To Be Free (20 page)

“
So... you're
saying that this – all this we're going through, the pain and death
and humiliation – is humankind trying to evolve in a way where we
could survive that?” I ask, and both men nod. “They're destroying
their only chance at survival, then.”

Do us a favour, Sebastian –
keep a sharp eye on your beloved and his progress. His potential is
enormous; the power to save and destroy the human race is within
him. Don't let him fall into the wrong hands.

“
Your names,”
I prompt, noticing the flickering edges of their images and the
rain cutting through their forms. The auburn-haired man's toying
with his camera again, lifting it up and raising it to his eye as
if he's about to take a shot. There's a grin stretching his lips, a
sarcastic quirk that's mirrored in the blond's expression. “I'd
like to know them.”

We won't know you when we meet.
Our gifts don't include being a soothsayer.

“
Please.”

The blond chuckles, a slight
southern drawl to his accent as he rolls his eyes and grins at me,
the emerald shard hanging around his neck catching the light of a
lightning strike and leaving an imprint of its silhouette in my
retinas.

Johannes Walker.

The rain swallows up the
blond's image, the mist disappearing into the ground and leaving
the auburn-haired man standing there, the rain tearing at his
projection while he adjusts the focus of his camera, his face the
picture-perfect expression of concentration.

I am David.
My creator gave me
his
last name, but I do not use it. Call me David Kagan – it's my
beloved's name. I'm excited to meet you once you've tapped into
your full potential, and balanced your abilities, soothsayer. Until
then, cherish those moments of freedom you have with your other;
they disappear much too quickly.

Then he, too, is swallowed by
the rain and the earth, leaving me in the downpour. I stand there,
lifting my head up to the sky and taking a deep breath, the rain
running down the length of my nightshirt they'd kindly given Quinn
and I to wear.

“
So we're
really... going to go through all that,” I whisper, the thunder
stealing away my voice and concealing my words. I laugh once dryly,
opening my eyes and smiling a humourless smile to the sky above my
head. The raindrops fall on my cheeks, trailing down as if I'm
crying as I smile a bittersweet smile, the knowledge of all that
will happen to us echoing in my mind.

I'm sorry, Quinn, for dragging
you into this. It really would've been better if you'd had died on
that table.

The door clicks shut softly
behind me, barring the soft conversation Janice and Melissa are
engrossed in from the room they've allowed us to occupy. Quinn's
still sprawled over the bed, snoring lightly and sleeping through
the morning as if there's nothing better to do. I hesitate at the
door, back pressed to the wood as I watch the man shift slightly in
his sleep, letting out a soft sigh and smiling a little.

The sight makes me thaw, and I
step across the carpeted room until I reach the mattress, sitting
down on the edge by his stomach. He's on his back, head in my
direction and mouth slightly agape, a bit of spit collecting on the
pillow. Laughing lightly at his expression, I lean against my hand
on the blue-covered mattress and watch him for a while. The way his
chest rises and falls in an easy rhythm, how his unkempt hair
circles his head as a dark halo, and my hand reaches of its own
accord to push the strands from his face, trailing along his
skin.

The apparition I spoke to this
morning was handsome, sure, and I'm not afraid to admit it – but
there was something unnatural about his beauty, as if fabricated,
molded from clay by the aged hands of a potter. Somehow I had the
idea that, if I'd've touched him, he would've either scalded me or
been frozen to the touch.

Quinn, however, isn't like
that. Sure, he's got a small scar in his left eyebrow that makes it
so that a small strip isn't growing back and he's got a slight
overbite, but those traits make him even more beautiful in my eyes,
as cliché as it may sound. Running my thumb over his lower lip, I
can't help but smile as his lips turn up slightly, as if in
response to my touch.

As much as I'd like nothing
more than to watch him sleep until he wakes up, I lean down until
my breath ghosts his ear.

“
Quinn,” I
call softly, my hand cupping his head and my fingers lacing into
his hair. He makes a small sound of protest, sighing in his sleep
shortly afterwards with the whisper of my name. Biting back my
smile, I try again. “Quinn, it's about time you wake
up.”

He turns his head away from me,
and I pull back enough to look at his annoyed, half-asleep
expression.

“
Five more
minutes,” he mumbles, and I can't help but laugh lightly at his
childish behaviour, the hand on his hair trailing to his face and
brushing his fringe from his eyes again.

“
I'm sorry,
love, but we've got a lot of work to do today,” I counter, and he
squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, frowning now. Chuckling, I
press a kiss to his cheek and linger there, my free left hand
finding one of his and lacing my fingers with his. “You can sleep
later, if you like.”

The eye closest to me flutters
open, the light streaming in through the drawn curtains hitting his
eyes enough to paint the green orbs golden. We lock gazes, and I
smile at him while he gives me a half-asleep glare.

“
I want to
sleep now, though,” he protests, a yawn punctuating his statement
halfway through it and making it sound a lot less like what I
presume it should. I pull back, smiling warmly at him, and he
sighs. “You're cruel.”

“
Well, I
assumed you'd like to have some breakfast before we start talking
business with the girls. If you're not hungry, though...” I shrug,
looking away and biting back a sheepish smile as he raises his
voice in protest, his voice thick with sleep. He pauses, leans back
onto the mattress, clears his throat and tries again.

“
What's on
the menu?” he inquires, a small smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes
flicker up along me, as I still half-hover over him. “If you're the
three-course meal, I'll gladly get up.”

I pinch him, making him frown
and stick out his tongue at me.

“
Get your
lazy ass up, you idiot,” I scoff, rolling my eyes at his behaviour.
He simply smirks and rests more fully on the blankets, satisfied
with my reaction. Before I can get up, he catches me by the fabric
of my vest, his hold loose.

“
Ever heard
of the story of
Sleeping
Beauty
?” he inquires out of the blue, and
I jerk my head back slightly in confusion – why's he bringing up a
fairy tale
now
,
of all times? “I'm not moving until you pay the toll.”

I deadpan at him as I catch on,
and he smiles smugly at me. Frowning at him, I let him know exactly
how childish his demands are.

“
You're
twenty-two,” I remind him, and he shrugs a shoulder, not budging. I
sigh in exasperation. “I just had to fall for someone like
you
, huh?”

Quinn doesn't say anything,
laughing lightly to himself as he watches me glare at him with the
eyes he's long-since gotten used to seeing, and doesn't flinch in
the slightest. Sighing in defeat, I shoot him one last withering
glare.

“
You're such
a child, Quinn,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Alright, fine. Just
one, though, and don't you fucking dare make this a habit, you
goddamn pri-”

Eleven pulls me down with the
fabric he's still clutching, his free hand holding me in place by
the back of my neck. I let out a small sound of surprise as our
lips meet, eyes flying wide and scrambling with my hands on either
side of his head for balance, failing remarkably and tipping onto
my side slightly. Rolling my eyes I let them slip shut, enjoying
the chaste kiss and the feel of his lips moving with mine.

When we part he's smiling in
smug satisfaction, and I pull the pillow I used last night and
shove it over his face, pulling away as much as I can in his
grip.

Ignoring his protests I dance
out of his reach, slipping the door open and waving in his
direction as I leave, laughing to myself all the way down the
stairs and into the kitchen. Janice is busy preparing enough
pancakes to feed a small army, and Melissa's setting the table. I
help her set the plates and silverware down, and I'm pouring orange
juice into four glasses when Quinn comes down, wearing the grey
shirt and brown knitwear over it, and the pants that are slightly
too big for him and pool at his ankles in sweeps. I look in his
direction, watching him rub his eyes tiredly as he hesitates
there.

The sight of him makes my heart
stop and my breath falter, my stomach doing Olympic-winning
cartwheels as he looks in my direction and flashes me a happy
smile. I look down to the glasses I'm filling, biting my lip.

Despite what the future holds,
I can't say I'm upset about all of it. Besides, to use Johannes'
words... Quinn's my beloved, my other. I can't hate it no matter
what's in store.

“
Ah, how
innocent young love is, right Janice?” Melissa asks, breaking the
silence that's fallen. Quinn's sitting on the bar stool, watching
the three of us put the final touches on the meal before we sit
down, and he quirks an eyebrow while I laugh into the fridge,
closing the chrome door after nabbing the maple syrup, upon
Melissa's request.

“
Don't let
his appearance fool you; he's hardly innocent,” I scoff, placing
the glass jar on the table and helping the blonde-haired woman
place the plates on the table. The rich smells of batter fills the
air, and after placing bowls of fruits and a jar of whipped cream
on the table, we sit down with the steaming pile between the four
of us. Quinn and I get sequestered to the booth-like bench, whereas
our hostesses sit on the two chairs opposite us, serving the
pancakes and inviting us to dig into the blueberry-flavoured
concoctions.

For a while we make idle
chatter, and Quinn and I curiously listen to the stories they part
with about other Runners they've helped in the past. They speak of
the hardships these men and women faced, as well as a bit of how
life's like in Ashland. In return, Quinn tells them about growing
up in California, and I tell them a bit about Germany.

Once we're nibbling at the
fruit in the bowl and the pancakes have been devoured, I lean back
with a contented sigh and thank them kindly, smiling warmly. Janice
looks at both of us, and Quinn's in the midst of devouring a quart
of a pear when she speaks.

“
Getting you
out of this state won't be easy,” she informs us, and I look at her
at the same time my partner does, mid-chew. “It's never easy once
you hit the northern states, and there's really only one path you
can take that's not as dangerous as the rest, although it's still
relatively complex.”

“
If you'll
follow me, I'll lead you to a safe place where we can talk,”
Melissa continues, getting to her feet. Quinn slips out from the
booth and helps me up, and I thank Janice again before we follow
the blonde out into the vast dining room, the sunlight streaming in
from the wall-to-ceiling window at the southern end of the house.
The light's warm against my skin as she leads us into a hallway
skirting the large windows, a grandfather clock dutifully keeping
time.

As I walk by I stare at the
pendulum swinging to and fro with every tick, and as I watch it
time seems to leaden, thickening around me entirely. The ticks get
further and further apart and movement is complicated, hard to
achieve, and only when I tear my eyes away does time continue along
at its regular pace. I suck in a breath so quickly I go
light-headed, stumbling into Quinn, and for a moment the procession
of three pauses in the curving hallway while he grips my arms,
helping me keep my balance.

Once I nod, letting him know
I'm okay and reassuring him that I'm not, in fact, having a
relapse, he releases me. To keep him confidant about my well-being
I keep hold of his hand, all the way through the hallway and down a
spiral staircase that brings us to the basement. Here it's a bit
cooler, and she leads us to a large wooden door and unlocks it with
a key she fishes out of her pants, gesturing for us to come inside
before she closes it, locking it behind us.

“
This room's
soundproof,” she informs us idly as we linger just inside the room,
blinking owlishly at the sight.

The elephant
in the room is a large table with a
huge
map of North America spread out
on it, the main roads drawn out and certain areas coloured in a
vibrant red shade. There's a star drawn in blue at the bottom of
Oregon, presumably where Ashland is, and about eight chairs sit
idly around the circular table. The walls are lined with
bookshelves full of books and a few wardrobes and chests holding
other miscellaneous goods. The light fixtures hang timidly from the
ceiling, and more than one globe decorates the room, as well as
maps of other locations around the world.

Melissa lets us take this all
in, hands laced together limply between each other as we stare
slack-jawed at the room, and takes a seat at the table once she
pulls a thick tome from the shelf, inviting us to take a seat. We
do so, looking at her curiously.

“
The
preparations take about a week, two if we're unlucky,” she begins,
leaning forward in her seat and steepling her fingers together,
regarding us both. “In the meantime, you have two options available
to you – and it's not an easy decision. The option you choose could
be the deciding factor on whether you make it to Canada or not.
With me so far?”