The Gathering (16 page)

“Why is
offering
and
sacrifice
used interchangeably if it means the same thing?” Luka asks, an unmistakable note of tension simmering beneath his voice.

“The original word means both. The most accurate translation would be a sacrificial offering. But it’s more than that.” Cressida brings the journal down to her side. “In every other context the word is used, it refers to an ultimate act of sacrifice. One of greatest price.”

The room begins to spin.

“You mean
her life
?”

My stomach turns to stone. If I’ve learned anything from my failed mission to rescue my grandmother, it is this: my greatest sacrifice would not be my life. It would be Luka’s.

Confessions

L
uka excuses himself from the library and doesn’t return. I look all over the house and finally find him in the basement weight room, running on a treadmill, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his muscles, his brow fixed in a hard line.

I approach hesitantly, running my fingers along the bar of a bench press. As soon as he sees me, he pushes a button on the machine several times—a sharp
beep-beep-beep
until the belt on the treadmill slows to a stop. He lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

His abs are more than a little distracting. “You know, you
could
run outside. The grounds are big enough. It’d probably be a lot nicer than getting nowhere in a cold basement.”

He turns away from me to grab a drink.

I bite my lip. “You disappeared.”

“I didn’t feel like sticking around.”

“Are you okay?”

He huffs, like the question is ridiculous. “I’m your Keeper, but for some reason, I can’t protect you. And now there’s this prophecy that says you have to sacrifice your life, which is really familiar to some dreams I’ve had.”

“First of all, we don’t know the sacrifice is going to be a person’s life. And second of all, I’m not at all convinced I’m the One.” I say it for him, because I hate seeing Luka in pain. But I also say it for me, because I don’t want the prophecy to be true anymore than he does. His current inability to do what Gabe did is the only reason I’m not freaking out. “There’s another Fighter out there, Luka. One who took out twenty enemy soldiers at once.”

“Does that Fighter have a grandmother who called her ‘the key’? Because that sounds an awful lot like a beacon to me.”

“She wasn’t in her right mind when she called me that.”

He shakes his head, like I’m in denial.

I take his hand and give it a squeeze, an attempt to get him to look at me. He’s getting too good at locking his pain away. “Please talk to me.”

It works. He looks. And his eyes are filled with more pain than they were last night, when the leech was sucking his life away. “What do you want me to say?”

“Something. Anything. Just please don’t shut me out.”

“Some things you’re better off not knowing about.”

“Like what—your nightmares?”

He shakes his head.

“Luka, please.”

“The pain was excruciating.” His words hover like a ghost—disembodied—haunting the space between us. “Is that what you want to know?”

Everything inside of me goes very still.

“It was like every one of my nerve endings was being lit on fire. Only it wasn’t heat. It was ice. So cold it burned. I wanted to die a thousand times, but I knew that I couldn’t.” His eyes are so dark, they’re hardly green anymore. “Do you know why?”

I try to form a response, but my throat is too dry. All I can do is shake my head.

“Every time I thought about dying, I pictured you. Without a Keeper. Unprotected. And the pain of that was a hundred times worse than anything else.”

A deep ache carves a hole inside my chest. I hate what Scarface put him through. Hate, hate, hate it.

“Relief wouldn’t come in death. It would only come by being with you, so I could keep you safe. Make sure you were protected. If I could do that, then I’d be able to breathe again. And now here I am, right here with you, and it’s like I’m being tortured back in that chamber all over again.” He moves to walk past me, like he’s done. Like he’s going to leave.

I grab his hand tighter. “Luka.”

He stops. “They captured me, and tortured me, and now I’m useless.”

“You are not useless.”

“I can’t protect you.”

“You protect me all the time!” The anger I feel toward Scarface, toward the prophecy, toward Claire and Clive—it floods to the surface, gathering together and rolling off of me in great, giant waves. I move my hand to his face and force him to look at me. “You protect me by being here.”

“Tess.”

“I love you.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. Not even Luka has said them, but I’m too angry to be self-conscious. Too angry to feel shy or awkward. “I love you, Luka. Not because you’re my Keeper, but because you’re
you
. So please
be
you. Don’t check out on me.” My anger morphs into embarrassing tears. I hate that I have to swipe at my cheeks.

Luka’s eyes soften. He pulls me into a hug. He smells like sweat and salt and soap. I wait for him to tell me he loves me too. I wait for him to promise that everything will be okay as long as the two of us are together. I wait in vain.

“I will find a way to protect you again. I promise.”

Fear wraps its icy fingers around my heart. He doesn’t get it. I don’t want Luka to get his gifting back. That’s the last thing I want.

*

After dinner, we filter into the great room with the Rivards to watch the evening news. Two anchors discuss the latest updates on the ceasefire—a constant buzz in the media these days. Why shouldn’t it be? When the news has been so abysmal for such a long time—when the world held it’s breath, on the cusp of WWIII—the sudden, positive shift is more than newsworthy, if not a little suspicious.

When the cessation of war brings the illusion of peace …

Victory must come through sacrifice …

I glance at Luka, sitting in an armchair, staring intently at the screen. With my stomach in knots, I slip out of the room and wander down the hall. I find a large alcove window inside a sitting room, curl my arms around my knees, rest my head against the cool glass, close my eyes, and try my hardest to push the echo of that prophecy away while the last of the daylight melts into dusk.

My thoughts turn to the Fighter. The one Cap wants me to forget. Why, though? Wouldn’t finding this person be way more beneficial than reading through old journals about confusing prophecies that don’t really tell us anything about how to stop the genocide? For all we know, this Fighter could be the One. The strength of my gifting is the only thing that makes Cap and Luka think it’s me. And the whole beacon thing. But my grandmother was out of her mind when she called me the key. I don’t think we should be so quick to draw conclusions, especially when this Fighter’s gifting is obviously stronger than mine. Somewhere in the middle of my obsessing, someone joins me in the window. I crack open my eye.

Link sits across from me, twisting his Rubik’s Cube. “You’re the One, aren’t you?”

I open my other eye. “What makes you say that?”

“Luka’s reaction may have tipped me off a little.” He smiles, but the mischievous sparkle in his eye is decidedly subdued. “Something tells me he wouldn’t be so bent out of shape over the prophecy if it wasn’t about you.”

I pull the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. “He thinks it’s about me.”

“And Cap?”

“Yeah. Him, too.”

His voice deepens. “
Tess Eckhart, setting captives free
. It’s a catchy tagline.”

I huff, spreading a small patch of fog across the windowpane. My dad’s in prison. He’s being held captive because of me. That’s the opposite of setting anyone free.

Link taps his foot against mine. “Out with it, Xena.”

“Out with what?”

“All the thoughts racing through that mind of yours.”

I can’t. The words are stuck.

He hands me his Rubik’s Cube. “Take it.”

“Why?”

“Because fiddling with something helps keep the anxiety away.”

“I suck at that thing.”

“All the more reason to practice.”

With a sigh, I take his impossible puzzle and begin twisting it around. Even though I have no idea how to twist it correctly, Link’s right. Having something to do with my hands loosens the muscles across my chest. And as I fiddle, the words unstick and tumble out—all of them. Link doesn’t interrupt. He sits across from me in the windowsill and listens attentively.

“You heard the prophecy. The One is either going to be our victory or our downfall. If my track record has anything to say about it, then our outlook isn’t good.” I shake my head. “What if I can’t make the right decision? What if I mess up?”

“You won’t.”

He has entirely too much confidence in me.

“I want you to picture happiness.”

“Huh?”

“Happiness. You know what that is, right?”

“Yes, I know what that is. I just don’t understand why you want me to picture it.”

“Because I believe in the power of visualization.” He nudges me with his foot again. “Now humor me.”

I take a deep breath and let the air escape out my nostrils.

“Picture a scene, any scene. Whatever you want your life to look like when this is all over. Something that represents happiness.”

I take another deep breath. Force my shoulders to relax. Continue my Rubik’s cube twisting. And the scene comes. I don’t have to paint it. It’s already painted for me.

“What do you see?”

A whisper of a smile tugs at my lips. “A cake.”

“Cake makes me happy, too.”

“There are eighteen candles on it. My mom and dad and brother are there. So is Luka. And my best friend Leela.” Everyone safe and sound. The thought warms me straight through. “So are Jillian and Cap.” This time, I do the foot nudging. “And you.”

“If there’s cake, you can count on it.”

My whisper of a smile materializes into something stronger.

“See,
visualizing
. Never underestimate its power. Whenever you start to feel panicked or confused, close your eyes and picture that scene. It’ll give you something to look forward to when all of this craziness is over.”

“Do you think it’ll ever be over?”

“Sure, I do. Craziness never lasts forever.” He leans forward and taps the cube I’ve been twisting in my hands. “You’re capable of a lot more than you give yourself credit for, Xena.”

I look down in my lap. Somehow, I’ve turned all six faces into solid color.

Found

I
go to sleep thinking about the Fighter. Despite Cap’s orders, I can’t help myself. Somewhere out there is a person powerful enough to accomplish what I could only do after Gabe gave me his life. My curiosity has turned into full-blown obsession. I wish there was a way to find out if the Fighter is a man or a woman. If this Fighter is a she, then maybe, just maybe, the prophecy is about her …

Light flashes all around me. Like bolts of lightning illuminating the night. Only the flashes don’t come from the clouds. They come from a woman. All I can see is her back as she fights a hoard of white-eyed men with the stealth and strength and grace of a tigress. Whenever her fist or elbow or foot connects with the enemy, the darkness explodes into light.

I watch in awe and scratch the inside of my wrist, an unnecessary action. I’m sleeping. And I found the Fighter. I found her without even trying. She battles in the midst of a clearing—at least thirty of them—surrounded by the redwoods of Northern California. I skirt around the scene, blending in with the trees, eager to make out her face. But as soon as I’m close, she does a roundhouse kick, whipping her long, white ponytail around as she does.

She doesn’t stop until all the darkness is gone. Then she stands in the center of the clearing, her posture proud, her shoulders broad, her muscles tense and alert, as if poised to attack the first sign of danger.

I crouch in the shadows, amazed by what I just witnessed, when a voice breaks through the aftermath. So familiar. So cold that a shiver spider-crawls down my spine. Scarface is here. Hunting this Fighter like he hunts me.

“Impressive work,” he says. “Your fighting is much improved.”

The woman and Scarface circle each other like boxers in a ring. When she circles around enough, her face finally comes into view. And my eyes go wide with shock. Impossibly, insanely wide.

The Fighter is my grandmother.

There’s no mistaking it.

She’s alive. Elaine Eckhart is alive.

“Grandma!” The two syllables burst from my mouth, unplanned. Impulsive.

She spins toward the noise.

So does he, his eyes widening with delight.

My muscles coil. Maybe together, we can take him out once and for all. I step out of the shadow, into the clearing beside my grandmother. My living, breathing, impossibly strong grandmother. His attention slides to her, then me, and as if realizing his disadvantage, he disappears like vapor.

“Teresa?” Her head is cocked, as though she’s not sure it’s me. But her eyes—my father’s eyes—they glow like the morning sun.