TWELVE
STOLEN
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
I splash my face with cold water—no time for a shower, although I’d sell a kidney for one. I can’t believe I said that to him. March looked at me, right after he’d dropped the bomb, and he waited, because I was supposed to say something. But after the accumulation of revelations of the past hour, after the base jump, the rockets, and the spider in my head . . . it was just too much. I couldn’t handle that on top of everything else. I knew I’d cry again if I stayed in that room with him any longer. So when he told me he’d left a brotherhood of deadly assassins for me, and that I was his girlfriend, I balled my fists and said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”
A round of self-applause is in order.
I didn’t even look up at him as he opened the door for me—couldn’t bring myself to, really. He made it clear he considers we’re still together, but what can he possibly expect from me? I don’t even remember him—Yes, you do, a douchey little voice reminds me. As if now were the moment to think of him, of us . . . doing that. An unwelcome flashback of his lips pressed to my neck has me squeezing my eyes shut in distress.
I splash water on my face again, pat at my cheeks with a clean towel, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a tangle of dirty auburn curls springing in all directions. I sigh. I actually have leaves in there. And a twig too . . . I do a quick job of cleaning and untangling the unruly mass with my fingers and braid it hastily, securing the end with a bit of floss I found in a cupboard when looking for a toothbrush.
Once I’m done and I check the result of my efforts in the mirror, I’m filled with a sense of unease, something that weighs in my stomach like impending nausea. Maybe it’s because of the braid . . . I don’t recognize that girl. I thought I’d gotten over this, that I was getting used to seeing my own face, but it seems that feeling of being external to my own body is back. I trace the bridge of my nose, touch my lips, my chin, wondering what March sees—the same Island he used to know or a stranger wearing her face?
A low growl in my belly rings in the end of this distressing metaphysical debate. Time to exit the bathroom and face whatever awaits me on the other side of that door. Namely, Dominik, who was apparently tasked with guarding said door. I’m not certain how to interpret his shuttered expression when he sees me coming out: on a scale of one to Guantanamo, how captive am I? To be honest, March hasn’t treated me like a captive so far. I’m on the fence about Isiporho, and Dries . . . having seen him shoot that wounded guy like he’d have stepped on a roach, I don’t want to think about it.
“You hungry?”
My head snaps up; Dominik is talking to me. An embarrassing rumble rises between us, which is probably what tipped him off in the first place.
I nod. “Um, yeah.”
“Come with me.”
I follow him back to the living room, where I’m greeted by a splash of white. March and Isiporho have ditched their black fatigues for the same sort of white gear Dominik is wearing. The magazines perfectly lined on the kitchen table and the snow-camo pants tell me we’re about to move.
“How do you feel, biscuit?” March asks, his voice tinged with concern.
There’s a pang in my chest, an ache I can’t quite place every time he uses that South African pet name. Maybe the other girl inside me regrets that past I can’t remember. Did she . . . love him? I stare at the floor intently. It’s all behind me; I prefer not to know. It’d only make me more vulnerable around him.
“I think I’m okay,” I mumble while Dominik searches a backpack for peanut butter energy bars. He retrieves two, which he tosses my way. I catch them and examine the label. “Soldier Fuel.” Huh? Yep, I need that right now.
“We’re going to need you to change too,” March tells me, gesturing to a remaining pair of camo over pants folded on a chair—whoever did that must have spent some time on it: they almost look like they were ironed.
I gobble down the last bite of my energy bar and take the pants, as well as the oddly stiff and heavy white parka he gives me—is that stuff bulletproof or something? “I’ll go change in the bedroom.”
March’s mouth opens like he’s about to object, and I’m reminded that I am under surveillance after all. Behind me though, the bedroom’s door opens to reveal Dries . . . I’m actually glad March tried to stop me from walking into the Lion’s mouth, or so to speak.
There’s no trace left on Dries’s features of the berserker rage he unleashed less than an hour ago. He’s perfectly composed as he gauges me, his gaze settling on the camo pants in my hands, the same as he’s now wearing. “Feeling better?” he asks.
I shrug in confirmation that yes, I’m alive, and I’m able to stand on my feet, at least.
“Good. Then come in. You and I are going to talk.”
I take a step back instinctively. March’s eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t interpose himself. I’m on my own. I swallow and walk toward Dries, like a lamb headed to the slaughter. He moves aside to let me enter the room and closes the door behind me. I toss the parka and camo pants on the bed, and it’s just the two of us, in that tiny space I now realize is permeated in a rich, smoky scent—he had a cigarillo in here too.
After a prolonged silence during which we size each other up warily, Dries shoots first. “You were always tougher than you looked.”
Always . . . “March says we’ve met before, at the Poseidon.”
His eyes narrow in interest. “Do you remember it?”
“No. All I have is his word for it.”
“And you believe him?”
Do I? March said I was trying to stop the Lions from destroying the Poseidon, that the two of us were helping Dries at the time. Supposing this is true, that might have been enough for Anies to cage me and nuke my brain as retribution . . . But I can tell there’s more to this. “I don’t know,” I say at last. “There’s something that doesn’t add up in March’s story.”
Dries crosses his arms. I don’t like the way he’s staring down at me; it’s too . . . intense. “Go on, little Island.”
I avert my eyes and wrap my arms around myself protectively. “All of what March said, the spider . . . if it’s true, what Anies did to me was personal. It wasn’t just about coming up with some sick punishment. He could have tortured me or even killed me, but he made me his daughter instead. He made everyone act like I was his child. He wanted something else from me.” My stomach twists at the memory of his comments about building the future . . . about Stiles.
Dries’s arms fall at his sides, his hands curling into fists. Fear surges inside me at the thought that he could hit me, but I stay still, pinned in place by the inexplicable certainty that he won’t.
“He wasn’t trying to punish you,” he says, his voice suddenly low, harsh. “He took you to punish me.”
What was it that March said? That Anies had framed Dries for the destruction of the Poseidon because of an old feud between them . . . There’s a voice inside me screaming not to go there, that if I open that Pandora’s box, it’ll swallow me whole, engulf me in darkness. But I can’t stop the movement of my lips as I ask, “What happened between the two of you?”
His expression softens. “We both wanted Léa.”
I go rigid upon hearing my mother’s name. He says it exactly the same way Anies does, her name rolling off his tongue with an accent of tenderness.
“But she chose me. Island, you are my daughter.”
I don’t understand. I mean, he was perfectly clear, and it’d be rude to make him repeat what he just said. Right? But the words won’t compute; they whirl around my head, paralyzing my lungs, my limbs. I see the hazel eyes, the gap tooth we share, notice for the first time that Dries has many little moles on his hands, his neck.
Like I do.
My body is shaking. I hear him again, howling, destroying everything in the cabin’s living room after he realized my brain had been wiped clean. The words I wanted to block back then finally register in my brain, branding me.
Dogter . . . gesteel . . . Daughter . . . stolen . . .
Stolen.
Is that what Anies did? I feel numb, my brain working in vain to process the monstrous possibility. He needed a willing doll to play the part of the child he never had, and he took his own brother’s child for that. Me. My legs are barely holding me up as the bedroom spins back into focus. In Dries’s eyes, the anger has become raw pain.
“How do I know you’re not lying?” I chew out each word slowly. They’re burning my throat. When Dries’s brow gives the faintest quiver, I add, “How do I know that any of this real?” I sniff back tears. “I thought everything was real at Ingolvinlinna! He told me about my mother too. He said he gave me everything he couldn’t give her!”
Dries steps forward brusquely, his arms rising to pull me to him. I stagger back toward the door in distress. “I don’t want you to touch me!”
Regret swells in my chest the moment the words burst out, and I wish I could breathe them back. Dries’s arms fall back to his sides, and I don’t miss the way his hands shake a little. I’ve hurt him, and I can feel . . . I feel his distress. I care. My brain won’t hear Dries’s truth, but my body knows—remembers? I realize I’ve never experienced anything close to that kind of primal response around Anies, and that’s when I can’t contain my tears anymore. They overflow and roll down my cheeks, my neck.
The bedroom door slams open behind me, and I whirl around to find March. He probably heard me yell at Dries, and now he’s seen my tear-streaked cheeks. His hands reach for me; he murmurs my name. I don’t want any of this; I raise my palms to keep him at a safe distance. “Please leave me alone . . .”—I spot the parka and camo over pants I tossed on the bed—“I need to change. I want to be alone.”
I sense reluctance in the air, but they both comply and exit silently, March’s anxious gaze lingering on me for a second before the door closes for good. I grab the over pants and slip into them clumsily. My hands are shaking so badly I need to try several times before I manage to zip them.
I almost wish I could go back, never know the truth. Part of me is still fighting March and Dries’s version of events, secretly hoping that there’s another answer somewhere, a door I could open to magically get my life back. But what life? What is there to return to if all Anies ever told me were lies, if the only family I have are killers?
I bury my face in my hands and rub my eyes forcefully with the heel of my palm, but the headache won’t go, threatening to grow into a full migraine. Soft rapping at the door makes me jump, soon followed by Dries’s voice. “We’re moving in five minutes.”
I take several deep breaths and finish prepping. As expected, the clothes they gave me are too big, but once I’ve rolled up the pant legs and adjusted the belt and suspenders, I’m good to go. The gloves and thug balaclava are a welcome addition too, especially after I peek through the window and see that snow has started falling again, silently blanketing the lake under an indigo sky.
Buried under all those layers of clothing, I draw a trembling sigh. Maybe it’s for the best that I’m being given no time to process any of this; otherwise I’d curl into a ball for at least a week . . .