Gods of Anthem (43 page)

The truly vile is never outwardly repulsive; it’s usually wrapped up in gorgeous ribbons or implanted with Technicolor eyes, like Jeremy’s sister, Carolina.

Or tucked neatly into a white dress of pure majesty that’s tight around the bust, and swishes silk softly against my legs.

Disgust curls my lip.

Then, my heart falls a little. So Jeremy had been a part of this world all along?

Karma looks at her husband, then freezes in that unsettling way while she waits … as if she doesn’t have a heartbeat, which is fitting. The sheen of her black hair is as unnatural as a rainbow in the thick of the worst storm.

The Mouse King takes in the exchange with obvious pleasure. Reginald sips something as red as blood, and though it’s no doubt simply wine, my imagination fills in the rest of his deviousness.

Our meal is still covered by sterling silver, and I’m half-expecting a sacrificed innocent or something more ominous beneath the reflection of my face in the shiny surface. My expression is one of complete revulsion.

By Reginald’s scrutiny of the white dress I’ve chosen, I suspect he believes it’s an omen.

“A toast,” he says, and lifts his glass. His family—all but Jeremy—lifts theirs quickly in kind.

Jeremy sighs in resignation and lifts his by the stem in a mock salute, then sets it down without drinking.

A servant wheels in a tray, removes a screen from it, and places it onto our table … right in front of me.

Reginald watches carefully, mustache twitching.

He’s still waiting for me to toast. So, I lift my glass and, holding it over to the side, I say, “Cheers.” With a twist of my wrist, I pour the entirety onto their pale carpet.

The two women gasp, but Reginald takes another sip in answer.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is light. “But I thought it best we tell you what our demands are. Now.”

He smiles, teeth stained and darker than his family’s. “I thought you might be a little rough around the edges, having lived in that rebellious commune for so long.”

Reginald nods at the servant, who reaches across me to touch the screen.

An image comes up, and the blood leaves my face. It’s a live feed from a line of prisoners the Authority’s guards are marching in. The camera zooms in on familiar faces—the twins, and then Nate.

Reginald purses his lips. “If I were you, Liza, I’d be polite.”

It’s
strange, but after the meal, none of which Jeremy nor I had eaten, they let us meet outside in a courtyard, alone. Proof of how little a threat they view us.

I speak quietly to him, wondering if they have us surveyed. Of course they do. “We’re dressed pretty nice for an execution.”

Guards stand stoically at the back doors to the mansion. We’re prisoners, no matter what the setting.

“They won’t kill us,” Jeremy says, giving me an apologetic glance. “My father hopes to make us puppets. A new treaty with the rebellion. And us? Their icons.”

“I won’t do it.”

Jeremy laughs. “I think they realize that. The carpet has a permanent reminder, in case they forget.”

“I won’t.” But my friends’ faces flash in my mind, and my resolve wobbles. Doubt tries to creep in.

A sad purple gaze follows me without judgment, but holds a “that’s what we all say” expression.

We sit down next to a giant pond with a small waterfall. Some fish swim closer to the surface, hoping to be fed. The Cromwells live in paradise.

My lily-white dress is bright in reflection, and my curls spring away from their roots to catch the light of the rising sun after the washing I’d given them with good shampoo. It’s hard not to stare in fascination at the changes in my appearance. I haven’t had dresses or hot showers since childhood. But this person in the pond … she’s a woman now.

It occurs to me. “So, your eyes …”

“Augmented.” Jeremy shrugs. “I was once exactly like they are. You can hate me now.”

“What changed?” I ask, and he leans back as if he won’t answer. Suddenly, my palm itches to slap him. “I need to know, Jeremy. I need you to tell me why you lied. I asked you if you were a spy, and I was warned not to trust you, but I chose to anyway. Now, I see you in there with your father—you’re not even you!”’

His mouth doesn’t fully commit to a smile, though it tries. “You’re angry. Good. You should be angry. I did lie.”

“That’s not an answer, Jeremy. They carted us away to the Island, millions of children, and then let them die in captivity like animals. I need to know who’s side you’re on, because I’m not going to fall for this. I don’t want a single thing from your family; they must pay.”

“Shh …”

“Don’t shoosh me! I don’t care who hears. Are you with me or not?”

“I—”

“Answer the question! Are you with me?”

“Yes, Liza. Yes. It’s not as easy as it sounds, but yes. Of course I’m with you.”

My voice wavers only a tiny bit this time. “Till the end?” I ask.

“Till the end.”

“For justice.” My smile is cautious.

“For freedom,” he replies, returning to his old self.

The
comforter in my room feels like a sin, but I’m asleep straight through until the next night, even before I’ve finished promising myself I’d sleep on the floor. It’s been three days since I’ve last slept. Foolishly content, maybe, but contentment is in such short supply. I’ll be a revolutionary tomorrow … after sleep.

When they let
me down from my room in the evening, Jeremy’s sitting next to the pond again, this time with a pen and paper. “My father’s asked that we make our demands,” he says.

I hurry over to him, grinning.

“Oh yes, Liza. You’ve made quite the impression. But don’t get too excited. He can’t be trusted.”

I lift a stack of pages he’s already written. “You’ve been busy. So, are you going to tell me now what happened to make you go against your own family?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I’ve not spoken about it since that day,” he says, then pauses to gauge my reaction. “I have a sister. Another sister.”

Jeremy runs a hand through his hair, tousling the thick coffee color. “It feels so strange to actually talk about her. She’s younger than Carolina; little. And when I was just turning sixteen, she was diagnosed with cancer.

“Of course, my mother was beside herself. But instead of telling anyone, they covered it up as best they could, secretly had every doctor try to help, but—” He swallows. “It wasn’t long after I’d gotten my eyes altered when it all came crashing down. Word got out that my father had a sick child and that he’d let her stay. Our family fought constantly. My parents had justified it to us, to the world; they had to make a decision.”

“They sent her.”

“Yes.”

At once, the countless faces from Camp Bodega appear in my mind. “What … was her name?” I ask, and he smiles.

“Melissa,” he tells me, while the fond memories visibly wash over him. He loves her. “But we all called her Mimi.”

My hand grabs his sleeve to hold me up.

“I’m not even sure if she’s still alive …” His voice falters.

I’m not here anymore. I’m there: Bodega, and the alarms are blaring. She’d said her mother was a politician … and the small voice from alongside my bunk strikes me in the gut.

“What, Liza? What is it?”

When I try to tell him, second thoughts arise. It feels like more of a wound to give Jeremy false hope. What if saying I’d seen Mimi makes him think that she still lives, but …

A choked sound helps me begin. “We have to get her home, Jeremy. All of them.”

He can’t know—not now. Not yet.

Jeremy nods and, staring at me strangely, lifts his pages. “Read these. Tell me what you think.”

Jeremy
curses and shakes his pen hand some time later. He’s been writing for hours and must have a terrible cramp.

“You should take a break,” I say.

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and tosses the notebook aside.

“I should,” he replies with the reluctance of a returned zealot. Then, he repeats, “I should,” with the voice of a man who’s come back to the real world from wherever he goes to write his pamphlets.

Jeremy regards me for a moment, then joins my spot by the pond. His strange eyes rest on my hair. I hold some pride in my appearance again. Not having the assets of a girl my age is hard to accept, but my hair had always been beautiful. Neither of my parents had given me this springy silver-blonde; rather, my aunt had ringlets so white-gold and so heavy, they’d given her neck aches. I’m curious if mine will be just as full when regrown. Already it feels so thick that my head’s hot at the root, and the strands take larger and larger curls the longer it gets.