Extracted (5 page)

She shakes her head, her face paler than usual. “I know. It’s just…I have a weird feeling about that place. Like something really bad happened there. Or will. I know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Stein.” I take a deep breath, choosing my next words carefully. “You have good instincts. I trust them, and I trust you. But you have to know, I will always come back for you.”

Her face softens, and the tension slips from her shoulders.

I reach behind me and pick up a piece of paper from her dresser. It’s a picture she drew of Nobel. It’s so lifelike I can almost hear him laughing. She captured him in a rare mood that day. We’d been working on some new weapon designs, and he’d accidentally shot me with a Taser bolt. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to wet himself.

I’m so focused on the drawing I don’t even hear Stein get up and cross the room, but in an instant she’s here, plucking the picture from my hands and tossing it aside.

“It’s really good,” I say, a slight squeak in my voice. I blush. How does she do that to me?

Stein just nods and leans into me. I wrap my arms around her tightly. She usually doesn’t like to be held like this. I think it might be some kind of residual claustrophobia or something from her past life that she can’t remember. I have little things like that—small triggers that set off weird feelings or make me hesitate. But now she’s clutching me like I’m the last solid thing in the world, and it feels really good. She buries her face in my neck, and I can feel the heat of her breath. When she finally turns her head up, I lean down and press my lips against hers. She’s so impossibly soft I forget to breathe. My mind goes blank. It’s just me and Stein.

When she pulls back, I let her go even though I really just want to hold on. She sighs, grabs her long, black leather jacket from the closet, and tosses it over her shoulder.

“We should go eat. I’m starving,” Stein says.

The door squeaks and Nobel pops his head inside. “Did someone say dinner?”

I push myself off the desk, trying to hide my disappointment. “Yep. Let’s go get some grub.”

As we walk, I fill Nobel in on what Gloves told us about the Amber Room. I expect him to be surprised or at least curious, but he’s neither. All he says is, “How is it that everything else in that room is filthy, but somehow those gloves are always clean?”

I shrug. “No idea. Maybe he uses a really good stain repellant?”

“If so, I want some. I’m tired of trying to wash blood out of my jacket,” Stein chimes in.

Nobel and I exchange a smile as she lovingly pets her coat.

“Then stop making people bleed on you,” I say, putting my arm around Stein’s waist as we enter the kitchen.

She looks up at me, and all traces of her earlier uncertainty are gone. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

The scream builds like an explosion in my throat, only no sound erupts. The smoke is thick and black, and I can’t draw a breath. My lungs burn. I blink, wiping the smoke-induced tears from my eyes with my sleeve. Above me, Ethan smiles. He’s calling my name. I reach for him, desperate to escape the heat before I melt. But his face changes. He’s yelling now, and his eyes are angry.

“Ember. Open up.”

I jolt upright in bed, gasping. Along the walls, the gaslights flicker to life.

“Ember!” Ethan calls from the other side of my door.

I moan and throw back my wool blanket, stumbling forward to the brass keypad next to the door. I punch it with the side of my fist, and the door slides open with a rusty groan. On the other side, leaning casually against the doorjamb, is Ethan. His smile is bright, but the mischievous lift of his brow betrays his true colors. Only the barest hint of the bruises from our last mission remains along his square jaw. I sigh, wondering how he manages it. He looks perfect, whereas I look like I’ve been hit by a train. My hand immediately flies to my hair, fighting to smooth the unruly strands.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks nonchalantly. As if I should have been expecting him to be at my door, as if it was totally commonplace. I lean past him, glancing down the hallway in both directions. Finally, I shrug and motion for him to come in. Why not? What’s one more rule broken today?

“I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re all right. The fire—”

He doesn’t have to finish. Without thinking my hand goes to the inside of my arm, to the lumpy flesh there. My scars are old—healed—but the pain is still fresh. I don’t remember the fire, not really. Every so often I get a glimpse, a whiff of smoke or a flash of flame, and it drills into my head like a corkscrew. Something about the first trip through time erases the mind, wiping the memory slate clean. All I remember is Flynn carrying me through the doors of the infirmary. I remember the blistering pain and wishing they would just let me die.

But it healed. I lived, thanks to Flynn. The only reason Ethan knows about it is because once, during a random practice drill, the teachers thought they’d see how we’d handle being thrown into the fire, literally. I’d fallen into a panic and frozen up. I never told him the whole story, never mentioned the nightmares, and he didn’t ask. He just sort of knew.

I shake my head and try for a reassuring smile which, judging by his arched eyebrow, he doesn’t buy for a second.

“I’m fine. It’s just…” The words are replaced by a rush of emotion like a dam bursting inside my heart. Before I can process what’s happening, Ethan is holding me tightly to his chest, and I’m heaving with silent sobs as tears roll down my face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head and wiping my face on my sleeve. “I was having a bad dream and you were there and…”

“Oh. Dreaming about me again, eh?” he asks, making my head snap up. I sit back, pushing him away.

“No, not like that.”

He holds up a hand. “No. No. I understand it’s all right.” Lots of girls dream about me, Ember. After all,” he begins, walking around my room and running his hand over the collection of old skeleton keys hanging on my wall, making them chime like bells, “I am incredibly handsome. And strong. And brave.” Then, he walks his fingers across the stack of books on my desk. “It’s only natural that you’d dream about me. I’m practically Prince Charming.”

I snatch my books out from under his hand as he smirks. “And humble too, don’t forget humble.”

He holds his hands out in front of him. “And that, of course.”

My mouth twitches. I know he’s joking to make me feel better, but those things are all true, too. Not that I’d ever admit that to his face.

“Whatever you say, Ethan. Just keep in mind it was a nightmare,” I say before carefully putting my books back on the massive wall shelf.

I can feel him walk up behind me and a tingle shoots up my back. “That’s a lot of old, boring books.”

I stuff the last book in its place on the top shelf, and fold my arms across my chest, admiring the books. “Not boring.” Reaching out, I run my fingers down the worn spine of
The Picture of Dorian Grey
. “These are just my favorites. I’ve read most of the ones in the library.”

Ethan has a look of mock surprise on his face when I turn around, and his hand is over his heart. “We have a library? How did I not know this? I’ve been here for three years. Surely I would have at least accidentally stumbled upon it looking for the bathroom or something.”

I’m staring at him as he talks, but I’m not really hearing what he’s saying. I’m too busy noticing something else.

“Your eyes are really blue,” I blurt out like an idiot.

He looks stunned, then flattered. “Yes, they are. A handsome, manly blue.”

I can’t suppress the snort. “No. I mean most of the time they’re kind of light. But they aren’t now. They’re like midnight-blue.”

“Yes,” he agrees, wagging his eyebrows. “You can go write a girly poem about them if you’d like. Be sure you mention my rugged jaw, too.”

I roll my eyes and step past him, sorry I’d said anything. “I’ll call it ‘Ode to an Egotistical Tool.’ Now, if you don’t mind.” I point to the door. “Get out.”

He grabs my arm, turning me to face him. The humor in his face is gone, replaced by an intensity I rarely see when we aren’t on an assignment. He pulls me close, clasping my hands in his. I have to hold in a shudder, which is odd because I’m really warm. Like really, really warm all of a sudden. Maybe it has something to do with the way Ethan is staring at me with those dark-blue eyes. How have I never noticed the subtle change of color before? And why is it getting really hard to breathe?

“Before I go, I wanted to give you this.” He stuffs his hand in the pocket of his vest and pulls out a silver chain with a heavy pendant hanging off the end. I hold out my hand, and he drops it into my palm. It’s an ebony-and ivory cameo on a chain, only instead of a silhouette of a person, it’s an image of an hourglass.

I’m too stunned to form words. It’s so beautiful. I close my fingers around it and clutch it to my chest.

“I came across it a few months ago in a wardrobe,” he says, “and it made me think of you.”

“You stole it,” I finish for him.

He shakes his head. “You could just say thank you.”

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” I say, my heart dancing its way into my throat.

“It’ll be all right, Ember. I promise. Whatever the nightmares are about, whatever’s bothering you. It’ll be all right.”

He’s so confident, so sure, that it’s impossible not to believe him. I smile and nod once. He steps back and looks me over. “Now go get changed. You look like crap. And it wouldn’t kill you to run a comb through that hair, either. Seriously. Have a little pride.”

Well, that didn’t last long. I sigh and roll my eyes.

He just blows me a kiss. “Go talk to Flynn, and I’ll meet up with you after, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever.” I move to flip my hair back, but it’s too matted, and my hand just sort of sticks in it. So I settle for an awkward head scratch.

He walks toward the door, looking back over his shoulder at me for a second like he might have more to say, then turns and leaves the room.

As soon as he’s gone, I can breathe again. I feel flustered and uncomfortable, but mostly, there’s a deep sense of dread in the pit of my stomach at the idea of facing Flynn. For a minute, I debate just crawling back into bed. Yeah, right. If I don’t go to Flynn, no doubt he’ll come looking for me. And I’d rather be dressed for that particular conversation.

* * *

The Control Room has got to be my least favorite place in the whole building. It’s the central hub of the Tesla Institute and is filled, floor to ceiling, with computers and monitors. Unfortunately, it’s also about six stories underground and built like an old bomb shelter. The concrete walls are stained with ugly brown streaks dripping down from metal gas lamps screwed into the surface. The door itself might have been taken from an old bank vault—it’s the ultimate padlock, easily three feet thick with brass beams that, when closed, fill holes in the walls themselves. At least the upper levels try to give the illusion of being outside. Not this room. Everything about it makes me feel like I’m walking into a dungeon. I slip through and make my way beyond the workbenches in the outer room. Passing one, I’m drawn to a small metal spider-looking creature. Its bulbous head is full of red liquid. One sharp pincer is attached to the front and a tiny chainsaw-looking limb sits next to it on the table. Reaching down, I poke at the machine.

“In here, Ember,” Flynn calls from the next room. “And don’t touch the Peacekeeper.”

Inside, moisture clings to every surface, and it’s almost unbearably hot despite the many churning fans. The low hum from the computers mixes with the occasional burst of steam from the more antique components. I break into a sweat almost immediately.

Swallowing hard, I make my way toward the man at the main interface in the center of the room. Sitting in a high-backed, brown leather chair is Flynn. Only a small scratch on his chin mars his long face. He adjusts his glasses and waves me in. Beside him, in the interface panel, resides what’s left of Nikola Tesla. A round window, built into copper paneling and filled with green glowing liquid, houses the last remains of our leader. His brain floats there, suspended from tubes and wires hanging in the tank. To the right of the brain, in a box, a life-sized copy of Tesla is projected onto a wall of thick steam. He’s like a ghost, glaring at me.

“Ember. You owe us an explanation,” the projection demands, though its voice doesn’t come from its mouth but from tiny speakers hidden high in the ceiling.

“Yes, sir.” I take a deep breath. “I know you ordered me not to go after the boy, but I had to. It was instinct.”

It’s Flynn who responds. “Ember, I understand the urge to save another’s life. But you have to remember that Tesla gives you orders for a reason.”

“Those plans weren’t worth that little boy’s life,” I say so defiantly it surprises me. Flynn snaps his mouth closed and stares at me as if he’s trying to decide what to say.

“Of course they were,” Tesla breaks in. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of one.”

On the interface to my left, a screen flickers to life. It’s a newspaper report—VonWeitter’s obituary, dated nine months after the Fair. He killed himself after having his research funding pulled.

“And as for the boy you pulled from the flames…” Tesla says with a pause. An image flashes onto the screen. This time it’s a police report. “The young man you saved lived only five more years. He was killed by police officers after robbing an elderly couple on the street. As soon as the fire began, I was able to calculate the ripples it created in the timeline. If the boy’s life had been important, then I would have seen it. But in the end, it was not.”

I feel my mouth drop open. “How can you say that? Every life—every single one—is important. Maybe not to you, but to someone.” My hands ball into fists at my side. I know I shouldn’t speak to him like this, but I can’t help it. A cold fury is building inside me, and suddenly the room doesn’t seem so hot after all.

Even though his tone is still neutral, I can feel the sting of his words. “I can see beyond your tiny scope. I can see all that would have happened if the plans had been salvaged. The lives they would have changed, the discoveries they would have led to. They would have helped people in ways you cannot hope to fathom. Are those lives less important to you because you have not seen them for yourself?”