To Be Free Page 14

  Deciding that a bit of fresh air will do me some good, I leave the bathroom as quietly as I can and sneak down the hallway to the metal spiral staircase, stiffening with every step and fearing that one wrong step will wake the whole house. The home itself is ornate, clearly indicating that these women are not as a loss for finances, and when I step off the stairs I turn towards the large back doors, side skirting the mahogany table and hesitating by the glass doors.

  The glass is stained a charcoal grey, giving very little indication as to what lies outside, but I can vaguely make out the silhouettes of the trees moving with the wind I can't feel. I feel my skin crawl with the urge to run outside and leave everything in this home behind, shivering with the violent desire assaulting me. I actually take a step forward, muscles tensing for the sprint and in that moment all my fears for the future that I can never really read come back to me.

  Before I know what I'm doing I've unlocked and opened the door, stumbling into the hot wind pelting the world with late summer rain. My bare feet slip on the wooden porch just before I vault down the three steps, ignoring them entirely and heels digging into the grass as I land, running into the cover of the trees in the yard.

  Thunder rolls above me, a loud crash that makes the hair on my arms stand on end as the rain rolls down me mercilessly. The wind makes the trees around me whisper, and I come to a grinding halt within that copse of trees in their yard, breathing heavily for a reason that has nothing to do with running.

  As we speak, thousands of people are dying. People like us, Sebastian. He... he was one of them.

  The man from my dream stands as a shadowy figure beside me, the red mist with the black and white particles laced within it clinging to him greedily. He's half a spectre, but I know I could touch him if I tried. The rain and wind actually affect him, slipping down his skin, hair and clothes and tugging at the loose ends of his attire. He has his cowl pulled over his head.

  Great. I've finally lost it.

  They take our lives and toy with them, playing God as if they have the right to decide who lives and who dies. He never had to die, but he did anyways, and what did the government do when I tried to rally a force against them? They declared a manhunt and I had to leave the country.

  Who the hell is this man?

  I feel a presence to my left, and I carefully turn to see another man there, lifting a calloused hand to his lips and pulling the ghost of a cigarette from there, frowning. This vision-apparition of a man makes me take a step back, sharp features of his face surprisingly... flawless. As if an artist chiseled it from marble, and created the most beautiful man. His eyes, however, are narrowed into slight grey slits as he blows out a puff of smoke and his auburn hair, tied in a messy, high ponytail, snaps with the wind.

  They've committed a horrible crime. See, if they can play with life and create the most perfect human being, don't you think they'd step up to the plate and take up the challenge?

  The words I hear come from them, I know, and although their lips move I don't hear them say it. It's more as if their voices are bouncing in my skull, the blond man's voice a heavy European accent and the one to my left, the man whose origins I can't even begin to discern, has the kind of voice that makes your heart stop. The kind you could listen to for hours.

  An innocent man stands behind bars for a crime neither of us committed, and I'm forced to flee from place to place, avoiding the men who try to hunt me down. Within my veins, within my core, you have the secret to the very thing your country's leaders are trying to achieve, Sebastian – as well as what his country's attempting, and mine.

  “The secret to what?” I question over the howl of the wind, my skin numb to the cold rain by now. My head is pounding, the lines between the future and the present within this moment in time and confirming my suspicions. The affirmation doesn't reassure me – rather, it fills me with dread. “Who are you people?”

  The auburn-haired man, so flawless he doesn't seem real, uses his free right hand to toy with the professional camera hanging over his shoulders, frowning around the cigarette he's biting between his lips. Taking the object from his mouth, he breathes out a puff of smoke into the atmosphere – the smoke laced with red, black and white particles, fading into nothing the way the red mist of my gift does – and speaks again.

  To the reason behind why those born of a different sexual orientation have supernatural abilities; the secret behind actually controlling these powers, extracting them and abusing them if you wish; to the control of the world, total domination. I am his life's work, after all, created for the sake of learning the secrets of humanity and sharing them so he could use them for his own ends.

  The expression of complete sadness crosses his features, both hands cradling the camera as if it's a precious child, to be loved and cared for. I presume it holds a lot of history, then, and a lot of meaning to him.

  He never thought I'd grow a consciousness of my own, and when I met him, I changed. To the point where I defied my creator and we'd almost made it... then they found us and he got me away, but he was taken away.

  Then, he seems to snap out of it, dropping the Canon back to his chest and looking right at me with a piercing, ethereal stare.

  We are the damned, same as you. Our fates are connected – yours, mine, his... and even your other is a part of this. Mine, too, is connected to us, through the miles and miles we stand apart.

  “You didn't answer my question,” I accuse, frowning, and the man offers me a half-grin, lopsided as it may be.

  The ones you see before you, Sebastian, are the men you will come across sometime in the near future. Our current selves are struggling through the past that haunts us, the same yours shadows you, and you know as well as I do why this is currently happening.

  “No,” I spit, my hands starting to shake. Taking a deep breath, I shake my head to clear it. “I can't be right – I have to be wrong! It's the fever making me see this.”

  This time, it's the blond that laughs, shaking his head as he steps up to stand beside the auburn-haired man flicking the butt of his smoke onto the grass.

  Time's becoming distorted, especially to you – there's no use denying that. We all have a hidden potential, our abilities waiting for a specific trigger to evolve. We're a dying race, and a species will mutate and change to survive – why would we be any different?

  “Because we're humans! We haven't evolved in millions of years!” I snap, a peel of thunder punctuating my statement.

  Sebastian, we were never human to begin with. Since birth, we have been something entirely different – and that's what scares them, the humans. My creator used to call us the Novae, and the criterion to be considered one of these “Novae” is to be able to use supernatural abilities the way we do, or to just be different from all the others. You can trace our origins back as far back as any of them.

  “Really?” I question, my curiosity temporarily shadowing my fears. The auburn-haired man nods solemnly.

  In every age, there are those considered 'mutants.' The ones born with tails, so they cut them off; those with a single eye; those who could use simple healing arts; those we called 'witches' and burned at the stake. You get the point. We're the remnants of humans trying to evolve with a world that's about to kill them – you've seen it. You know what I'm talking about.

  I shudder, hugging myself and nodding. For a moment, I see it clearly in my mind's eye – humanity dying out by their own hands, grasping at straws for a solution. For a way to save themselves... and the inhumane result.

  “So... you're saying that this – all this we're going through, the pain and death and humiliation – is humankind trying to evolve in a way where we could survive that?” I ask, and both men nod. “They're destroying their only chance at survival, then.”

  Do us a favour, Sebastian – keep a sharp eye on your beloved and his progress. His potential is enormous; the power to save and destroy the human race is within him. Don't let him fall into the wrong hands.

&
nbsp; “Your names,” I prompt, noticing the flickering edges of their images and the rain cutting through their forms. The auburn-haired man's toying with his camera again, lifting it up and raising it to his eye as if he's about to take a shot. There's a grin stretching his lips, a sarcastic quirk that's mirrored in the blond's expression. “I'd like to know them.”

  We won't know you when we meet. Our gifts don't include being a soothsayer.

  “Please.”

  The blond chuckles, a slight southern drawl to his accent as he rolls his eyes and grins at me, the emerald shard hanging around his neck catching the light of a lightning strike and leaving an imprint of its silhouette in my retinas.

  Johannes Walker.

  The rain swallows up the blond's image, the mist disappearing into the ground and leaving the auburn-haired man standing there, the rain tearing at his projection while he adjusts the focus of his camera, his face the picture-perfect expression of concentration.

  I am David. My creator gave me his last name, but I do not use it. Call me David Kagan – it's my beloved's name. I'm excited to meet you once you've tapped into your full potential, and balanced your abilities, soothsayer. Until then, cherish those moments of freedom you have with your other; they disappear much too quickly.

  Then he, too, is swallowed by the rain and the earth, leaving me in the downpour. I stand there, lifting my head up to the sky and taking a deep breath, the rain running down the length of my nightshirt they'd kindly given Quinn and I to wear.

  “So we're really... going to go through all that,” I whisper, the thunder stealing away my voice and concealing my words. I laugh once dryly, opening my eyes and smiling a humourless smile to the sky above my head. The raindrops fall on my cheeks, trailing down as if I'm crying as I smile a bittersweet smile, the knowledge of all that will happen to us echoing in my mind.

  I'm sorry, Quinn, for dragging you into this. It really would've been better if you'd had died on that table.

  The door clicks shut softly behind me, barring the soft conversation Janice and Melissa are engrossed in from the room they've allowed us to occupy. Quinn's still sprawled over the bed, snoring lightly and sleeping through the morning as if there's nothing better to do. I hesitate at the door, back pressed to the wood as I watch the man shift slightly in his sleep, letting out a soft sigh and smiling a little.

  The sight makes me thaw, and I step across the carpeted room until I reach the mattress, sitting down on the edge by his stomach. He's on his back, head in my direction and mouth slightly agape, a bit of spit collecting on the pillow. Laughing lightly at his expression, I lean against my hand on the blue-covered mattress and watch him for a while. The way his chest rises and falls in an easy rhythm, how his unkempt hair circles his head as a dark halo, and my hand reaches of its own accord to push the strands from his face, trailing along his skin.

  The apparition I spoke to this morning was handsome, sure, and I'm not afraid to admit it – but there was something unnatural about his beauty, as if fabricated, molded from clay by the aged hands of a potter. Somehow I had the idea that, if I'd've touched him, he would've either scalded me or been frozen to the touch.

  Quinn, however, isn't like that. Sure, he's got a small scar in his left eyebrow that makes it so that a small strip isn't growing back and he's got a slight overbite, but those traits make him even more beautiful in my eyes, as cliché as it may sound. Running my thumb over his lower lip, I can't help but smile as his lips turn up slightly, as if in response to my touch.

  As much as I'd like nothing more than to watch him sleep until he wakes up, I lean down until my breath ghosts his ear.

  “Quinn,” I call softly, my hand cupping his head and my fingers lacing into his hair. He makes a small sound of protest, sighing in his sleep shortly afterwards with the whisper of my name. Biting back my smile, I try again. “Quinn, it's about time you wake up.”

  He turns his head away from me, and I pull back enough to look at his annoyed, half-asleep expression.

  “Five more minutes,” he mumbles, and I can't help but laugh lightly at his childish behaviour, the hand on his hair trailing to his face and brushing his fringe from his eyes again.

  “I'm sorry, love, but we've got a lot of work to do today,” I counter, and he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, frowning now. Chuckling, I press a kiss to his cheek and linger there, my free left hand finding one of his and lacing my fingers with his. “You can sleep later, if you like.”

  The eye closest to me flutters open, the light streaming in through the drawn curtains hitting his eyes enough to paint the green orbs golden. We lock gazes, and I smile at him while he gives me a half-asleep glare.

  “I want to sleep now, though,” he protests, a yawn punctuating his statement halfway through it and making it sound a lot less like what I presume it should. I pull back, smiling warmly at him, and he sighs. “You're cruel.”

  “Well, I assumed you'd like to have some breakfast before we start talking business with the girls. If you're not hungry, though...” I shrug, looking away and biting back a sheepish smile as he raises his voice in protest, his voice thick with sleep. He pauses, leans back onto the mattress, clears his throat and tries again.

  “What's on the menu?” he inquires, a small smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes flicker up along me, as I still half-hover over him. “If you're the three-course meal, I'll gladly get up.”

  I pinch him, making him frown and stick out his tongue at me.

  “Get your lazy ass up, you idiot,” I scoff, rolling my eyes at his behaviour. He simply smirks and rests more fully on the blankets, satisfied with my reaction. Before I can get up, he catches me by the fabric of my vest, his hold loose.

  “Ever heard of the story of Sleeping Beauty?” he inquires out of the blue, and I jerk my head back slightly in confusion – why's he bringing up a fairy tale now, of all times? “I'm not moving until you pay the toll.”

  I deadpan at him as I catch on, and he smiles smugly at me. Frowning at him, I let him know exactly how childish his demands are.

  “You're twenty-two,” I remind him, and he shrugs a shoulder, not budging. I sigh in exasperation. “I just had to fall for someone like you, huh?”

  Quinn doesn't say anything, laughing lightly to himself as he watches me glare at him with the eyes he's long-since gotten used to seeing, and doesn't flinch in the slightest. Sighing in defeat, I shoot him one last withering glare.

  “You're such a child, Quinn,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Alright, fine. Just one, though, and don't you fucking dare make this a habit, you goddamn pri-”

  Eleven pulls me down with the fabric he's still clutching, his free hand holding me in place by the back of my neck. I let out a small sound of surprise as our lips meet, eyes flying wide and scrambling with my hands on either side of his head for balance, failing remarkably and tipping onto my side slightly. Rolling my eyes I let them slip shut, enjoying the chaste kiss and the feel of his lips moving with mine.

  When we part he's smiling in smug satisfaction, and I pull the pillow I used last night and shove it over his face, pulling away as much as I can in his grip.

  Ignoring his protests I dance out of his reach, slipping the door open and waving in his direction as I leave, laughing to myself all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Janice is busy preparing enough pancakes to feed a small army, and Melissa's setting the table. I help her set the plates and silverware down, and I'm pouring orange juice into four glasses when Quinn comes down, wearing the grey shirt and brown knitwear over it, and the pants that are slightly too big for him and pool at his ankles in sweeps. I look in his direction, watching him rub his eyes tiredly as he hesitates there.

  The sight of him makes my heart stop and my breath falter, my stomach doing Olympic-winning cartwheels as he looks in my direction and flashes me a happy smile. I look down to the glasses I'm filling, biting my lip.

  Despite what the future holds, I can't say I'm upset about all of it. Besides, to
use Johannes' words... Quinn's my beloved, my other. I can't hate it no matter what's in store.

  “Ah, how innocent young love is, right Janice?” Melissa asks, breaking the silence that's fallen. Quinn's sitting on the bar stool, watching the three of us put the final touches on the meal before we sit down, and he quirks an eyebrow while I laugh into the fridge, closing the chrome door after nabbing the maple syrup, upon Melissa's request.

  “Don't let his appearance fool you; he's hardly innocent,” I scoff, placing the glass jar on the table and helping the blonde-haired woman place the plates on the table. The rich smells of batter fills the air, and after placing bowls of fruits and a jar of whipped cream on the table, we sit down with the steaming pile between the four of us. Quinn and I get sequestered to the booth-like bench, whereas our hostesses sit on the two chairs opposite us, serving the pancakes and inviting us to dig into the blueberry-flavoured concoctions.

  For a while we make idle chatter, and Quinn and I curiously listen to the stories they part with about other Runners they've helped in the past. They speak of the hardships these men and women faced, as well as a bit of how life's like in Ashland. In return, Quinn tells them about growing up in California, and I tell them a bit about Germany.

  Once we're nibbling at the fruit in the bowl and the pancakes have been devoured, I lean back with a contented sigh and thank them kindly, smiling warmly. Janice looks at both of us, and Quinn's in the midst of devouring a quart of a pear when she speaks.

  “Getting you out of this state won't be easy,” she informs us, and I look at her at the same time my partner does, mid-chew. “It's never easy once you hit the northern states, and there's really only one path you can take that's not as dangerous as the rest, although it's still relatively complex.”

  “If you'll follow me, I'll lead you to a safe place where we can talk,” Melissa continues, getting to her feet. Quinn slips out from the booth and helps me up, and I thank Janice again before we follow the blonde out into the vast dining room, the sunlight streaming in from the wall-to-ceiling window at the southern end of the house. The light's warm against my skin as she leads us into a hallway skirting the large windows, a grandfather clock dutifully keeping time.