The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) Read online

  “But she’s—I saw.” He’s shaking his head over and over as if he can’t get an image out of it.

  I close my fingers around his wrist. “She kinda looks like you. And she said your name—your birth name.” His eyes turn unbearably sad. “Is your surname Merchant?” I add, smirking.

  “Yeah.” His eyes narrow. “What?”

  “That’s a stupid name.”

  He gives me a little shove, his face falling into an expression I’m familiar with. He’s offended and amused and about to retort something heavy on the sarcasm. “Your surname is Vanella, Miya. You can make fun of me when your name doesn’t sound like a luxury food.”

  I make a face, glaring half-heartedly. “How did you find that out? I doubt Tom would say that in his sleep.”

  His grin is sly. Damn my sister!

  I launch myself on top of him, pinning him to the mattress and fighting him harmlessly. It’s less me being annoyed by his remark than it is distracting him from whatever memory he was drawn into.

  Siah pushes against my ribs with the heel of his hand, not even trying to unseat me from him. I thump his leg—the uninjured one—and he pinches my shoulder. He flips our positions, looming above me as if he’d actually hurt me. His face is moulded into an aggressive mask that might scare someone else. I run my fingers over the thin skin over his ribs and he laughs breathlessly, always so ticklish.

  “Never let me find a secret weapon,” I say. “I’ll always exploit it.”

  He scowls.

  I smirk up at him, smug at having the upper hand and he—of course he does—he kisses me. I push him away with my palm. His sigh of disappointment clouds the cold air.

  “You have to stop doing that,” I say. I feel like my insides are squirming but I won’t let this happen. I’ll fight it for as long as I can. I won’t let myself be discarded like all the other girls I’ve known. And even if he doesn’t use me and leave, I don’t want to be Yosiah’s Girl. If I let myself be with him that’s all I’ll be from then on. I’ll stop being Miya, just a possession, a girl and a man’s name.

  He brushes my shoulder and climbs off me. “That was the last time, I promise.”

  “Yeah.” I frown, unable to understand why the heaviness in my chest didn’t leave with his touch. It should’ve gone.

  Siah grabs his coat, shrugging it on. He says, “I’m going to find my sister.”

  “Okay.” I can’t meet his eyes. “Good luck.”

  I watch his feet walk out of the fabric doorway.

  ***

  Honour

  10:06. 24.10.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

  Almost dying can give you a new perspective on life.

  I’m not going to re-evaluate my whole existence or make any major life choices, but my breakfast tastes twice as good knowing that I might never have eaten again, the pancakes sweet on my tongue. The sky looks bluer than I remember it but it might just be a rare sunny day in October. Either way, I’m pretty happy to not be dead.

  I wear just a blue T-shirt over my chest, letting the cold in the cafeteria prick my skin in a cool reminder that I’m alive. The scolding heat in my veins is something I won’t forget soon. It was like the times I’d burnt my hands on the stove at home but a hundred times worse, and on the inside of my body. If Bran hadn’t used his invention on me I don’t know what would’ve happened.

  I shiver and not just from the cold.

  As I shovel syrupy pancakes into my mouth, Timofei sits on the other side of the table. His dark eyes scan me. “You scared us all yesterday. We thought you were dead for sure.”

  “I was,” I say. “Apparently. I don’t really remember much.” Except the heat.

  “I do. It wasn’t nice to watch.” He takes a long swig of water. “Lucky we have the time traveller.”

  The way he says it makes my temper spike. “He has a name.” I push away from the table, breakfast now heavy in my stomach. Is that how he thinks of us? Is that how all the Guardians think of us? Not even as people, just things that come in handy every now and then.

  When my anger doesn’t get any more potent I realise I don’t care. I couldn’t give a crap what these people think of me. I’m grateful they took me in and gave my sister and friends a safe place and I’m especially grateful they got us safely out of Forgotten London before it Fell. But they don’t matter to me, not like Tia and Dal and Hele and Bran. Not like Miya and Yosiah and John.

  “Honour that’s not what I meant. Sit down. Please.”

  My scowl loses heat when I see the way he’s looking at me. If eyes could beg, his would. I sit back down. “What do you want from me? Guessing this isn’t you trying to be my friend.”

  He shrugs, no remorse on his face at using me. Actually, when I look closer I can’t find an expression at all. He’s completely without emotion. I’m about to think something irritated, about him being a robot, but I’m wrong. Of course I am. My cold annoyance warms and wanes. With all the crap going on, with being immersed in a new town, with my and every one of my family’s growing struggles, I’d forgotten that Timofei and Alba were close.

  The grief isn’t so noticeable on him like on Bran and Tia and Dalmar but it’s there. I should have seen it. When I first met Timofei in a dark, unused Underground station he was sarcastic, friendly, and joked around with Dalmar. I’ve seen him angry and calculating, assertive and composed, amused and affectionate. There’s always an emotion written clearly on his face but now there’s nothing. He’s a blank shell.

  I’m an idiot.

  “Are you doing okay?” I ask.

  His face doesn’t change. “I’m fine. But the Guardians aren’t. They’ve lost hope. We’ve lost hope.”

  “Because of Alba.” I let out a long breath. “Do you think we should have a memorial for her, like we did with the people that died in Forgotten London?”

  Timofei looks away. “That’s a nice idea. I’ll propose it to the council. But what I wanted to talk to you about—what I wanted to ask you—is whether you’d consider being more active in your role as the Unnamed’s successor.”

  I scrape the edge off one of my nails. “I don’t have a role. I’m just the son of a dead guy.”

  “Do you remember when you first arrived in the base? People were looking to you to save them. You were a symbol of hope and freedom. As far as people are concerned, you came through and they got their freedom.” He sighs. “It just seems to me that you could help. You joined us and not long after, we were free of the fence. Now … it feels like we’re wandering aimlessly. We have a plan, of course, but it just feels like going through the motions.”

  He glances at me and then away again. “We need fire, passion, a reason to fight. Grief has crushed us and we can’t be blamed for that, but we need to move on from it.”

  “We need to forget our families, you mean.”

  “You’re very blunt, Honour.”

  “I’m right, though, aren’t I? That’s what you mean. You want us to pretend nobody died. You want me to be like … a rebellion leader. Because half my family is dead and my dad was famous. I’m not him, you know? I never even met the guy.” My laugh is sharp. “You all want me to be something I won’t ever be.”

  “We want a figurehead, not a leader. You don’t have to organise anything or attack anyone. Just talk, make people remember what States have done. Remind us why we fight.”

  I chew my lip until it bleeds. “I don’t know how to do that. I don’t want to. If people don’t wanna fight, they don’t wanna fight. I’m not going to manipulate them into it. I’m not the President.”

  I’m just his weapon.

  “I know.” Timofei casts a look around the mostly empty cafeteria. “And speaking of, he made a national address to States, an attempt to stop the rebellions growing in half of their towns.” With the most emotion I’ve heard from him in this whole conversation, even if it is slightly terrifying and promises revenge, he adds, “It’s become a major problem for the President and the Ordering
Body. They can’t control their own people.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, flashing back to a glass building and a brittle promise. Marrin told me to organise the rebellion in States into a full blown revolution—right before he sacrificed himself. He wanted Tia to lead it, to lead the people, but she’s in silent agony because of his death, because I left him in a shining tower in Underground London Zone, an obvious target for the Officials. He betrayed his father, his own Statesmen, for my sister. And I left him there to die.

  It’s my fault Marrin died, my fault Tia’s mute—if this is what I’m meant to do in recompense for that, it’s a small thing to ask. Some deity or God or maker has put this in my path. I’m not much of a believer in religion but I believe in karma and I believe in fate. “What do you want me to do?”

  ***

  Bennet

  10:59. 24.10.2040. Bharat, Delhi.

  The Guardians’ home has a dusty old smell no matter what time of day it is or what wing or tunnel I visit. Even in the mornings and evenings, with the scent of food infusing the rooms, it’s still possible to smell the musty history of this place.

  I don’t know how long these tunnels have been built but it must be a long time. Maybe they even date back to my age. I suppose someone would be able to tell me if I asked, but I don’t much care. I don’t care about anything these days besides getting my jobs done until I can be with Branwell again.

  The pangs that used to claim my heart when I thought about my brother have become dull aches I can ignore. I think I’m slowly accepting the idea of never being able to find him, of my brother being lost to this world forever. If he ever arrived in this world at all. Maybe he’s still home, being fussed over by a frantic Carolina, Jeremy’s colleagues doing everything they can to track me down.

  I bite my lip, tasting the bitter iron of my blood. I cannot think about my family. I can only think about here and now, what is in front of me, and my family are nowhere to be seen. If I think about the people I love, I’ll be caught in the storming winds of my loss and deposited in a place where only paralysing grief reigns.

  I’m not willing to let that happen.

  I stumbled yesterday, during one of my aimless walks around the building. I was perfectly fine, enjoying the quiet of morning, when I came up short at a leaking pipe. It was the most stupid thing, just an exposed piece of pipe against a painted white brick wall, but I burst into tears at the sight of it. There was water pooling on the floor tiles, and I must have stood there for minutes upon minutes because the puddle grew to wet my slippers, all the while tears slipped down my cheeks. And all I can remember thinking was Joel would never let the hallway get in such a state.

  I came undone, crying over a leaking pipe and a lost loved one. It was embarrassing and soul crushing, the intensity of the pain in my chest taking over everything. No matter how strongly I told myself I was being silly, that crying was counterproductive and would lead only to more crying, I couldn’t stop the moisture building in my eyes. The pressure behind my eyelids was almost as bad as the ache in my chest.

  I’m not sure how long I stood there. Garima found me eventually and coaxed me away, her usually bubbling voice quietened to a comforting lull. I came out of my stupor an hour later, my slippers soaking the sheets of my bed and my face crusted with dried tears. I have never felt so hollow in my life. The pure emptiness of emotion, the numbness, the void—that is why I can’t allow myself to be drawn into thoughts of Branwell or Joel or my cousins. Because if I look back, I’ll be swallowed by the maelstrom of absolute emptiness, and I’m afraid that if I stay in that void for too long I’ll be drained of all emotion. I’ll never feel a thing again.

  I know it has a name, that hollow feeling, but I never knew you could grieve for someone who wasn’t dead.

  Shaking off the memory, I hitch up the skirt of my brown sari and make my way down the stairs to the laboratories. Vast awaits me at the bottom of the stairwell, and at the sight of me coming around the corner, he unlocks the great metal door with the imprint of his thumb on the handle.

  He’s barely pulled the door open when Garima breezes past, an orange hijab around her face to match the warm umber ensemble she’s wearing. I don’t have a name for it—it’s nothing I’ve seen—but the skirt looks similar to that of a sari, elegant pleats around the bottom dotted with golden embroidery. Her stomach is covered by only a sheer drape of fabric with orange flowers, her modesty barely protected by a small wrap of silk. It’s a true sight to see her out of the colourless Guardian saris.

  “Oh,” she says in English. “I forgot about the demonstration. I made plans.”

  Vast’s brow furrows. “What kind of plans?”

  “I have a date.” Garima raises her chin, daring an argument. The sickly light catches on gold dust painted around her eyes, and with the beautiful clothes Garima could be a Goddess deigning to exist amongst us feeble mortals. Vast is as stunned as I am.

  He recovers quicker than I do, demanding to know who she’s going on a date with. I myself am privy to this bit of knowledge—Garima has done nothing but ramble on about the man ever since he asked for her company. They’re going to ‘see a film’, the modern day equivalent of going to the theatre. It sounds very romantic and Garima is brimming with excitement. I’m happy to see her happiness.

  “Be careful,” he says seriously. “You know boys can get the wrong sort of idea.”

  Garima’s narrow eyes are a herald of war. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.” She says something in her native language and then switches back to add, “If he can’t control himself, I’ll have to show him the dagger I have here.” She pats her upper thigh. I am utterly without speech. “I think I look nice and I’m not going to change. If Krish thinks me dressing pretty means he’s going to get a date and a little extra …” She shrugs, flashes a wicked smile.

  Garima is dangerous. I love her more than a little.

  Vast speaks in Hindi, something I take to be him permitting her to go—though I do not think he possesses the power to stop her. I doubt even the Dark Soldiers have the power to stop Garima Dhawan when she wants something.

  “Good luck,” I say, because she told me to. She gives my arm a little pat before she flies up the steps.

  When I turn back to Vast, he’s rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t think you need to worry about her,” I offer in the way of reassurance.

  “I’ll always worry about her.” He turns a weary smile on me. “It comes as part of being a father.”

  “I didn’t realise you were her father.”

  “Biologically, I’m not.” He pushes the laboratory door wider and gestures for me to enter. “But I found her when she was very young and I’ve cared for her since.”

  “Oh,” I say uselessly, pushing the metal door shut.

  The lab is as bright and clinical as it was before, but this time there are only two women inside and neither of them look busy. They sit around a mirrored table drinking tea and, if I’m not mistaken, gossiping. They glance up as Vast and I cross the room but don’t speak, either because they’re uninterested in me or because I can’t understand their language.

  “What are you showing me?” I ask, peering into each corner of the room, curious to know the secrets this room holds. But there is nothing on display, the secrets tucked away from sight. Perhaps that’s a good thing. The last time I was here I was horrified by the vicious disease they’ve engineered. Only heaven knows what I’ll find this time.

  Vast opens a shining white door to the left of the room, ushering me inside. I strain around his tall body to see what’s here, gasping when my eyes fall on another wall made entirely of glass—why are there so many of these?—and the small, grey haired woman behind it. The room behind the glass is a bedroom. A bedroom locked behind a secret door in a secret laboratory. I frown at Vast, looking for answers.

  He gestures to the woman, clicks a button set into the wall, and tells me, “This is Jaya, our first h
uman test subject.”

  Something about those words makes me cold. I know all about test subjects—I ought to, my father and brother did nothing but experiment—but as much as I know humans are often used as subjects, that didn’t prepare me for being face to face with a woman used purely for science. I’m sure she volunteered herself, dedicated to the Guardians’ cause, but still it makes something writhe in the pit of my stomach. Test subjects are abstract, distant; they’re not meant to be metres from my face, reading in a wooden chair.

  Jaya’s gaze flickers between us, waiting. I remain silent while Vast asks the woman a series of questions I don’t understand. He notes her answers on a pad of paper and writes for several minutes more before smiling at the woman.

  She can’t be much older than twenty five. Her face is free of the lines and creases that come with age, her smile as bright as any youth’s. But there’s something about the grey of her hair and the dullness of her eyes that makes her look older.

  “Jaya became sick three weeks ago,” Vast says, speaking again in English for my benefit. “A medium strength Strain paralysed her from the waist down, amongst other things. Do you remember the cure you were shown before?”

  I nod.

  “Good. I’m glad it made an impression. It has more than one use—you saw it contain the offensive disease we’ve engineered here, but it also has the power to cure the Strains.”

  “You told me that,” I remind him. “When I first brought it to you, you said it would cure every disease.”

  “And it will. But this is the first stage. Jaya wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for the Miracle you brought to us. Here is a life you’ve saved, and I’m sure you’ll save many more.”

  The linoleum floor sticks to the soles of my shoe as I tap my foot, maddened. For a minute I thought Vast was introducing me to parts of this building I haven’t seen in an attempt to help me settle in, to show me that I have become a true and valued member of the Guardians. But of course I was being naïve. Again. “What do you want?” I ask, voice steely.