The Aberration of Eden Pruitt, page 27
“Lillian,” Eden said.
Francesca nodded. “Every Magnes Mater is held in highest esteem. So are their surviving family members.”
“Why?”
“Because they bore the Electus.”
The Electus.
There it was—that word again.
“What’s the Electus?” Eden asked.
“Oswin Brahm’s special soldiers.”
Eden looked at Francesca blankly.
“Weaponized humans,” she said in a toneless, dispassionate voice.
Eden’s mind twisted. Her thoughts churned. And a slice of pain cut through her temple. With a sharp hiss, she clutched the spot and squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Francesca was watching her curiously. “But my father destroyed them.”
“Your father destroyed a test group.”
The words came like a hard, unsuspecting slap across the face.
“He eliminated the original six,” Francesca continued. “There are ninety-four others.”
Suddenly, the puzzle came together in astounding clarity. Oswin Brahm cracked the code with Subjects 001 through 006. Then he tried again three months later. With a much larger group. This attempt hadn’t ended in failure, like the obituaries led them to believe. The babies didn’t die. The babies were alive. And now, they were no longer babies, but fully grown weaponized humans. Three months younger than Eden.
Which meant soon—if not already—their networks would come online. They would be activated. Ninety-four indestructible soldiers at The Monarch’s beck and call.
Dread pooled deep in Eden’s abdomen.
Only one incongruity remained.
“Ninety-three,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” Francesca said.
“You said there are ninety-four others. But there are only ninety-three Magnes Matres.” Eden could remember each of their names. She could pull up in her mind’s eye all ninety-three of the obituaries. Perhaps one of them had twins.
Then she remembered Francesca’s words.
Always searching for the one who got away.
Eden pictured Dvorak in the photograph with the five other women—each of their names listed on the back of the pamphlet. But not Prudence. Her name wasn’t listed.
Ninety-three names.
Ninety-four weaponized humans.
The one who got away.
“She didn’t die in labor.”
“None of them died in labor,” Francesca said. “They were murdered. Coerced into drinking poison, led to believe that this would heal them.”
“Why?”
“Because Oswin Brahm is a narcissistic megalomaniac who doesn’t want his special soldiers attached to anyone but himself. The women were brainwashed. Led to believe this act of service would put them in his innermost circle. Then he killed them in secret and called them martyrs. Honored their families so they wouldn’t think to question what actually happened. Pru was the only one who didn’t drink the poison. The only one who escaped. The only one who knew the truth. Until she found Amir and told him.”
Francesca sat up straight, staring hard at the screens as the last of the soldiers loaded onto trucks. “They’re not taking the injured.”
It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Confusing all the same. Why would they leave survivors behind? Why wouldn’t they search the grounds? Why wouldn’t they search the tunnels?
The trucks cleared out.
The helicopters stopped circling.
There was a long moment of confused silence. And then the jets flew over and the bombs began to fall.
42
Twenty-seven.
There were twenty-seven blinking dots on the map now.
All they could do was watch them appear, unsure of what they meant. Unsettled by what they could mean. There’d always been an odd number of them. Five dots when Jane and Barrett and Eden and Ellery made four. What was the fifth? And now, what were these?
Unease permeated Dr. Norton’s cabin.
It doubled with the arrival of Ellery. Tripled with the arrival of another mother named Annette.
The air oozed with tension.
Like it did whenever Father was on the cusp of a rage.
Jack had certainly done a lot of yelling.
Jane kept flinching, waiting for him to strike. Waiting for him to inflict pain. But he never did. According to Barrett, he never would. At least, that was what he told Jane earlier this morning, when he found her cowering beneath her bed during a loud argument. According to Barrett, Jack would not hurt Ellery. The reason he was so distraught was because he didn’t want anyone to hurt Ellery, especially not the bad people.
Ellery knew the truth now.
Jack didn’t want her to, but she did. Which meant Ellery’s life would never be the same. When all of this was over—if it ever could be over—his daughter could not continue her life as usual. According to Barrett, this was why Jack had been hiding the truth. He’d been operating under the belief that Ellery didn’t have to know. But now she did, and to his immense dismay, she wanted to be activated.
She wanted to be like Barrett and Jane.
Which was the reason for Jack’s current yelling.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” he hollered, so loudly Jane covered her ears. “Do you want to know what would come with those powers? Enslavement. I watched it happen, Elle. I saw Eden Pruitt point a gun at her own mother and pull the trigger. Against her will. Because a psychopath had control of her.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Ellery shot back. “You said so yourself. It’s not that way with Jane. Or whatever her name is. She’s free from that control, which means we can be, too.”
“But I don’t know how!” Jack roared.
With a jump, Jane burrowed beneath her covers.
“And the only person who could give us a clue refuses to talk.”
“Enough!” The sharp command belonged to Dr. Norton, who had come in through the front door with Ruth and Annette, the two mothers. The three of them had been outside, stretching their legs before dinner. “You are guests in my home. If you insist on yelling, I’m going to insist that you leave.”
The house fell quiet.
The only sound came from the voices inside the television and seven elevated heartbeats. Jane’s not included. She peeked out from beneath the covers.
“Look!” Barrett exclaimed. “That makes twenty-eight.”
Another blinking dot must have appeared.
A prolonged beep followed his words. It came from the television, the same sound they heard on the day Jane was brave. The same sound they heard when Eden and Cassian’s face filled Concordia.
More late-breaking news.
Several hearts skipped a beat.
“Interitus headquarters have been ambushed,” a reporter said.
Jane clambered off the bed and ran on tiptoe down the hall.
In the living room, everyone stood stock still, staring at the television, which was showing footage of bombs falling from the sky, exploding in a city that already looked decimated.
“That’s where they’ve been hiding?” Ruth said. “Washington, DC?”
The footage changed to hand-cuffed prisoners being escorted into a helicopter. According to the reporter, eight members of Interitus were in custody. One of them was Prudence Dvorak. Another, Cassian Ransom. He walked behind Prudence smeared with blood and grime.
A strangled, choking sound came from Ruth.
“Many more have been killed,” the reporter continued as Eden’s face filled the screen. “18-year-old Eden Pruitt is believed to be amongst the dead.”
Ruth’s knees gave way. She collapsed onto the sofa while Alexander shook his head. Annette sat beside her and took her hand while two photographs replaced Eden’s. A husband and a wife named Elmer and Eloise Miller, who lived in Bethesda and had been aiding and abetting Eden Pruitt and Cassian Ransom. Their home was raided, and the elderly couple had been shot dead.
Ruth moaned—an agonizing keen that sounded like an injured animal.
Like Kitty.
“She can’t be dead,” Alexander said, his voice cracking. “She can’t be. It’s not possible.”
Nobody objected.
Nobody agreed.
“It’s not possible!” he repeated on a shout, louder than any of Jack’s.
Ruth began to rock.
Annette tried to hold her still.
Alexander kept shaking his head.
Ellery and Jack and Dr. Norton stood immobilized.
Barrett held the device that projected the map with the twenty-eight dots. He looked small. He looked frightened.
It was a scene of despair.
A tableau of agony.
Jane backed away, then spun on her heel and ran to her room. She slammed the door. And with shaking hands, she removed the folded map from her pillowcase of treasures. She stared down at the city she’d crossed off with a violent, repetitive X. As if that might cross it out of existence. Along with Father and every nightmare that belonged to her old self—Violet.
But now?
Ruth was in pain.
And Barrett was afraid.
Being brave once had not solved the problem. She needed to be brave again.
For Barrett.
For Mother.
The shaking in her hands moved up into her arms as she shoved the bulging pillowcase into a backpack. She forced the zipper shut, tucked the map into her back pocket, then snuck down the hall and through the living room. Nobody noticed her. They were too busy staring in horror at the television, watching footage of America celebrating. Oswin Brahm, popping a bottle of Champagne alongside the country’s board of directors. Rejoicing over death. Calling it a victory. America might be sick, he said, but the tumor had just been removed. Now, more than ever, they needed to rally together and take every step necessary to eradicate the cancer for good. To ensure that it would never return.
This was their mission.
Jane had her own.
As quiet as a mouse, she stepped out into the night and walked in the direction the sun had disappeared. She trudged through the woods, fallen leaves and twigs crunching and snapping beneath her feet. Leaves and twigs crunching and snapping behind her, too.
She whirled around.
Barrett stood ten paces back, frozen in mid-step, his hands held above his head. “I should have known better,” he mumbled. “Your superhuman hearing has always been better than my superhuman stealth.”
He brought his foot down and looped his thumbs beneath the straps of his own backpack. Like all this time, he’d been packed and ready to go, too. “So, where are we headed?”
Jane stared at him.
He took a few steps closer—slow and steady, as though not to frighten her away. “I’m going to make a pitch. I hope it will be convincing. Either way, I will respect your decision, whatever that decision may be. I only ask that you hear me out first.”
Jane kept staring.
He took a few more steps. “I think Jack is right. I think you know how your system got to be the way it is. But I also think the how terrifies you. And that terror must be a really awful way to feel, especially when you’re alone. I don’t want you to be alone. I think you’ve lived too much of your life that way, which is no way to live. I think maybe you would like some company. And I also think that if I stay here …” He nodded over his shoulder, toward Dr. Norton’s cabin, no longer visible for the trees. “I might go crazy.”
Jane’s breath had gone shallow in her lungs. Her heartbeat, erratic.
Barrett smiled at her—a kind, patient smile. Because that’s who Barrett was. Never demanding his way. Always asking for permission. Filling up the lonely, frightened places with words and stories and games and ideas and memories so filled with joy, sometimes she pretended they were hers.
Something cracked deep down inside—a tiny splinter that widened into a fissure. And up from that fissure rose a delicate bubble. It gurgled in her stomach, swelled in her chest, then rolled up her throat. She opened her mouth, and the bubble popped on her tongue. “Okay.”
Barrett gaped.
Somewhere overhead, an owl hooted.
“Did you just—did I just hear—?” He looked around, as though checking to see if anyone else had heard it. Anyone besides the owl.
“Yes.”
Barrett’s face went bright with wonder. Like the sound of those two whispered words was a miraculous thing. “Yes,” he repeated, bobbing his head. “All right. Okay, then. Where are we going?”
Jane handed Barrett the map.
He unfolded it and stared at the angry X over the city called Minneapolis. She wanted to run away from it. Instead, she was running toward it.
Because Jack was right.
Jane knew.
Father was the key.
It was time to go get him.
And Barrett was going to help.
43
Eden had lived through her fair share of long days—whole lifetimes unfolding in a twenty-four-hour span. She could think of several in the last two months alone. Starting with the day she came home to a ransacked house, only to be detained at the Eagle Bend police station, misidentified as a disturbed runaway named Ellery Forrester. Then there was the day she sliced open her hand and watched it heal before her eyes and learned the truth about who and what she was. There was the day her father was shot and almost killed and three more after that, when he hovered precariously between the living and the dead.
This, though, was the worst. Trapped in the White House Bunker as bombs fell from the sky. Cassian, gone. Cleo, injured on the floor, feverish as she came in and out of sleep. Francesca, a hostile acquaintance who kept chewing her fingers.
Eden found bottled water. A wholly inadequate first aid kit. Some pillows and blankets. She brought one of each to Cleo, who was beginning to shiver. There was nothing to do about her leg wound. Eden couldn’t remove the dirty cotton without disturbing the blood clot that was keeping her alive. There was no point in cleaning around it, so she used the antiseptic and bandages to tend to the cuts on her face, the gash on her eyebrow—reminded of the time she’d tended to Cassian in the basement of Cleo’s dormitory.
Voila. Tout au mieux.
Her heart squeezed so tight she thought she might suffocate.
Every cell in her body ached for him.
Longed for him.
Worried about him.
She shoved the pain and the panic down and focused her attention on Cleo—at times, coherent enough to understand where she was. To listen as Eden told her what was happening. Then she would slip away again, and Eden was left alone with Francesca and her own thoughts. She kept picturing Cassian in the back of a military truck. Where would they take him? What would they do to him? The government believed he was a terrorist. They’d executed Volkova. Would they do the same with his alleged followers?
Her stomach twisted.
She began to pace, stopping occasionally to check Cleo’s pulse. And just when she was beginning to think the bombs would never stop—they’d be down here forever and ever—they did.
The bunker filled with a bloated silence.
One that stretched on and on—holding her and Francesca captive—as the jets cleared and all that remained above ground was an inferno of smoke and flame. Eden didn’t move. She didn’t even breathe until the hiss of the opening doors broke the trance.
Francesca picked up her semi-automatic.
Eden clenched her fists, prepared to fight when a hulking, hooded figure came into view.
“Asher,” Francesca said with a relieved exhale, sinking into her chair. “What are you doing here? What happened to—?”
“He’s dead,” Asher said, his expression hard as flint.
Eden’s heart dropped.
Another member of the resistance, gone.
Asher dropped a black medical bag on the conference table. He cast a dismissive glance at Eden, then peered at the monitors, zeroing in on one in particular. The solitary young man slumped in the corner of a small room—no longer still but stirring like the increasingly restless Cleo. Asher rubbed his Adam’s apple. “Brahm has to know he’s here.”
“I know,” Francesca said.
“Why did they leave without him?”
“Leave without who?” Eden asked.
Her question went ignored. Neither of them acknowledged it at all.
“We’re incredibly late,” Asher said, checking his watch. “If we don’t administer the dose immediately, bad things will happen.”
Francesca dug her fingers into her short hair. “Xavier had the dose and now he’s—”
“Dead.” Asher opened the black bag and removed a variety of items, including a portable IV.
“The rest of the doses are in storage. We can’t get to them without going above ground.” Francesca pointed the remote at the monitors and changed the channel. A sky view of the city, where drones circled with the smoke. “If we’re seen, ten to one, they drop more bombs.”
“There are seven people in bunker three. It’s right by Metro Center.” Asher hung the bag of fluids on the back of a chair, knelt beside Cleo—looking extra-large next to her smallness—and administered the IV. His touch far from gentle as he began removing the dirty bandages. “One of them can get to Xavier.”
Cleo groaned.
“They’ve never administered a dose before,” Francesca said.
“We’re out of options, Fran. We can’t wait any longer.” Asher removed a packet of sutures like he intended to stitch up Cleo’s wound.
Eden stepped toward him. He was obviously no doctor. “Are you sure you should do that?”
“Would you like to leave it open? Let her bleed out?”
Eden’s face flushed.
Asher turned to Francesca. “One of them will have to find Xavier. Retrieve the dose. And get to the asset. I’ll guide them from there.”
The asset.
Eden looked at the screen again. A young man slumped in the corner of a room. A young man her own age. A young man with … Eden tilted her head and leaned closer. A young man with shackles on his wrists. “Is that one of his soldiers?”
