"Elena?" Jeremy crouched in front of me-or not me. He frowned. "Did this work? Are you there, sweetheart?"
"Jer?" I said again.
At the bottom of my field of vision, I saw my-the-lips move, but I felt nothing. Even my field of vision itself was skewed, the angle all wrong, like I was watching the scene through an oddly placed camera. I tried to shift upward, add some height to my position, but nothing happened. The sensation was unsettling to the point of panic. Was this what it was like to be paralyzed? My heart fluttered in my chest. I didn't feel it pounding, only perceived it in my mind, some gut-level awareness of my body's normal responses to fear, knowing that my heart should be fluttering, even if it wasn't.
"What-" I began. The voice was so alien in my ears that I had to stop. Swallowed. Mentally swallowed, I mean. If my throat moved, I wasn't aware of it. "Where am I? Who am I? I can't move."
Jeremy's face clouded. "Didn't she-?" He muttered something under his breath, then started again, calm. "Paige didn't explain?"
"Explain what? What the hell is going on?"
"She's transported you to her body. You can see, hear, speak, but you won't have any sort of mobility. She didn't explain-?"
"No, she dumped me into limbo and I woke up here. Showing off."
"I heard that," a distant voice in my head said. Paige.
"She's still here," I said. "There. Somewhere. Eavesdropping."
"I'm not eavesdropping," Paige said. "You have my body. Where am I supposed to go? I wasn't showing off. I knew you'd want to speak to Jeremy, so I wanted to surprise you. It should have been a smooth transition, but I guess your lack of experience-"
"My lack of experience?" I said.
"Ignore her," Jeremy said.
"I heard that," Paige said, quieter.
"How are you?" Jeremy asked. He laid his hand on mine. I saw it, but couldn't feel it and felt a pang of loss.
"Lonely," I said, surprising myself. I lightened my tone. "Not for lack of company, though. Seems I'm quite the popular 'guest' around this place. But it's-I'm-" I inhaled. Pull yourself together, Elena. That was the last thing Jeremy needed, to hear me on the verge of an emotional breakdown. Where had this come from?
"I'm tired," I said. "Not sleeping well, not eating well, no exercise. So I'm touchy. Cabin fever, I guess. Physically, I'm fine. They aren't torturing me, beating me, starving me. Nothing like that. I'll be okay."
"I know you will," he said softly. He pulled up a chair. "Do you feel up to talking about it?"
I told him about Bauer, Matasumi, rattled off some details on the guards and the other staff like Xavier, Tess, and Carmichael, giving him a rough picture of the situation. I explained as much as I could about the setup of the compound, then about the other captives, remembering Paige's silent presence and stopping myself before talking about Savannah.
"I'm only interested in getting you out," Jeremy said when I'd finished. "We can't worry about the others."
"I know."
"How are you holding up?"
"Fi-"
"Don't say 'fine,' Elena."
I paused. "Is Clay… around? Maybe I could talk to him… Just for a few minutes. I know we have to keep this short. No time for socializing. But I'd like-if I could…"
Jeremy was quiet. Inside my head, Paige muttered something. Alarm zinged through me.
"He's okay, isn't he?" I asked. "Nothing's happened-"
"Clay's fine," Jeremy said. "I know you'd like to speak to him, but it might not be… a good time. He's… sleeping."
"Sleep-?" I began.
"I am not sleeping," a voice growled from across the room. "Not voluntarily, at least."
I looked up to see Clay in the doorway, hair tousled, eyes dimmed by sedatives. He lumbered into the room like a bear awaking from hibernation.
"Clay," I said, heart tripping so fast I could barely get his name out.
He stopped and fixed me with a scowl. My next words jammed in my throat. I swallowed them and tried again.
"Causing trouble again?" I asked, forcing a smile into my voice. "What did you do to make Jeremy drug you up?"
His scowl hardened with something I'd seen in his face a million times, but never when he looked at me. Contempt. His lips twisted, and he opened his mouth to say something, then decided I wasn't worth the effort and turned his attention to Jeremy.
"Cl-" I began. My gut was solid rock. I couldn't breathe, could barely speak. "Clay?"
"Sit down, Clayton," Jeremy said. "I'm talking to-"
"I can see who you're talking to." Another twist of the lips. The briefest glare in my direction. "And I don't know why you're wasting your time."
"He thinks you're me," Paige whispered.
I knew that. Deep down, I knew that, but it didn't help. I saw the way he looked at me, and it didn't matter who Clay thought was there, he was looking at me. Me.
"It's not Paige," Jeremy said. "It's Elena. She's communicating through Paige."
Clay's expression didn't change. Didn't soften. Not even for a second. He turned his stare to me and I saw the disdain there, stronger now, hard and sharp.
"Is that what she told you?" he said. "I know you want attention, Paige, but this is low. Even for you."
"It's me, Clay," I said. "It's not Paige."
He sneered, and I saw everything there that I'd never wanted to see in Clay's face when he looked at me, every drop of contempt he had for humans. I'd had nightmares of this, seeing him turn that look on me. I'd woken sweating, blood pounding, absolutely terrified, the way no childhood nightmare had ever frightened me. Now I looked at him and something snapped. The world went black.
REBIRTH
I awoke on the floor of my cell. I didn't get up. Had I been dreaming? I wanted to believe it, then chided myself for such a silly wish. Of course, I didn't want it to have been a dream. I wanted to believe I'd talked to Jeremy, conveyed all my observations to him, set the wheels of rescue in motion. Who cared about Clay? Okay, I cared. Cared more than I wanted to most times, but I had to put this thing in perspective. Clay hadn't looked at me that way. At least, he hadn't intended the look for me. Obviously he wasn't getting along with Paige, and frankly, that didn't surprise me. Where humans were concerned, Clay wasn't Mr. Congeniality at the best of times, and certainly not when said human was an overconfident, outspoken witch young enough to be one of his students. I lay on the floor and told myself all this, and it didn't help a bit. I felt… My mind clamped shut before the last word escaped, but I pried it back open. Admit it. I had to admit it, if only to myself. I felt rejected.
So what, right? I felt rejected. Big deal. But it was a big deal. Too big a deal. The second I owned up to the emotion, it engulfed me. I was a child again, taking the hand of a new foster parent, clasping it tight and praying I'd never have to let go. I was six, seven, eight years old, faces flipping before me like pages in a photo album, names I'd forgotten but faces I'd recognize if I saw them for a split second on a passing train. I heard voices, the drone of a television, my small body held tight against the wall, barely daring to breathe for fear of being overheard, listening to them talk, waiting for "The Conversation." The Conversation. Admitting to each other that it wasn't working out, that I was "more than they bargained for." Convincing themselves they'd been tricked by the agency, fooled into taking a blond-haired, blue-eyed doll, a broken doll. They hadn't been tricked. They hadn't listened. The agencies always tried to warn them about me, about my past. When I was five, I'd seen my parents killed in a car accident. I'd sat on the country road all night, trying desperately to wake them up, crying for help in the dark. No one found me until morning, and after that, well, I wasn't quite right after that. I withdrew into my mind, emerging only to throw fits of rage. I knew that I was spoiling things for myself. Every time a new foster family took me in, I swore to myself I'd make them fall in love with me; I'd be the perfect little angel they expected. But I couldn't do it. All I could do was sit in my head, watch myself scream and rant, wait for the final rejection, and know it was my fault.