Impossibility of Tomorrow (28 page)

“Oh, I’m a coward, am I? Just because I refuse to be a killer? Just because I don’t want to end human lives for my own benefit?” My tone is dangerously approaching
hysterical. “You killed Eli. You killed Madison. You’re a monster.”

“You killed Jared,” he points out.

“He was going to kill
me
.”

“A finite distinction,” Cyrus declares. “And anyway, I doubt Jared would have killed you. If I had known he was trying to find you”—he pauses, seemingly irritated, and I wonder if there was some sort of falling-out between Jared and Cyrus—“I would have ordered him to bring you back to me. Where you belong, I might add.”

“I do
not
,” I say fiercely. “I hate you.”

Cyrus meets my gaze, chuckles softly. “No you don’t, Sera. If you hated me as much as you pretend to, you would have left—really left. Lost Kailey’s body and disappeared into thin air. You try to act so high-and-mighty, but we’re the same. We’re killers. The real reason you stayed in Berkeley is because deep down, you
wanted
me to find you. I know you better than you know yourself. Always have.”

I glance at Charlotte and Sébastien. Charlotte’s green eyes meet mine, brimming with helplessness. But Sébastien never turns away from Cyrus. He’s watching, I realize, waiting for an opening.

Cyrus smiles. “I’m right, and you know it. You love me.”

Noah flinches. This small gesture hurts me. “Cyrus, I
don’t love you anymore. Once upon a time, yes, I did. But I haven’t loved you for hundreds of years.”

Amelia interrupts from the walkway above. “Cyrus—you heard her.
She doesn’t love you
. Let’s go. You promised.”

Cyrus shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says sadly. “You know I can’t. She’s everything to me. I’d rather die than live without her. I love her. I’ll always love her.”

“Shut up!”

I glance up when Amelia yells. She has her knife tucked into the sash of her vintage Dior gown, both hands over her ears. “I am so fucking sick of hearing about perfect Sera! Who came to Berkeley with you? Who has been here for you this entire time? Who’s been loyal? Who
loves
you? Not her! It’s me!”

Cyrus shifts uncomfortably. “Amelia, my dear, I never said your service was unappreciated. You
have
been loyal. And that loyalty will be rewarded.”

“I don’t want be
rewarded
, like some pathetic dog that gets a bone. I want you to
love
me. That’s all I ever wanted.” Her voice cracks. She’s crying now, softly, tears slipping down her face like falling stars. I almost feel bad for her. “You said you just needed to know if she loved you,” Amelia continues. “That if she didn’t, you would let her go. You
promised
.”

Cyrus shakes his head. “You heard what you wanted to hear.”

“Bullshit.” And in one smooth silver streak, she’s kicked off her shoes and leapt gracefully to the top of the railing, clinging to it with her trained acrobat’s feet. She pulls the knife from her belt, stretching both arms out for balance.

“Get down, Amelia.” Cyrus’s voice is firm.

“No.” She sounds like a petulant child. “She needs to go.”

Amelia kneels, coiling the powerful muscles in her legs, then jumps straight up like a gymnast flipping off the balance beam. She twists in the air, sinuous and graceful, heading straight toward me.

I remember when I first saw her perform with the circus, Cyrus at my side. Brooklyn, 1933. Lady Amelia, the bird without wings, they called her. The little blond aerialist who could defy gravity. But I’ve always thought of her as more like a cat—purring, unreadable. And she always landed on her feet.

As she does now.

She brandishes her knife, just a few feet away. Noah takes a protective step toward me. I see a red blur out of the corner of my eye—Charlotte, hurrying to close the gap between us.

“Amelia,” I say, putting my hands up in surrender, “you can have him.”

“Oh,” she says with a laugh, “I will.”

And she leaps forward again, knife held out toward my heart.

A gunshot splits the night. A bird falls from the air. Amelia’s body crumples at my feet, her back facing the sky. A red flower of blood blooms in the center of her silver dress.

Noah’s head swivels toward Cyrus, who’s still holding the gun outstretched, arms shaking. “Are you
insane
?” he yells.

The gun goes off again. I tear my eyes from Amelia to see Sébastien stopped short, his eyes closed. There’s a hole in the asphalt at his feet, like a tiny pothole. Wisps of smoke rise from the rubble.

“Oh my god,” Noah whispers. “What the hell is happening?”

I follow his gaze to Amelia’s crumpled form as it dissolves, loses color, as the silver sparkle of her gown fades into a dull gray pile of dust.

“You see, Sera?” Cyrus’s voice chokes. “You see what I would do for you? I will kill
anyone
who comes between us.”

I wonder, briefly, if the sound of the gunshots will summon help from inside. But I think about how loud the DJ is—the DJ that Cyrus hired—and the hope dies in my chest.

Noah kneels next to the ashes that were Amelia. “I don’t understand,” he says, letting his fingers drift toward the pile. “Look what you did!” he yells at Cyrus, standing up. “You killed Rebecca.”

Cyrus laughs. “Don’t be such an idiot, Noah. I thought you were smarter than that. I thought you were worthy of my secrets, my knowledge.”

Noah pales. “I don’t understand,” he says for the second time.

“Come on, boy! Don’t tell me you forgot our conversations after school. About science. About alchemy. About the physical properties of the human soul—”

“Mr. Shaw?” Noah furrows his brow.

“—about immortality,” Cyrus finishes.

Noah’s eyes fly open. I see in them the first dim glimmer of understanding. He doesn’t speak.

“You could have been one of us,” Cyrus says sadly. “You could have lived forever. But unfortunately, you fell in love with the wrong girl.” He waves the gun in my direction and cocks the trigger. The small clicking sound sends fingers of dread through my cold heart.

He aims at Noah’s chest. “I’m sorry,” says Cyrus. “Believe it or not, I am. You had such promise, more than I’ve seen in hundreds of years.”

I start to shake. “Cyrus, don’t. Leave him alone. I’ll go with you right now. We can take new bodies and move on, just like you wanted. Just please, don’t do this.” I silently curse the pleading note in my voice.

Cyrus shakes his head. “Nice try, Sera. But Noah has to go.
Once he’s gone, you’ll remember how you really feel. How much you love me.” His voice softens. “But just to prove I’m not as cruel as you think I am, I’ll let you say good-bye. Go ahead.” He gestures toward me with the gun. I take a tentative step toward Noah, and when he doesn’t shoot, I take another.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. I don’t turn my head. Sébastien is moving slowly, carefully, toward Cyrus. But Cyrus is concentrating hard on Noah and me and doesn’t see him yet.

“Cyrus is right, Noah,” I say flatly. “You’re just a human distraction. You were fun while you lasted.” He’s bewildered, scared, angry. It breaks my heart. I look up toward Cyrus for confirmation, then risk pulling Noah close, into a quick hug. “Noah,” I breathe into his ear. “Whatever happens next, I need you to do exactly what I say. Even if I tell you to run. Especially then. Please trust me.”

“What
are
you?” he whispers.

I shake my head, ignoring his question. “And I want you to know that I love you. I haven’t always been honest—I
couldn’t
be. But I love you, so much.”

Cyrus laughs from above, bitterly. “He’s a boy, Sera. He doesn’t even know your
name
. He hasn’t been by your side for six hundred years. He could never know you like I know you. And now he’ll never get the chance.” He raises the gun—

Sébastien leaps toward Cyrus, throwing him to the ground—

And at the same instant, I step in front of Noah.

Another gunshot splits the night into halves:
before
and
after
.

Sébastien was a second too late.

The pain is brilliant. It rips through me in every color, like a palette where Kailey might dip her brush to make magical creatures come to life: angels, fairies, dragons. Tongues of fire lick the side of my body. Fire and water, dripping to the rough asphalt ground.

Except it’s not water; it’s blood. My blood, Kailey’s blood. It doesn’t make any difference; they are the same.

“Noah, run!” I yell. Or I think I do. Is that my voice?

The pain takes shape. It stands up. It walks toward me. It lifts its boot above my ribs and stomps. I cry out.

Dimly, the sounds of struggle. Blows landing on flesh. Somewhere, Charlotte screaming.

The pain must have a conscience. It must have decided I’ve had enough. It strokes my face, it presses itself to my broken side, nuzzles me like a cat, like Luna.

Noah is staring at my face. He’s terribly pale. “Kailey?” he asks. “Or are they telling the truth? You have a different name?” His voice sounds thick and slow.

Why is he still here? Sirens, blood-red sirens snake through the misty night. Coming closer.

“I said to leave,” I whisper, as the pain changes its mind, knifes through my lungs. I arch my back.

“I can’t,” he swears.

“Noah. Listen to her.” Charlotte’s brogue. Oh, how I’ve missed it.

“She needs to go to the hospital.” Noah’s voice cracks.

“We’ll take care of her.”

“But what if she dies?” he pleads. The sirens grow louder.

“She won’t. I’ll make sure of that.”

“You can’t. She’s been
shot
.”

“If this body fails, I’ll find her another. Now
go
.”

With great effort, I open my eyes. Noah is staring at me. With—what? Love? Horror? I’ll never know. He turns away from me, a sob wracking his body, and stumbles into the mist. The mist that weaves around me, that puts out fire, that lifts me up to a raw silk meadow, and it’s green, but more than green. It’s a color I’ve never seen before with any human eyes I’ve possessed.

Footsteps, sirens, shouts. Nothing is the right color.

The gun goes off again.

Fire and ice twist inside me, and the sound of their struggle is the sound of my blood, pumping to the ground.

My eyes close, and I know no more.

FORTY-TWO

The girl is painting my portrait.

She dips her brush in water, then holds it poised over a tray of paints, biting her lip in indecision. Her hair is dark blond, grazing her chin in waves. Her gray-green eyes flick to me, then back to the canvas.

“You know,” she says, “this would be a lot easier if you took off your mask.”

I hurry to untie the satin ribbons that hold the mask to my face. I had forgotten I was wearing it. “Of course, sorry.” I set the mask in my lap, admiring the molded leather, the way it curls out in a brilliant golden spray at the forehead.
“I wanted to be Athena. The warrior goddess,” I explain somewhat lamely. How long have I been wasting her time, trying to have my portrait painted with a mask on?

She doesn’t seem annoyed, though. “Much better,” she murmurs. “It’s really coming together now. You can move around, if you want. I know it’s hard to hold the same position for so long.”

“Thank you.” I stretch gratefully, noting the ache in my ribs and taking a deep breath. It smells like jasmine for some reason. A thought occurs to me. “Who hired you to do my portrait?”

She waves her hand in the air. “This one’s on the house. I need the practice. I’m still learning.”

I relax. “You must be pretty good, though.”

“I’m all right,” she smiles. “Getting better all the time.”

“Forgive me,” I say. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I seem to have forgotten your name.”

“You’ll remember it soon enough,” she replies cryptically, chewing on the edge of her paintbrush. I feel myself blushing—she’s so kind, and despite what she says, I have no idea what to call her. How inconsiderate I am.

The door to the studio opens, bringing with it a floral breeze, heady and sweet. A thin girl with shaggy brown hair walks in, a guitar strapped to her back. Her piercing green eyes blink at me in confusion.

“Oh,” the brunette says. “I didn’t realize you were busy. I didn’t expect her to be here.”

The artist chuckles. “She’s not staying,” she answers from where she sits on a weathered redwood bench.

“I see.” The brunette moves to stand behind the artist’s back, looking at the canvas. “Lovely work, as always.”

“Thank you,” the artist replies, smiling. “I’m not quite done.”

“Can I see?” I ask.

The artist frowns, tucking her blond bangs behind one ear. “I’m not sure.” She cocks her head, listening, then sighs. “All right. I suppose it’s time, after all.”

I stand, a wave of pain crossing the cramped muscles in my right side. I wonder how long I’ve been sitting here. How did I even get here?

The artist turns the canvas toward me.

She’s painted a girl with short, dark blond hair and gray-green eyes, hovering in the sky at sunset over the bare roof of a cathedral. Wings sprout from her back in shimmering hues, in almost every color I can think of.

I whip my head to the artist. “You made a mistake,” I say, feeling rude but determined to point it out. “You painted yourself.”

She arches an eyebrow, amused. “Did I?” she asks, gray-green eyes sparkling. The other girl seems to find this
funny, too. She wraps her arms around the artist’s waist, chuckling softly.

“Yes,” I insist.

With a dramatic sigh, she reaches underneath the easel and pulls out a mirror. “Okay, so how would you have done it?” she asks.

I decide to humor her, bringing the mirror to my eyes.

And in an instant, I remember.

“Kailey,” I whisper.

“I’m kind of beyond names now,” she answers, holding her hands wide.

My throat constricts. Suddenly I am in her arms, smelling her jasmine perfume. “I’m sorry, Kailey. So sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “This is how it was meant to be, Sera.”