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THIRTY-SIX

JAX’S DISTRACTION COMES IN THE FORM OF blowing up a garage that sits far enough from the main house that we aren’t in imminent danger but close enough that the security force acts swiftly, giving us the opportunity to slip out of an entrance at the back of the house. As smoke pours from the wreckage, we flee the estate in the stolen crawler, Dante and Valery tucked safely inside with a bag of food and water. Jax has kept his word—everyone is too busy to see us go and the gates are unattended. I don’t look back at Kincaid’s playground. There’s nothing left for me there. Jost drives north, following a rough map Dante has drafted.

“Hopefully, the men notice I’m gone first,” Jost says, his hands white knuckled on the steering wheel. “They’ll probably assume I’m out somewhere killing Erik. It’s actually a fantastic alibi.”

“Yeah,” Dante says, from the backseat. “Because it’s very believable.”

“To be clear,” Erik says, “you probably won’t kill me though?”

“The night is young.”

“Let’s get to the island before we kill each other,” Dante suggests in a mild tone that grows weaker as the adrenaline wears off.

We collapse into silence after this, the somewhat good-natured threat still hanging in the air. Although it’s clear now that everyone knows about the drama between Jost, Erik, and me.

Now that we’re off the estate, the road grows wild the farther we get from the inhabited Icebox. I turn around, hoping to stem the rolling nausea from our ride. “Dante,” I call, leaning my chin against my seat, “do you think Jax will be okay?”

We’d left him at the estate to deal with the fallout of the explosion. Dante grins. “He’ll be fine. He’s headed straight to the Agenda to let them know what’s happened so we can rendezvous with Falon later.”

“That night when I caught you in the cells,” I say, hoping this question doesn’t destroy Dante’s mood, “did you get my mother out?” I’ve been wondering since I found him strapped to the exam table, not knowing when or how he’d been taken.

Dante swallows hard and nods, but he doesn’t give me any details.

Her freedom means she’ll come after me again, but I have new enemies to worry about. The woman I knew as my mother is already dead. Even if I alter her I don’t think I can erase what’s happened. Would she remember what she’s done? The people she’s killed? I’ve spent enough nights contemplating how my own actions have led to deaths: Enora, my father, the nameless threads I ripped in cold blood. I was passive in those actions but I feel their blood on my hands like the sticky, black substance that coated my feet on the night of my retrieval. I can’t dismiss the past, it lives in my head and infects me. Even with her soul back, her morality intact, would my mother be able to calm the bitter truth of what she’s done?

And I know one thing for certain, my mother would want me to push forward, to find the Whorl, to get to Amie. I haven’t given up on that yet. I won’t let Arras and Earth be severed without reaching Amie first and removing her from Cormac’s control.

But Loricel’s words the good of the many whisper in my mind. I can’t sacrifice a world for a sister as much as I can’t sacrifice an opportunity for my mother. If I did, the groans of the dead would haunt me, calling to me, slowly driving me insane. Loricel asked me to think about my choices. At a loom to help others she made decisions. I have no loom now—merely passion swelling up inside me like a flooding dam ready to burst into action. Sometimes the only way to serve the greater good is to fight.

We pass along the coast in silence, weaving through abandoned metros, past service stations crawling with vines, tiny saltbox homes, and an endless series of unlit relics. No signs of life appear. I wonder what lies at the heart of the Interface. Someday, when this is over, I will explore and rebuild Earth. If I find nothing, I’ll build my own world.

I look behind me. Erik rides silently. Even if Jost knows nothing happened between Erik and me, it’s meaningless. I didn’t kiss Erik, but I wanted to. I ripped a deeper void between them than can ever be patched.

Erik didn’t kiss me that night either, because he loves his brother despite everything that’s passed between them.

Now that we’ve driven beyond the Interface’s boundary, overhead a sprinkling of stars peek out and the moon perches in the gray night sky. In Arras, a Spinster moves the time along, determining how the light will fade, whether the sunset will be orange or rose or purple. She places a false moon in the sky. Earth is a world born from nothing but potential. I think of the books in Kincaid’s library. The ones that contain theories on Earth’s origin, positing everything from a cataclysmic spasm in the universe to a creator placing it here, placing us here. I’ve seen in Arras what comes of the idea of a creator; I like the idea of randomness better. That we are born of infinite possibility and fade back into the fabric of the universe to feed new life. That the moon perches overhead simply because, and nothing more. I don’t want to live my life at the hands of another, I want to live my life now, deciding my own fate.

Whatever lies ahead of us on Alcatraz could change everything, but I choose the path of self-determination. Whether we find the Whorl—if we accomplish the separation of the worlds—I will listen to myself. My fingers find the techprint on my wrist.

I’m not meant to remember who I am. I have to discover who I am.

Alcatraz Island is full of men and women with scarred skin that shimmers and shifts. It’s not the decrepit old facility we expected. It’s full of white light that bounces off metal tables and blank walls. There are no bars on the cells, only thick glass. The prisoners beat against it, lick it, scratch at it, leaving bloody streaks from deeply torn nails behind, but we can’t hear them. We hear only a low hum from the energy powering this place. It must take so much of it, I think. The hum grows louder until it’s pulsing thick in my ears and I can feel it there in my head, under my skin, behind my eyes. I try to shake it out but it won’t fade. I tug on Dante’s hand. He’s closest to me, but he keeps walking forward, down a hall toward the black doors at the other end. He can’t hear me in here either. I cry out, but I can’t hear myself over the pounding in my ears. Around us more Remnants gather at the transparent walls of their cells, and they start thumping against the glass. Their faces constrict into masks of ferocious concentration. Their hands are balled in fists. I don’t have to hear them, because I can feel it. The ground beneath me shakes and concrete pillars spit dust over us as though the prison will collapse at any moment.

I run to Jost and pull on his arm, warning him to hurry, that they’re going to break loose. But when he turns around his hair grows lighter, and he morphs into Erik. I scream.

“Ad!” Dante’s call startles me from the dream and I arch in my seat, running a hand over my bleary eyes.

“You were asleep,” Erik says. He’s grabbed on to my seat, clutching it for balance.

“It was a nightmare,” I murmur, my mouth full of cotton.

“No one here to drug you,” Erik says with a wry smile, but it’s too soon to laugh about Kincaid’s betrayal.

“You want to stop for a second?” Dante asks, pulling Erik back in his seat. “Walk around?”

I shake my head. I want to put distance between Kincaid and the horrors of the estate. I want to move forward. More than anything I want to get to the Whorl—my future—and get on with it. I’m not eager to have total control of Arras, but I can’t let someone else have it either. Certainly not Kincaid. The Whorl will give me a chance to right so many of my mistakes.

The world outside the crawler is dark with night, and above us the sky is black and full of stars and milky bands of light. The ocean laps against the road, and I can see where parts of the pavement have crumbled and fallen into the sea.

“You think that bridge is safe?” Erik asks, his focus ahead on the faded burgundy bridge in the distance.

“Probably not,” Jost answers. “But we don’t have to cross it anyway.”

He takes one hand off the wheel and points outside to something planted firmly in the ocean—a towered compound rising up from the water. The familiarity of the stone towers unnerves me.

“What is that?” I breathe.

“Alcatraz Island,” Dante says. “It was a prison before the Exodus. The Guild keeps the Whorl there now. That man who came through the loophole—he found out about it.”

“After all these years,” I say, staring across the ocean, “you’ve found it.”

Jost slows the crawler when we reach a patch of shoreline that’s intact. It’s full of rocks and long, winding grass.

“High tide,” Erik informs me, helping me out of the back of the crawler.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Fisherman’s son,” he reminds me. “The water has risen as close to the shore as possible. When the tide goes back out, the shore will stretch farther out.”

“What’s underneath it?”

“The water? Rocks and seaweed and seashells.”

“Seashells?”

“You’ve never seen a seashell?”

“No, I have. On the Stream, at least. But I’ve never seen the ocean until now.” The fake one programmed into my window screens at the Coventry don’t count.

“I never taught you to swim.” Erik’s words are an apology as he sweeps a finger along my jaw.

I bite the inside of my cheek, daring to say the thing I shouldn’t. “You will.”

I wander down to the fringe of the water with Erik, wishing it was daylight and warm enough to slip my toes in and feel the sea. The water goes on forever, at moments peaceful and then bursting with a wave that washes down with mighty force, nearly reaching our feet.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

“I ran from my village,” Erik whispers, “but I never stopped missing it.”

“Was it like this? The Endless Sea?”

“Yes and no. It was calmer. Why control the ocean if you can’t control it?” he points out.

“Why control it at all?” I wonder aloud as I stare at the magnificent, powerful waves. I can imagine how lovely the ocean’s strands would feel on a loom, strong and slick and ancient, but they can’t compare to standing here, looking out and never seeing where it ends.

“Mind giving us a hand?” Jost calls, and I turn to see he’s spread a thick plastic sheet on the ground.

“What’s that?”

“Our raft. I mean, if we’re still going,” he replies, pain edging into his words. Is that what it will always be like? Hurting him to exchange a few words with Erik? Would it be better to hurt Erik by ignoring him to spare Jost? Behind me the ocean laps on, beating against the shore in rhythmic bursts, reminding me that I’m small and insignificant.

Erik and Jost set to work, inflating the raft until it’s a large boat that, to be honest, looks a little flimsy considering we have to get out past these waves.

“How will we get out there?” I ask, staring at the frail raft.

Jost and Erik exchange a look, a first since we fled the estate. The fact is that the ocean is their territory and there’s no sense denying that now.

“We’ll push you out,” Erik says.

“How?” Valery asks, alarmed. She’s been quiet most of the trip, but I don’t blame her for speaking up now.

“You’ll sit in the raft and we’ll swim it out,” he replies.

“Is that a good idea?”

“I’ll help,” Dante volunteers.

“You spend much time in the ocean?” Jost asks.

Dante shakes his head. He’s their equal in size and strength, but even I know that doesn’t mean he has the skill to navigate this water.

“We can do this,” Erik assures us. “Fisherman’s sons, remember?”

I swallow and force a nod. I like this idea less and less, but I have to trust that they have the skill to do it. Meanwhile Dante passes foam suits to us.

“Put this on,” he orders. “That water is cold enough to kill you if you go in.”

If we go in, I think, I’m not worried about the cold. But I struggle to get my suit on. In the end, Valery and I help each other with the difficult zippers on the thick, fitted suits. Jost and Erik have theirs on before we’ve sealed the sleeves, making them waterproof. When the suit is on, it flexes enough for me to move, but it’s tight.

“And once we’re out there?” I ask, forcing myself to think ahead. I don’t like the idea of sitting in a raft while two of the people I care most for in the world drown.

“Paddle,” Jost says, swinging a long stick up for me to see.

I eye it apprehensively. “You want me to do what with that?”

Jost swings it in a small circle, dipping the flat end of it and then raising it back up for a split second before dipping it through the air once more. “I’ll call beats from behind. Right and left. If we’re going to get across this current, we’ll need to time things well.”

Behind him the water smashes hard against the rocks, each wave unpredictable. How are we supposed to get across that?

“We have four paddles,” Jost says. “Ad and Dante will each take a side in the front, and we’ll take the rear once we’ve got you over the surf.”

“And me?” Valery asks, her voice lacking the miffed tone she usually takes when she’s left out.

“You sit in the middle and look pretty,” Erik says.

She gives him a scathing look, but lets him help her into the center of the raft.

“What if we go over?” I ask. The wind has picked up and it bites against my face.

“If you go over, we can’t help you,” Jost says. “Once we’re out there, you’re gone. This current is fast.”

I find myself looking for a bridge or a boat or something that isn’t going to result in my drowning, but I know we don’t have time. Since the tide is still high, Dante and I wade in a few feet behind the raft. A wave crashes down across my ankles and I’m surprised at its force. I can’t imagine how we’ll ever get past the surf.

Erik’s arm slides around my waist, taking me by surprise. He steadies me as I climb into the raft and hands me a paddle.

I must look nervous because he leans down to my ear. “Dip it in when he says right. As soon as we get past the big waves, I’ll be there behind you.”

I nod, which makes my ear brush against his lips.

Jost and Erik push the raft hard against the tide and we catch a large wave. For a moment Jost’s head disappears below the surface, and a scream rises in my throat but he reappears, pushing us harder. I don’t like this, especially when the raft catches a wave and we ride up, threatening to tip over. My nerves twist with each surge of water, but the brothers get us past them. Once the rolling tidal waves are behind us, they both hoist themselves over the side and onto the raft. They have to be freezing, even in their suits, but they set to paddling immediately.

The current tries to push us west, to the middle of the ocean and away from the island, but we beat on against it. I dip my paddle in unison with Jost’s orders, although the wind catches his voice and carries off many of the commands. At a distance the waves seem small, but as they crest closer, my heart pounds. I concentrate on timing my paddle strokes to control the helpless panic threatening to break over me with each new swell.

The prison is in sight, towering on the horizon. It stretches across the island, demanding my total focus. All of the answers lie there.

A wave seizes us, and I miss the beat. The force of the ocean knocks the paddle from my hands, and without thinking I reach out for it. I barely have time to register the panic and take a final breath before I go under.

The water is black and cold, and it pushes me with ancient force. My arms stroke against the pressure, but it pushes me farther down until my muscles are on fire. Slowly the burning dissipates and I relax, letting the water take me down, down, down. I open my mouth and let it flow into me until I am the ocean itself. But when the last of the air seeps from my body, I gulp against the pressure until my lungs stop trying and everything goes black.