavy clouds. Charlie turns sharply and goes inside. I have a sudden, obscure urge to run. Instead, with trepidation, I follow.

In the kitchen, Charlie removes the smoked trout from the butcher paper. I watch, awkward, twisting my fingers together.

"You’re angry," I say. "I’m sorry."

He slams down a mesh bag full of lemons. They roll free, spilling to the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick them up, and I’m afraid he’ll yell at me if I do, so I stand frozen and watch his face bunch into a fist of bitter rage.

"How long have you known him? A month?" he asks.

I shuffle my feet, wanting to be anywhere but here.

"Of course I’m angry!"

"Why? What did I do?"

"He’s known you a month, and he’s given you immortality?"

"Immortality?"
I reel at his accusation. Has he gone mad?

"You think I’m crazy? Is that it? Well, how’s this? Hunter and I are the same age."

I take a step back. It’s like the room’s closing in. My head starts to shake slowly in disbelief.

"That’s right. Born the same year, two months apart. You’re just some girl he met, but I’m his cousin, for god’s sake. Look at me! A crumbling old man, while he’s a youth in his prime."

"That’s impossible," I say.

He ignores me. "I’ve been the gatekeeper, and for what? My time’s running out, while he’s got all the time in the world. I could do so many things on this good earth. Look at my work," he says, thrusting out an arm. "You see what I do. You see what I love. I don’t sleep. I don’t dare—time is slipping away from me, hour by hour, minute by minute, second by second. He has the tools to help me, yet he does nothing."

Maybe Charlie’s a raving madman. Yes. That has to be it. It can’t be the truth, can it? But what had Hunter said about the jellyfish—they can be immortal?

He’s so agitated his face has gone bloodred. The way a person looks when they’re going to have a heart attack. I try to calm him with my voice.

"Have you told Hunter all this?"

"Oh, we’ve spoken about it. Frequently. But his mind’s made up. At least it was. Until you came along."

"Well, maybe you should talk to him again?"

"That won’t be necessary."

"Why not?"

"Because you’re going to help me."

"I can’t. I know nothing about his work. I was injured. I was going to die and Hunter saved me. That’s all I know. And whatever process he used on me, he’s given me drugs to reverse it. We never talked about
immortality
."

At this he looks almost sad. "Then he’s a bastard. Really and truly a bastard. I gave him more credit than that. I’ve never seen him so smitten. I thought he cared about you. Actually, I thought he loved you."

"Maybe he does," I say, surprising myself.

"Not if he’s trying to reverse what he did to you."

"I don’t believe you," I say. "Immortality doesn’t exist. This is real life. What is it you really want from me?"

He cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. He marches to the antique glass-front cupboard that holds his dishes and yanks out the lowest drawer. Placing it on the tiles, he removes the folded dishtowels and then toggles a hidden compartment on the bottom. It opens to reveal a small storage space. Inside is a photograph. He offers it to me.

"Have a look."

I’m afraid. Still, I take it. The thing is old—there’s no question. All faded and tattered around the edges. I stare at the two young men in the photograph. They’re wearing football jerseys. On the left is a younger Hunter, more handsome than ever. On the right stands Charlie, his hair thicker, one arm wrapped around a football, the other around Hunter’s shoulders. He’s grinning like they just won their game.

"It happens quicker than you think," Charlie says quietly. "You start to wrinkle, your hair grows coarser and the color fades to gray, your eyes grow weaker, and your limbs turn feeble. Meanwhile, he’ll be handsome and strong forever."

He takes the photo and stares wistfully at himself. "Time flies. Believe me."

It’s truly starting to sink in.

Does this mean I have a choice? Am I teetering on the brink of immortality?

Dizziness swirls up from my stomach, and blackness pricks at the edges of my vision. My hand reaches for the counter and I hold on. I’m afraid I might faint. Are the pills the only thing keeping me from eternal life on this planet? If I stop taking them, will I live forever? It can’t be—I almost died when I missed my dose. But what if—what if I just had to wait it out? Suffer through the process? Would I dare? Should I try?

It’s so out there, so science fiction.

I see my life stretching out before me—the world carrying on and changing through the decades, on down the centuries. People I love, living and dying. Technologies modernizing and growing. The earth shifting through hundreds of seasons, thousands of seasons, and me living on through it all. It’s frightening and wondrous, and I’m filled with a powerful desire to live it, experience it, all of it.

"Don’t worry," Charlie tells me. "You and I aren’t quite out of time yet. Hunter might have forsaken us, but there’s still a way. You’re not completely healed. There’s still some of the change left in you. Enough for us both to get what we deserve. He owes it to me. I’m sorry, but if he won’t grant it, then I’ll do what I have to."

"What are you saying?"

His eyes flick to the sliding-glass door, and I turn sharply, my nerves firing on all cylinders.

Two helicopters, a small one and a huge black military personnel carrier, are touching down in the park behind Charlie’s old fence. The big one hasn’t even hit the ground and men in black fatigues are pouring from the doors.

"What have you done?" I gasp.

"They’re going to help us. You and me."