Touching Smoke (32 page)

Run!

I didn’t have to think from whom. She wanted me away from the same person she had to kill herself to get away from — Garrison. The same person she told me nightly wouldn’t stop.

The book was weightless in my grasp, the cover soft like creamy butter. I flipped quickly through the crisp pages once, not reading anything — there would be time for that later. I had to find Isaiah and get out of there first.

Never relinquishing my hold on the book, in case it vanished or this all turned out to be some elaborate dream; I hurriedly dressed in something from Amalie’s wardrobe. The girl owned a lot of dresses. Most of them, if I had to guess were from the late 60s, early 70s. There were a few bellbottom pants and floral blouses, which confirmed my theory. I dragged out a pair of jeans — amazed at how much they flared at the hems and how high they went around my waist — and the only non-flower top I could find, which turned out to be a frilly, off the shoulder number in blinding white and quickly pulled them on. I stuffed the book beneath the waistband of my jeans, tucking it securely against the small of my back by tugging my top over it. I pushed the desk back into place, returning the room to its previous museum feel.

My guard stiffened, his hand actually snapping to the gun strapped around his shoulders when I opened the door and poked my head the door.

“Hi!” I said, offering him my most non-threatening smile. “Could I see Isaiah, please?”

Behind his visor, his eyes narrowed. Then, without taking his eyes off me, he turned his body to the second guard standing next to Isaiah’s room.

“Farrow!”

The other guard must have been dozing, because he visibly started, emanating a loud grunt as he fumbled for his gun and turned in our direction. “Yeah?”

“She wants to see the other one.”

“Isaiah,” I said.

They ignored me.

The other guard shrugged. “Boss said it was fine.”

My guard considered this a moment before saying to me, “All right then.” He walked me to the other door and stationed himself just behind me in case I… what? Decided to bolt?

At Isaiah’s door, I didn’t know what possessed me, but I turned the doorknob and slipped right inside without bothering to knock. Later, I would blame it on my excitement to share the journal.

“Isaiah,” I closed the door behind me and turned, “You won’t believe—” I froze.

He stood staring out the window, clad only in black slacks, hair unbound around his shoulders, darkening his face, falling in thick waves down his back, just past his shoulders. He was barefoot as well, and my mouth went dry. My heart sped up.

I should have knocked, I realized.

He turned his head, catching sight of me standing paralyzed by the door. He blinked once, maybe expecting me to vanish, because he looked surprised to find me still standing there when his eyes opened again. The lacy curtain he’d been holding swept back into place over the window, blocking the prodding sunlight from entering the room as he turned his entire body in my direction.

All the oxygen seemed to be sucked straight out of the air as we stood there, on opposite ends of the room, staring at each other. Could he hear my heartbeat?

“I’m sorry—”

He moved so quick it was as if I blinked and he vanished from the window and reappeared in front of me. I jumped in surprise, hitting the door with a dull thud. I may have breathed his name, but I couldn’t be sure of anything except his teasing scent and the heat wafting off his body. The dreamy sensation pulsed in my skull, filling me with an airy sensation that sucked the breath from my lungs. The current washed through me, carrying away all reasoning, all doubts. It was just me, him, and the pulsing electricity between us.

“I—I didn’t come for this.” yet, my hands reached for him, fisting in his hair and curling around his shoulder. “I should… go…” I pulled him to me. 

If I had any real hope that one of us possessed even the slightest spark of control, I was proven excruciatingly wrong when he grabbed my waist and shoved me against the door. The push was reasonably gentle, and yet it still knocked the air clean out of me. His head dropped forward, bathing my mouth with the scent of mint. His hands bunched the material of my top, tugging it up, exposing skin. His fingers glided over my abdomen about the same time as his lips touched my chin and slid down my jaw. My breath whistled out in a shaky exhale. My eyes slammed closed. The door made another thud as my head dropped back against it, baring my throat to him.

“Amazing!” he rasped against the curve of my jaw.

I held my breath. My fingers tightened in his silky tresses, urging him on. The pounding of blood roared in my head, whether it was my blood or his made little difference. The smell and sound of it intoxicated me to the point of sheer madness. The place beneath my canines itched.

“What?” I whispered, fighting to ignore the impulse to succumb.

“Your smell,” he murmured, leaving a hot trail down the curve of my neck with his lips. “Your taste. Your feel. You!” He growled in the back of his throat. The sound liquefied my kneecaps. His arms were instantly around me, holding me up, crushing me between him and the door. “I was thinking about you before you came in,” he kissed the hollow of my throat if I wasn’t already a meat bag of melted bones. I felt the brush of his lips all the way down to my toes. “I was thinking about how much I missed you. Then I look up and… you looked so beautiful.”

My heart slammed into my ribs, an erratic tattoo of mindless desperation. I trembled from the heat, from the want. My nails sunk into his shoulder. “Need you…” I begged breathlessly.

His eyes darkened. His nostrils flared. The grip around my waist tightened, doubtlessly bruising. He tilted his head ever so slightly to the right, offering himself to me like a banquet. I couldn’t hesitate even if I wasn’t driven by fervent need. I kissed the spot, just over the thundering pulse. A wild drumming filled my head. Isaiah stiffened against me. I wanted to sooth him, tell him I would be gentle, but the banging persisted.

“Wakey, wakey, Isaiah!” The voice was coming from the other side of the door. I was baffled for a minute before it all came crushing down around me.

My hands slapped over my mouth, horror engulfing me. What had I nearly done?

Spell broken, Isaiah drew back and peered down into my face, searching. “We’ll talk.” But he didn’t wait for an answer when he grabbed the doorknob and wrenching it open.

Maia smiled at him, all honey and poison. She wore spandex, again, this time in a soft forest-green. Her lipstick matched, as did the stripes in her hair. How many of those outfits did the woman have? Didn’t she own anything made with real fabric?

Her brown eyes danced over Isaiah’s body, appreciating all the lines and curves that created his beautiful torso before landing on me. There was no surprise on her face at finding me in Isaiah’s room in the wee hours of the morning.

The smile twisted into a disturbing smirk. “Lucky me that I only need to make one trip. Boss wishes to see you.”

“We’ll be right down.”

Maia narrowed her eyes, smile still cuttingly in place.
“Don’t
take your time.”

Isaiah closed the door in her face and turned to me. “Fallon—”

“I can’t!” I blurted, breathing hard. “I… no, don’t…” I warded him off when he took a step forward, not trusting either of us close again. “I can’t, Isaiah!”

His eyes shone against the viciously set structure of his face. “There is a way for everything.”

I said nothing. We had bigger things to worry about.

“I had another dream last night.” I told him quickly about the diary and the warning. “I think she really wants to tell me something!”

He paced to the perfectly made bed and plucked up his t-shirt. He swung it on and stalked back to me to take the book from my hand. I suddenly found it so much easier to breathe now that all the distraction was covered.

“What does she say?” he asked, flipping through the worn pages.

I snatched the book back from him, hugging it preciously to my chest. I winced at his questioning look. “I’m sorry. It’s her journal… she’s trusting me with it. It feels wrong letting anyone else…”

He put up his hands. “Fair enough, but we don’t have very much time.”

I followed him to the bed and sat. He took the spot beside me, close enough so that the bed dipped and I slid right into his side. I shivered at the swirling heat rising off him. My entire right side burned as if set on fire. At least he had his top on, I thought.

“Go to her last entry,” Isaiah said, seemingly oblivious to the torture he was causing me by his mere proximity.

I cleared my throat, willing my fingers not to tremble as I flipped to the back. The page fell open of its own accord, the spot held in place by a photo.

It was one of those old snapshots, before cameras became HD. The corners were frayed, curling and the picture itself was fuzzy, but there was no mistaking the face staring back at us. I would recognize it anywhere.

I looked at Isaiah, my eyes wide. “It’s you!”

A little older, and with shortly cropped hair, the guy in the picture
was
Isaiah, right down to the teasing smile on his face and the twinkle in his blue eyes. He stared into the camera, full of life. Radiant. Happy. Like he had everything in the world to live for. I flipped the picture over. Blank. So much for a date or a name.

I turned to Isaiah, hoping he had some kind of explanation as to why his picture was in the diary of a dead girl, a girl that — judging from the date entry in the journal — had lived before either of us was even born.

“I don’t know,” he said to my unspoken question. “I’ve never met anyone named Amalie…” he hesitated. “At least I don’t think…”

I touched his forearm. “Garrison said you were eighteen. There’s no way you could have known her.”

He shot to his feet, stuffing both hands back into his hair. “Garrison could have lied! What if I’m older than eighteen? What if I knew her?”

I grabbed the hem of his shirt before he could tear away from me. “Let’s read what she says, okay? I’m sure there’s an explanation in this book.”

Although visibly anxious, he lowered himself back down on the bed. I scooted closer to him, holding the book so he could read it with me — it was no longer just about Amalie giving me the book in good faith anymore. If that boy in the picture was Isaiah, he had as much right to the journal as I did.

“Do you want me to read it out loud?” I offered.

He shrugged his shoulders, eyes fixed, a little dazed, on the pages. “It doesn’t matter.”

I cleared my throat and began.

“He
caught us today. Two years of diligence and we got sloppy because I couldn’t wait, because I had to see Isaiah…”
I faltered, licked my lips and looked at Isaiah. “That doesn’t mean anything. Isaiah is a common name.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Keep reading.”

I sighed, turning back to the book.
“…because I had to see Isaiah again before he was sent away on another mission. Father has become obsessed with the cause, more so than usual. He sees monsters everywhere. He’s made it his life’s mission to destroy everything that is like me. Isaiah had been the only sunshine in my prison, and now he’s gone. I don’t know what Father has done to him, or if I will ever see him again. I have never hurt so much, not even when Father takes me to the white room. I have never wanted so much to die, because I know Father will never let Isaiah live.”
Round splotches ruined the ink for several lines, making legibility impossible. It took me a second to realize that
this
was the entry I saw her write last, the one marred by tears. My fingers traced where the paper had dried, crusted a little beneath the wetness. My own eyes brimmed, but I took a deep breath and continued from where I could read.
“…locked in my room again. My sanity can’t take anymore, not without Isaiah. What more is there to live for with him gone? More tests? More needles? More electroshock? More locked doors and isolation? If I am the monster my father loathes so much, then why does he keep me? Why doesn’t he just kill me like the others? He will never find a cure; he must know that by now. It doesn’t matter anymore. I refuse to go on like this. I won’t…”
I stopped reading and closed the book. I knew how that entry ended.

“She has to be talking about me,” Isaiah murmured so quietly, I almost didn’t hear him.

“That isn’t possible! The date on that entry was 1978! The guy in the picture has to be at least eighteen-nineteen. That would make you like…”

He’d already done the math. “Fifty-one.”

I winced. “Well, you don’t look a day over twenty!” I sighed when he merely slanted me a dry sidelong glance. “Look, it’s not possible!”

The mattress bounced when he leapt off. I caught myself before I could topple over. “You heard what Garrison said, I age differently than everyone else! What if this Isaiah guy is me?”

I set the journal aside and got to my feet. “Then so what? So you knew her—”

He whirled around on me, eyes glinting a little madly. “I didn’t just know her, Fallon,” he scooped up the book and waved it in my face. “I loved her.”