The Aberration of Eden Pruitt, page 17
“What does that mean?” Alexander said with a hint of frustration.
“Think of ears for input. Mouths for output. All the blue nodes have ears. But only this one has a mouth.” He glanced at Jane again, then back at the image. He pointed at the dark blue marker. “This one is the Queen Bee. She’s the one who sends the orders. She’s got ears, too, but her input receives external communication. She interprets these external signals and relays them to the others as commands.”
He swiped to a different projection.
He called it the command log.
Alexander stopped his exercises. He sat up straight in his chair. “If we isolate the Queen Bee, is it possible to disable it?”
“I think it might be,” Jack said.
“What would that do?” Barrett asked.
“Eden’s system would no longer have a commander. She couldn’t be controlled.”
The words settled in the room—potent, hopeful.
Jack went to his computer and tried pulling up the browser. When it didn’t work, he dragged his hand down the length of his stubbled cheek, his expression tight with frustration.
“What’s wrong?” Ruth asked.
“It’s this laptop. It’s been lagging all day. I think there must be some sort of glitch with the old system. I need to shut it down and run the updates.” As soon as he finished saying it, his mouth went slack. Barrett’s, too. As if realizing the same thing at the same time.
“Updates,” Barrett said.
“Technology needs to be updated.” Jack’s eyes took on a manic glow. “Phones. Computers. Cars. All of it. They need regular updates, otherwise …”
“Things go wrong,” Barrett finished.
Like his memory.
Like her hearing.
Their insides were teeming with technology.
Microscopic robots zooming through their veins. Microscopic robots that formed a cohesive system.
And those systems hadn’t been updated for sixteen-and-a-half years.
26
Cass peeled off his shirt and grabbed the pull-up bar, his heart hammering against his sternum after a merciless run on the treadmill. He lifted himself—rep after rep—his lats burning, sweat trickling as he silently repeated the same refrain with every hoist.
She’s eighteen.
She’s eighteen.
She’s eighteen.
As though enough repetition might sear that fact into his brain.
Eden Pruitt was eighteen years old. Practically still a minor. With a set of loving, involved parents who might not be physically present but were absolutely part of the picture. Which meant Eden Pruitt was entirely different from any of the girls he’d been with before.
He needed—no, he wanted—to tread carefully.
Cass let go of the pull-up bar and moved to the dip station, attacking his triceps as relentlessly as he attacked his lats, as if doing so might help him fall asleep faster come nightfall. Never mind the fact that this was his fifth day of unforgiving, rigorous exertion and physical exhaustion had yet to do the trick.
His attraction built like steam in a kettle. The accumulating unanswered questions on their quest for answers didn’t help. If something didn’t give soon, he might combust. He moved to an elevated glute machine, slid his ankles beneath a set of heel pads and began doing inverse sit-ups, targeting his lower back.
Tonight—finally—they would attempt to talk with Willow Bryson, who lived in a halfway house in North Lawndale. Between her Perk account and location tracking, her home address was simple to locate—a fact Eden had found disturbing. It shouldn’t be so easy, she said. But it was. Especially with government-issued phones.
They didn’t feel settled about approaching Willow on her home turf. It would be less intimidating if they arranged a run-in at the coffee shop in Hyde Park. So they’d waited. And waited. And waited.
On Monday, the search and rescue efforts in downtown Chicago shifted to search and recovery. The missing were no longer missing, but listed among the dead. One-thousand-fifty-two casualties, a number significantly less staggering than the number after The Attack but no less traumatic. Especially given the high-profile nature of so many of the deaths. The nation was triggered, grieving, and hypervigilant. That night, Eden had a sharp pain in her temple while running on the treadmill. So intense, she nearly fell off. It rattled her. It rattled Cass.
On Tuesday, they found a girl who stayed at The Orchard the same time as Francesca and Willow. A living, breathing girl who wasn’t in prison or rehab or six feet under. But working in the city as a nail technician, which was how they ended up in Kenwood, loitering outside a salon called Cute-Icles. Eden went inside and requested the technician named Dezi, who was opinionated and chatty until Eden mentioned The Orchard and Dezi turned into a clamshell. If she remembered Francesca or Willow, she refused to say.
On Wednesday, they followed Clay, hoping for an opportunity to interact with him. No such opportunity presented itself. The kid was sixteen, but his parents treated him like he was eight. His dad took him to school on his way to work. His mom picked him up, then gave him a ride to and from basketball practice in the evening. Eden believed this was because of their estrangement from Willow. After losing their daughter, they went overboard with their son. She spoke the words like one speaking from experience. Cass suspected she was thinking of Christopher and her own parents.
On Thursday, they watched drone surveillance as twelve girls came to the Bryson’s home at dinnertime.
“Do you think it’s a study group?” Eden asked.
“Why are there only girls?” Cass replied.
Neither of them had an answer.
The girls didn’t leave until ten.
Now it was Friday. They had gathered information like a pile of puzzle pieces without a picture to guide them. Hopefully tonight that would change. Hopefully tonight, they would get some answers and the pieces would start clicking into place.
As Cass swung his torso upward, he spotted Eden in the hallway that led to the back entrance. She wore a light gray racerback tank top with black leggings, her hair pulled back into a ponytail as she peeked into the gym.
Cass stopped his inverted sit-ups and grabbed a towel to wipe his face as she came all the way inside, her attention flitting to his bare upper half. To the fresh scar on his side, where broken glass had sliced him open. An injury she mended while he lay unconscious in the back of Norton’s truck. She looked away and moved toward Lou’s boxing ring—one he’d spent a significant amount of time in over the last decade.
She quirked an eyebrow. “Want to spar?”
He had nothing left to teach her. The student had long surpassed the instructor. She could easily best him. And yet, she had energy to burn, too. She was leery of the treadmill after the mishap and the weights didn’t challenge her. Apparently, Cass still did.
He tossed aside the towel and stalked to the ring, feeling every inch the hungry lion. Knowing he’d have to exercise more restraint.
They went through a few warm-ups even though he was already warm and she didn’t need the lead-in. Slowly, the drilling increased in speed and intensity until both of them were breathing hard. Cass knew she was stronger and quicker and more agile than any opponent he’d faced in a fight, but today, she was distracted. Today, he was keeping up with her. When she pivoted to throw him over her hip, he hooked her arm and brought her with him.
He landed flat on his back with Eden straddling his waist, their chests rising and falling in unison, her face so close to his, the tips of their noses nearly touched.
Desire slammed through him.
But Cass didn’t move. He lay very still. Like the slightest movement might scare her away.
A lock of hair had slipped from its tie and fell toward him as her attention dipped to his lips. And then, with exquisite slowness, she kissed him. A featherlight touch, like dipping her toes into a pool to check the temperature. And when she was done, she pulled back, her green-gray-blue eyes searching his.
For a fevered breath.
For a hungry beat.
Until simultaneously, they dove.
Their mouths collided.
A week’s worth of restraint blown to pieces as Cass grabbed her waist and flipped her onto her back. When she curled her fingers into his hair and arched into him, he lost his mind. With his blood pounding, he slid his arm beneath her—pulling her closer, unable to get enough, his lips moving down her jaw, to her neck …
When a familiar refrain screamed in his head.
She’s eighteen!
And he would not lose control inside a ring.
Not again.
Not with her.
He stopped—pulled back.
Out of breath.
His desire magnified by affection and fondness and a deep and abiding respect for this girl who would lay down her life in a heartbeat if it meant protecting another. This girl who could still smile, even when the world had been turned upside down and inside out. This girl who was steadfast and true and absolutely, unequivocally too good for him.
He pressed his forehead to hers, knowing he was ruined for anyone else. Knowing he would spend the rest of his life trying to deserve her.
27
The Coffee Hound was dimly lit with a haziness that gave the impression of employees smoking after hours. It was nothing like The Roast in Eagle Bend, where she first encountered Cassian Gray. A boy who threw her off kilter then. A boy who was still throwing her off kilter now. Her skin flushed at the recollection of their make-out session inside Lou’s boxing ring. She shook the memory away. Now was not the time to daydream about Cassian’s hands or lips or chiseled physique. Now was the time to focus on their objective.
Find and speak with Willow Bryson.
On a small stage perpendicular to the counter, a young man wearing moccasins stood behind the mic, strumming a guitar, singing a melancholy song about death and the end of love. Eden grabbed a chair at a table that hugged the far wall as Cassian ordered two decaf coffees at the counter. She discreetly but thoroughly scanned the room for Willow, her stomach twisting when the scan returned empty.
They’d been waiting for this moment all week.
Every sign pointed at her being here.
But there was no girl with bleached hair streaked with pink.
A smattering of applause skittered around the coffeehouse as the man finished his song.
He strummed his guitar and began another.
Cassian sat across from her, noticing the same thing she had.
Willow wasn’t here.
Anastasia Blaire, Perk handle @Love_Me_Pain, was. In fact, she brought them their coffee. In an attempt not to stare, Eden took a sip much too quickly. The drink scalded her tongue but only for a fraction of a second, a reminder of what she was. Of what was inside her.
The liquid soured in her knotted stomach.
She stared at the door, willing Willow to walk through, when suddenly, it swung open and there she was. Willow stepped inside with a gust of chilly wind, wearing a lime green peacoat and deep purple lipstick and a black leather choker with spikes. She blinked dully as her retinas were scanned, then removed her coat and hung it over a chair next to their table. She sat down and crossed one army boot over the other—close enough for Eden to touch as she stared at the man on the stage with an expressionless face. When he finished, she clapped twice—slowly, almost sardonically—then stood up and tromped to the stage. She gave the guitar strummer a fist bump, stepped up to the mic, and stared at the crowd—silently waiting until every last patron was quiet.
No more nonchalant listening. No more whispering across tables.
Once Willow had a rapt audience, she clutched the microphone in this sensual, almost erotic way and began reciting a poem with so much passion, Eden felt embarrassed. It was an awkward performance—aggressive and high-strung. And yet, the moment she finished, The Coffee Hound broke into an applause much more heartfelt than any they’d given the crooner.
Willow didn’t bow or smile.
She didn’t begin another poem.
Her face returned to its expressionless mask as she traipsed off the stage and into the ladies’ room.
Eden blinked at Cass as the ovation stuttered to its end. Then she stood and went after her.
Willow wasn’t inside a stall, but leaning over the one and only sink, gripping both sides of the dingy porcelain like she was having a panic attack. Eden stopped in the doorway. Willow took a loud, gasping breath and looked up, her thick black eyeliner smudged with tears as her attention snagged Eden’s in the mirror.
“Are you okay?” Eden asked uncertainly.
Willow glowered.
Eden stepped all the way inside. “That performance was … really great.”
“You lie.” Willow spoke in the same way she arranged her face—devoid of all inflection.
“I’m not lying.” She was, actually. The performance had been painful. But now was not the time for candor. “It reminded me of … Poe.”
Willow’s expressionless mask slipped. She looked at Eden, not in happy surprise, like one discovering a commonality with a stranger. But with dubious suspicion. “I love Poe,” she said.
“What’s not to love?” Eden replied.
Willow dragged her fingers beneath her eyes, making the smudged eyeliner worse. Eden stepped closer to the dirty mirror and pretended to search her face for pimples that weren’t there.
Their attention caught once, twice. On the third time, Eden took a calculated risk. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Should I?” Willow said.
“We used to live together.”
Willow narrowed her raccoon eyes.
“At The Orchard. It must have been twelve, maybe thirteen years ago.”
“You lived at The Orchard?”
“Yeah.”
“And you recognized my face?”
“I’m good with faces. It’s an odd quirk, but I never forget a face. No matter how long it’s been. As soon as you walked on the stage, I knew who you were.”
“I don’t remember you.”
“I’ll try not to take that personally.” Eden reached into the pocket of her hoodie and uncapped a lip balm. “So, did you ever end up with a family?”
“No.” The answer was so blunt, it almost felt like a slap.
Eden cleared her throat. “Me either.”
Willow stared openly now—in this unblinking, disconcerting way—as she pumped soap into her palm and worked it into a lather.
Eden applied the lip balm to her bottom lip and tried not to squirm. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. I was painfully shy back then. Kept to myself, mostly. I was always on the outside looking in. I remember wishing for a friendship like the one you had with that girl. What was her name?” She capped her lip balm, then snapped her fingers. “Francesca! That’s it. I remember being jealous of your friendship with Francesca.”
If Eden was hoping the not-so-subtle transition would defrost Willow’s demeanor, it didn’t work. The second she spoke Francesca’s name, the girl’s suspicion went glacial.
“The two of you left at the same time. Everyone said you were placed together. I’m sorry to hear you never got a family. I was hoping it would work out for you. Are you still close—you and Francesca?”
Willow didn’t answer.
Eden pressed valiantly onward. “It’s weird, what a small world we live in. I actually ran into her a month ago. Here I am in this giant city, and I run into two people I lived with once upon a time.”
Willow turned off the water. “You ran into Francesca?”
“Crazy, right?”
“Where?” Willow said, demanding. Almost hostile.
Eden pulled back her chin.
“Where did you run into her?”
“Downtown. Before downtown was … well. I was walking to work, and she walked past me. I thought I recognized her, like you. But it took me a bit because something was different about one of her eyes.”
Without drying her hands, with no warning at all, Willow turned around and walked out the door. Eden blinked, then walked out after her. Out into the warm entryway as a different artist beat boxed on the stage.
“Wait,” she called.
Willow spun around. “Who are you really?”
“What?”
“I don’t remember you from the girl’s home and I remember all the girls. Also, there’s no way you saw Francesca here in the city.”
“Why not?”
“Did my mother send you?”
“Your mother? I thought you said—”
“Isabella Bryson. Did she hire you to follow me or something?”
“No,” Eden said.
Willow narrowed her eyes into slits, then she turned around like she was going to walk away.
“I’m trying to find The Monarch,” Eden blurted, cringing as soon as the words escaped.
Willow stopped.
She froze with her back to Eden, the beat boxing from the stage wrapping around them like an insulated bubble.
“You’re right,” Eden muttered, taking a step closer. “I didn’t live in The Orchard.”
Willow turned around. “What’s your connection with Francesca?”
“A friend of mine knew her. Ten or so years ago. She had a glass eye. When my friend asked about it, Francesca said The Monarch gave it to her.”
Willow crossed her arms.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Eden asked.
For a moment—a blip of a second—sadness blossomed beneath her hostility. But then her expression snapped shut, closing like a Venus flytrap.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” she said before turning around and marching to the table where she collected her lime green peacoat and let herself out the door.
Eden returned to the table where Cassian sat staring hard at the door Willow had just walked through. She slid into her seat while the beatboxer finished; hardly anyone clapped at all. She set her elbows on the table, wrapped her hands around the coffee mug, and began relaying the entire strange interaction that transpired in the ladies’ room.
