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10

“Y ou’re back.” Wyatt looks up from his desk as I walk into the lab.

“You look like shit.” Aang wrinkles his nose.

I didn’t sleep well, and it wasn’t simply because I was in a new place. All the troubles from yesterday were like a constant drip of caffeine in my veins, waking me before I could ever fully claim the darkness of sleep. I kept hearing Juno’s quavering voice, her whispered warnings. God, I need to speak to her again.

“Is the coffee for everyone?” I throw a glance at the wall beside the doors where a small table is set up with a coffeemaker.

“Yeah.” Gretchen lifts her cup that says ‘Smart Bitch, Big Tits’ on the side to me in salute. “I sure hope so.”

The doors open behind me, and Gene limps in, a tray in his hands.

“Is that …” Evie abandons her microscope and rushes over, her blonde hair flying out behind her. “Croissant?”

“No, sorry.” Gene puts the tray beside the coffee machine. “I grabbed a few things from down the street. Danishes and?—”

By ‘down the street’ I assume he means the White House. Where I’m not supposed to go. My stomach churns at the thought, at Juno saying we wouldn’t be seeing each other again. That can’t be right. A headache sets up in my skull as I go back through our conversation, trying to pick apart meaning from every single word. It didn’t work in the wee hours of last night, and it isn’t working now.

“Oh my god, they never give us breakfast.” Evie takes a Danish. “Just those gross packaged lunches and dinners that are only a step above MREs.”

“Thanks, Gene.” I take a long sniff of the coffee and slap a forced smile on my face. “Amazing.”

“I prefer tea,” Aang says, despite already mid-pour on the coffee. “But this will do.”

Gene pats my arm. “Don’t worry about the food. I can do more than clean up around here. I’ll make sure you get fed, and something better than what they’ve been delivering to y’all.”

“How?” Gretchen grabs what looks like an orange scone. “They have all these rules to keep us isolated from the virus in here. We have to stay in the safe zone or whatever it’s called.”

“I have my ways, Miss. Don’t you worry about that.” Gene frowns at the coffee service. “We need a fridge for cream and such.”

“I can get that for you.” Wyatt points to the back wall. “They gave us more refrigeration units than we could ever need. Several of them haven’t even been used, so they’re suitable for food.”

I sip my coffee and bite back a moan. It’s wonderful. Even if the world is growing darker by the day, coffee always gives it a spark.

“We need to talk about the blood sample,” Wyatt says around a mouthful of scone. He’s eating with one hand and digging through his record collection with the other.

“Sorry I didn’t make it back yesterday. I had to see my sister.” I take a bite of Danish. It’s cold and maybe a tad stale, but to me, it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

“It’s fine. It took me a while to get the sample prepped in the HCL. I only just got it back out this morning. It’s clear of virus, but that’s the least interesting thing about it.”

I follow him to his desk toward the back of the room. It’s neat, everything set out in an organized sort of grid with sticky note reminders on top of some items. “Re-check centrifuge balance” and “subvert immune mediator via replicon process?” are written in big black Sharpie.

“Guys,” he calls. “Group huddle.”

Everyone comes over, and the room seems a little warmer now from the coffee and food. The other scientists still keep their distance from me a little. I’m a new cog in their machine, so I suppose it’ll take some getting used to for all of us. After all, I’ve only ever been on my own when it comes to plague research. Most of the faculty left early on in the crisis, returning to their hometowns or countries. Only the ones with local ties—like Sledge—remained to keep the doors open. Now, I wonder if anyone at all returns to campus or if it’s already turned into something else in the short time I’ve been gone.

“First off, the blood wasn’t a fresh collection.” Wyatt clears his throat. “Was it, Dr. Clark?”

“Georgia,” I remind him. “And no, it wasn’t.”

“Why not?” Aang asks.

“This is what I received, and it’s all I was given.”

“That’s not what we were promised. We were told?—”

“I know, and it’s not what I want, either. All right?” I snap and meet his gaze. Then I remind myself that we’re on the same team and gentle my tone. “Sorry, headache. Look, I was under the same impression you were, but that’s not how it played out. I can’t get more. This is it. This is all I have for now.”

“For now?” Gretchen asks.

“He said I’d get a fresh sample every week.”

“Every week? That’s not enough. Not even close.” Evie digs around in her desk and hands me a bottle of ibuprofen. “We need several vials. For DNA analysis alone, we need?—”

“Guys, she said that’s what she received, and she can’t get more. We’ll have to work with it.” Gretchen motions toward Wyatt. “Go on. Tell us what we’ve got.”

I could kiss Gretchen. Instead, I sip more coffee and down the meds.

“First off, the levels of fibrin in the sample are so high as to make it almost unusable.” Wyatt pulls up an image on his screen. “The clotting is also a problem. We need fresher samples. As you can see, the fibrin?—”

“Fuck the fibrin, what is that?” Aang points to what should be a red blood cell.

“That was my second point.” Wyatt enlarges the image. “This blood didn’t come from a human.”

“How much of the sample has poikilocytosis?” I lean forward, the image on the screen defying every bit of biological knowledge I’ve studied. The cells should be round with a darker center. At worst, some cells could be mutated into other forms as in the case of sickle cell anemia patients. But these cells are built like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Round with a multitude of spikes protruding from all sides, the entire thing densely packed.

“All of it.” Wyatt expands the image to show dozens of the same cells.

“Holy fucking shitballs.” Gretchen shakes her head. “What the fuck is this? We need to … we need to run DNA on it. It’s not human, but what is it?”

“It’s simply not possible.” Evie squints at the screen. “There’s no basis for that in biology. The cells are shaped more like?—”

“A virus,” I finish for her.

“Yeah.”

“The plasma?” I ask.

“No good. What separated was mostly waste. No antibodies.”

“ None ?” I look at him.

“I told you, the sample was on the verge of viability to begin with.” Wyatt runs a hand through his shaggy waves. “I did what I could.”

“All right, yeah, I get it. So where’s the lab for DNA? Let’s start there,” I ask. “All we need are some white blood cells. We can cull those out and keep the rest for our studies.”

“Atlanta, but this sample won’t work.” Wyatt frowns.

I need to know more about this specimen. I need to know everything about it. “We can send it via courier overnight or we can dry some samples and send that way, but we—wait. Zoom out more.”

Wyatt expands the image.

“Where are the white blood cells?” My eyes bounce around the image, unable to focus on any single normal thing in this alien landscape. “Did you separate them?”

“No. That’s why this sample won’t work.” Wyatt sighs. “There are no white blood cells.”

* * *

“The blood you gave me is next to useless.” I’m waiting in the foyer of my apartment when the elevator opens and Valen appears. “This won’t—whoa. What happened to you?” I step toward him when I see two vicious slashes across his cheek.

“Nothing.” He strides in, this time dressed down in a black t-shirt and jeans that hug his frame. Brushing past me, the back of his hand grazes my arm.

Awkwardness climbs through me, rising all the way to my head as my cheeks heat. He’s entirely too close, too comfortable with just appearing in my apartment.

I follow him down the hall, my irritation still perfectly intact despite the awkwardness trying to upstage it. “It’s not good enough to study.”

“The sample is perfectly adequate.” He walks past me toward the living room and stands with his back to me, his eyes on the night beyond my windows.

“The sample is bullshit.” I find it easier to tell him off now that he’s not looking at me. “And you need to talk to me. What did you and Juno?—”

His palm lands on my mouth so quickly that I shriek, the sound muffled against his warm skin.

“Keep your voice down,” he hisses, his dark eyes eating me up.

I’m stunned to silence, my mouth going dry. Fight or flight kicks in, and I push away from him. He lets me go—I hadn’t even realized he’d had his other arm wrapped around me—and I stumble back against the fireplace.

I steady myself and glare up at him, my gaze lingering on the gashes in his cheek. They seem to be oozing something other than blood. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Don’t play the fool.” He says it dismissively, arrogance coating him like honey.

“The sample is useless. It’s not … It’s not human,” I say somewhat stupidly.

The corner of his lips quirk slightly. “No, it’s not. That’s the point.”

“It’s degraded. I need another sample. Several vials.”

“You’ll have one vial. Next week.”

“I need a fresh one.” I look pointedly at his pale arm, the veins nice and defined. I’m no phlebotomist, but I’m certain I could tap one of those easily.

“You’ll have a sample next week.” He’s a stony-eyed monster with a repetition problem.

I bite back my temper as best I can. Juno told me to work with him. I have to at least try. “Your face is a mess. Come with me.” I turn and stomp to my room and unstack some boxes until I come to my medical supplies.

“Already invited to your bed?” He leans against the doorframe. “Faster than I’d thought, though not unwelcome.”

“Get over yourself.” I grab what I need and jerk my chin toward the bathroom. “In there.”

“I don’t need your help.” He seems amused, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly.

“I didn’t ask.” I point. “Go.”

He stares at me, his gaze unreadable. “What is this? Trying to get on my good side?”

“From what I can tell, you don’t have one,” I say brightly. “So no fear of that happening.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he finally moves, slinking into my bathroom and waiting by the sink.

I follow and lay out my alcohol, gauze, and swabs on the vanity, then pull on my gloves. “What happened?” I ask and grab a swab.

“Nothing important.” He keeps his gaze on me.

“Can you sit?” I point to the closed toilet. “You’re too tall for this to—okay, thank you.” He sits with his legs open, forcing me to stand between them to treat him. I could swear there’s the slightest self-satisfied smirk on his lips, and I have to remind myself that I’m supposed to help him, not harm him. Hippocratic Oath and all that.

“Looks like it hurts.” I touch one of the oozing wounds with my swab.

He grabs my wrist so quickly I yelp. He looks up at me, the darkness of his eyes giving way to more hues at this angle. Blues of the sea, the sky, the deepest water in the coldest ocean. “You’re clever. I’ll give you that. But you aren’t getting a sample from me this way.”

Fuck . “I’m only trying to treat you,” I lie.

He tightens his grip on my wrist until I drop the swab. When he releases me, he says, “Continue.”

I should smack the smug right off his face, but it looks like someone already tried it. And I’m not a fighter, not with fists and weapons. I have to do my warfare in different ways, ones that rely more on smarts than strength. I douse some gauze with alcohol and dab it along the scratches. He doesn’t so much as blink.

“These are deep. They’ll probably scar.”

He doesn’t respond, just continues with the unmitigated eye contact. Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks as I wipe at the injuries. “What’s this goo?” I peer more closely at the deep wounds, the edges almost seething with the viscous white-green slime. “It’s not pus, not an immune reaction, I don’t think. It’s almost like … Hell, what is it?” I meet his gaze again. He has long, black lashes that frame the deep blue of his eyes. Smooth skin, save the gouges, and full lips. By any measure, he’s a gorgeous man. By my measure, he’s also an asshole.

“Venom.”

I may not be outdoorsy, but this isn’t a snake bite or scorpion stab. I cock my head at him. “Venom from what?”

Silence again.

Frustration wells in me. “How can I treat you if you don’t tell me what happened to you?”

“I didn’t ask for treatment,” he says dismissively.

My teeth clack as I snap my mouth shut. He’s not going to talk. Fine, I won’t either. I’ll make it just as awkward. I don’t have to talk.

He rests his arms along his thighs, and I think I feel what might be one of his thumbs pressing against my leg. If it is, he doesn’t notice or pull it away. Instead, he’s focused on me in that unnerving way of his. As if he knows what I look like naked, or maybe can read my thoughts. Is that part of his superhuman schtick? “ You’re a dick .” I think at him. He doesn’t react. Okay, so maybe no mind-reading.

I wipe at the scratches, cleaning off the ooze that’s begun to crust over. Once they’re clear, I toy with the idea of stitches, but the cuts already look better, the edges relatively straight. With some compression, they’ll heal by themselves without carrying another scar from the stitches. I apply wound glue, then cover with gauze. I would be explaining all this as I go, but there’s only the sound of my work. Because I’m tired, and scared, and yeah, fucking childish apparently. But I need a win. Something. Anything to show I have at least an ounce of control over my life. Once I’m finished, I remove my gloves and toss them in the trash.

Valen swipes up everything I used to work on his injuries, dumps it in the small trashcan, then grabs my alcohol and pours it on top.

Motherfucker . I grit my teeth. My instinct is to say something along the lines of ‘unnecessary’ or ‘isn’t that a bit much?’ but I’m still waiting him out. If he’s trying to dominate me with silence, well, two can play that game.

He stands abruptly, and I stumble backward to avoid touching him chest-to-chest. Or perhaps chest-to-stomach given his height. He takes my elbow with a gentle firmness and keeps me upright.

He moves back into my bedroom. “Now that we’re done?—”

“Ha!” I win.

He turns and looks at me. “What was that?”

“You were saying?” I ask.

He sighs as if he’s the most put-upon man on the planet. “Do you have anything for me?”

“No. Like I said, the sample is no good. No white blood cells means we can’t sequence DNA, and the red blood cells are degraded and … odd.”

“Odd how?” He moves closer, and I’m suddenly acutely aware that we’re in my dim bedroom in a secluded penthouse where no one would hear me scream. He’s big, far bigger than I am, though I’m by no means skinny. He could hurt me. Badly.

He runs his tongue along his teeth and backs away to the doorframe where he leans again, nonchalant in that haughty way of his. “Tell me, Doctor. Odd how?”

I swear he’s mocking me. “Call me Georgia.” I force my eyes not to roll. “And odd in that the cells are misshapen beyond anything we’ve seen short of fatal cases of Sickle Cell. But even then, at least some of the cells are normal. What you gave me—it must’ve been tampered with.”

“Is that an accusation?”

“It’s just a fact.” I shrug.

He stares at me, his face still bearing his condescending, amused look. The silence grows again. He looks me up and down slowly. Rudely. I itch to cover myself somehow, hide from him. It’s a bizarre sensation, like a rabbit that’s been spied by a raptor overhead. I hate it. Valen doesn’t seem to mind at all. Still like the surface of unmoving water, only his eyes showing movement, life.

Words bubble up inside me. The too-direct looks from him, the way we’re alone in here together. My skin heats, nerves and worry turning my cheeks pink. God. “At the inauguration …” I blurt, then fail to figure out where I’m going. I try again, “At the inauguration, you saved my life.”

He simply watches me.

I tangle my fingers together, still unsure of what I’m trying to say. “I mean, you didn’t have to. You could’ve … you could’ve saved yourself, but you helped me. I just wanted to say … I wanted to say thank you. That’s all.” God, why was that so hard? “But then you killed those people,” I add. “Just … you just killed them without?—”

“Those people would’ve killed you and thought nothing of it.” His voice has gone cold. “They deserved far worse than they got.”

The slight misgiving I felt earlier about being alone with him grows like an unwanted seed. He has no qualms about killing. In fact, he has no emotions about it whatsoever. I could argue with him about the unjustness, but I’ve already had this conversation. With Juno. I can see this one will end much the same way.

God, I’m not cut out for politics.

He plucks something from his pocket, his movement minute. “Come here.”

I swallow hard at the way he says it. “Excuse me?”

“I said come to me.”

What am I, a dog? “How about you come to me?” I say tartly.

He closes the distance between us with a quickness that sends my heart racing. “I thought you’d never ask.”

What is he? If I hadn’t been spooked before, I am now. He moved so quickly, too quickly. So much so that it’s impossible, my mind trying and failing to do the math on the simple mechanics of it.

Taking my hand, he leans closer, his lips whispering against my ear, sending a not entirely unpleasant shiver down my spine. “They’re watching.”

Then he’s gone, walking out of my room with a sure stride.

I close my fist around the scrap of paper he pressed into my palm. Another secret. They’re watching . Nothing’s safe. Only pen and paper, and even then, it could get intercepted if I’m not careful. I need to know what the hell is going on. I pocket the scrap of paper and stand for a while, my mind trying to sort through my interaction with Valen. But it’s like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together in the dark.

Eventually, I walk to the kitchen and dig around for some dinner. Gene’s been stashing odds and ends in my refrigerator and freezer, and I even found an orange on my counter.

Just once, I reach into my pocket and run my finger along the mysterious bit of paper. I can’t stay in the dark like this, not when my sister is in danger.

I’ll pass it along like Juno asked, but only after I’ve read it.