The Aberration of Eden Pruitt, page 25
They followed the tracks on foot, Eden’s ears focused in front, their eyes peeled for cameras, motion sensors. Old-fashioned booby traps. They reached an abandoned rail car with a wooden ramp that would allow an ATV to ride up and through. Cass drew his gun as they crept inside.
The railcar was abandoned.
Rusted over.
Its rear half in the tunnel. Its front half out, where the tunnel opened into a station with a platform and a sign that said Tenleytown. They stayed hidden in the railcar as Cassian reached into his front pocket and removed the small disc they’d used inside the Bryson’s home—its twin no longer in their possession, as they had to leave it behind when they escaped through the basement window and ran for their lives. He nodded toward a camera mounted at the far end of the station.
Eden’s stomach dipped.
Cassian was right.
This stretch of underground was being monitored.
He threw the disc with a decisive flick of his wrist. It sailed through the air, connected with the camera’s lens, and the tiny red light went dark. After a quick beat, the three of them crept through the open door onto the platform. Eden shuffled to the escalators and looked up to the blocked-off entrance above. They hurried down the length of the platform and once they were out of sight, Cassian removed the disc.
They continued on in this way.
Mile after mile.
Station after station.
Until they reached one that didn’t have an obstructed entrance at the top of the escalator.
Eden followed it up, creeping carefully, her senses on high alert. When she stepped out into the open, she gaped. She’d seen pictures. Most of them taken months after The Attack. But pictures on a screen weren’t the same as seeing something up close and personal.
They were standing in Washington, DC—a once-thriving hub of history and politics and tourism and architecture. Now, a ruin—decimated and abandoned and left in nature’s indomitable grip. Toppled buildings and upturned cars overrun with vines and weeds. There was no sign of life other than the squirrels and chipmunks and birds that had built their nests in the rubble. According to the government, nuclear activity remained prevalent in the area. Both here and in New York. Breathing this air could be deadly. They shouldn’t be here. But the squirrels and birds looked fine. And Eden couldn’t help herself. An insatiable curiosity drew her.
She crept down the length of the block, then stopped in the middle of a plaza with a fountain in its center. It was made of white marble, double-tiered and adorned with three sculptures. A female figure with long hair holding a boat in her right hand while caressing a seagull with her left, her foot mounted on a dolphin. The other two figures were nude. A female with long hair, holding a globe in her left hand. And a male wrapped in a ship’s sail, holding a conch shell.
“This is Dupont Circle,” Cleo said.
They took it in, probably longer than they should have before finally returning underground.
At Farragut North, the entrance was collapsed. Part of the tunnel, too, but a path had been cleared, with ATV tracks in the rubble.
They walked faster, propelled by a growing sense of urgency.
The next stop was Metro Center in the heart of Washington, DC. As they came out into the station, Eden heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle. They hurried up the escalator, above ground to hide from view while a utility vehicle zoomed past below them, the driver speaking into a walkie-talkie. “I’m heading there now. Must be a short circuit. Over.”
“Figure it out, please,” came the reply. “We need our surveillance working.”
They’d noticed.
The surveillance system was cutting in and out because of the disc.
Not until the utility vehicle was long gone did they continue onward.
Eden knew where they were headed. She’d seen and studied plenty of maps over the course of her schooling. Their next stop was Union Station. Just north of Ground Zero, where the Library of Congress and the Capitol Building once stood.
When they reached it, they held back as two men loaded supplies from the back of a trailer and stacked them next to an escalator. Once the trailer was unloaded, they carried the supplies up the stairs. Eden’s heart thundered as she and Cassian and Cleo crept up a different escalator to the mezzanine, where there was a crumbling marble staircase, piles of rubble, and the haunting whispers of screams silenced long ago.
But Eden could hear their echoes—the din of terror and confusion as this gargantuan building shook and all the glass exploded and the ceiling fell and impossible heat engulfed everything, turning one of the country’s architectural gems into something straight off the set of an apocalypse.
One man’s walkie-talkie squawked.
“The security cameras are down again. Over.”
The man unclipped it from his belt. “Yeah, we know. Xavier’s checking them out now. Over.”
Eden was so absorbed—so dialed into the conversation ahead of her—she wasn’t listening for anything behind. Until she heard the sharp intake of breath.
“Don’t move.”
She whirled around.
A woman was holding a knife to Cleo’s neck.
39
“Hands in the air. Now!” A manic spark gleamed in the woman’s dark, familiar eyes, like she would like nothing more than to carry out the threat pressed against Cleo’s throat.
Regret slammed through Eden. So did recognition.
Here was Prudence Dvorak, in the flesh.
And they never should have come.
Cassian put his hands up, a muscle ticking in his jaw while Eden’s mind raced. Could her speed and strength get them out of this situation she’d led them into? She stared hard at the blade poised against Cleo’s carotid artery. Eden might be superhuman, but that didn’t mean she could get to Cleo before that blade did irreparable damage.
“Did you come for the asset?” Prudence wrapped one arm tightly around Cleo’s waist, her attention darting from Cassian to Eden, her dark hair in a long braid that tumbled over her shoulder.
Eden blinked dumbly. The asset?
“Are you spies for Swarm?”
“Swarm?” Eden said.
“I’m not a fool. And neither are you. So stop playing dumb.” Dvorak pressed the knife harder, making Cleo drop her binoculars with a wince. “Or so help me, I will send a message to dear Pater written in her blood.”
Pater.
Swarm.
The asset.
Prudence Dvorak was speaking a different language.
“We’re not playing dumb,” Eden blurted, her voice a tremble. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dvorak glared, the manic gleam in her eyes still very much alight. “Eden Pruitt, an eighteen-year-old fugitive. Cassian Gray, the Underground Fighter.”
“How do you know that?” Cassian asked in a low, ominous tone. To authorities and reporters, he was Cassian Ransom with no connection to fighting.
“You think we wouldn’t do our research? Your faces have been all over the news. Wanted, with ties to Interitus.” Prudence spat the word like it was bitter gall on her tongue. “And then you show up in Bethesda.”
“How do you know we were in Bethesda?” Eden asked, alarm spiking through her chest.
Prudence didn’t answer.
Footfalls sounded behind them.
Someone was coming. But Eden couldn’t look away from the knife at Cleo’s neck. Cleo’s eyelids fluttered, then opened wide with shock and confusion at the sight of whoever this someone was. “Francesca?”
The name was so jarring, Eden couldn’t help herself.
She looked.
And there, coming to an abrupt halt, was a girl every bit as familiar as Prudence Dvorak. She had the same pixie haircut. The same androgynous face. The same glass eye.
But it made no sense.
Francesca was dead. Her name struck through and marked deceased on the database they’d found in the Bryson’s safe. And yet, here she was. Very much alive. With Prudence Dvorak. Another jarring, confounding fact. Dvorak and the Brysons were in league with one another. Francesca had run away from the Bryson’s. Then—supposedly—she died. So why was she here, with Dvorak, staring suspiciously at Cleo?
“You two know each other?” Prudence demanded.
“She’s the doctor’s daughter,” Francesca replied. “The one who helped me with this.” Francesca gestured to her eye.
“We thought you were dead,” Eden said.
“Death was the only way I’d ever be free.”
“Free from what?”
Cassian didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled his gun and aimed it at Dvorak. Francesca pulled a semi-automatic and aimed it at Cassian. Eden’s heart leapt into her throat, her muscles coiling like a snake, ready to strike Francesca before she could pull that trigger.
Cassian cocked his gun. “Drop the knife or you’ll get a bullet through your head.”
“You put a bullet through her head, and I’ll put several bullets through yours,” Francesca said.
Cleo clutched Prudence’s forearm, as though trying to create enough space between the knife and her neck so she could catch a breath.
The woman didn’t relent. “Tell me who sent you.”
“We sent ourselves,” Eden answered. And when the knife drew blood, she threw up her hands and blurted, “We’re looking for the Monarch.”
Prudence narrowed her eyes. “Looking for?”
“Yes.”
“We’re supposed to believe you aren’t one of his disciples?”
His. The Monarch was a man.
“Wouldn’t you know if we were?” Cassian said.
“Why would I know?” Prudence replied.
“Because he’s your boss.”
Prudence smirked. “You think The Monarch is my superior?”
Eden thought about the tattooed man who took the cyanide pill. She thought about his dying words. She thought about Mordecai on the roof. A gift for the Monarch. They served him. Followed him. If Dvorak wasn’t The Monarch, then The Monarch was in a higher position than she. “Did he take over for Karik Volkova? Is he the new leader of Interitus?”
Prudence scoffed. “Interitus doesn’t exist, you silly little girl.”
Doesn’t exist?
Before she could process the words, a cold barrel pressed against the base of her skull.
“Drop the gun.” The deep words were pointed at Cassian.
But the weapon was pointed at her.
Cassian’s attention shifted from Eden to the male figure behind her, anger and fear flashing in his eyes. But she wasn’t afraid. She was curious. What would happen if this man pulled the trigger? How fast would her nanobots repair such damage, and what would Dvorak do when they did? Apparently, Cassian didn’t want to find out.
He set his weapon down.
Eden was shoved against a wall, her hands gruffly yanked behind her back as the giant-of-a-guy with the deep voice grabbed Cassian and did the same. He was six foot five at least, with broad shoulders and light brown skin and tightly curled hair that was buzzed on the sides and long on top. He wore the same hoodie as the guy on the moped.
He was the guy on the moped.
Eden had to restrain herself. Squash the instinct to spin around and break the guy’s nose.
The knife was no longer at Cleo’s neck.
Eden could make her move. Go on the offensive.
She knew she would come out the victor.
But these people had assault rifles. What if they used them against Cleo or Cassian? What if one of them was shot like her father had been shot? It was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. And so, she cooperated with the manhandling, pretending to be at their mercy while they bound their hands with zip ties.
Dvorak commanded the guy to escort them to the interrogation room. They were pushed inside a vault-like prison. The door closed with a resounding boom.
A bolt slid into place.
Cassian craned his neck to look out the door’s small window. “They don’t know who you are. They wouldn’t have left us alone in here if they did.”
Eden looked at Cleo. A trickle of blood ran between her collarbones and her skin had gone an ashy gray. “Are you okay?”
“Nothing like the threat of imminent death to get a person’s heart pumping.” Cleo tilted her head one way, then the other, as though stretching a kink from her neck. Eden had a feeling Cleo would rub it if her hands weren’t zip-tied behind her back. “What in the world is Francesca doing here? And what did Dvorak mean when she said Interitus doesn’t exist?”
This was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to the tumult of questions tumbling through Eden’s mind. Swarm. Pater. The asset? Francesca’s fake death? The only way she could be free? Eden shook her head. “If Interitus doesn’t exist, then who was responsible for the attack on Chicago?”
“Whatever cult the Brysons are a part of,” Cassian suggested, still peering out the window.
But wasn’t it all the same? The pamphlet. The Magnes Matres. Sanctus Diem. Interitus. Invictus. The Bryson’s. Dvorak. The Monarch. They’d assumed they were all one and the same. But the dots didn’t connect. Dvorak thought The Monarch had sent them. Dvorak thought they were his spies. All of which pointed to one obvious but puzzling conclusion. Prudence Dvorak and The Monarch were on opposite sides.
“They’re coming.” Cassian stepped away from the door just as it swung open.
Prudence, Francesca, and the hulking young man in the hoodie appeared, carrying three metal chairs in one hand, his semi-automatic in the other. He unfolded the chairs, then gestured at the three of them to sit.
Obedience was their ammunition.
If they continued to cooperate, they might glean more answers. Already, they’d discovered The Monarch was a man. Dvorak wasn’t working with him. And the most intriguing of all—Interitus didn’t exist.
“What did you do to our security system?” Prudence asked, fire crackling in her eyes. Fear, too. It was a dangerous combination.
Eden held her tongue.
So did Cassian and Cleo.
Dvorak unclipped her walkie-talkie and pressed the button. “What did you find, Xavier?”
“Nothing’s wrong with the mainframe,” a staticky voice replied. “I’m checking the individual cameras now. Over.”
“Make it quick,” Dvorak said, her unwavering attention boring into Eden like a laser beam. “We cannot afford to be blind right now.”
With a copy that from Xavier, Prudence returned her walkie-talkie to her belt and glared. “How did you find us?”
“We followed Amir Kashif,” Eden said.
Dvorak’s cheeks went pale. “Amir doesn’t come here.”
“No, but he passed information to a waitress, who passed it along to him.” Eden nodded at the hulking young man wielding the semi-automatic.
Dvorak’s attention slid to the guy before returning to Eden. “What do you want with The Monarch?”
Eden stared back at her. She could bluff. Make something up. Or she could continue with her method of truth-telling to see how Prudence responded. She weighed the two options, then went with the latter. “I want to kill him.”
At this, Dvorak leaned back on her heels, exchanging a suspicious look with her two comrades. “What reason do you have for wanting him dead?” she finally asked.
“The same reason she faked her death.” Eden tipped her chin at Francesca. “Freedom.” To live her life without the constant threat of being controlled. Of being hunted down. Of being used. As a gift. As a weapon. In whatever terrorist turf war was unfolding now.
Prudence removed the knife from her belt. She brought the tip of her finger to the tip of the blade and turned the hilt in a slow circle. “And how will killing The Monarch get you this freedom?”
Eden could feel Cassian’s tension mounting beside her. He didn’t like this game of truth-telling. “He’s after her father,” he cut in, before Eden could answer otherwise.
Prudence stopped twirling the knife. “Why?”
“Because he brought down Volkova.”
Dvorak chuckled, like Cassian was a silly little boy, like Eden was a silly little girl.
“Did I say something funny?” he asked.
“Her father brought down the wrong man.”
Eden straightened. “What do you mean?”
“Volkova was nothing more than a puppet. An overeager disciple.”
The words were ludicrous.
Preposterous.
Impossible.
Karik Volkova was responsible for the death of millions. He was the leader of a terrorist regime that almost brought down America. Calling him an overeager disciple was akin to calling a devastating tsunami a harmless wave.
“Then who created them?” Cleo blurted.
Her question snatched Dvorak’s interest like a Venus flytrap. “Created who?”
Cassian shot Cleo a look that could kill.
Cleo shut her mouth.
Eden opened hers. “A group of weaponized humans.”
Dvorak’s attention jerked to Eden. “You know about the Electus?”
The Electus? It was another foreign term. Like Swarm and Pater. Eden ground her teeth—so sick of the confusion—when the walkie-talkie at Prudence’s waist beeped.
“I found something,” came Xavier’s voice.
Dvorak slid the device free and brought it to her lips, her attention glued to Eden. “Where are you?”
“Metro Center. There’s some kind of … magnet on the camera.”
Without moving, giving nothing away, Eden loosened the zip tie around her wrists.
“Do you want me to remove it?” Xavier asked.
“Yes,” Dvorak said. “But carefully.”
There was a pause.
A crackling silence.
And then, the loud blast of a siren. So sudden and alarming, a jolt of electricity charged through Eden’s veins. Dvorak’s eyes went round and wide, fear morphing into terror in the expanding black of her pupils as she turned to Eden with a look of murderous accusation. As though she had set off the alarm.
