“Anything else you wanna tell me?”
Her eyes dropped, brow furrowed. She placed both hands on the table, palms down. Drew a breath.
“They want my son…” she started. No surprise there. Cass paused, lingered. Traced a small circle on the table between them. Three waited. Willed her to own up.
Come on girl, let’s have it all. How long till your next dose?
The circles on the table got smaller, slower. Then, without looking up, she told him the rest of the story.
“They want my son,” she repeated. “And I’m dying.”
Somewhere, far below, an inhuman cry echoed.
Fifteen
Cass bounded down the hall ahead of him, faster than he remembered ever seeing her move; she’d reacted nearly instantly to the scream. No, not scream. Screams. Two voices, one unholy shriek. It hadn’t occurred to him before that he had no idea where Jackson might take Wren. Now he couldn’t understand how he’d been so foolish.
The pair raced past the medical apartment and leapt down the stairs that led towards the primary living quarters. Cass hit the landing so hard she nearly fell, but managed to maintain her frantic momentum and streaked down the central corridor. Three skidded to a halt, dropped to a knee. Listened; strained.
A sound, at the edge of hearing. He whirled and headed down a side passage, hunched, trying to steady his breathing as he searched. There again. A faint sob. The corridor dark. Doors sealed. But the muffled cry growing more apparent with each step. Near the end, a dull orange glow seeped from underneath a door.
“Cass! Here!”
In three strides he was there, propelling his whole mass into the door, throwing it open so hard the doorframe separated from the wall. Then, froze. Scanned. Cass skidded into the room while Three tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
“Wren!” Cass shrieked.
She flew to her son, flinging herself around Three and onto the boy who lay crumpled on the floor, fetal, at the side of the bed. Hands over his ears. A bright, thin trail through his fingers: blood.
Three’s eyes swept the rest of the room, saw the sole of one of Jackson’s feet poking out from behind the bed. He prowled cautiously around the edge, one hand moving instinctively to the handle of his blade, though he doubted there’d be any need for it. Wren was the one softly sobbing. Jackson, so far, hadn’t stirred.
“Baby, what happened? What happened?” Cass was pleading with Wren, cradling him to her, voice trembling with fear. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”
Three rounded the bed. Jackson was there, lying in an awkward pose, one leg bent behind him with the other outstretched. Eyes open, but unseeing. Mouth slightly agape. Didn’t seem to be breathing. Three relaxed, released his grip on his weapon. Shook his head. Wren was going to have to do the talking.
“Wren,” Cass continued, “Wren, baby, please, talk to me.”
Three moved to them, took a knee, looked into Wren’s face. The boy’s eyes were open, and they rose to meet Three’s. He was scared, confused, but he didn’t seem hurt. Cass was frantic. Three stretched out his hand and took her shoulder, firmly, to steady her.
“You OK, kid?”
Wren nodded, took his hands from his ears but didn’t offer anything more. There was a wet smear along the side of his face where the cut on his hand had reopened, but from what Three could tell, he didn’t seem to have any new injuries.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
Wren pulled away from Cass enough to sit upright, and wiped his eyes.
“Wren—” Cass said. Three caught her eye and shook his head. After a long moment Wren spoke quietly, like he was recounting a bad dream.
“I was sleeping. And I heard some people talking. But when I woke up, it was just him.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Three said, standing and offering his hand. Wren stood on his own, Cass accepted the help. “Go on up to the Commons, maybe your mom could take a look at that hand. I’ll be there in a few.”
Wren nodded, trudged out of the room, careful to avoid looking in the direction of Jackson’s body. As Cass moved by him, Three caught her arm, leaned in close.
“Can you check, make sure his signal didn’t slip?”
She nodded and followed her son out. Once they were gone, Three returned to Jackson’s side and crouched. Whatever the boy had done didn’t seem to be external. There were no obvious bruises or even scratches. Jackson’s leg position suggested he had been bedside and fallen slightly backwards, but mostly straight down. More than anything, it looked as though he had simply collapsed where he stood. Whatever Jackson had done had made Wren feel threatened, that much was certain. Beyond that, Three was at a loss. He looked into Jackson’s staring eyes. Poor kid, to have survived the Weir only to be dropped by a harmless looking five year-old. He reached out and shut Jackson’s eyes. At least he’d be at rest now. Finally.
Three ran his hand over his own head, over his stubbled face, pinched the bridge of his nose. One less person to worry about. But troubling questions to answer. Was it even safe to travel with the boy now? He exhaled loudly, stood to his feet. Dropped his neck to one side to crack it. Froze.
On the floor below him, Jackson’s eyes had opened again.
Back in the Commons, Cass dabbed Wren’s tiny hand with a medpatch, watched the foam seep into the wound, cleansing and sealing it. Wren winced at the sting, but held as still as he could. Neither had spoken since they’d left the room. They both stared intently at the hand until the tiny scouring bubbles had all but died away.
“There,” Cass said. “OK now?”
Wren wiggled his fingers, closed his hand into a fist.
“It’s cold. And tingly.”
“That means it’s working, sweetheart.”
The questions were eating her up inside, but she didn’t want to push him if he wasn’t ready to talk. From what she could tell, Wren wasn’t hurt at all. Scared maybe, but mostly, she could see now, frustrated. His mind was at work, replaying the events, trying to understand what exactly had happened and not being able to piece it together. He stared absently at his hand.
“How about something to drink?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“For what, baby?”
“I killed that man, didn’t I? I killed Jackson?”
Cass put her hand along her son’s cheek, felt it warm, soft.
“I think so.”
“He was real nice to me.”
She was dying to know what had happened, but just leaned forward, kissed his forehead, put her head to his.
“He was nice to all of us, sweetheart. But that doesn’t mean he was good.”
“He was good, Mama,” Wren answered. “It was the other ones I didn’t like.”
Jackson’s eyes swam, focused, shifted to Three. And in the next instant, Three was on him, blade in hand, opposite forearm across Jackson’s collarbone, pinning him to the ground. Jackson squirmed weakly under Three’s weight.
“Wait wait wait, it’s OK, I’m alright!”
“Not necessarily.”
“C’mon, you’re chokin’ me here!”
“What did you do?”
“Me? Ask the kid!”
Three shifted his forearm upwards, where Jackson’s neck met his shoulder. Nerves pinched, blood-flow halted.