Earthquake

“No reason we can’t fix it,” she says. She glances over at Logan and shares a silent message with the person watching over him. “Your partner is just starting to stir. We have a few more minutes.”

“I guess,” I say, not certain why I’m so nervous.

I’m wearing jeans, but the fabric across my thigh disappears with a glance from Glenn. More jelly and then Audra is sliding the probe over my leg and peering at the screen.

“Titanium plates,” Glenn says. “Those’ll have to go.”

Go?

“And extensive scar tissue in the muscles here and here,” Audra says, pointing. “No wonder it’s not healing well.”

I close my eyes. I don’t want to watch.

The same weird feelings take over my thigh, but this time it is a little uncomfortable. “Sorry,” Glenn says. I must have grimaced. “Christina will fix it in a moment.”

No titles, not calling each other “Dr. So-and-So.” As though we are all equals here. “We’re finished,” Christina says softly, rubbing goop off her hands.

I look down, and it’s like the plane wreck never happened. The staple marks are gone; the skin on my thigh is smooth and new and … looks rather exfoliated to boot.

“Good?” Christina asks.

I nod dumbly, and right before my eyes the missing piece of my jeans reappears as though it had never vanished. I’m not sure why this all makes me so uncomfortable. I mean, it’s a good thing, but it’s like they erased not only my scar but an entire section of my life. I force myself not to touch the scar on my head. I’ve had enough supernatural medicine for today.

“Let’s get you up,” Audra says. “No reason for you to be in bed any longer.”

I swing my legs to the side and gingerly get to my feet, holding on to a strap connected to the low ceiling for balance in the tiny square of space between my and Logan’s little beds. They hand me a large pouch of juice, and as they fold the travel-sized stretcher away I test my weight on my right leg and almost laugh in glee.

No pain.

Not a twinge or jolt. Nothing. Not even when the chopper hits a brief patch of turbulence.

I can’t remember the last time I could walk without at least a throb of discomfort.

“Get off me!”

I’m shaken from my wonderment by Logan’s voice.

“It’s okay!” I take two steps—still in awe that there’s no pain when I do so—and lay my hands on his chest, pushing my face into his line of sight. “It’s okay,” I repeat, softer now as his focus hones in on me. He stops struggling, and as soon as he does the guy watching him unfastens the chest strap, just like they did with me. Logan’s hand immediately clamps onto mine, and he continues to hold my fingers in a death grip as the very basics of the situation are explained to him. I can’t help but be pleased by that—even if it’s only during the panic of this moment, he’s clinging to me instead of pushing me away.

The doctors question and then examine him, but all he has is the cut over his eye from the explosion at his house, and Audra doesn’t even need her ultrasound for Glenn and Christina to put that right.

When they touch him, Logan tightens his already iron grip on my hand, only loosening it when Christina backs away. “Pretty amazing, right?” I ask. He looks over at me with wide eyes, and I give him a little nod and squeeze his hand with numb, tingly fingers. I know he’s feeling the same cessation of pain that I did.

We’re both given a bag of dried fruit and more juice, and it’s all so welcome that I almost feel normal again. We’re shooed out of the way to a padded bench along the back of the chopper, and Logan and I sit together, thighs touching. I’m closing my eyes in silent gratitude that I’ve managed to at least get him to tolerate me, when I feel the warmth of his fingers creep across my hand, hesitate, and then twine through mine.

I don’t dare look. Like I might break the spell. I’ve proved something to him and I don’t want to question it. Certainly don’t want him to question it. I just squeeze lightly and pretend there’s nothing out of the ordinary about two people who couldn’t coexist in the same room a couple days ago holding hands.

As I munch on my fruit, a shadow crosses the floor, and Audra hurries to confer with a man who has just emerged from the cockpit. A moment later she returns with a little smile and says, “We’re going in now. You guys should see this.”

Confused, I scoot over to the window and bring Logan with me. We sit, hand in hand, peering out through the glass at … nothing.

Endless dunes of desert sand stretch as far as I can see, with a bright orange sunset starting to paint its way across the horizon.

Except …

Yes, there’s a glimmer. I can barely make it out at first, but as the chopper gets closer I realize it’s a silvery triangle. Just like I saw in Portsmouth.

And yet this one is nothing like those triangles. It shines so brightly it almost hurts my eyes.

It’s got to be at least a hundred yards on each side. An enormous triangle glinting in the sand. I know I must have a look of pure shock on my face when Audra giggles and says, “Oh, that’s nothing.”

Seconds later, a huge circle inside the triangle splits like pie slices and begins to pull back, revealing a cavernous space with a cement floor. On the perimeter I count six other helicopters parked and at least a dozen figures scurrying around beneath us.

I can’t come up with words as we lower into the shadowy space, landing with a bump on the ground, the whine of the chopper blades immediately quieting.

As soon as the helicopter has touched down there’s an entirely new low rumbling, and only when the light starts to dim do I realize that it’s the opening above us closing. My chest is tight as the panels come together and block out all the sunlight, but when I look back at the space we’ve landed in, I see it’s well lit. We haven’t been plunged into darkness.

A great boom sounds as the gates above us close completely, and then the doors on both sides of the helicopter open and people are there ready to help us out. Logan is still clinging to one of my hands, but with the other he reaches out and pulls on Audra’s sleeve.

“Audra?” Logan asks, and I can hear the fear in his voice. “Where are we?”

“Oh,” she says with a light smile, as though this detail was entirely unimportant. “I guess you wouldn’t know. This is the headquarters of the Curatoria.”

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Terror and relief both run through me so strongly I have trouble even breathing. The headquarters of the Curatoria. A place that has taken on a level of intrigue so high, it’s hard to believe it exists at all.

I reach up to touch my silver necklace for courage and feel a warm hand cover my shoulder. Logan’s. He lowers his head close to my ear and whispers, “Whatever this is, I’m here. I mean, I don’t feel very useful right now, but if you need me, you just say so.”

I can’t speak as I stare at him. Does he … remember? Or have I actually won his trust?

But he looks as worried as I feel, and I know he would understand his true usefulness if he had remembered.

And wouldn’t I know if he had? If we had resurged? I’m still baffled about what I would have to do to make that happen, but the first step is definitely keeping Logan with me.

He gives me a very small smile and slips his hand into mine as we follow the team of doctors down a ramp and out of the helicopter, leaving the rest of the crew behind. I take a moment to covertly glance around at the huge but dim space, surrounded by the other helicopters I saw from the air, all quiet and still along the perimeter of what looks like an enormous landing pad. The area is hexagonal, and a bunch of bright lines are painted on the floor. Tools line two of the six sides, and the next wall over is covered by some kind of radar-looking thing, with ropes and other supplies mounted on the fourth.

A huge feather and flame symbol is painted across the entire fifth wall, and my stomach twists at the similarity to the Reduciata symbol in the prison we were just in.

We’re not exactly prisoners here—at least I don’t think so. They’re letting us walk together without our hands tied or any weapons pointed at us, but still, I don’t feel free.

In the center of the sixth side is a set of gray double doors that look thick and soundproof. A woman in the lead—not one from the helicopter, a new one who was waiting for us when we landed—stops and turns, her eyes seeking me out. “When we walk through those doors you will enter the headquarters of the Curatoria. It’s a privilege we never allow Earthbounds who have not sworn themselves to our cause.” I’m about to tell her that I have no intention of swearing anything to anyone when she continues, “But you two will be an exception.” She eyes us both carefully, her attention lingering on me. It’s clear that she’s not a fan of this idea. “While you’re here,” she adds, “we ask that you remain entirely peaceful, that you don’t interfere with our work, and”—she hesitates—“that you have no communication with the outside world whatsoever.”

Like I have anyone to communicate with. My parents, Sammi, Mark, Elizabeth—all dead.

Benson … good as dead.

And Logan, but he’s here with me now. I feel a shiver of pleasure ripple down my spine at that thought and squeeze his hand.