Watch Me, page 12
“But this,” Warner says, subdued as he reaches into his pocket, “is perhaps an interesting result of your time spent on the island.”
He holds up the little blue chip I ripped out of the squirrel. No longer bloody. He’s clearly been examining it.
I manage a tentative smile. “So … I did okay?”
“You hand-delivered a mercenary of The Reestablishment directly into the epicenter of the resistance, granting her access to every high-profile leader of the opposition. You brought her here without forethought, without even checking her for concealed weapons—”
“I did, actually,” I say in a rush. “I did search her—”
“Did you search inside her head?” he asks, cutting me off. “Did you peel back her skin to scan for surveillance tech, trackers, subtle explosives—”
“Shit. No.” I take a tight breath. “No. I didn’t do that.” Warner touches a hand to the door and it scans his data, unsealing a moment later with a sigh. He pulls it open, and I follow him inside the dark room, lights pinging on as we enter the narrow hall. I’ve never been in here before. An interior vestibule opens up to a larger room, sparsely furnished, its only distinguishing characteristic the massive window taking up one wall. I do a double take.
On the other side is Rosabelle, lying in a hospital bed.
The sight of her stops me in my tracks.
JAMES
CHAPTER 20
I haven’t seen Rosabelle in thirty-six hours.
When she collapsed on the chopper I caught her on impulse, pulling her into my arms so she wouldn’t tumble out the open door. The seat belts—and a bunch of other features—had malfunctioned after I stole the trike from Jeff, which meant I had to hold Rosabelle against my chest for the remainder of the thirty-minute flight. She was so small and distressingly lightweight that it was almost too easy to gather her in my arms, her cheek pressed against my neck. I checked the wound above her eye, and her skin was like silk, so soft.
For half an hour I’d held her tight with my good arm, navigating the aircraft with my bad arm. When I finally managed to land the chopper, I had to carry her through dense forest and steep terrain. By the time I reached the nearest town, I was so wiped I nearly fell to my knees, holding Rosabelle up like an offering.
Even now, remembering this, my heart begins an unsteady beat. Holding her had felt natural and easy, as if I’d done it a hundred times. I couldn’t understand my reaction to her then, and I don’t understand my reaction to her now. All I know is that the instinct to protect her comes so naturally to me that I have to actively work to shut it off. Hell, I couldn’t even help reaching for her when she was about to kill me.
I swallow, staring at her through the window.
This is bad. This is really bad. Blood is actively rushing to my head now, making me stupider. I can still feel her under my hands. The scent of her still lives in my head.
“Are you done?” Warner asks grimly, plucking a glowing tablet off the wall. “Or do you need more time alone with your delusions?”
This clears my thoughts in an instant.
I look at him, mortification radiating a slow heat up my neck. Warner has the supernatural ability to sense people’s emotions. This translates in more powerful ways, too—he can steal other people’s powers—but most of the time his superstrength is just making life really embarrassing for the rest of us.
“I’m good,” I say, forcing a smile.
Warner scans the tablet as he speaks. “As you know, the patient was unconscious upon arrival. She’d sustained a closed head injury resulting in a linear skull fracture and mild orbital swelling, but overall limited damage to the eye itself. She was dehydrated and dangerously malnourished. She had an elevated heart rate despite being unconscious— very unusual—and bruises covering most of her body. The bruises, 247 in total, were the exact same size and shape, leading us to assume they were born simultaneously and caused by the same weapon. No theories yet as to what kind of weapon might’ve caused them, though the consistency of the injuries points to some kind of standardized torture. Otherwise, we’ve done several scans for subtle tech and she’s come up clean.”
He looks at me. I feel him look at me.
But I’m staring at Rosabelle again. Linear skull fracture. Dehydrated and dangerously malnourished. Bruises covering most of her body. Standardized torture. I’m having a really bad reaction to this news.
I can feel it: the spike in my pulse, the anger collecting inside of me. I clench and unclench my fists, trying to shake the feeling loose. I don’t know this girl. I have no reason to feel anything but hatred for this girl. But I keep hearing her broken, desperate voice in my head—
Please
Tell them to be gentle with her
She’s just a child
I know how vicious The Reestablishment can be. I know what they’ll do to people, how they’ll drive them into the ground, out of their minds.
What the hell did they do to her? Why?
With her eyes closed Rosabelle looks unreal, fragile. Her white-blond hair is longer than I expected, released from its practical knot, fanned out beneath her head. Her hands are clasped atop the sheet folded neatly at her waist. Her injuries have been healed, the blood wiped clean from her face. She looks fake, like a porcelain doll. It’s hard to believe this is the same girl who murdered me and countless others.
Warner clears his throat, annoyed.
“Obviously, The Reestablishment would’ve anticipated such scans,” he’s saying. “They wouldn’t have sent her here with evidence of her intentions woven into her DNA. In fact, it’s possible they chose her for this mission precisely because she bears no proof of their tech in her body— which I have cause to believe is highly rare among the Ark population. There is, however, a distinct, poorly healed scar on the inside of her right forearm. Considering the medical advancements pioneered by The Reestablishment, this is highly unusual, and perhaps the most interesting thing about her. Either they can’t remove this scar for some unfathomable reason, or they want her to bear this scar as punishment. Or a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?” I ask, tearing my eyes away from Rosabelle. “A punishment for what?”
“That remains to be seen.”
My anger only intensifies. “What about the bruises? The malnutrition? You said they were torturing her.”
Warner’s irritation at this is obvious.
“Very well,” he says, slotting the tablet back into its holder. “I suppose we’ll do this now.” He takes a careful breath before meeting my eyes. “Extinguish your hopes and dreams. There exists no scenario in which her intentions are honorable. Don’t be fooled by her appearance. The Reestablishment loves to destroy faces of innocence; they find it perversely satisfying to forge murderers out of the most unassuming figures, especially young women who exhibit both physical and mental promise as children. In fact, it’s to their great advantage that she presents as small and delicate,” he says, meeting my eyes. “They did the same thing with Juliette.”
“But—”
“I’d guess she’s about your age, more or less”—Warner glances at her through the window—“which means her formative years were shaped under the imperial era of The Reestablishment. I’d be shocked if she hadn’t been trained for this from a tender age. So put it out of your head,” he says. “She’s no fragile innocent. Neither does she consider you her hero. You did not save her life. She is not running from her captors, and she didn’t help you escape the island in hopes of finding a better life—”
“Then why were they starving her? Why did they hurt her sister?”
“James. You already know this.”
“Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms. Then, quoting Warner, “‘With few exceptions, The Reestablishment can generally be relied upon to control people through coercion, blackmail, or torture. Sometimes all three.’ But doesn’t that just prove my point? She’s being tortured. Probably blackmailed.”
“Her situation is not uncommon and does nothing to prove she’s sympathetic to you or our cause,” Warner says. “In fact, if the girl loves her sister, as you seem to believe, that only makes the situation worse.”
I raise my eyebrows. “How does that make it worse?”
“She has more to lose,” he says, walking up to the window. “And she’s already proven she’s willing to kill you to achieve her own ends.”
I exhale, surprised by the weight of this blow. I hadn’t even realized how high my hopes were until they came crashing down. It’s honestly a little embarrassing.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I don’t know what I was—”
Something clicks for me then.
My eyes widen in something close to horror. “Holy shit,” I breathe. “Did you bring me in here to kill her?”
Warner looks instantly disgusted. “Ten years of living with me—learning from me—and you still resort to profanity. I blame Kent. He raised you to think it was okay to speak like a criminal.”
“And Kenji,” I point out. “Kenji inspires me on the daily.”
Warner’s jaw tightens. “You don’t have to kill her today,” he says, answering my question. “Today, I want you to go in there and talk to her. I’d like to observe your interactions.”
“Um.” I laugh, but it comes out strangled. “Why?”
“They’re using you, James,” he says, turning fully to face me. “They’ve already used you. She’s already manipulated you so seamlessly you can’t see the strings. You were naive enough to bring her here, and now we have to manage the situation. Rewrite the rules in our favor.”
“You really think it’s that bad?”
“Yes.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay. So you don’t want me to interrogate her? You just want me to talk to her?”
“She’s expecting an interrogation,” says Warner. “She’s expecting to be handled like a criminal, to be on the defensive.” He begins to pace slowly. “If she’s a mercenary of The Reestablishment, her threshold for suffering will be high. She’s likely been subjected to unspeakable cruelties, the likes of which we’d never implement in our own procedures. Whatever hardship she faces in our custody will be nothing to her. Easy, even.
“What she’s not expecting,” he says, absently spinning his wedding ring around his finger, “is to be treated with any kind of kindness. She’s not expecting anyone to look after her well-being. She’s not expecting to be treated with humanity.”
“Humanity?” I say with a smile. “You sound like Juliette right now.”
He stops to look through the window. “I know you meant that as an insult, so consider yourself lucky I like you enough not to murder you for disrespecting my wife.”
This makes me laugh out loud.
Warner holds my gaze a beat, his eyes light with muted humor. Sometimes I think Warner secretly loves having me around, because even though I probably annoy the shit out of him, I’m the only one who isn’t afraid of him. No matter what he says, I know he’d never hurt me. He’s my big brother, and I genuinely love the guy.
Warner’s face changes as I have this thought, emotion flickering across his features before he turns away.
“I often try to think the way Juliette does,” he says quietly. “She has a more thoughtful, holistic perspective on the world than I do. And right now, I’m weighing my options. We cannot proceed without a clearly defined plan. And before I decide on the best course of action, I’d like to know what kind of leverage you have over her.”
“What makes you think I have any leverage over her?”
“Because she’s been saying your name in her dreams.” A shock of pleasure moves through me. Automatic endorphin rush. “What? Really?”
“No.”
“Wow, okay, fuck you.”
Warner actually smiles.
It’s one of his rare grins, dimples appearing and disappearing just to mess with your head. He goes from murderer to boy next door to murderer in two seconds flat. “Look how disappointed you are,” he says softly. “How delighted you were when you thought a minion of The Reestablishment, sent here to kill you and your entire family, was having inappropriate dreams about you.”
“You know,” I say, crossing my arms, “I really, really hate that you can sense other people’s emotions.”
“Don’t feel too sorry for yourself.” Warner’s expression cools. “Imagine managing the unceasing psychic deluge of every person I encounter. You have no idea the emotional excrement I have to sift through every day. Sometimes I can’t hear myself think.” He turns away. “Living with you while you were going through puberty, for example, was a unique kind of hell. Sometimes I think you’re still going through puberty.”
I scowl. “I don’t like hearing you say the word puberty. In fact, I don’t think I need to hear you say that word ever again—”
Warner holds up a hand to silence me just as Rosabelle’s eyelids flutter.
Her hands twitch.
She blinks her eyes open slowly, studying the room in a squint. I watch as she sorts through disorientation, nearly sitting up in a sudden flare of panic. She appears to sort things out in phases, eventually coming back to herself, settling into her new surroundings. Then she turns her head, still blinking softly, and looks directly at me.
I stiffen.
No, not directly at me. She’s looking in this direction, her glazed eyes pulling together, tracking the sweep of window. Trying to solve a riddle. Even now, I realize, she knows she’s being watched.
“Don’t be fooled,” Warner says quietly. “Go in there with your guard up.”
“Yeah.” I take a breath. “Yeah, okay.” I hesitate as something occurs to me. “Hey, has she been given anything to eat yet?”
Warner shifts his weight. “Fluids have been administered intravenously, but she’s not eaten anything solid yet, no. Why?”
“I have an idea.”
ROSABELLE
CHAPTER 21
I might be dreaming.
The problem is, my eyes are open. The problem is, the glare of overhead lighting is unromantic. The problem is that the steady beep of medical monitors winds a tension in me that coils only tighter even though my hair is loose, freed from its knot. The problem is that I am not safe even though my body feels stronger, better in a way I can’t qualify. I close my eyes, forcing myself to take a deep, steady breath, but the hallucination intensifies, my senses attacked by the mouthwatering scent of flame-broiled meat; my stomach contracting at the promise of food. The honeyed aromas of sautéed onions and garlic fill my head. I smell mint and basil. Lemon. Pepper. Cheese.
Delirious.
I open my eyes.
I can hear my heart beating in my chest; its movements echoed out loud by the kind of machine I haven’t seen in years. The equipment in this room is old, except that it looks new. It hadn’t occurred to me to consider that they might not possess the same technological advancements here. I frown. Where?
Not a dream.
I tell myself that I have arrived in The New Republic.
Phase one complete.
I’d breathe a sigh of relief except that I can’t remember landing here. The details recounting my entry into enemy territory do not exist; where there should be memories there is only blankness. I have been at the mercy of the rebels in a state of unconsciousness, and I have no idea how I might’ve exposed myself or what they might’ve done to me. I implore my mind to use reason: remain calm. Stay the course. An agent of The Reestablishment has been assigned to contact me within forty-eight hours of my arrival.
I have no idea how long I’ve been here.
My immediate priority is to find a way out.
“Hey,” he says, holding out the glass. “Seriously, it’s just water.”
I go very still.
James is sitting next to my hospital bed, magically whole. I’d noticed him earlier, but as I hadn’t decided yet whether I was dreaming, I hadn’t known how to account for him. His presence is so vivid he feels dreamlike, his energy taking up most of the room. There’s a weight to him that I like. He seems solid. Unshakable. But without a thick layer of blood and grime obscuring his face, he’s much harder to look at, and I struggle to meet his probing stare. He’s studying me with a flat, slightly curious expression. He is otherwise unreadable.
Not a dream.
He walked in a few minutes ago with only a glance in my direction, wheeling in a table piled with plates of food the likes of which I haven’t seen in years.
He’s still holding out the water glass, waiting for me to take it. His eyes are a kaleidoscope of blues; like the sea, at turns tranquil and turbulent. Right now he’s unhurried and easy in his body. I have a strange thought: I wish I could gather up his calm and pull it over me, sleep beneath it as if it were a blanket.
“Rosabelle,” he says. For the first time, he cracks a smile. “C’mon. I swear it’s not poison.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“Can you sit up a little more?”
“Why?”
“You need to eat,” he says. “I brought you food.”
“No.” I say it like a question.
“Yes,” he says emphatically. “Come on. Sit up a little, but don’t move too fast.”
“I don’t understand,” I say again.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why are you being kind to me?”
He places the water glass on the tray in front of me, then sits back in his seat, the smile gone. In fact, his face shuts off altogether, and this bothers me more than the offer of food. I sit up without thinking, as if the action will return the smile to his face.
The smile does not return.
“I’m not being kind to you,” he says. “This is called being a regular person. I’m not going to let you starve.”
I swallow, surprised to find that my throat isn’t dry. Pain radiates all throughout my body, hunger clawing at my insides. I stare at the table of food, allowing myself to believe, for the first time, that this might really be happening. I shake my head. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
