Chapter Four #2
We sat on a bench and tied our boots, knocking elbows and growing more irritated. The teammates around us, each bound to another, were no happier. Only Roman and Merlot worked well together, totally in sync.
“Lolli was only, like, the love of High Prince Cyrus’s life, once upon a time,” my partner said, diving back into the conversation as if there’d never been a lag.
Nope. No way. “That’s a lie. She was married to his brother.”
“Yeah, but only after she dated Cyrus. They lived together for a year, I think. And now that she’s a widow, Cyrus has another chance to win her.”
That . . . no. Maybe Cyrus had dated his sister-in-law before she got hitched to his brother, maybe he hadn’t. Either way, he didn’t desire her now. For whatever reason, Miller was attempting to razz me up with jealousy.
“I said let’s not speak,” I snapped. Cyrus had chosen me. Our relationship was new but solid, and nothing a guy with questionable motives suggested would alter my certainty of that.
“Your loss.” Miller blew me a kiss, attempting charm. “But I was gonna tell you about all the other women he’s dated and how he dumped them as soon as they fell in love with him.”
Promised to lay low. Can’t throat punch him. An urge I hadn’t entertained until today.
Domino’s warning replayed. Words are like your cherished seeds.
Living containers able to grow and produce after themselves.
Once spoken, they take root in the soil of your heart and get watered by your thoughts.
What develops is a tree of life or death.
The semantics you lament decide the fruit that grows—fruit you will eat.
Here was a perfect example of that. Miller had just planted a seed of fear. What if I fell in love with Cyrus, and he ended things?
Argh! No. Enough of that. “Let’s go.”
Miller and I headed to the gym and took our place in line beside Roman and Merlot. The pair teased each other and laughed as if they were on a date. Because of course they did. Roman was a man of many interests, and most of them involved bed hopping. Other trainees streamed in after us.
The room itself was large, with a small set of bleachers for spectators, different pieces of equipment pushed against a cement wall, and a hardwood floor marked up for various activities.
In the back was a small office encased in glass, leaving a desk and two chairs on exhibit.
The spot for getting reamed by our instructors.
Heta marched past the double doors. “There’s been a change of plans today,” the archduke called as soon as the bell quieted. “We’re taking a tour. Some of you need a reminder of what we’re fighting against.” He didn’t glance at me, yet I felt singled out.
I shifted from one boot to the other and tried not to worry. Deviating from schedule didn’t strike me as a good thing.
The archduke led us through the winding hallways and down different flights of stairs, into a windowless basement more heavily guarded than any other part of the building I’d visited.
We scanned our ID chips at the final door and entered a sleek chamber illuminated by soft white and blue lighting.
There, we were given protective gear: a mask and a papery neck-to-foot body suit that zipped over our clothing.
Garments we were required to don while fastened together, an impossible task made possible only with creative alterations.
I looked ahead. Transparent screens projected vitals and diagnostics. Doctors and technicians clad in lab coats embossed with CURED’s emblem moved about. The air vibrated with quiet efficiency, coated with the same chemical scent found in the locker room.
“This,” Heta said, leading us down a long series of intersecting corridors with small, glass-walled rooms on either side, each housing a patient, “is where we treat soldiers infected with Madness.”
What! I lagged behind Roman and Merlot at the rear of the line, forcing Miller to slow his steps as I looked over every patient.
Many paced. Some sat upon a cot, the only piece of furniture, but all exhibited signs of great physical and emotional distress.
From vomiting to slamming their fists into their temples to banging their heads against the walls.
Many moved their mouths, as if they were talking, but the words remained trapped with them inside the rooms.
Compassion gripped me, a soft, aching pressure against my heart.
I recalled my mom’s recovery. How she’d grown weaker, becoming a shell of her former self.
How she’d been unable to keep down food and required daily handfuls of medication just to survive.
The worst part—no one needed to suffer this way.
Soal’s cure was painless, instant, and lifelong.
And yes, okay, that did sound kind of cult-y, exactly as CURED claimed.
Even I could see that. But I’d lived it, and truth was truth.
“Everyone you see here has a greater chance of recovery because we struck hard and fast at the first suspicion of illness,” Heta said from the head of the line.
“That’s how you work best, eh, Roosa?” Miller quipped, earning chuckles from other teammates. “Hard and fast.”
I bit my tongue again, and this time I tasted blood.
Heta continued as if the lord-in-training hadn’t spoken, but the muscles between his shoulders bunched, a clear sign Miller’s name was just scribbled on the archduke’s naughty list. “This is why we travel to Theirland, risking our lives to gather the resources and medications that were used by the civilization before us. Why we show no mercy to Soalians, who work to exacerbate the spread of the illness.”
Okay, the last statement irritated me more than Miller’s taunt.
Heta might believe what he said, but that didn’t make it true.
The Madness came from Astan. A poison intended to turn mortals into controllable immortals.
Lesser gods on a string. The problem was, the formula wasn’t perfected.
To retain power and ensure people willingly participated in their experiences, CURED continued to stoke fear of the true cure.
“This is awful,” someone at the middle groused.
“Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?” Heta snapped. “This is necessary. Suffering now facilitates recovery later.” He waved to a cell on his left. “Like this poor girl, a former trainee. She would’ve died without our interference.”
As we motored forward, I searched every face until I identified the individual Heta singled out. My heart nearly stopped. I did a double take. Rapid blinked. The horrifying sight never improved.
Reeling, I stepped out of line, dragging Miller with me. “Mykal.” I flattened my palm against the glass. “Mykal!”
“Hey,” my partner grated, trying to jerk me into motion.
I dug in my heels, refusing to budge. My former roommate and forever friend perched at the foot of her cot, staring at the floor.
Draped in a paper-thin hospital gown, she appeared weak and fragile, with uneven tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles, as if she’d given herself a trim with a rusty axe.
The already slender girl had lost much-needed weight.
Cuts and bruises marred her face and hands.
Tears blurred my vision before streaking down my cheeks. “Mykal,” I breathed out.
“This is unfortunate.” Roman crowded in at my side and winced. “Poor kid.” He and Mykal had grown up in the same apartment complex and were as close as blood siblings.
“We have to help her,” I said, and I didn’t care if it got me into trouble.
“She’s being helped right now, getting treatment. A shame she got infected, though.” Clicking his tongue, Roman turned on his heel and motored on, as if there were no need for further discussion.
“Let’s go,” Miller growled, clamping my wrist and tugging.
Still I resisted, knocking on the glass until an angry voice bellowed, “No touching.”
Mykal never looked up.
Thoughts hit me with the force of punches as Miller dragged me away.
Forget chain of command. I’d go straight to the top.
Surely Cyrus could do something. When Mykal was freed, and she would be, I’d tell her about Soal, and she would listen, then eat my piece of the Rock.
What she wouldn’t do? Turn me in at a critical point in the war with CURED.
A time when the lives of my loved ones hung in the balance.
Unless she did.
In my worried daze, I almost overlooked the person imprisoned in a cell near hers.
The second my mind caught up with my eyes, I ground to a halt.
John Victors, the formidable glower who’d allowed himself to be captured to help me see a truth I’d denied my entire life.
Now, he lay motionless on his back, his eyes swollen shut, his wrists cuffed to metal rails, his skin pallid, and his body hooked to multiple machines.
Tubes protruded here, there, everywhere. A thin blanket draped his lower half.
A ragged cry lodged in my throat, releasing a bitter burn.
Miller pulled me along the hallway, and I let him do it without resistance.
Forget going straight to the top. At the first opportunity, I would sneak back to this area.
I had royal clearance. I could bypass security.
I’d be careful. Wouldn’t alert Mr. Vyle.
Wouldn’t even tell Cyrus, allowing him to maintain genuine deniability.
But one way or another, I had to act. My friends were being tortured.
Heta concluded the tour and ushered us from the basement of nightmares back to class.
I searched for Cyrus but didn’t see him.
Nor did I pay attention in class. Or eat lunch.
Or converse with anyone. I even lost sight of Miller, who remained at my side, chatting about nothing during every break, unconcerned by my silence.
My mind remained trapped in a loop. Mykal. Victors. Mykal. Victors. The horrors they must have endured—must be enduring. The danger of my plan. I’d have to leave the base for good. There’d be no coming back from this.
“Hey!” Miller tapped my cheek. “Get your head in the game, Roosa.”
I focused to find his scowling face inches from me. We occupied the gym with the whole team and a trio of barons barking orders at us. Self-defense class, I realized. I’d missed most of the day.
Heat bloomed in my cheeks. “Apologies,” I muttered. “What are we doing?” Whatever it was, I could do it. For a couple of hours, I would set my worries aside and pretend I wasn’t planning to betray all of CURED.
“We’re learning to move together, what else?” He wiggled his brows. “Though if we’re gonna improve, we should probably do extra credit after hours, like Roman and Merlot.”
I recoiled and shuddered. “Not happening. Not ever.” Not even if he tattooed Cyrus’s face over his.
Miller shrugged, unabashed. “I didn’t say we had to be naked.”
I punched the bag he pushed at me.
“Better,” he said, as if he’d purposely incited my wrath.
For the next however long, we acted as if a pair of punching bags were feeders determined to kill us. Too often Miller angled into my personal space, hindering my motions as well as his own. Or maybe I angled into his. Whoever was at fault, it sucked, and both our tempers sharpened to razor points.
The only bright side was the slight vibration dinging on the inside of me, alerting me to the presence of my fellow Soalian. But who was it? Who?
“Roosa. Bosworth. Get over your dislike of each other and get in sync,” a baron snapped. “Stay aware. Notice the other’s slightest fluctuations.”
Miller and I exchanged fresh scowls and geared up to go again. An ear-shattering scream tore through the gym, and everyone stilled. Either someone had just broken with Madness, or this was a hologram-type pop quiz meant to prepare us for the mean streets of Theirland.
We waited, collectively on edge. When aggression electrified the air, zapping my nerve endings, I knew. This was no simulation. Someone had indeed broken.
I reached for a dagger only to realize I had no weapons. Other screams rang out, blending with grunts of pain, hard thumps and thuds, and pounding footsteps. The infected person headed this way.
So I was unarmed. So what. My determination strengthened until it produced a heartbeat of its own. Stop the maddened before anyone gets hurt.
“Open our chains,” someone shouted.
“Formation,” a baron called. The chains remained fastened.
Miller and I rushed to join the defensive line forming behind our instructors, almost tripping over each other. Not exactly a boost to my confidence. The other trainees were without weapons as well. Well, other than our fists, feet, and skills.
My personal guards moved to shield me from the front and the rear, one providing me with a dagger, the other giving Miller a netter.
Just in time. A man in a hospital gown blazed into the room and climbed the walls, moving so quickly he was fuzzy.
Eyes wild with glee, he cried, “Love Soal! My Soal!”
The barons rushed for him, everyone else remaining in formation, ready.
Good thing. Other maddened in hospital gowns rushed in next, a chaotic procession as they too screamed about Soal, climbed the walls, and attacked trainees.
There were at least twenty, many faces familiar because I’d just seen them in the treatment ward.
Battles broke out all around. Horror returned, choking me. Worse, heat sparked in my cells, as if I were seconds away from glowing, announcing my status to one and all. I fought to subdue it. Fought so hard.
But when two maddened launched my way, I couldn’t tamp it down . . .