Resonance (18 page)

“We're untouchable for the next ninety minutes,” Simon said, taking over. “By the time we dock, we'll have laid fifty false
trails. They won't know which one is the right one, and we'll have pivoted away.”

Monty thought it over. “Not bad,” he said. “But there aren't fifty pivots on this ship. These people aren't making choices, they're admiring architecture.”

“They don't need to make choices,” said Simon, and pulled a deck of playing cards from his backpack. “I do.”

“Even his little choices make worlds.” I took the deck from him. “As long as I Walk through, we'll leave a signal.”

“But his Echoes . . .”

“I stay here. Del Walks through, tweaks the strings so it won't transpose, and comes back. You do the same. The trails don't have to lead anywhere. They just need to give us time to get away.”

I said, fanning out the deck like a street corner shyster, “Pick a card, any card.”

“Every card,” Simon corrected me.

•   •   •

I lost track of how many trails we left. Definitely more than fifty, each crossing taking a toll on Monty and me. Ten minutes before we docked, I slurred, “Talk about cutting it close. Close shave. Close knit. Clothes horse.”

“You're losing it,” Simon said as I leaned into him. “Open up.”

“Aaaaaahhhh.” I opened my mouth wide, sticking out my tongue. “You're like the hottest dentist ever.”

“And you're like the town drunk. Here.”

I took the small plastic bottle he handed me. “Enabler.”

“It's a glucose solution. Like sugar, only super concentrated. Bottoms up.”

I gagged at the taste of chemical fruit, but managed to get it down. Simon passed Monty, sitting on a bench nearby, a bottle of his own. He seemed to be feeling okay, which struck me as unfair.

“Better?”

I leaned my head back against the seat, letting the sugar hit my system and steady my thoughts. “You're not actually a hot dentist.”

“I am hot,” he pointed out. “But no. Not a dentist.”

“We need to go home,” I said. “Not that I have one.”

“Few more minutes and we'll Walk. Hang in there.”

I closed my eyes but jerked upright when I felt his fingers brush against my neck. “Hey! Perv.”

“Sorry,” he said, holding his hands up. “Thought I'd try your pendant.”

“You don't have one?” I fished the necklace out from beneath my sweater, and he lifted it over my head.

“Don't need it.”

He tapped the miniature tuning fork on the back of the seat. The soft, sweet peal was a welcome relief, and my muscles eased slightly.

Monty straightened. “I gave you Rose's pendant. I'm not all bad.”

“Bad enough,” I said, as Simon settled the necklace around my neck again. “Don't think I broke you out because you're forgiven, by the way. You're a means to an end, as far as I'm concerned. Same as I am to you.”

“As long as we understand each other,” he said, but there was an underlying melancholy to his words.

Simon glanced out the giant porthole, and I followed suit. The dock was in sight, a contingent of Consort guards waiting for us. “Almost done.”

We couldn't cross back directly to the Key World—the Consort would almost certainly have guards waiting there. Instead, we ducked through a pivot near a stairwell, ending in a flat, stable world. The massive Ferris wheel still rotated slowly, and the line of tourists wrapped around the redbrick building, even in the cold, but there were no guards to be seen.

We pushed our way through the crowd, down the gangway, Monty and me leaning on Simon as we made our way to the fleet of taxis waiting in the parking lot. Minutes later we were speeding out of the city.

“Here,” Simon told the cab driver as we crossed over the border to Evanston. He paid the driver and handed me out the cab, then tugged Monty out. “Last one,” he promised, and I blinked at him. “Key World, Del.”

My arm felt heavy, as if it had fallen asleep. I reached into the pivot with a trembling hand, whispering, “Please.”

The string leaped under my fingers, bringing an instant of clarity along with the familiar frequency. Heart soaring, limbs buoyant, I met the Key World with arms outstretched and breath locked in my lungs.

There were no Consort guards here, just apartment buildings and a mishmash of boutiques and offices and restaurants.
Overwhelmed—exhausted and sick and heartsick—I sat down on the nearest stoop. Monty leaned into the building and muttered to himself.

“Our contact will be here any minute.” Simon said. “Let's get you something to eat.”

He tried to haul me up, but my legs wouldn't hold me, and I crumpled back to the curb. “Del, come on. Stay with me.”

He grabbed another bottle of glucose and tried to pour it down my throat, but I turned away, the smell making me gag.

Over his shoulder, the air glimmered and twisted like a candle flame. My vision narrowed, the world slipping away, Simon slipping away, my muscles cold and rigid and the blackness taking over like a starless night. I'd scattered my stars across the multiverse, as if they were endless. But nothing is endless, not the sky or the stars or worlds, not even love, because I was going to die here and never tell my Simon that I loved him, singularly and endlessly. Wasteful, really, not to say what is etched on your heart. Words only carry weight once they're heard. I'd been freer with my stars than my words, and now both were fading.

I closed my eyes.

Someone cursed, and I felt a stinging at the nape of my neck. I heard the sound of my pendant striking metal. The clear, sweet sound of the Key World rang out, like the sparks of a campfire floating into the night sky.

And then everything—sparks, sound, sensation—faded.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Days until Tacet: 8

W
ESTLEY AND BUTTERCUP GOT IT
wrong: Life is not pain. Life is rare and glorious and precious. But coming back to life is a
hell
of a lot of pain—the price extracted for cheating death, for regaining the precious thing you wasted.

Frequency poisoning made everything hurt, even the parts that couldn't feel, like eyelashes and toenails. It was like thawing out from frostbite, every single cell readjusting and finding its proper pitch, its own little world coming into tune. Finally the pain subsided enough that I could move my fingers. My fingers, no more, a faint scrabble against cheaply woven cotton.

Sound filtered back in: muffled footsteps, a drip like a leaky faucet, two voices murmuring nearby, their conversation drifting over me in tatters and bursts.

“. . . worse before she gets better . . .”

“. . . you promised . . .”

“I don't . . . the safety of the entire . . . risk . . .”

“. . . might die, and you're okay . . .”

“. . . very little in this situation . . .”

All five fingers worked now, and I gathered the blanket in my fist. The conversation broke off. A door opened and shut again with a decisive click. A familiar hand took mine, gently tugging the fabric away.

“How are you feeling?” Simon's voice.

“Cold,” I said, wondering if the word would come out as gibberish. There was the snap and rustle of a second blanket being shaken out, and a soft, welcome weight from my neck to my toes. I sighed in relief.

“Better?”

My mouth felt dry as paper, my lips cracked. “Took their time finding us.”

“Security procedures,” he said, his voice heavy but his touch light as he brushed my hair back.

This time I forced my eyes open, struggling to keep the room in focus. Lamplight coated everything like honey, soft edged and rich. Even Simon, who sat next to me in his canvas coat, shoulders hunched, face haggard. “Where are we?”

“Free Walker base camp. This the infirmary.”

The infirmary looked a lot like a hotel room. To my left was a small nightstand, the kind that usually held a Bible and phonebook in its single drawer, and a second bed with a cheap printed coverlet; a desk and a dresser topped with an outdated TV stood along the opposite wall. The curtains were drawn, a sliver of daylight visible along the edges. “Did Monty—”

“They picked him up too. He's down the hall.” He started to say something else, but stopped.

“How long have I been out?”

“Day and a half.”

My arm felt stiff and painful. With an effort, I turned my head to look, and blinked. A needle was sunk into the crook of my elbow, held in place with an X of white medical tape.

“IV?”

“Glucose solution. Gotta get you better.”

“Right,” I said, even though the thought of lying in this bed for the next . . . rest of my life . . . sounded nice. Peaceful. But lying in bed was not the way to find my Simon. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Del—” he said, and broke off.

Alarm stirred within me, shaking off the haze. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, and rubbed his forehead.

“Doesn't look like nothing,” I said. The low light had turned his blue eyes nearly black, and shadowed the bones of his face so they were more prominent than usual, as if he'd lost weight.

But I'd only been out for a day and a half.

The part of me that had turned hard and parched and brittle in the last month softened, as if it had finally felt rain. In the faint light of that tiny room, hope took root and sent out a tentative, tremulous leaf toward the sun.

“You're him,” I said softly, and his eyes snapped to mine. “You're
you
.”

Time stretched out, looping and curling and twisting back on itself, my breath caught in my chest, and the space between
my heartbeats felt as vast as the multiverse, like he was forming a world just by answering—but there was no choice. There was only the truth, waiting to be spoken, waiting for the world to start again, waiting for the impossible to take shape in the inches between us. The impossible: believed and then seen, dazzling as the sun at midnight, or a constellation cupped in your hand.

“I'm me,” he said, the words an exhalation.

“You're mine. My Simon.” My voice cracked.

“Always.” His hand curved along my cheek, as strong and warm as I remembered, and his thumb swept underneath my lashes, rubbing away tears.

“You're not dead.”

“No.”

“I'm not dead.”

“I don't think you get an IV in heaven,” he said. “So, not dead.”

I didn't need to look for the scar. I didn't need proof, because miracles don't need proof. But the sight of the faint, raised line at the corner of his mouth was the last thing I saw before he drew closer, bending over the bed, smelling like soap and sunshine, and then my eyes shut again because the thing I knew best about Simon was how it felt to be touched by him, and this . . . was my Simon.

His mouth was gentle and sweet and tentative, and then less tentative. He tasted like spiced honey, soothing and stirring all at once, his hands weaving through my hair and sliding along my neck, my skin glowing wherever he touched. I opened my eyes for the briefest second, but my vision blurred, want and tears and
joy making it impossible to see. My blood sparkled, so buoyant I thought I might fly away. I pulled him onto the bed with me, anchoring myself with his weight, kissing him so deeply I lost track of where I ended and Simon began.

“Easy,” he murmured, nipping my collarbone, but I didn't want easy. We treasure what is rare or fleeting, and then we step away from it, for protection. We lock it away, treat it with kid gloves, guard it carefully. But love cannot be locked away; a heart withers in isolation. We'd fought for this moment. We had risked and we had sacrificed, and after all we'd gone through, anything less than everything was wrong.

I wrapped my arms around him, urging him closer, and he shifted until we were both lying stretched out on the bed, facing each other, his breathing short and quick, his mouth never leaving mine. I slid my hands under the edge of his shirt, felt the play of muscles under his skin as he shifted against me. A sharp pain lanced through my arm. “Ow!”

He froze. “Too much?”

“Arm,” I said, and he stood, examining the blood welling up.

“You pulled out the IV. I'll get the medic.”

“No. I don't want to see anyone but you.”

He sighed. “Fine. Keep pressure on it, or you'll have a hell of a bruise.”

I reached for a tissue and pressed it against the wound. “Did you get a medical degree while you were gone?”

He gave me a small, reluctant smile. “My mom's had plenty of IVs.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” I said, but he waved the words away, then covered my hand with his.

He looked the same—his hair was a little longer, his bones a little more pronounced, as if his time among the Free Walkers had stripped away the softness and left behind something finely honed, but his eyes were the same as ever, thickly lashed and a deep, startling blue, full of challenge and amusement and warmth. I couldn't believe I'd confused, even for a second, the other Simon with him.

“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked, as he stretched out next to me, propping himself on an elbow. “Why didn't you say something the minute I woke up?”

He shrugged, his expression clouding. “Thought you could use a little time to adjust.”

“That's crap,” I said. “I've been looking for you since the minute Ms. Powell said you were alive. I don't need to adjust. I need you.”

He touched his lips to mine. “Even if I'm an Echo?”

“You're Simon Lane,” I said. “I've wanted you for three years. I don't care if you're an Echo or an Original or a hybrid or a talking bear.”

“It would be easier, though,” he said, the words so low I could barely make them out, “if I were an Original. If I were him.”

“I know you're tone deaf, but listen to me. I don't want him. I want you.” I cupped his face in my hands. “Didn't you tell me once that it's always better when it's a challenge?”

He grinned, wicked and hot, and dragged me closer. When
we came up for air, breathless, my mouth swollen and his hair a mess, I said, “We're good now, right?”

“Yeah.” He looked at me. “You're still pale. Let me get someone to fix the IV.”

“I need to rest, that's all. Stay with me.”

So he lay back on the bed and tucked my head under his chin. My cheek pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady and his arms strong, and for the first time in weeks, I was happy.

His breath ruffled my hair. “How's my mom?”

I paused and laced my hand with his. “She's . . . okay. She misses you, but she gets it. She knows this is safer.”

He didn't say anything for a long time, working through the implications, gathering his thoughts and marshaling his feelings until he was centered enough to ask, his voice as tight as the arm he'd wrapped around me, “Does she know? About the switch?”

Sometimes it seemed as if people were made as much of secrets as they were blood and bone, as if, under the skin, we were just as unknowable as the multiverse. “We didn't tell her. But sometimes, the things she says . . . I think she knows.”

“She's not my mom, is she?”

“Of course she is.”

“No. He's her son. And she knew it all along. I was someone she was . . . looking out for.”

“That's not true. I've seen her nearly every day since we lost you. She's grieving. Not for some other version of you, not the idea of her son. You. You, specifically. She misses everything about you—how much you eat, and the way you leave your socks
in the living room, and your terrible cooking. She might have known you were swapped, but it didn't matter. You are her son.”

“I miss her,” he said. “And Iggy, too.”

“They miss you.” Trying to lighten the mood, I added, “I've seen a million baby pictures.”

“Not the one—”

“In the tub? Oh, yeah. You were very cute.”

“I've grown a lot.”

“I'm aware.” I smiled. “We'll find a way to bring you back. You'll see them again.”

“I don't think so,” he said.

“We're in the Key World right now,” I pointed out. “Nobody's panicking about the anomaly.”

“We're not in the Key World.” He gestured to a small box on top of the television. “That thing is broadcasting the Key World frequency, to help you heal.”

They've got a few tricks,
Original Simon had said. The sort of tricks Eliot would love, I thought wistfully. “What about you? The Consort thinks the anomaly isn't a problem anymore.”

“This thing.” He held up his wrist and pointed to the black rubber strip circling it, a small red light blinking erratically. It looked like the pedometers we had to wear in gym class. “It tunes me, somehow. Changes the strings around me to compensate for the flaw, but it has to be reset every time we Walk.”

I stared at it. Addie had tried, once, to fix the break in an Echo Simon. The strings connecting anyone to their world extended a few feet around them, making it possible to stabilize an Echo's
break even if it was in a person. But altering an
Original's
string was unheard of—one of our greatest taboos. The idea made me faintly queasy.

“We never adjust an Original's strings,” I said. “It's—”

“Good thing I'm not an Original,” he said with a wry grin. “They won't let me go home. Not yet, at least. Not until they've beaten the Consort.”

“Why?”

“They won't tell me. They need me, though. They've put me through a bunch of tests. They've analyzed my frequency the way I used to watch game tapes—picking apart every little detail. They've made me Walk; they're teaching me how to work the strings.”

My thoughts felt tangled, and I tried to sort them out, but my brain was too fuzzy and exhausted to make sense of what he was telling me.

“Back up and tell me what happened after I left you.” I slugged him in the arm. “I'm still mad about that, by the way.”

“I thought I was keeping you safe.”

“I thought you were
dead
.” I hit him again. “I thought I'd killed you.”

The shock gave way, my resolve crumbling like a sand castle before waves, and I started to cry.

“Not dead,” he said into my hair. “And it wasn't your fault. I broke the strings, not you.”

I felt his heartbeat as if it were my own, wiped my face, and tried to focus. “How did you get out?”

He shifted. “I watched you go, and then I took off. All that basketball conditioning came in handy.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I wanted to see if my mom was at our house, but she wasn't. Some family lived there. They had little kids. Twins.” He trailed off. “The Free Walkers said it's because I'm a hybrid—I boosted the signal, so the world didn't unravel on my side as fast as it did on yours, but it didn't feel slow.

“I was sitting on the steps, watching the world go . . . wobbly. And all of a sudden, Ms. Powell was there. She looked like some crazy thrift-store version of a SWAT team, dressed in black. I thought I was hallucinating.”

He took my hand again. “I heard about the train.”

I bit my lip and nodded.

He continued. “I thought she was an Echo, but she headed right toward me, told me we needed to move fast. She had a group with her, and they spread out. It looked like they were fixing inversions, but it turns out they were cauterizing.”

“But your frequency was disrupting everything. How did they stop it?”