The Revelation of Eden Pruitt, page 18
Up ahead, Jericho handed the gun to Francesca. Each person got ten rounds to hit a target exactly one-hundred fifty yards away. Lark had gone first. As someone who’d spent the last three decades perfecting her shot, she was a shoo-in for the top eight. Progress was slow; the target had to be changed after every participant. The gun, reloaded.
By the time Asher’s turn came, water was dripping from his tight curls. He dragged the back of his arm across his forehead and got in his stance. Lark, Jericho, Francesca, and three survivors from Bunker Three had secured their spot in the top eight. Surprisingly, Francesca had come in second. Impressive for someone with only one functioning eye. A fourth survivor from Bunker Three was holding the seventh place spot, and Nairobi was currently in eighth.
Asher lifted the gun and peered through one narrowed eye. “I hate to do this to you, Robes,” he said to Nairobi. “But you’re gonna have to say goodbye to the top eight.”
He fired his ten rounds in quick succession. Jericho replaced the target while Asher reloaded the gun, and sure enough, he had edged Nairobi out of eighth place by one shot. He grinned a cocky grin and offered the gun to Eden.
She hesitated.
“I forgot. The girl with the nine lives is afraid of firearms.” He looked down at her with one eyebrow cocked. “Are you sure you want to participate?”
Eden recalled Francesca’s scathing words when they were stuck underground in Washington, DC. You expect her to properly inject the asset when she can’t even take a gun? She had properly injected the asset, as much as she regretted doing so. Eden shoved her fear down and took the weapon.
“Just because I don’t like guns doesn’t mean I can’t shoot them.” She got into position, her muddied boots slightly wider than shoulder width. She squinted through the drizzle to take her aim, which was more lethal than Lark’s. But she only needed to come in eighth.
She fired ten rounds.
Jericho whistled.
Lark actually grinned. She took the gun from Eden and gave Asher’s shoulder a clap. “First poker. Now shooting. I think she has your number.”
Asher peered at her with a hint of familiar suspicion. “Let me guess, your CIA father taught you how to shoot?”
Eden removed her ear plugs. “I told you I had skills that would come in handy.”
Way more than any of them realized, which was becoming a point of mounting frustration. Her mind and body could run one hundred miles per hour, but she was forcing them to go fifty.
Asher shrugged. “It’s better if I stay here anyway. Manage the technical side of our mission.”
“Which puts you,” Jericho said to Nairobi, “in Annapolis with Manny.”
“I’m happy to go,” she said, just as Eden spotted Cleo limping across the grounds with her eyes ablaze and a book in hand.
Asher noticed, too. He bent toward Eden’s ear and asked under his breath, “Is she coming for me or you?”
Eden didn’t think it was her. Cleo typically reserved that level of annoyance for him. Sure enough, she marched straight up to Asher, stopping just short of poking him in the chest with an accusatory finger. “You are a liar.”
He took a step back. “Whoa.”
“I’ve been working on an op-ed piece for Dayne. A tell-all about America’s supposed hero.” She held up the book. It was Oswin Brahm’s biography.
“You can’t publish something like that,” Francesca objected.
“I know,” Cleo said. “We’re not running it without authorization. It’s just something we want to have at the ready when the time comes.” She turned to Asher, her head tipped back so she could look him in the eye. “I’m a thorough reporter. I take care with research. So I’ve been looking into you.”
“Me?”
“All of you.” She swept her hand to include Lark, Jericho, and Francesca. “The leaders of the Resistance. The people who knew Brahm’s true colors first. Almost everyone on the council has a personal vendetta against the man. Emmett owned a tavern in Washington, DC, that was blown to bits in The Attack. Lark was manipulated into recruiting innocent girls, one of whom was Harlan’s late granddaughter. Brahm killed Amir’s mother. He forced Dvorak into pregnancy and tried to kill her, too. Members of Swarm gouged out Francesca’s eye. Which leaves you.” She tossed a glance at Jericho. “And you,” she said, returning her glare to Asher. “Just now, I was sharing my progress with Dayne when he casually tells me your mother died in The Attack. He overheard Nairobi mentioning it the other day.”
Nairobi ducked sheepishly.
Cleo finished her tirade. “You told us she was killed by your dad.”
Asher looked down at her with an expression like yeah, so?
Cleo gaped. “That’s a really messed up thing to lie about.”
“It wasn’t a lie.”
Confusion struck Eden between the eyes. By the looks of it, it struck Cleo, too. “So, Nairobi was lying?”
“No,” Asher said.
“Your mom died in The Attack?”
“Yes.”
“Then Oswin Brahm killed her.”
He raised his eyebrows and kept them lifted as understanding dawned. With her mouth hanging open, Eden looked around and observed that this wasn’t a shock to anyone else.
Francesca stepped forward, right beside Asher. “Brahm has no idea we have an ace up our sleeve.”
Asher smiled dispassionately. “As someone who lived under his roof for fourteen miserable years, I know a lot of his secrets.”
Cleo’s cubicle could barely accommodate three regular sized people. Eden was above average in height for a woman. Asher was six foot six. Yet somehow, Cleo managed to squeeze all three of them inside. Technically, Eden didn’t need to be here. Cleo was perfectly capable of conducting this interview on her own. But Eden was teeming with curiosity, and when she invited herself along, neither Cleo nor Asher objected.
Eden and Asher sat on stools—Eden further in the corner, Asher more in the middle, looking surly while Cleo opened to a fresh page in her notebook and clicked her pen. When she looked up, she did so expectantly.
Asher crossed his arms. “What’s the point of this? It’s not like you can run anything.”
“Your father has a whole team of recruiters.”
“I know.”
“You don’t think eventually we’ll use all this,” she gestured around her, indicating the newsroom in which they sat, “to do some recruitment of our own? We’d be fools not to, and when that day comes, I want to run a piece so convincing and incriminating that whoever reads it will want Oswin Brahm to rot.”
Her words hit an agreeable chord. Asher’s expression softened.
Cleo tapped the thick biography beside her notebook. “According to this, Oswin’s son is dead.”
“And named Felix,” Eden said. After Oswin’s father, the police officer who lost his life in a riot.
“Asher was my mother’s surname,” he said. “When I found out he murdered her, I decided I didn’t want to be Felix anymore.”
“Why does this say you died of an overdose when you were fourteen?” Cleo asked, giving the biography another tap with the end of her pen.
“Do you think he would have just let me leave?”
“So you faked your death,” Cleo said.
“I uncovered his plans and worked with them.” Asher sat with his wet boots flat on the ground, his long legs splayed. “He started portraying me as a troubled kid when I decided to fight back. I think I was twelve. He spun a specific narrative, ensuring he could dismiss my accusations as nonsense if I ever shared his secrets with the world. By the time I turned fourteen, I’d gotten too big for corporal punishment.”
Corporal punishment.
AKA, physical abuse.
Eden thought about Francesca’s glass eye. That awful room in the Bryson’s basement. Ad Astra Per Aspera. Through hardship to the stars. Gage and Isabella Bryson had adopted the Monarch’s ideology, and their foster children had paid the price. How much higher of a price had Asher paid as the Monarch’s son?
He’d been so harsh when they first met. Survival 101, he called it. Be cutthroat or die. Those were the choices. Apparently, Asher had spent his life being cutthroat.
“He decided I was beyond rehabilitation. No amount could set me on the right path. Lucky for me, I bugged his office and caught wind of his plans. An overdose would fit the narrative. He planned to have one of his minions shoot me up in my sleep. He’d play up the grief, use it to gain more sympathy from the public. Convincing him that his minion was successful was one of my more brilliant accomplishments. It required a lot of moving pieces, but I managed to pull it off.”
Eden swallowed the sick rising up her throat. Despite everything—knowing how many millions of people Oswin had killed, his wife included—the idea of him plotting the death of his own son made her blood run cold.
Cleo looked up from her notes, her expression pinched—as though trying to hold back the sympathy Asher obviously didn’t want. “Was he always abusive?”
“I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t.” Asher shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was a big deal. A horrible, awful, giant deal. “Thankfully, he was gone more often than not. If I had to guess, I have his precious army to thank for that.”
“You really don’t know where they are?”
“I was never invited. I only knew that whenever he came back, he was always eager to make up for lost time.”
He said it in such a way that made his meaning clear. Oswin Brahm’s idea of making up for lost time didn’t involve playing a game of catch with his son.
29
Dr. Norton’s cabin in the woods looked like a page from a fairy tale. Through the chilly evening, past fir trees and pine trees dusted with frost, golden light shone from its windows. A smoke stack rose into the star-strewn sky. After so many days of fear and hunger, it created such a warm, inviting picture, Violet nearly ran.
For the first time since Father’s truck rumbled up the gravel drive and the vase broke apart in an explosion of glass, she took a proper breath. Beside her, Barrett scrutinized their surroundings. When he was satisfied nobody had followed them, they crept out from behind the bushes and made their way past Dr. Norton’s truck and the Forrester’s car to the front door.
Concordia Nightly played inside.
Violet could smell meat and spices.
Her mouth watered.
Barrett knocked.
The television went silent.
There was scuffling and whispering. The flutter of a drape. Then the door swung open and Dr. Norton stood on the other side.
His mouth fell open at the sight of them. Dirty and travel worn, with Barrett wrapped in the filthy blanket and Violet swimming inside the moldy parka. He quickly ushered them inside, into the cozy warmth where a large pot of soup bubbled on the stove and thick slices of bread steamed atop a baking sheet. It was a meal much too big for one man to eat. But of course, despite the empty living room, he wasn’t alone.
The moment Dr. Norton spoke their names—Barrett and Jane—the others hurried up the stairs. At first, only their heads appeared. Then the rest of them came. Despite Violet’s filth, despite her very obvious need of a shower and clean clothes, Eden’s mother wrapped her in a tight, fierce, trembling hug.
Ellery stared.
Violet couldn’t stop eyeing the food.
“Eden’s alive,” Barrett said, wasting no time.
Alexander took an aggressive step forward. “How do you know?”
“We spoke with her,” Barrett said.
At his words, Ruth Pruitt nearly fainted.
Alexander had to wrap his arm around her waist to keep her upright. He pulled her to his chest and hugged her with the same ferocity she had hugged Violet. Only he didn’t let go. Her shoulders shook as she cried.
“Come sit down,” Dr. Norton said. “You both look hungry.”
Neither objected.
Violet’s stomach was a cavernous abyss.
It rumbled and grumbled as Annette fetched them blankets made of thick, soft fleece and Dr. Norton served them heaping bowls of taco soup with hefty slices of warm bread. Annette took the moldy parka and the dirty blanket with a wrinkled nose and carried them outside. Violet grabbed the spoon and began shoveling the soup into her mouth, uncaring of its scalding heat. Dr. Norton tried to warn her, but she kept going until her bowl was empty and the bread was gone and Barrett had told them half the story.
He’d spoken with Eden through an illegal channel called The Amber Highway. Oswin Brahm was the Monarch. The blinking dots represented his army of superhuman soldiers. Eden, Cassian, and Cleo had stumbled upon a group of people in Washington, DC, who called themselves the Resistance and were working to fight against Brahm. It was true that Cassian was in prison, but Eden and Cleo were alive.
The doctor refilled Violet’s bowl and gave her another thick slice of bread as Barrett continued.
They had gone to her father’s house in Minneapolis in search of answers. They did have an altercation at the border, but they didn’t kill anyone. Jane’s real name was Violet. That’s what she wanted to be called. Three of Brahm’s soldiers showed up and took Father away. But Barrett had gotten his journals. A whole stack of them. So far, he’d found nothing about Violet’s Queen Bee but he’d only read through the journals once, and was positive another read through would prove fruitful. The toxin was real. An off-the-grid community in Minneapolis had been raided by the RRA. And now here they were, back where they’d begun. As he told it, he made it sound exciting. Like he and Violet had gone on a grand adventure. Perhaps they had.
When Barrett finished, Jack ran his fingers through his hair. Ruth and Alexander sat holding hands on the couch. Annette was chewing her nails into nubs. Dr. Norton leaned against the counter with one ankle crossed over the other, finger-combed his silver mustache. Ellery kept her eyes trained on Violet as she tore off a hunk of bread with her teeth.
“Is there a way for us to contact Eden through this illegal highway?” Ruth asked.
“I don’t know.” Barrett stirred his soup. “Violet’s father had some sort of special gadget. So did Eden. It acted like a kind of phone? But we left it behind when we ran. Do you have anything like that?”
Dr. Norton shook his head.
Jack paced. “If Oswin Brahm knew where to find the two of you in Minneapolis, then he’ll know where to find our home in Milwaukee.”
“Is there anything there that will lead them here?” Annette’s question came in a strangled whisper. Her attention kept darting from whoever was talking to her daughter.
“No, but the guy strikes me as someone who knows how to find people. He obviously knows about Eden and Barrett and … Violet. Which means he also knows about Elle.”
Annette’s fingers returned to her mouth.
Ruth patted her back.
Ellery looked the opposite of afraid. She flipped her auburn hair over her shoulder and lifted her chin. “All the more reason to activate me. At least then, if they come, I can defend myself.”
Jack and Annette ignored her.
“We need to get out of Milwaukee,” Jack said.
Violet slumped in her chair.
She didn’t want to leave. Not again. Not so soon. Maybe they would go and she could stay. She could climb into her bed down the hall, burrow beneath the thick comforter, and dream about Mother. Who hadn’t left. Who never left. She’d been murdered by Father.
“We could go to Chicago,” Barrett suggested.
Everyone looked at him.
“There’s an off-the-grid community there. They live in the Damen Silos.”
“The what?” Jack asked.
“The Damen Silos. They’re located in an abandoned shipping yard in Pilsen.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s where Eden and Cassian went when they left.” He fiddled sheepishly with his half-eaten slice of bread. Alexander and Ruth had been so desperate for Eden’s location. They had begged and pleaded with Cleo. All the while, Barrett had played dumb, like he was no wiser than them. “There was some girl with a glass eye who knew something about the Monarch. They went to the Damen Silos to speak with a woman named Mona, who knew the girl with the glass eye. I’m assuming they’ll have the gadget we need to get a hold of her.”
Violet dug into her third bowl while the group planned their exit. Dr. Norton was on-the-grid. According to the government, he was an upstanding retired military doctor with no priors, no red flags, not even a parking ticket. He was also the registered owner of a military-style truck. All of them could easily fit into the back of it. The only problem? They would have to cross another state line. The truck would be searched. If that happened, they couldn’t be found.
As they began discussing secret hatches, Violet left her broken camera on the table and made her way to the bathroom. She turned the shower all the way to hot, and as the steam rose, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her ink black hair was oily and matted. She brushed overlong, choppy bangs from her face, which was streaked with dirt and grime. Her eyes were large and oval and dark. Her cheekbones, high. Her mouth, small. Her chin, pointed. With her stomach heavy with food, she studied each feature, searching for Mother.
Beautiful.
Weak?
Dead.
Buried in the meadow.
No matter how hard she stared, Violet could only find fragments and traces. Like a teasing glitter of light on a spiderweb. She wanted to capture the whole thing, but there was nothing substantial to grab.
Steam clouded the mirror.
Mother’s face was gone.
Violet resigned herself to never seeing it again as she stripped off her dirty clothes and stepped beneath the scalding spray.
Eden clenched her teeth. If she released them, they would chatter. Not because the room was chilly—the room wasn’t even real—but because her nerves had reached a fever pitch.
Tomorrow was the night.
If all went according to plan, she would be reunited with Cassian. Her heart physically ached at the possibility. With every passing day, her thoughts became all the more consumed. She spent each night replaying his words, his touch, every moment they’d spent together. Then she’d wake up the next morning with nerves more frayed than the day before. Because what if this didn’t work? What if their carefully laid plans went sideways?
