Whispers in Autumn (12 page)

My own panic rises, emotions flailing haplessly as I search for a solution. The temperature in the kitchen climbs toward unbearable. Steam rises out of the water-filled pots in the sink and fogs up the windows. Custard, simmering on the stove, starts to boil.

Do something. Anything
!

“Dad! Stop her, she needs a Healer!”

My voice spurs Mr. Morgan into action and he crosses the small kitchen in three steps, grabbing his Partner by the arm. He speaks in a soothing voice, the fixed smile never leaving his face. “Now, Angie, calm down. I don’t know what’s wrong, but we’re going to get you fixed up.”

Their eyes lock, hers huge and incredulous. “Fixed up? I don’t want to be fixed up. I want to be free! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see what they’ve done? What’s happened to everyone?”

Each shouted word pushes Mr. Morgan farther away. His hands cover his ears as he falls back into his chair at the dinner table where he gawks at his Partner. She scans the room in an unceasing circle, making me worry her eyeballs might fall out of her head. The thought of hurting her closes my throat, but my choices ooze away like sap down a tree trunk. She shrinks away as I approach, as though she’s hoping to disappear right through the door.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. All I know is she has to shut up.

Without any idea of how to accomplish this, I reach out and grab her shoulders as tight as I dare. She meets my eyes, terror widening her pupils until all I see is black.

“You know what they’ve done, don’t you? What are you?” She whispers the words so softly there’s no way Mr. Morgan hears. For a moment I’m too stunned to move. The need to question her overtakes my fear, but then Mr. Morgan gets up from his chair again, moving toward us with uncertain steps. Before he gets close enough to ask what I’m doing or what she’s saying, I shove her.

Hard.

CHAPTER 12.

The crack of her head against the door makes me sick, and my hands fall from her shoulders. Mrs. Morgan’s eyes roll back in her head and flutter shut as she slumps to the floor at my feet.

Mr. Morgan stares over my shoulder, looking down at his Partner with his mouth hanging open. “What happened?”

He’d seen the entire thing. Hadn’t he?

“She, um, collapsed. Get her to the couch. I’ll call the Healer.”

He scoops Mrs. Morgan off the floor and disappears into the living room. Disbelief crowds my mind as the back door holds me upright. I knocked someone out. My fake mother, no less. Giggles threaten to erupt, out of place and inappropriate. I’m probably in the process of Breaking.

Stalling any longer will do nothing except arouse suspicion. The communication console is in the den, down the dimly lit hall behind the third door on the left. A standard fifty-two-inch screen hangs suspended on the wall to my right. Mr. Morgan’s desk sits across from it, a twenty-inch model mounted to the top. The large screen is for connecting with his work supervisors. Mr. Morgan works in Travel. His days have to be boring, given that few people travel except the Others, and they don’t need people like Mr. Morgan. They come and go as they please.

The smaller screen on the desk is for contacting the Others. Healers are human, but we aren’t allowed direct communication with one another. We have to go through
them
.

There’s a red button on the lower right-hand side of the screen that connects me to an operator of sorts. I push it, and after a second an Other pops up, sitting behind a large desk. His blond hair is grown out past his ears and shines like the sun is pouring onto it. The empty, glinting black gaze threatens to swallow me whole.

I avert my gaze, his stunning features sparking a sharp, persistent ache behind my eyes. I look to the side of the screen so I can see him, but not directly.

His voice matches his expression. Exquisite but bored. “Yes, how can I help?”

My features rearrange into a pleasant expression. “My mother collapsed. We need a Healer.”

“Very well.” He taps a few buttons on the screen in front of him. “One has been dispatched. Estimated arrival time: three and a half minutes. Good day.”

He clicks another button without waiting for a response and the screen goes black. Lingering in the darkness for a minute helps me calm down, but my skin heats up again when the front door buzzes.

I drag myself out of the den and back toward the living room. Mrs. Morgan lies on the couch with Mr. Morgan kneeling on the floor beside her. His face betrays keen interest but no worry, lacks even a touch of concern. Even an evening this out of the ordinary can’t get under his skin.

A middle-aged man, presumably the Healer, hovers over them both. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Standing in the shadowy hallway, my presence still undetected, I hold my breath and wait. My legs ache with unspent energy, ready to take off running at the first whiff of trouble.

Mr. Morgan rubs his face, the first chink in his armor since the episode began. “She…well, we were eating dinner. Then she started shouting funny things and went to the back door like she was going to run outside. Then our daughter, Thea…Thea, where are you?”

I slink forward, still with a clear path to the front door.

“Ah, there you are. Anyhow, Thea suggested we needed a Healer because of how Angie looked—her eyes were rolling around and wild. Then she just fell down on the floor. I carried her in here and Thea went to call you.”

Utter disbelief pours through me at Mr. Morgan’s version of the story. He didn’t even mention my outburst. The air around me, previously sticky and hot, drops a few degrees. Something thick and oily drips in globs between my fingers. When I jerk my hand off the wall, its imprint remains melted into the paint.

Oops
. Good thing the hallway is dark.

The Healer’s eyebrows, thick and reddish brown like his hair, scrunch together. He rubs his generous waistline with one hand and considers this information. He places a hand on Mrs. Morgan’s chest, then touches her forehead. “Go grab a wet towel, please, girl?”

I don’t want to go, but I don’t refuse. Enough rules have been broken for one night. And this way I can rinse the white paint off my hand.

The kitchen light is still on, the scene a blaring reminder of what transpired. Feeling guilty, I right my chair and return it to its place at the table. I grab Mrs. Morgan’s from where it’s scooted near the door and reposition it as well. The custard burns on the stove with an acrid, sweeter-than-candy smell. I dump it in the sink and fill the pot with water. The rags are in a drawer by the stove. I wet one down, fold it, and return to the living room.

The Healer takes it from me and places it on Mrs. Morgan’s forehead while I resume my post by the front door. My mind races, attempting to make some sort of sense out of what’s happening. How after all these years Mrs. Morgan finally
saw
me, recognized me for what I am—whatever that is.

The Healer looks thoughtful, his jewel green eyes studying his patient. “I believe, based on what you told me, that your Partner is going to be fine. Her vital signs are strong but she meets several criteria. I’m going to have to take her with me for observation.”

“Criteria? What criteria?” My mouth races ahead of my brain. Luckily, the Healer doesn’t seem to think it’s odd.

“If an injury or illness has certain symptoms I’m required to have the Regional Healer examine her before she returns to her life.”

“What’s a Regional Healer?”

His eyes narrow on mine. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, um. I’m about to get a Career at the end of the year and I’m interested in healing, that’s all.”

He laughs, loosening my anxiety a bit.

“Don’t set your sights on being a Regional Healer, girl. He is Other.” He turns to Mr. Morgan. “Where is the communicator?”

“Down the hall. Thea will show you.”

I retrace my earlier steps as the Healer’s words echo in my mind.
The Regional Healer is Other
. He might be able to tell what really happened to Mrs. Morgan.

I do my best to stay calm with the Healer trailing me into the den. After he sits behind the desk, he waits for me to leave the room before turning on the device. I linger outside the door, hoping to overhear the conversation.

The same voice that greeted me spouts out a moment later. “Yes, how can I help?”

“There is an illness here that needs to be reviewed by the Regional Healer. Please send transport.” The Healer’s voice booms confidently, even though he probably doesn’t have to do this often. The term Regional Healer is new to me. One more thing they never told us about.

“Describe criteria met.” The voice remains flat and unimpressed by the staggering events of my evening. Imagining the handsome face doesn’t hurt like looking at it does.

“Talking oddly. Attempting to run away.” The Healer ticks the insane events off like a list of homework.

“That is Acceptable. Transport is on its way. Estimated arrival time: four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Good day.”

The sound of the Healer’s muted footsteps approaching the door gets me moving. I sprint down the hall and shut myself in the wasteroom before he walks past. The sound of my erratic breathing fills the dark silence until I hear rider doors slam shut outside.

Back in the living room, two Others march through the open front door, some sort of bed suspended between them. The sight of the technology catches me off guard; it’s not something the Others share with us. Seeing it stretches the gulf between our species so wide that their side is no longer visible from mine. The fluffy-looking mattress floats waist-high beside the couch, proving their superiority without a word.

The Others stand at each end, not dressed like any Wardens I’ve ever seen. The realization stops me short. Besides Wardens, I’ve never seen Others in person. These two wear identical white shirts with short sleeves, pants, and pristine white sneakers. Besides their clothing, though, they look the same. Longish golden hair. Black eyes. Symmetrical features. Intimidating. Painful.

My gaze slides to their necks. It’s there. The mark shaped like the star of my locket.

They lift Mrs. Morgan, one grabbing her head, the second scooping up her feet. It takes me back to the afternoon when the Wardens did the same to Greg’s body. These two take more care with Mrs. Morgan as they settle her among the bed’s white folds. Leather straps, invisible until now, snake up and secure her feet, hands, and forehead without help. One of the Others flicks his long, tanned finger and the cot floats toward the door. The Healer acts like he’s seen this before, but Mr. Morgan’s eyes are as wide as mine.

As one Other follows the cot outside, the second turns to Mr. Morgan. “You and your daughter will come with us.”

CHAPTER 13.

Mr. Morgan nods and stands without a hitch. I have no idea what to do. To hesitate will make it clear they should be suspicious of me. To go with them could mean being found out. They don’t wait, expecting me to follow without protest, since everyone does what they say.

The Other ushers Mr. Morgan out the door and turns back, watching me through keen eyes. My brain urges my feet to step forward and my face to remain blank. Neutral is all that’s manageable right now, which must be Acceptable at a time like this.

If only he would move. The doorway grows narrower as I approach, constricting the path past him. He won’t miss the heat pouring off me or the swirling scent of jasmine.

A quick, focused attempt at calming down does little good. I walk the remaining half of the room and the heat in my face and palms, where it’s always the worst, heightens. The smell I can’t help, can’t turn off. Hopefully he’ll assume what Lucas did—that the fragrance is some sort of perfume.

I draw in a breath and hold it as our bodies draw near enough to touch. My mind screams in panic, and the odd voice that doesn’t sound quite like my own spreads words of comfort through my head.

He’s waiting for you to pass. He did the same thing with Mr. Morgan. Stay cool. Literally
.