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

  “That’s why you were researching the Strains,” I say.

  “I was doing what the instructions told me, gathering everything that was available. Since then I’ve been using … different methods to get information.”

  “Like what?” I try to weigh Tia’s reaction but her eyes are closed, her face contorted with pain. It takes a long moment before I realise why—all this talk of the President is bringing his son to the front of her mind. Marrin. I’d forgotten he was the President’s son.

  “Bribery,” John answers. “Manipulation. Torture occasionally.”

  “Torture?” I frown. “You?”

  He tugs at his hair. “I’ve had to learn things you wouldn’t believe. Torture’s a lot like a bar fight. Your opponent just doesn’t hit back.”

  “Right.”

  “Moving on.” John wipes his expression clean. “I’ve been collecting every scrap of information I can, trying to find the identity of the President and trace him back to his real time.”

  “And then what? Time travel? Go back and kill him as a baby?”

  “Essentially.”

  I take another book from the shelf beside me—A Concise History of North America—just for the chance to break eye contact. He’s willing me to understand, to forgive him for leaving, but I’m not there yet. “That’s crazy,” I say. My belief has run dry. I tuck the book into my pocket and step closer to my sister. “You alright?” I murmur.

  She smiles sadly. I’m pretty sure that’s a no, but she’s coping. I put an arm around her shoulder as another book catches my eye.

  It has a purple spine with turquoise vines on it. It’s the missing title, the mystery, that draws me in. I edge it out with my free hand, acknowledging that I should stop collecting books, that they’ll weigh me down—but there’s something about the oldness, the smell, and the feel of having a book in my hand that’s impossible to resist. I’d take them all if I could. Or just move in here.

  Victoriana is inked in a sloping hand on the cover amidst a curling pattern of tendrils and flowers, branches and thorns. If it’s possible to love a book, I’ve fallen deep and fast. Mine, my heart sings. I sit the book with the others in the pocket of my new coat. It weighs down the thick wool but I don’t care. I’m allowing myself to be impulsive for this one thing. These three things.

  “I got Wes out,” John blurts. His expression is one of madness, but genuine madness. Honest.

  Tia gasps.

  I shake my head. “What?”

  “I got Wes out,” John repeats. “I couldn’t—I was too late—I got him out for Thalia. He’s in the safe zone in Plymouth.”

  “Is she—?”

  There’s no other word to describe John than crushed. “She’s gone. For good.”

  He looks so broken that I forget my bitterness. I kneel at the foot of his chair and grab his hand in both of mine. His eyes shine with emotion. Tia stands behind his chair and rests a hand on his shoulder. In the end it doesn’t matter how much we hurt each other. Family will always be family.

  ***

  Branwell

  04:23. 02.11.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Leeds.

  Since my father died and my sister disappeared—since, I can admit to myself, Bennet died in the process of being transported here—the only time I feel half human is when I’m around Honour. The rest of the time I’m crippled by guilt. I know I’m becoming unpleasant and unsociable but I can’t seem to help it. My father died and I could do nothing to save him. My sister died and it was entirely my fault. If I had dropped the hopeless notion that I could get my father justice, that I could regain his faith and pride in me by finding the Lux, my sister would still be alive.

  This guilt and grief has made me into someone I don’t like, someone who would snap at a friend for little reason, who would ignore the presence of acquaintances and prolong awkward silences because I can’t find it within me to care about niceties. I’ve caught myself doing all of these things and it makes me ashamed. But Honour has a habit of bringing out the best of me, of making me myself again.

  That’s why when he wakes in the middle of the night with a cry and rushes from the sleeping area of this almost-house, I follow him. I find him stood outside, leaning against the high window-wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a pensive expression.

  “Honour?”

  He starts a little, his biceps straining against the much-too-tight sleeves of a grey T-shirt. I don’t think I’ve seen him in it before—it’s spotless and smells of clean cotton. It has the unexpected effect of making him appear more put together, as if he’s put considerable effort into his appearance when I know he hasn’t. Honour doesn’t care what he looks like, or how the world perceives him.

  “I didn’t see you much today,” I say, leaning against the wall at his side. “Are you alright?”

  The side of his mouth twitches, turning up very little. “Would you believe me if I said I was?”

  “No. I would not.”

  “Thought so.” He turns his head, angled down so he can meet my eyes, and I’m surprised by how much taller than me he is. I blink up at him, a frown inching across my face.

  “Would you tell me what’s wrong?” I don’t expect him to but my concern demands that I ask in futile hope. Honour prefers his issues confined safely inside him where they will do harm to no one but himself. He is much too selfless to offer an honest look at his troubles to me, or anyone. I watch him sometimes, and I see him struggling, but he hides the pain before anyone can notice, before anyone can worry. One day I fear his selflessness will get him killed.

  I suppose that is the reason I feel so protective of him, why the thought of losing him turns my stomach tremulous, my heart seizing with an ache I’ve only ever felt when fearing for my blood relatives. I want Honour to realise the world will not implode if he takes a second to care for himself. I want him to realise he is as important as everyone else, as worthy of love and attention and protection.

  The streetlight splutters and I somersault back to reality to find myself staring vacantly at the hollow plains of Honour’s face. Embarrassment warms my cheeks. I don’t want him to think I was staring at him—I make an effort not to stare openly at anyone since it’s so impolite. Then again, I don’t suppose Honour cares much for politeness. I look at him again. His hair is rumpled, light dusting his silhouette, brown skin tinged silvern by the moon. His eyes are dark, watchful.

  As I shake myself fully free of my musing, Honour’s mouth twitches. It becomes a wry twist of a smile—one I haven’t seen before. How many smiles can one person possibly have?

  “Are you here with me,” he says, “or somewhere else?”

  I can’t help smiling back. “I think I’m elsewhere.”

  “Hmm.” A cloud must pass over the moon because the street is pitched into gloom, lit only in misty shades of orange. Honour is in absolute shadow. “Is the weather any better where you are?”

  My breath huffs out in a laugh, blunt and surprised. “No, it’s dreadful. Rain clouds everywhere.”

  “Shame.” There’s a pause filled with the quiet chug of a generator somewhere underground and a distant ring of laughter, and then Honour says, “Thanks for asking what was wrong, by the way. I know I don’t—I’m not good at talking but … I’m really glad I have you, y’know?”

  I’m so shocked for a second that I forget to reply, the heat pooling in my heart taking me off guard. “I do know,” I say. I’m glad of the dubious light because I’m sure my cheeks are burning with delighted mortification. A smile with a life of its own wants to take over my face but I forbid it. The silence unravelling between us is uncomfortable. I burst out with, “I’m very glad to have you too. I mean—not to say that I have you but—I am grateful to have you in my life.”

  For the love of God!

  I yearn to cover my face with my hands but that would only give away my God awful discomfort. Instead I tip my face into the light rain dripping from the clouds and pray it will lessen the seve
re heat of my cheeks.

  Next time, Branwell, do not talk. Just do not talk. It’s truly not that difficult, and it would save everyone in the near vicinity the most complete humiliat—

  My mind just … spools away. I’m certain each one of my bodily functions suffers from a blip in the moment that Honour hugs me, his bare arms folding securely around my shoulders. My face becomes yet hotter, though it doesn’t seem possible, and the rest of my body scrambles to match the temperature of my cheeks. The closeness of him infects me with the strangest deliria. I freeze like a total fool. A second passes before my limbs will move. I rest my palms on Honour’s back, his skin scorching under the delicate cotton. It feels as if a flock of birds has become trapped inside the cage of my ribs.

  “I do know,” Honour says, repeating the words I spoke moments before my brain forsook all functionality. His breath whispers over the shell of my ear. I scramble for a reply but my useless mind suggests only Honour smells like soap and linen.

  When he draws away, the cold of night hits me like a punch to the jaw. The moonlight has resumed its ghostly brightness, illuminating better the scene around us, but I wish it wouldn’t. I would like to hide in the darkness for a while, maybe even for the rest of my life.

  Honour is running a hand over his hair, looking only at the empty street. I want to ask him what that was but something about it makes me press my lips together. It was an embrace, nothing more. I can’t possibly be feeling … what I think I am feeling. Attraction only happens with women and Honour is most definitely not a woman.

  “You were going to tell me what was upsetting you,” I say, to fill the heavy silence. Upon hearing the rasp of my voice I clear my throat, which only serves to make me that more uncomfortable.

  “Yes.” Honour is visibly grateful for a subject to talk about. “It’s my brother. John. He’s here in Leeds.”

  “Oh?” What would be wonderful right about now is if my voice resumed being my voice instead of this foreign squeak. “And what’s he doing here?”

  “Making crazy plans. He wants to go back in time.”

  Cold shoots through me, freezing the warmth in my veins. I’m no longer embarrassed or nervous. “I would not recommend it. We don’t know the consequences of time travelling yet. Anything could happen if too many people are jumping from one time period to another. Worlds could collapse.”

  “I’d ask you to tell him that,” he says, “but he’s already gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “No idea. I looked for him all day but he’s left. Didn’t tell anyone where he’s going, either.” He tugs a hand through his hair. “Why does it feel like everything’s falling apart?”

  “Because,” I say, “it likely is. The world can only take so much, and we’ve already put it through too much.”

  “So you think we’re doomed? We can’t do anything to stop it?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” My sigh is resigned, helpless. “We might as well try to stop it. It’s not as if we have anything better to do.”

  ***

  Miya

  00:16. 03.11.2040. The Free Lands, Midlands.

  We leave for our next stop in the dead of night three days after we got here. No lights guide us onto the aircraft since the Leeds people have enough common sense to keep the town dark at night—unlike Manchester. We stumble blindly up the plane steps, ready to be on our way. The longer we stay in one place, the more twitchy I get, expecting Officials to drop their bombs from the sky again.

  I’m glad when the plane hums and we lift off the ground.

  Birmingham isn’t as cocky as Manchester or as scruffy as Leeds. Its people aren’t exactly welcoming. In the end all but three of them flat out refuse to come with us. Saga cheerfully insists it was worth the trip because our forces are growing. With the Birmingham trio, we’ve added a doctor, his nurse wife, and their tech-savvy sixteen year old daughter. I’m not sure I see the point of this recruitment. Isn’t our whole reason for going to Bharat to gather forces and make an army to attack States? Why do we need these strays?

  We haven’t been in Birmingham an hour and we’re already gathered to leave, waiting for Cell to be done with his barely-civil goodbye to the locals.

  Yosiah goes deadly still. He’s fixated on something in the corner of his eye. I’ve seen him this way before and it always leads to trouble. “What is it?” I ask. When his eyes dart behind me—he always gives himself away in the end—I follow his gaze to a plain brunette girl in her twenties.

  Siah clenches his jaw and I don’t think he’s going to answer, but then he does. “Someone from my past,” he says. It’s painfully clear he’s not going to explain anymore but I’m pathetically humbled by him telling me anything at all. The look in his eyes tells me this is something big, something important, maybe even dangerous.

  I take his wrist in my hand, putting my thumb to his pulse. Yosiah shudders.

  In the middle of our flight to the next town—Cardiff—bright lights sneak out of the night sky and our aircraft spirals to the ground for a terrifying five seconds before righting itself. People start yelling. We’ve been hit. States planes. Guardians order Timofei to return fire but he doesn’t know how to work the weapon controls.

  The mysterious brunette from Siah’s past marches down the aisle and drops into the chair beside Timofei. She takes over the gun controls, her fingers becoming a blur. Within four minutes she’s shot the Official aircraft right out of the sky.

  Definitely military.

  “We need to get off this island,” Yosiah says. “They’re tracking us.”

  “How?” I look at him for answers but my heart comes to a standstill. He’s blocked off his emotions. My hands become fists. Why is he hiding things from me?

  “I don’t know,” he says, making an effort to strip all feeling from his voice. “The Manchester spy could have planted a tracking device on any of us and we wouldn’t know—they’re only tiny.”

  Honour leans across the aisle. “But they can’t track us all the way to Bharat, right?”

  “Never heard of a private conversation, Honour?” I quip.

  Siah shoots me a weak glare and answers Honour. “They can. They can track us anywhere. But I don’t think they’d follow us to Bharat. They wouldn’t risk Bharat’s weaponry and armies.”

  “I like the ‘I don’t think’. Very reassuring.”

  “I thought you wanted the truth.”

  Honour glances out the window, at the black smoke coming from the plane. He says, “I kind of hate the truth.”

  There’s something wrong with our left wing. Or the fan under the left wing. Or three of the blades in the fan under the—

  I rub my eyes, blocking out the rambling of Liss, the Guardians’ resident fixer. She’s got a colourful vocabulary and a vicious mouth—aspects of a personality I’d wholeheartedly approve of if it weren’t keeping us out in the open in a field of cheerful daisies.

  We all watch the inky sky, expecting to be shot.

  Liss spends half an hour alternating between arguing with Guardian technologists and arguing with the techy girl we just picked up, and three hours after that doing her job—fixing the aircraft. Two and a half hours of surprisingly steady flight later, we land in Cardiff, cranky and tired.

  From what I can see in the dark, Cardiff is a replica of Leeds—rubble, half broken buildings, damp, and more rubble.

  When we arrive, nobody official comes to meet us so we have to seek the important people ourselves. Cardiff’s leaders, we’re told, are an old woman called Vivienne Cynwrig and her nephew Noah. We find them in a cozy building that smells sweet and musty—the flashes of my torch over the sign above the door say it used to be a tea room, whatever that is.

  Vivienne stomps out of a back room, squinting into our torchlight. She rests heavily on a stick but looks like she could easily use it to carve out my heart if she really wanted to. If I ever get old, I want to be as daunting as this silver haired woman.

  A teenage boy stumb
les into the room after her, shirtless and wide eyed. Noah, I presume.

  “You’re them, then?” Vivienne asks, pursing her mouth. “That rebellious lot from London?”

  “That’s us.” Cell looks apprehensive, probably thinking she won’t trust us like the people of Birmingham didn’t, that she’ll refuse to leave.

  “Right.” She makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a hmm. “I’ll get my bags.”

  It’s actually Noah who gets her bags, and carries them onto the aircraft, and helps her up the ladder, and obeys her when she tells him to help the rest of the Cardiff people. He dotes on his aunt and she pets him distractedly on the head in return, caught up in awe of the flashy machine. Guess they don’t have the same kind of technology as Manchester here.

  I’m so busy watching Vivienne with her resilient grace and her grouchy muttering that I don’t notice Yosiah isn’t by my side. Tom and Livy shuffle into their usual seats and I warn them not to move, peering my head out of the door to look for my best friend.

  He’s still on the ground, arguing with Timofei. I shove a woman out of the way and lean further around the door to hear better.

  “I can’t, Tim,” he says, pleads.

  Timofei’s shoulders droop. He looks tired and old. “But what if—”

  “I can’t, and you know why.”

  “We’re going to die, Vi,” Timofei hisses. His voice carries on the wind. “You know we are. We need all the advantages we can get and you’re a huge advantage.”