Earthquake

“They will do anything—kill anyone—to get to this secret that I have …” I hesitate, not wanting them to know I don’t know what the secret is. “The key to that secret is you,” I finally settle on. Nebulous, but enough. “So as long as we work together, we can keep each other safe.”

“How am I the key?”

I can’t answer that. Not even cryptically. “I’ll tell you when I can,” I say, my voice raspy around the near lie.

The food is gone quickly and I’m feeling better—even a little overfull. I have to wonder why they fed us at all. Food is the fuel for my powers—if I were them, I’d have starved me.

But I’m certainly not going to question my advantages.

I rise and resume stalking the perimeter of the room, feeling much like a tiger in a zoo. What can I make to get us out of here? I lay my hand against the wall and wonder if I know enough about bombs to make one. Excitement zings through me as I add, make one inside the wall, to my thought. I try to remember the chemistry class last year in Michigan when my teacher taught us how to make gunpowder. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. A metal casing. A fuse. I can do this!

I’m so wrapped up in the thoughts whizzing through my head that I hardly notice when a beeping begins to sound, then speeds up. Logan is calling my name, but as the beeping gets louder, faster, two sharp pains prick the skin on my arm and my knees buckle as I sink into unconsciousness.

Again.

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I smell him before I open my eyes. It’s Quinn’s smell. Unique. My head is lying against something soft and warm; it must be him. Without conscious thought, Rebecca’s arms reach out, pull him close. She buries her face in that perfect smell that means safety and love and home.

A groan escapes my mouth as I nuzzle against Quinn’s warm, soft shirt and the yielding skin beneath. My hand is searching for a way to get under his clothing when a sharp “Tavia!” pulls me all the way out of unconsciousness.

I open my eyes and see his face—Logan’s face. Worry and disgust color his features.

I yank myself up and away from him, fire filling my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mutter, though my skin burns where I pressed against him—tingling with want and need and other emotions I should not be feeling in a Reduciata prison.

“What happened?” My voice is hoarse. Again. I wonder just how much of that tranquilizer stuff I’ve had. How bad the aftereffects are going to be this time.

“I’m not sure what you were planning.” We both jump as a voice comes over the loudspeaker. It sounds like Sunglasses Guy. I spin toward the mirror, but it’s still just a mirror. They’re not interested in letting us see them this time. “But it was something exciting enough to raise your heart rate.”

I remember the beeping that got faster and faster right before they shot me. Damn it!

“We’re not stupid,” the guy continues calmly. “You’re not getting out until we let you. Until we’ve gotten what we want.” A low chuckle. “And I guess at that point we’ll probably just kill you.”

My jaw is shaking with fury, and I roll my shoulders to attempt to calm down before the stupid beeping starts again. As I move, the left joint sends out a sharp stab of pain. “Ow,” I say in surprise and look down at my arm. The shirt I’m wearing has short sleeves, and when I push it up, I see that my entire shoulder is reddened and starting to turn purple.

“You fell against the wall pretty hard when they took you out,” Logan explains sheepishly. “I managed to get to you before you hit your head, but I wasn’t fast enough to stop that.” He points at the darkening bruise.

A tingly feeling zips up my spine, and I barely manage to hide the sappy grin that threatens to reveal itself. He helped me. He tried. “Thanks.” I clear my throat and look away, trying not to show him how pleased I am. It’s not the time.

“So what now?” Logan asks. It’s something just less than a whisper. He practically breathes the words.

I glance at the mirror, but it looks no different than before I got knocked out. Again. I incline my head at Logan and start scooting backward until I’m leaning against the wall. He joins me and I curl closer so my lips are right next to his ear. “Do you trust me?”

His nod is just enough of a motion for me to feel it.

“Rub my back, softly. Help me stay calm.” Then, before he can argue, I shift so my legs lay across his lap and I let my head rest against his shoulder, my face turned toward him so it can’t be seen. I breathe in the scent of his shirt—fabric softener, a light aura of sweat, the clean kind that smells earthy—and close my eyes when his arms drape over me, his fingers gingerly kneading along my spine. I’m surprised at his soft touch, but in my head, Rebecca clearly isn’t. I let myself listen to her and slump against Logan, breathing steadily.

My heartbeat speeds again at his nearness, but I’m counting on that. They’re watching, analyzing, but now they’ll think this is my baseline. I try to lose myself in the hypnotic massage, pretending it’s my mom, or even Sammi. Anyone but Logan. Once I’ve detached the feeling of those soothing hands from their owner, I start to let myself think of science again. Of my teacher Mr. Peterson lecturing in his boring fashion. Even explosives were tedious when he was trying to explain them.

I hold the image of his crisp shirt and tie in my mind, recalling the nasal sound of Mr. Peterson’s voice as he dryly listed off ingredients. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Sulfur, charcoal, saltpeter. Over and over in my head until it doesn’t feel exciting anymore. I let out a heavy breath like I’m really enjoying this backrub and stare out from beneath my eyelids. I glare at the wall and then, as I let the air out like I’m breathing through a straw, I create a metal casing. Inside the wall.

I don’t see anything.

Nothing cracks.

That was the risky part.

The ingredients of gunpowder float along in my consciousness, and I remember mixing a small amount in class. I double, triple, quadruple that in my head and—again, as I breathe out—I fill the metal canister.

I’m so close, adrenaline tingles in my fingers. I toss my head back and pull closer to Logan, turning the simple backrub into something sensual—I need to hide my increased excitement. Logan’s body clenches up beneath me, but he doesn’t fight as I pull him close and rest my lips against his neck. I can sense the Reduciates watching my every move and nearly gag at the thought of actually being romantic in front of them.

Like. I. Would.

But apparently they don’t know me that well because they don’t do anything to stop me. I’m all the way on Logan’s lap now, and I can feel sweat start to trickle down his back as he grows more and more uncomfortable with the intimacy I’m forcing on him. But we’re almost done. I pull his head down, close to my chest—not sure just what that is going to look like. Then, as I set my head down on his back, my arms wrapped around him—covering him, protecting him—I create a spark.

Debris shatters out of the wall, ricocheting off the other walls and pelting Logan and me. “Come on!” I say, staggering to my feet as I try to pull him with me. “Run!”

I clench my fingers around his and dive into the smoke, hoping there’s actually a hole all the way through the wall. I can’t see—I can barely hear after the blast—but I keep moving forward, one hand stretched out in front of me, the other hanging on to Logan for dear life.

I bounce off something warm and squishy enough that it must have been a person, but I keep running. I pivot to my left and run toward light. What I think is light. I trip over something and go sprawling, but because I refuse to let go of Logan, he follows my trajectory and lands on top of me, pushing the air from my lungs. I landed badly on my wrist, but I can’t let that stop me. I don’t need my arms to run.

Pushing the pain away, I yank Logan to his feet. I’m desperately thinking of what I can make to help us escape when something hard hits me across the stomach and I double over, gasping for breath yet again. Arms wrap around me, and I try to scream but I have no air yet, and I fight against my own muscles as my lungs burn. Finally I get out an enraged shriek that’s way higher pitched than I intended it to be.

I slam into a wall, and the back of my head clangs against something. A sob of fiery pain escapes my mouth and blackness invades my periphery as my cries reverberate in my aching head. My knees have no chance, and I collapse onto the floor, my whole body quaking in fear and agony.

A blurry face invades my fading sight, but I can’t even raise my hand to block the view of Sunglasses Guy, two inches from my nose.

“Sit,” he says, and I dimly feel a fleck of spit from the T at the end of the harsh word. “Stay.”

He rises to his feet and he looks even taller from where I lie crumpled on the floor. As he walks away I fight to stay conscious, but the pain is overwhelming and it’s a relief when I slip away.

I have no idea how long it is before I wake, but the pain is even sharper than last time. My ears are ringing—probably from the noise of the bomb exploding—and my entire body is sore and achy. I try to take stock while cradling my head in my hands. Throbbing, puffy lip; I probably bit it. My shoulder is still tender. But the worst is my wrist—it’s swollen twice its normal size and purple bruises are starting to form. I move it and cringe. It’s either broken or very badly sprained. I’m stiff from sleeping—well, lying unconscious on the ground—but that particular discomfort is so minor in comparison that it barely registers.

I push up onto my knees with my one good arm and peer blearily around. I don’t care what I look like to them. Not this time.

I’ve been relocated into a much, much smaller room. The walls are the same glaring white, same bleachy tiled floor, but probably half the size. Worse, the tiny box is lined with an even smaller cage of bars. That’s what I must have hit when I was literally thrown in here. There’s another two-way mirror, but it’s on the other side of the bars, where I can’t even attempt to reach it.

My mind is having trouble thinking clearly, but I know I’m missing something. Something is wrong. Something big. I close my eyes and rub hard at them before I remember.

Logan.

He’s not here.

I have a feeling I’ve just been put in Reduciata solitary confinement.

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The hum of the air conditioning unit kicking on pulls me from my stupor. Ah, new tactic then. They’re going to keep me cold, stiff, and devoid of energy.