It is a relief not to speak.
Something changed between us this morning, something broke. Anderson seems relaxed in front of me in a way that seems unorthodox, but it’s not my business to question him. I’m honored to have this position, to be his most trusted supreme soldier, and that’s all that matters. Today is my first official day of work, and I’m happy to be here, even when he ignores me completely.
In fact, I enjoy it.
I find comfort in pretending to disappear. I exist only to shadow him as he moves from one task to another. I stand aside, staring straight ahead. I do not watch him as he works, but I feel him, constantly. He takes up all available space. I am attuned to his every movement, his every sound. It is my job now to know him completely, to anticipate his needs and fears, to protect him with my life, and to serve his interests entirely.
So I listen, for hours, to the details.
The creak of his chair as he leans back, considering. The sighs that escape him as he types. Leather chair and wool pants meeting, shifting. The dull thud of a ceramic mug hitting the surface of a wooden desk. The tinkle of crystal, the quick pour of bourbon. The sharp, sweet scent of tobacco and the rustle of tissue-thin paper. Keystrokes. A pen scratching. The sudden tear and fizz of a match. Sulfur. Keystrokes. A snap of a rubber band. Smoke, making my eyes tear. A stack of papers slapping together like a settling deck of cards. His voice, deep and melodic on a series of phone calls so brief I can’t tell them apart. Keystrokes. He never seems to require
use of the bathroom. I do not think about my own needs, and he does not ask. Keystrokes. Occasionally he looks up at me, studying me, and I keep my eyes straight ahead. Somehow, I can feel his smile.
I am a ghost.
I wait.
I hear little. I learn little. Finally—
“Come.”
He’s on his feet and out the door and I hasten to follow. We’re up high, on the top floor of the compound. The hallways circle around an interior courtyard, in the center of which is a large tree, branches heavy with orange and red leaves. Fall colors. I glance, without moving my head, outside one of the many tall windows gracing the halls, and my mind registers the incongruence of the two images. Outside, things are a strange mix of green and desolate. Inside, this tree is warm and rosy-hued. Perfect autumn foliage.
I shake off the thought.
I have to walk twice as fast to keep up with Anderson’s long strides. He stops for no one. Men and women in lab coats jump aside as we approach, mumbling apologies in our wake, and I’m surprised by the giddy sensation that rises up inside of me. I like their fear. I enjoy this power, this feeling of unapologetic dominion.
Dopamine floods my brain.
I pick up speed, still hurrying to keep up. It occurs to me then that Anderson never looks back to make sure I’m following him, and it makes me wonder what he’d do if he discovered I was missing. And then, just as quickly, the thought strikes me as bizarre. He has no reason to look back. I would never go missing.
The compound feels busier than usual today. Announcements blare through the speakers and the air around me fills with fervor. Names are called; demands made. People come and go.
We take the stairs.
Anderson never stops, never seems out of breath. He moves with the strength of a younger man but with the kind of confidence acquired only by age. He carries himself with a certainty both terrifying and aspirational. Faces pale at the sight of him. Most look away. Some can’t help but stare.
One woman nearly faints when his body brushes against hers, and Anderson doesn’t even break his stride when she causes a scene.
I am fascinated.
The speakers crackle. A smooth, robotic female voice announces a code- green situation so calmly I can’t help but be surprised by the collective reaction. I witness something akin to chaos as doors slam open around the building. It all seems to happen in sync, a domino effect echoing along corridors from top to bottom of the compound. Men and women in lab coats surge and swarm all levels, jamming the walkways as they scuttle along.
Still, Anderson does not stop. The world revolves around him, makes room for him. Slows when he speeds up. He does not accommodate anyone. Anything.
I am taking notes.
Finally, we reach a door. Anderson presses his hand against the biometric scanner, then peers into a camera that reads his eyes.
The door fissures open.
I smell something sterile, like antiseptic, and the moment we step into the room the scent burns my nose, causing my eyes to tear. The entrance is unusual; a short hallway that hides the rest of the room from immediate view. As we approach, I hear three monitors beep at three different decibel levels. When we round the corner, the room quadruples in size. The space is vast and bright, natural light combining with the searing white glow of artificial bulbs overhead.
There’s little else here but a single bed and the figure strapped into it. The beeping is coming not from three machines, but seven, all of which seem to be affixed to the unconscious body of a boy. I don’t know him, but he can’t be much older than I am. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, a soft buzz of brown interrupted only by the wires drilled into his skull. There’s a sheet pulled up to his neck, so I can’t see much more than his resting face, but the sight of him there, strapped down like that, reminds me of something.
A flash of memory flares through me.
It’s vague, distorted. I try to peel back the hazy layers, but when I manage a glimpse of something—a cave, a tall black man, a tank full of water—I feel a sharp, electrifying sting of rage that leaves my hands shaking. It unmoors me.
I take a jerky step back and shake my head a fraction of an inch, trying to compose myself, but my mind feels foggy, confused. When I finally pull
myself together, I realize Anderson is watching me.
Slowly, he takes a step forward, his eyes narrowed in my direction. He says nothing, but I feel, without knowing why, exactly, that I’m not allowed to look away. I’m supposed to maintain eye contact for as long as he wants. It’s brutal.
“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says.
It’s not a question. I’m not sure it requires an answer. Still— “Nothing of consequence, sir.”
“Consequence,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. He takes a few steps toward one of the massive windows, clasps his hands behind his back. For a while, he’s silent.
“So interesting,” he says finally. “That we never did discuss consequences.”
Fear slithers, creeps up my spine.
He’s still staring out the window when he says softly, “You will not withhold anything from me. Everything you feel, every emotion you experience—it belongs to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You felt something when you walked in here,” he says again. This time, his voice is heavy with something, something dark and terrifying.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what was it?” “I felt anger, sir.”
He turns around at that. Raises his eyebrows. “After anger, I felt confusion.”
“But anger,” he says, stepping toward me. “Why anger?” “I don’t know, sir.”
“Do you recognize this boy?” he says, pointing at the prone body without even looking at it.
“No, sir.”
“No.” His jaw clenches. “But he reminds you of someone.”
I hesitate. Tremors threaten, and I will them away. Anderson’s gaze is so intense I can hardly meet his eyes.
I glance again at the boy’s sleeping face. “Yes, sir.”
Anderson’s eyes narrow. He waits for more. “Sir,” I say quietly. “He reminds me of you.”
Unexpectedly, Anderson goes still. Surprise rearranges his expression and suddenly, startlingly—
He laughs.
It’s a laugh so genuine it seems to shock him even more than it shocks me. Eventually, the laughter settles into a smile. Anderson shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the window frame. He stares at me with something resembling fascination, and it’s such a pure moment, a moment so untainted by malice that he strikes me, suddenly, as beautiful.
More than that.
The sight of him—something about his eyes, something about the way he moves, the way he smiles— The sight of him suddenly stirs something in my heart. Ancient heat. A kaleidoscope of dead butterflies kicked up by a brief, dry gust of wind.
It leaves me feeling sick.
The stony look returns to his face. “That. Right there.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger. “That look on your face. What was that?”
My eyes widen. Unease floods through me, heating my cheeks. For the first time, I falter.
He moves swiftly, charging toward me so angrily I wonder at my ability to remain steady. Roughly, he takes my chin in his hand, tilts up my face. There are no secrets here, this close to him. I can hide nothing.
“Now,” he says, his voice low. Angry. “Tell me now.”
I break eye contact, trying desperately to gather my thoughts, and he barks at me to look at him.
I force myself to meet his eyes. And then I hate myself, hate my mouth for betraying my mind. Hate my mind for thinking at all.
“You— You are extremely handsome, sir.”
Anderson drops his hand like he’s been burned. He backs away, looking, for the first time—
Uncomfortable.
“Are you—” He stops, frowns. And then, too soon, anger clouds his expression. His voice is practically a growl when he says, “You are lying to me.”
“No, sir.” I hate the sound of my voice, the breathy panic.
His eyes sharpen. He must see something in my expression that gives him pause, because the anger evaporates from his face.
He blinks at me.
Then, carefully, he says: “In the middle of all of this”— he waves around the room, at the sleeping figure hooked up to the machines—“of all the things that could be going through your mind, you were thinking . . . that you find me attractive.”
A traitorous heat floods my face. “Yes, sir.” Anderson frowns.
He seems about to say something, and then hesitates. For the first time, he seems unmoored.
A few seconds of tortured silence stretch between us, and I’m not sure how best to proceed.
“This is unsettling,” Anderson finally says, and mostly to himself. He presses two fingers to the inside of his wrist, and lifts his wrist to his mouth. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Tell Max there’s been an unusual development. I
need to see him at once.”
Anderson spares me a brief glance before dismissing, with a single shake of his head, the entire mortifying exchange.
He stalks toward the boy strapped down on the bed and says, “This young man is part of an ongoing experiment.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing.
Anderson bends over the boy, toying with various wires, and then stiffens, suddenly. Looks up at me out of the corner of his eye. “Can you imagine why this boy is part of an experiment?”
“No sir.”
“He has a gift,” Anderson says, straightening. “He came to me voluntarily and offered to share it with me.”
I blink, still uncertain how to respond.
“But there are many of you—Unnaturals—running wild on this planet,” Anderson says. “So many powers. So many different abilities. Our asylums are teeming with them, overrun with power. I have access to nearly anything I want. So what makes him special, hmm?” He tilts his head at me. “What power could he possibly have that would be greater than yours? More useful?”
Again, I say nothing.
“Do you want to know?” he asks, a hint of a smile touching his lips. This feels like a trick. I consider my options.
Finally, I say, “I want to know only if you want to tell me, sir.” Anderson’s smile blooms. White teeth. Genuine pleasure.
I feel my chest warm at his quiet praise. Pride straightens my shoulders. I avert my eyes, staring quietly at the wall.
Still, I see Anderson turn away again, appraising the boy with another single, careful look. “These powers were wasted on him anyway.”
He removes the touchpad slotted into a compartment of the boy’s bed and begins tapping the digital screen, scrolling and scanning for information. He looks up, once, at the monitors beeping out various vitals, and frowns. Finally, he sighs, dragging a hand through his perfectly arranged hair. I think it looks better for being mussed. Warmer. Softer. Familiar.
The observation frightens me.
I turn away sharply and glance out the window, wondering, suddenly, if I will ever be allowed to use the bathroom.
“Juliette.”
The angry timbre of his voice sends my heart racing. I straighten in an instant. Look straight ahead.
“Yes, sir,” I say, sounding a little breathless.
I realize then that he’s not even looking at me. He’s still typing something into the touchpad when he says, calmly, “Were you daydreaming?”
“No, sir.”
He returns the touchpad to its compartment, the pieces connecting with a satisfying metallic click.
He looks up.
“This is growing tiresome,” he says quietly. “I’m already losing patience with you, and we haven’t even come to the end of your first day.” He hesitates. “Do you want to know what happens when I lose patience with you, Juliette?”
My fingers tremble; I clench them into fists. “No, sir.”
He holds out his hand. “Then give me what belongs to me.”
I take an uncertain step forward and his outstretched hand flies up, palm out, stopping me in place. His jaw clenches.
“I am referring to your mind,” he says. “I want to know what you were thinking when you lost your head long enough to gaze out the window. I want to know what you are thinking right now. I will always want to know what you’re thinking,” he says sharply. “In every moment. I want every word, every detail, every emotion. Every single loose, fluttering thought
that passes through your head, I want it,” he says, stalking toward me. “Do you understand? It’s mine. You are mine.”
He comes to a halt just inches from my face. “Yes, sir,” I say, my voice failing me.
“I will only ask this once more,” he says, making an effort to moderate his voice. “And if you ever make me work this hard again to get the answers I need, you will be punished. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes narrow. “What were you daydreaming about?”
I swallow. Look at him. Look away. Quietly, I say:
“I was wondering, sir, if you would ever let me use the bathroom.” Anderson’s face goes suddenly blank.
He seems stunned. He regards me a moment longer before saying, flatly: “You were wondering if you could use the bathroom.”
“Yes, sir.” My face heats.
Anderson crosses his arms across his chest. “That’s all?”
I feel suddenly compelled to tell him what I thought about his hair, but I fight against the urge. Guilt floods through me at the indulgence, but my mind is soothed by a strange, familiar warmth, and suddenly I feel no guilt at all for being only partly truthful.
“Yes, sir. That’s all.”
Anderson tilts his head at me. “No new surges of anger? No questions about what we’re doing here? No concerns over the well-being of the boy”—he points—“or the powers he might have?”
“No, sir.”
“I see,” he says. I stare.
Anderson takes a deep breath and undoes a button of his blazer. He pushes both hands through his hair. Begins to pace.
He’s becoming flustered, I realize, and I don’t know what to do about it. “It’s almost funny,” he says. “This is exactly what I wanted, and yet,
somehow, I’m disappointed.”
He takes a deep, sharp breath, and spins around. Studies me.
“What would you do,” he says, nodding his head an inch to his left, “if I asked you to throw yourself out that window?”
I turn, examining the large window looming over us both.
It’s a massive, circular stained glass window that takes up half the wall. Colors scatter across the ground, creating a beautiful, distracted work of art over the polished concrete floors. I walk over to window, run my fingers along the ornate panes of glass. I peer down at the expanse of green below. We’re at least five hundred feet above the ground, but the distance doesn’t inspire my fear. I could make that jump easily, without injury.
I look up. “I would do it with pleasure, sir.”
He takes a step closer. “What if I asked you to do it without using your powers? What if it was simply my desire that you throw yourself out the window?”
A wave of searing, blistering heat moves through me, seals shut my mouth. Binds my arms. I can’t pry my own mouth open against the terrifying assault, but I can only imagine it’s part of this challenge.
Anderson must be trying to test my allegiance.
He must be trying to trap me into a moment of disobedience. Which means I need to prove myself. My loyalty.
It takes an extraordinary amount of my own supernatural strength to fight back the invisible forces clamping my mouth shut, but I manage it. And when I can finally speak, I say,
“I would do it with pleasure, sir.”
Anderson takes yet another step closer, his eyes glittering with something
— Something brand-new. Something akin to wonder. “Would you, really?” he says softly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you do anything I asked you to do? Anything at all?” “Yes, sir.”
Anderson’s still holding my gaze when he lifts his wrist to his mouth again and says quietly:
“Come in here. Now.” He drops his hand.
My heart begins to pound. Anderson refuses to look away from me, his eyes growing bluer and brighter by the second. It’s almost like he knows that his eyes alone are enough to upset my equilibrium. And then, without warning, he grabs my wrist. I realize too late that he’s checking my pulse.
“So fast,” he says softly. “Like a little bird. Tell me, Juliette. Are you afraid?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you excited?” “I— I don’t know, sir.”
The door slides open and Anderson drops my wrist. For the first time in minutes, Anderson looks away from me, finally breaking some painful, invisible connection between us. My body goes slack with relief and, remembering myself, I quickly straighten.
A man walks in.
Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. He’s young, younger than Anderson, I think, but older than me. He wears a headset. He looks uncertain.
“Juliette,” Anderson says, “this is Darius.” I turn to face Darius.
Darius says nothing. He looks paralyzed.
“I won’t be requiring Darius’s services anymore,” Anderson says, glancing in my direction.
Darius blanches. Even from where I’m standing, I can see his body begin to tremble.
“Sir?” I say, confused.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Anderson says. “I would like you to dispose of him.” Understanding dawns. “Certainly, sir.”
The moment I turn in Darius’s direction, he screams; it’s a sharp, bloodcurdling sound that irritates my ears. He makes a run for the door and I pivot quickly, throwing out my arm to stop him. The force of my power sends him flying the rest of the way to the exit, his body slamming hard against the steel wall.
He slumps, with a soft moan, to the ground. I open my palm. He screams.
Power surges through me, filling my blood with fire. The feeling is intoxicating. Delicious.
I lift my hand and Darius’s body lifts off the floor, his head thrown back in agony, his body run through by invisible rods. He continues to scream and the sound fills my ears, floods my body with endorphins. My skin hums with his energy. I close my eyes.
Then I close my fist.
Fresh screams pierce the silence, echoing around the vast, cavernous space. I feel a smile tugging at my lips and I lose myself in the feeling, in the freedom of my own power. There’s a joy in this, in using my strength so freely, in finally letting go.
Bliss.
My eyes flutter open but I feel drugged, deliriously happy as I watch his seized, suspended body begin to convulse. Blood spurts from his nose, bubbles up inside his open, gasping mouth. He’s choking. Nearly dead. And I’m just beginning t—
The fire leaves my body so suddenly it sends me stumbling backward. Darius falls, with a bone-cracking thud, to the floor.
A desperate emptiness burns through me, leaves me feeling faint. I hold my hands up as if in prayer, trying to figure out what happened, feeling suddenly close to tears. I spin around, trying to understand—
Anderson is pointing a weapon at me. I drop my hands.
Anderson drops his weapon.
Power surges through me once more and I take a deep, grateful breath, finding relief in the feeling as it floods my senses, refilling my veins. I blink several times, trying to clear my head, but it’s Darius’s pathetic, agonized whimpers that bring me back to the present moment. I stare at his broken body, the shallow pools of blood on the floor. I feel vaguely annoyed.
“Incredible.” I turn around.
Anderson is staring at me with unvarnished amazement. “Incredible,” he says again. “That was incredible.”
I stare at him, uncertain. “How do you feel?” he asks. “Disappointed, sir.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Why disappointed?”
I glance at Darius. “Because he’s still alive, sir. I didn’t complete the task.”
Anderson’s face breaks into a smile so wide it electrifies his features. He looks young. He looks kind. He looks wonderful.
“My God,” he says softly. “You’re perfect.”
