The Aberration of Eden Pruitt, page 19
29
The fifty-minute drive from Glencoe to Lou’s doubled as Cass wove in and out of suburbs, checking his mirrors for a tail. He saw no one following, but that didn’t mean nobody was. By the time he pulled into the back alley, his hammering heart had calmed into something less like cardiac arrest.
He pocketed his keys. They let themselves downstairs, where they spread the items they’d taken across the bed. Like actual puzzle pieces ready for assembly. The small glass butterfly, the pamphlet, the photographs, and the postcards.
Eden picked up the pamphlet. She ran her finger over the words Sanctus Diem and the date underneath. She turned it over to the list of names. Then she opened it and scanned the contents inside, slowly sitting on the edge of the bed.
Cass sat beside her.
There was a strange poem about fallen empires, an invitation to join Invictus and the promise of some future Utopia. Below the call to action was a PostScript written in more Latin. If this was Interitus propaganda, then America was the empire in need of falling. But something didn’t fit. The tone of the poem didn’t suggest a desire for the empire to topple. It read more like a cautionary tale, as though the author wanted the empire to stand.
Eden opened Cass’s laptop and began translating the Latin phrases.
Caelum In Terra.
Ad Astra per Aspera.
And beneath that, Salvo Impetum.
The first meant Heaven on Earth.
The second was a saying—through hardship to the stars.
The third translated to mean saving blow.
Cass thought about Francesca and her eye—an injury sustained under the care and supervision of the Brysons. A family with a disturbing room in their basement. Was this ‘saving blow’ some sick and twisted ideology to which they subscribed? Was this what Francesca meant when she said the glass eye was courtesy of The Monarch even though her foster parents had technically done it? Whoever or whatever this Monarch was, the Brysons were obviously followers. Devoted believers. And Francesca, the girl in need of saving.
His stomach rolled.
The whole thing was redolent of his father.
Cass hadn’t known the man—not really—and yet his most formative memories revolved around him. The first was Cass’s earliest. The night before they fled—he and his mom. The night his father turned his violence on Cass, who had the audacity to cry over the death of their neighbor’s dog. His father saw the tears as a sign of weakness. The lashing would make him stronger. Cass didn’t see him again for seven and a half years and when he finally did, the bastard made up for lost time. He beat Cass to within an inch of his life and, in a sick and twisted way, it had made him stronger.
It had made him lethal.
Eden typed the phrases into the search bar along with The Monarch, Karik Volkova, Prudence Dvorak. The only connection they could find was the one they already knew. Dvorak was a follower of Volkova. And the Brysons had a picture of Dvorak, along with this pamphlet glorifying the darkest day in American history.
Cass set the pamphlet beside his laptop, backside up. He placed one hand on the back of Eden’s chair, the other on the edge of the desk. “Try running a search on one of these names.”
She plugged in the first.
Melody Aigner.
An obituary loaded at the top of the page.
Eden clicked on it.
Melody Aigner died on the fourth of October, not during The Attack, but exactly four years later. The cause of death wasn’t listed.
Eden tried the next.
Rosalyn Berkovich.
Links to three different Perk accounts appeared. And below them, another obituary. Eden clicked, then leaned back in her chair. Rosalyn Berkovich also died on the fourth of October, four years after The Attack. And this time, a cause of death was listed.
“Childbirth,” Cass read.
It was the same way Lillian Kashif had died.
On the fourth of October.
Four years after The Attack.
Cleo had mentioned the date when she relayed the information she’d found on the Brysons. He’d written it off as an unfortunate, insignificant coincidence. Now, however? Lillian Kashif was on this list, too.
Eden searched the third name.
Ingrid Breen
Another obituary.
The fourth of October.
Four years after The Attack.
Cause of death—childbirth.
She moved down the list, plugging names into the browser with fingers that visibly trembled until they’d gone through all ninety-three of them. Each one died on the fourth of October, four years after The Attack, and any time a cause of death was listed, it was the same.
Childbirth.
According to the obituaries, the babies died too.
Eden flipped the pamphlet to the front side and searched the Latin phrase again, this time with the date. October 4th. Sanctus Diem. Not a single relevant result loaded on the screen. “Why did all these women die in childbirth exactly four years after The Attack?”
Cass shook his head, trying to make sense of it himself.
Sanctus Diem.
Holy Day.
The Attack.
These dead women and their dead babies.
Through hardship to the stars.
Heaven on Earth.
He swallowed an acidic taste in his mouth. “Do you think it was some sort of sacrifice?” A sick ritual to commemorate the sacred day? Some twisted attempt to usher in this promised Utopia?
Eden clasped her head between her hands as though to keep it from spinning off her neck. Cass turned to the bed where the confusing pieces were spread. He picked up a postcard with a photograph of a statue carved from white marble—a naked woman with two equally naked children, one at the woman’s side, the other draped across her lap. He turned it over to the note on the other side.
“Dearest Bella,” he read aloud, “thinking of you and your great sister, a true martyr for the cause. May her sacrifice be known and forever honored. Always, M.”
By the time he finished reading, Eden stood by his side.
He flipped the postcard to its front.
“I know that sculpture,” she said, taking it from him. “It’s in Pemberley.”
“Pemberley?”
“Mr. Darcy’s estate. From Pride and Prejudice? It’s not actually Pemberley. It’s Chatsworth House.”
Cass blinked at her, wondering how she knew this.
“My mom is enamored with anything having to do with Jane Austen. We’ve watched every rendition of Pride and Prejudice ever made. Her favorite is the version that uses Chatsworth as the Pemberley Estate. We took a virtual tour, and I saw this statue. The woman is Leto—the mother of Apollo and Artemis. In Greek mythology, she’s the goddess of motherhood.”
Motherhood.
Magnes Matres.
A true martyr for the cause.
“What cause?” Cass said.
Eden’s face turned a concerning shade of white.
“What is it?” he asked.
She sat at the desk, where she picked up a pencil and jotted two dates on a sticky note. July 10th. October 4th. Then she wrote the word babies and tapped it with the pencil’s point. “We were born on July tenth, if born is the right word for it. Me and Barrett and Violet and Ellery. That was the date in Dr. Norton’s files. Almost three months later, ninety-three women went into labor and died. The babies died, too.”
She wasn’t talking to Cass. She was thinking out loud.
“Volkova wanted weaponized humans. He experimented with adults. They all died. Then he tried with frozen embryos. And it worked.” Her brow furrowed. “But if these ninety-three women were some sort of failed experiment like the adults, wouldn’t that experiment come before us—the successful ones?” She narrowed her eyes at the sticky note. “It doesn’t fit.”
Cass set his hand on the crown of his head and fisted his hair, every bit as stumped as she was. Somehow, all of this was connected. The Attack. Sanctus Diem. Prudence Dvorak. Karik Volkova. Eden and Barrett and Violet and Ellery. Gifts for The Monarch. Isabella Bryson. Her sister, Lillian Kashif, and the other ninety-three women. Each one dead, along with their ninety-three babies.
Cass picked up the glass figurine—an orange and black butterfly.
He turned it over between his fingers. On the third turn, he noticed something on the underside of the monarch’s wing.
“Look at this,” he said, showing what he’d found to Eden.
A minuscule chip fixed to the glass. The same size and shape as the chip inside the device Mordecai had used to control Eden. The chip Violet had fixed back in Dr. Norton’s cabin. And beneath the other wing? A button so small, it was nearly microscopic.
He pressed it, and a projection flickered to life.
“Whoa,” Eden said.
It was a database with more names, along with ages and locations. Some were highlighted in yellow, like Clay Bryson’s girlfriend. Some were highlighted in pink, like Willow Bryson, Isabella’s estranged daughter. A few others were struck through with a straight, decisive line, like Francesca Burnoli.
Cass tapped on her name, and the projection changed to an individual profile.
A picture of Francesca. Along with a small bio, a birth date, and below that, in all caps, a single word. One Eden read aloud.
“Deceased,” she said. “That explains Willow’s reaction when I told her I saw Francesca. She told me there was no way I could have seen her in Chicago. This is why.”
Eden couldn’t have seen her in Chicago.
Francesca Burnoli was dead.
Cass swiped back to the database and tapped another name.
Another picture. Another bio. Another birth date.
No death. Which meant this girl was still living.
Cass scrolled to the very bottom. The most recent entry.
Eden came out of her chair.
It was her name. Her first and last name. And in parentheses, the fake name she’d given at the support group. Jen. A feeling of dread knotted in Cassian’s chest as he tapped on her name to see what else they knew.
They had her age. Her birthdate. Her photograph. Her parents’ names. Her run-in with the San Diego Police Department.
“How did they get all this?” Eden asked, her voice filled with alarm.
“The retinal scans.” They must have accessed the retinal scans at the library to learn more about this support group newcomer named Jen. Only Isabella Bryson didn’t find a Jen. She found an Eden Pruitt. The rest would be easy enough to find. Cass knew only too well. Which made him a fool. A complete idiot. They never should have risked scanning Eden’s retinas.
“Do you think they know what I am?” Eden said.
Cass rubbed his jaw, the dread in his chest tightening.
Before he could hypothesize, his phone rang.
Cleo’s number lit the screen.
He couldn’t even get out a hello. The second he answered, Cleo greeted him with a frazzled, “What happened?”
“What do you mean?” he answered.
“Are you watching the news?”
“Should I be?”
“Turn on the television.”
Eden grabbed the remote to the small set on Lou’s dresser.
As soon as she turned it on, Cass’s face and Eden’s face filled the screen. They stood side-by-side in the photograph, wearing the same clothes they were wearing now.
“You’re on Concordia-Chicago,” Cleo said.
Cass turned the call to speaker and set the phone on the desk.
“I don’t understand.” Eden sank onto the bed. “We shut down the security system. We made sure the cameras were disabled.”
He tilted his head. “It was taken from inside the safe.”
There must have been a camera. One that took a picture automatically as soon as the safe was opened. A camera that was its own separate device, so it continued to work despite the disc. One that must have been completely silent, otherwise Eden would have heard it.
“Has this made national news?” she said, her cheeks going pale.
“No,” Cleo quickly replied. “Just Chicago. My mom called me as soon as it broke. The police want her to come in for questioning. She’s meeting her attorney at the station now.”
Cass cursed under his breath as the news anchor continued, alerting the public that the burglars were still at large and possibly armed. Considering everything that had happened in Chicago, it was a footnote of a story—small script at the bottom of a page. Very few would pay attention to it. But it was enough to get their faces on television. Her face on television. And no doubt, the Brysons would be digging. That digging would lead them to Alexander and Ruth Pruitt, which could very well lead them to the same information Cass and Eden had found when searching for answers in Cleo’s dorm. Alexander was once Alaric Taylor, a man who worked for the CIA. A man who was sent to destroy Karik Volkova’s prized experiment.
Cass dragged his hand along his jaw.
“She wants me to disappear until she knows how this is going to play out,” Cleo said. “I’m headed to Mona’s.”
He glanced at the monitor in the corner of the room. They’d been here for nearly a week. Cass had been letting people in, making reluctant small talk with wannabe fighters and up-and-coming trainers. Not to mention the people who recognized them from the library, the nail salon, The Coffee Hound, Cleo’s dorm.
They couldn’t stay here.
It wasn’t safe.
Cass spun into motion—so sudden and decisive Eden just sat there with her mouth slightly ajar, looking increasingly alarmed. He gathered the items on the bed. He stuffed their clothes into the backpack. He snagged his gun from the dresser and tucked it into his waist belt, all the while eying the monitor in the corner of the room like a SWAT team might materialize outside Lou’s gym. He snapped his laptop shut and slid it into the bag.
“We’ll meet you there,” he said.
As much as he didn’t want to go back, it was the only place they could hide in the city. The only place that wouldn’t be buzzing with surveillance drones programmed with facial recognition software. They would collect themselves at the silos, and then they would get out of Chicago.
30
“Are we safe here?” Eden asked, her body trembling from the electrifying ride, wherein she had wrapped her arms tight around his torso and buried her face in his shoulder, positive they were going to be stopped and apprehended as the unsettling sound of drones whirred overhead. Thankfully, there weren’t any here—this lonely spot in the middle of Chicago between an industrial train yard and a ship canal.
Cassian peered through the waning light toward the silos. He’d seemed so sure in the basement of Lou’s—getting them here with speed and decisiveness. But now, lingering outside the fence as the sunlight faded, he didn’t seem nearly as confident.
Were they safe here?
Were they safe anywhere?
“It’s our best option,” he finally said.
More accurately, their only option.
Cass grabbed the backpack and took a seat on the ground.
“We’re not going inside?” Eden said.
“Mona is expecting Cleo. We’ll receive a warmer welcome if we arrive with the person she’s expecting.”
Eden sat beside him and leaned against the fence. The past few hours had brought an onslaught of intense emotion. Exhilaration. Fear. Confusion. Frustration. Shock. She stared at the bag in Cassian’s lap, their clothes stuffed inside. The cigar box, too. A part of her wanted to avoid that box. Keep it shut. Stop pressing forward, because pressing forward only seemed to suck them deeper into whatever this was.
They’d gone to the Prosperity Ball hoping for a specific outcome—the end of a nightmare. They’d broken into the Bryson’s home hoping for a specific outcome—answers to their questions. Both times, they’d only fallen further into the rabbit hole. Would they ever find the bottom or would they forever be falling deeper and deeper?
Eden took a dogged breath. Gathering her resolve, she unzipped the front pouch of the backpack and removed the box. When she lifted the lid—there it was. The pamphlet with the word Invictus on top. So close to Interitus, but with an entirely different meaning. On the inside, the strange poem about fallen empires and the promise of a future utopia. Caelum In Terra. Heaven on Earth. A reality that would only come to fruition through sacrifice. She scooped up the glass butterfly and pushed the button. The same projection Cass discovered in Lou’s basement shined in front of them.
“They must be recruiters,” Cassian said, his words chasing a shiver up her spine.
“Recruiters?”
“For whatever cult this is.”
She thought about the twelve girls who came to the Bryson’s home every Thursday evening. Gage, a guidance counselor. Isabella, a volunteer at a crisis pregnancy center. Leader of a support group. They were both in positions of trusted leadership and confidential support.
Eden wasn’t an expert on cults, but thanks to Erik, she knew the basics. Two summers ago, he’d watched a documentary about The People’s Temple and their leader, Jim Jones, who convinced over nine hundred of his followers to drink cyanide-laced Kool-Aid in a mass suicide.
“Parents gave it to their children,” he’d said, unable to let it go. Unable to get over it.
That documentary had propelled him into a short-lived obsession with cults. Erik wanted to understand what kind of people could become so brainwashed, so mind-bogglingly suggestible, that they would move to some remote country in South America, remain in deplorable conditions, then poison their own children. In the end, he reached a disturbing conclusion. A humbling conclusion.
It could happen to anyone.
Given the right circumstances.
Or rather, the wrong ones.
The Brysons were surrounded by young people, lonely people, hurting people. They were preying on the vulnerable. Individuals without a support system. Individuals who could be easily swayed. Foster kids. High school students in need of counseling. Pregnant women in crisis. People estranged from their families. All of it fit. Cassian was right. The Brysons were recruiters.
