It’s been four days.
Four days of nothing. J is still sleeping. The twins are calling it a coma, but I’m calling it sleeping. I’m choosing to believe J is just really, really tired. She just needs to sleep off some stress and she’ll be fine. This is what I keep telling everyone.
She’ll be fine.
“She’s just tired,” I say to Brendan. “And when she wakes up she’ll be glad we waited for her to go get James. It’ll be fine.”
We’re in the Q, which is short for the quiet tent, which is stupid because it’s never quiet in here. The Q is the default common room. It’s a gathering space slash game room where people at the Sanctuary get together in the evenings and relax. I’m in the kitchen area, leaning against the insubstantial counter. Brendan and Winston and Ian and I are waiting for the electric kettle to boil.
Tea.
This was Brendan’s idea, of course. For some reason, we could never get our hands on tea back at Omega Point. We only had coffee, and it was seriously rationed. Only after we moved onto base in Sector 45 did Brendan realize we could get our hands on tea, but even then he wasn’t so militant about it.
But here—
Brendan’s made it his mission to force hot tea down our throats every night. He doesn’t even need the caffeine—his ability to manipulate electricity always keeps his body charged—but he says he likes it because he finds the ritual soothing. So, whatever. Now we gather in the evenings and drink tea. Brendan puts milk in his tea. Winston adds whiskey. Ian and I drink it black.
“Right?” I say, when no one answers me. “I mean, a coma is basically just a really long nap. J will be fine. The girls will get her better, and then she’ll be fine, and everything will be fine. And James and Adam will be fine, obviously, because Sam’s seen them and she says they’re fine.”
“Sam saw them and said they were unconscious,” Ian says, opening and closing cabinets. When he finds what he’s looking for—a sleeve of cookies
—he rips the package open. He doesn’t even have a chance to pull one free before Winston’s swiped it.
“Those cookies are for our tea,” he says sharply. Ian glowers.
We all glance at Brendan, who seems oblivious to the sacrifices being made in his honor. “Yes, Sam said that they were unconscious,” he says, collecting small spoons from a drawer. “But she also said they looked stable. Alive.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing at Brendan. “Thank you. Stable. Alive. These are the critical words.”
Brendan takes the rescued sleeve of cookies from Winston’s proffered hand, and begins arranging dishes and flatware with a confidence that baffles us all. He doesn’t look up when he says, “It’s really kind of amazing, isn’t it?”
Winston and I share a confused look.
“I wouldn’t call it amazing,” Ian says, plucking a spoon from the tray. He examines it. “But I guess forks and shit are pretty cool, as far as inventions go.”
Brendan frowns. Looks up. “I’m talking about Sam. Her ability to see across long distances.” He retrieves the spoon from Ian’s hand and replaces it on the tray. “What a remarkable skill.”
Sam’s preternatural ability to see across long distances was what convinced us of Anderson’s threats to begin with. Several days ago—when we first got the news about the kidnapping—she’d used both data and sheer determination to pinpoint Anderson’s location to our old base at Sector 45. She’d spent a straight fourteen hours searching, and though she hadn’t been able to get a visual on the other supreme kids, she’d been able to see flickers of James and Adam, who are the only ones I care about anyway. Those flickers of life—unconscious, but alive and stable—aren’t much in the way of assurances, but I’m willing to take anything at this point.
“Anyway, yeah. Sam is great,” I say, stretching out against the counter. “Which brings me back to my original point: Adam and James are going to be fine. And J is going to wake up soon and be fine. The world owes me at least that much, right?”
Brendan and Ian exchange glances. Winston takes off his glasses and cleans them, slowly, with the hem of his shirt.
The electric kettle pops and steams. Brendan drops a couple of tea bags into a proper teapot and fills its porcelain belly with the hot water from the kettle. He then wraps the teapot in a towel and hands it to Winston, and the two of them carry everything over to the little corner of the room we’ve been claiming for ourselves lately. It’s nothing major, just a cluster of seats with a couple of low tables in the middle. The rest of the room is abuzz with activity. Lots of talking and mingling.
Nouria and Sam are alone in a corner, deep in conversation. Castle is talking quietly with the girls, Sonya and Sara. We’ve all been spending a lot of time here—pretty much everyone has—ever since the Sanctuary was declared officially on lockdown. We’re all in this weird limbo right now; there’s so much happening, but we’re not allowed to leave the grounds. We can’t go anywhere or do anything about anything. Not yet, anyway. Just waiting for J to wake up.
Any minute now.
There are a ton of other people here, too—but only some I’m beginning to recognize. I nod hello to a couple of people I know only by name, and drop into a soft, well-worn armchair. It smells like coffee and old wood in here, but I’m starting to like it. It’s becoming a familiar routine. Brendan, as usual, finishes setting everything up on the coffee table. Teacups, spoons, little plates and triangle napkins. A little pitcher for milk. He’s really, really into this whole thing. He readjusts the cookies he’d already arranged on a plate, and smooths out the paper napkins. Ian stares at him with the same expression every night—like Brendan is crazy.
“Hey,” Winston says sharply. “Knock it off.”
“Knock what off ?” Ian says, incredulous. “Come on, man, you don’t think this is a little weird? Having tea parties every night?”
Winston lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’ll kill you if you ruin this for him.”
“All right, enough. I’m not deaf, you know.” Brendan narrows his eyes at Ian. “And I don’t care if you lot think it’s weird. I’ve little left of England,
save this.”
That shuts us up.
I stare at the teapot. Brendan says it’s steeping.
And then, suddenly, he claps his hands together. He stares straight at me, his ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair giving me Warner vibes. But somehow, even with all his bright, white, cold hues, Brendan is the opposite of Warner. Unlike Warner, Brendan glows. He’s warm. Kind. Naturally hopeful and super smiley.
Poor Winston.
Winston, who’s secretly in love with Brendan and too afraid of ruining their friendship to say anything about it. Winston thinks he’s too old for Brendan, but the thing is— he’s not getting any younger, either. I keep telling Winston that if he wants to make a move, he should do it now, while he’s still got his original hips, and he says, Ha ha I’ll murder you, asshole, and reminds me he’s waiting for the right moment. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’ll keep it inside forever. And I’m worried it might kill him.
“So, listen,” Brendan says carefully. “We wanted to talk to you.” I blink, refocusing. “Who? Me?”
I glance around at their faces. Suddenly, they all look serious. Too serious. I try to laugh when I ask, “What’s going on? Is this some kind of intervention?”
“Yes,” Brendan says. “Sort of.” I go suddenly stiff.
Brendan sighs.
Winston scratches a spot on his forehead.
Ian says, “Juliette is probably going to die, you know that, right?”
Relief and irritation flood through me simultaneously. I manage to roll my eyes and shake my head at the same time. “Stop doing this, Sanchez. Don’t be that guy. It’s not funny anymore.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
I roll my eyes again, this time looking to Winston for support, but he just shakes his head at me. His eyebrows furrow so hard his glasses slip down his nose. He tugs them off his face.
“This is serious,” he says. “She’s not okay. And even if she does wake up again— I mean, whatever happened to her—”
“She’s not going to be the same,” Brendan finishes for him.
“Says who?” I frown. “The girls said—”
“Bro, the girls said that something about her chemistry changed. They’ve been running tests on her for days. Emmaline did something weird to her— something that’s, like, physically altered her DNA. Plus, her brain is fried.”
“I know what they said,” I snap, irritated. “I was there when they said it. But the girls were just being cautious. They think it’s possible that whatever happened to her might’ve left some damage, but—this is Sonya and Sara we’re talking about. They can heal anything. All we need to do is wait for J to wake up.”
Winston shakes his head again. “They wouldn’t be able to heal something like that,” he says. “The girls can’t repair that kind of neurological devastation. They might be able to keep her alive, but I’m not sure they’ll be able t—”
“She might not even wake up,” Ian says, cutting him off. “Like, ever. Or, best-case scenario, she could be in a coma for years. Listen, the point here is that we need to start making plans without her. If we’re going to save James and Adam, we need to go now. I know Sam’s been checking on them, and I know she says they’re stable for now, but we can’t wait anymore. Anderson doesn’t know what happened to Juliette, which means he’s still waiting for us to give her up. Which means Adam and James are still at risk— Which means we’re running out of time. And, for once,” he says, taking a breath, “I’m not the only one who feels this way.”
I sit back, stunned. “You’re messing with me, right?” Brendan pours tea.
Winston pulls a flask out of his pocket and weighs it in his hand before holding it out to me. “Maybe you should have this tonight,” he says.
I glare at him.
He shrugs, and empties half the flask into his teacup.
“Listen,” Brendan says gently. “Ian is a beast with no bedside manner, but he’s not wrong. It’s time to think of a new plan. We all still love Juliette, it’s just—” He cuts himself off, frowns. “Wait, is it Juliette or Ella? Was there ever a consensus?”
I’m still scowling when I say, “I’m calling her Juliette.” “But I thought she wanted to be called Ella,” Winston says.
“She’s in a fucking coma,” Ian says, and takes a loud sip of tea. “She doesn’t care what you call her.”
“Don’t be such a brute,” Brendan says. “She’s our friend.”
“Your friend,” he mutters.
“Wait— Is that what this is about?” I sit forward. “Are you jealous she never best-friended you, Sanchez?”
Ian rolls his eyes, looks away.
Winston is watching with fascinated interest.
“All right, drink your tea,” Brendan says, biting into a biscuit. He gestures at me with the half-eaten cookie. “It’s getting cold.”
I shoot him a tired look, but I take an obligatory sip and nearly choke. It tastes weird tonight. And I’m about to push it away when I realize Brendan is still staring at me, so I take a long, disgusting pull of the dark liquid before replacing the cup in the saucer. I try not to gag.
“Okay,” I say, slamming my palms down on my thighs. “Let’s put it to a vote: Who here thinks Ian is annoyed that J didn’t fall in love with him when she showed up at Point?”
Winston and Brendan share a look. Slowly, they both lift their hands. Ian rolls his eyes again. “Pendejos,” he mutters.
“The theory holds at least a little water,” Winston says.
“I have a girlfriend, dumbasses.” And as if on cue, Lily looks up from across the room, locks eyes with Ian. She’s sitting with Alia and some other girl I don’t recognize.
Lily waves.
Ian waves back.
“Yes, but you’re used to a certain level of attention,” Winston says, reaching for a biscuit. He looks up, scans the room. “Like those girls, right over there,” he says, gesturing with his head. “They’ve been staring at you since you walked in.”
“They have not,” Ian says, but he can’t help but glance over. “It’s true.” Brendan shrugs. “You’re a handsome guy.” Winston chokes on his tea.
“Okay, enough.” Ian holds up his hands. “I know you guys think this is hilarious, but I’m being serious. At the end of the day, Juliette is your friend. Not mine.”
I exhale dramatically.
Ian shoots me a look. “When she first showed up at Point, I tried reaching out to her, to offer her my friendship, and she never followed up. And even after we were taken hostage by Anderson”—he nods an acknowledgment at Brendan and Winston—“she took her sweet time trying
to get information out of Warner. She never gave a shit about the rest of us, and all we’ve ever done is put everything on the line to protect her.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Winston says, shaking his head. “She was in an awful position—”
“Whatever,” Ian mutters. He looks down, into his tea. “This whole situation is some kind of bullshit.”
“Cheers to that,” Brendan says, refilling his cup. “Now have more tea.” Ian mutters a quiet, angry thank-you, and lifts the cup to his lips.
Suddenly, he stiffens. “And then there’s this,” he says, raising an eyebrow. As if all that weren’t enough, we have to deal with this douche bag.” Ian gestures, with the teacup, toward the entrance.
Shit.
Warner is here.
“She brought him here,” Ian is saying, but he has the sense, at least, to keep his voice down. “It’s because of her that we have to tolerate this asshole.”
“To be fair, that was originally Castle’s idea,” I point out. Ian flips me off.
“What’s he doing here?” Brendan asks quietly.
I shake my head and take another unconscious sip of my disgusting tea. There’s something about the grossness that’s beginning to feel familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I look up again.
I haven’t spoken a word to Warner since that first day—The day J got attacked by Emmaline. He’s been a ghost since then. No one has really seen him, no one but the supreme kids, I think.
He went straight back to his roots.
It looks like he finally took a shower, though. No blood. And I’m guessing he healed himself, though there’s no way to be sure, because he’s fully clothed, wearing an outfit I can only assume was borrowed from Haider. A lot of leather.
I watch, for only a few seconds, as he stalks clear across the room— straight through people and conversations and apologizing to no one— toward Sonya and Sara, who are still talking to Castle.
Whatever.
Dude doesn’t even look at me anymore. Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. Not that I care. It’s not like we were actually friends.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Somehow I’ve already drained my teacup, because Brendan’s refilled it. I throw back the fresh cup in a couple of quick gulps and shove a dry biscuit in my mouth. And then I shake my head. “All right, we’re getting distracted,” I say, and the words feel just a little too loud, even to my own ears. “Focus, please.”
“Right,” Winston says. “Focus. What are we focusing on?”
“New mission,” Ian says, sitting back in his chair. He counts off on his fingers: “Save Adam and James. Kill the other supreme commanders. Finally get some sleep.”
“Nice and easy,” Brendan says. “I like it.”
“You know what?” I say. “I think I should go talk to him.” Winston raises an eyebrow. “Talk to who?”
“Warner, obviously.” My brain feels warm. A little fuzzy. “I should go talk to him. No one talks to him. Why are we just letting him revert back into an asshole? I should talk to him.”
“That’s a great idea,” Ian says, smiling as he sits forward. “Go for it.” “Don’t you dare listen to him,” Winston says, shoving Ian back into his
chair. “Ian just wants to watch you get murdered.” “Fucking rude, Sanchez.”
Ian shrugs.
“On an unrelated note,” Winston says to me. “How does your head feel?” I frown, gingerly touching my fingers to my skull. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” Winston says, “that this is probably a good time to tell you I’ve
been pouring whiskey in your tea all night.”
“What the hell?” I sit up too fast. Bad idea. “Why?” “You seemed stressed.”
“I’m not stressed.” Everyone stares at me.
“All right, whatever,” I say. “I’m stressed. But I’m not drunk.”
“No.” He peers at me. “But you probably need all the brain cells you can spare if you’re going to talk to Warner. I would. I’m not too proud to admit that I find him genuinely terrifying.”
Ian rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing terrifying about that guy. His only problem is that he’s an arrogant son of a puta with his own head stuck so far up his ass he ca—”
“Wait,” I say, blinking. “Where’d he go?”
Everyone spins around, looking for him.
I swear, five seconds ago he was standing right there. I swivel my head back and forth like a cartoon character, understanding only vaguely that I’m moving both a little too fast and a little too slow due to Winston, number one idiot slash well-meaning friend. But in the process of scanning the room for Warner, I spot the one person I’d been making an effort to avoid:
Nazeera.
I fling myself back down in my chair too hard, nearly knocking myself out. I hunch over, breathing a little funny, and then, for no rational reason, I start laughing. Winston, Ian, and Brendan are all staring at me like I’m insane, and I don’t blame them. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t even know why I’m hiding from Nazeera. There’s nothing scary about her, not exactly. Nothing more scary than the fact that we haven’t really discussed the last emotional conversation we had, shortly after she kicked me in the back and I nearly murdered her for it.
She told me I was her first kiss.
And then the sky melted and Juliette was possessed by her sister and the romantic moment was forever interrupted. It’s been about five days since she and I had that conversation, and ever since then it’s just been super stress and work and more stress and Anderson is an asshole and James and Adam are being held hostage.
Also: I’ve been pissed at her.
There’s a part of me that would really, really like to just carry her away to a private corner somewhere, but there’s another part of me that won’t allow it. Because I’m mad at her. She knew how much it meant to me to go after James, and she just shrugged it off with little to no sympathy. A little sympathy, I guess. But not much. Anyway, am I thinking too much? I think I’m thinking too much.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ian is staring at me, stunned. “Nazeera is here.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t know, Nazeera is here,” I say, keeping my voice low. “And I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Why not?”
“Because my head is stupid right now, that’s why not.” I glare at Winston. “You did this to me. You made my head stupid, and now I have to
avoid Nazeera, because if I don’t, I will almost certainly do and or say something extremely stupid and fuck everything up. So I need to hide.”
“Damn,” Ian says, and shrugs. “That’s too bad, because she’s heading straight here.”
I stiffen. Stare at him. And then, to Brendan: “Is he lying?” Brendan shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, mate.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Kenji.” I look up. She’s smiling.
Ugh, so pretty.
“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”
She looks around. Fights back a laugh. “I’m good,” she says. “How . . . are you?”
“Fine. Fine. Thanks for asking. It was nice seeing you.”
Nazeera glances from me to the other guys and back again. “I know you hate it when I ask you this, but— Are you drunk?”
“No,” I say too loudly. I slump down farther in my seat. “Not drunk. Just a little . . . fuzzy.” The whiskey is starting to settle now, warm, liquid fingers reaching up around my brain and squeezing.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Winston did it,” I say, and point. He shakes his head and sighs.
“All right,” Nazeera says, but I can hear the mild irritation in her voice. “Well, this is not the ideal situation, but I’m going to need you on your feet.”
“What?” I crane my head. Look at her. “Why?” “There’s been a development with Ella.”
“What kind of development?” I sit straight up, feeling suddenly sober. “Is she awake?”
Nazeera tilts her head. “Not exactly,” she says. “Then what?”
“You should come see for yourself.”
