Page 94 of Last of Her Name

The ache from the brainjacking was nothing compared to the pain I feel now. Someone’s climbed into my skull and is drilling into it. I could rip through the walls with my bare hands to escape it, but it’s like all my strength has been drained from me. I moan and shake my head, willing them to just disappear. Maybe the brainjacking worked after all. Maybe it made me crazy.

“What’s wrong with her?” asks Volkov.

Dr. Luka shakes his head. “She’s been living with this delusion for a long time. With the others, we usually caught the signs early. But Anya was alone, with no one to truly understand her condition. I’m sure her foster parents tried their best, but they must have given up attempting to cure her. It won’t be so easy to do it now, given how long she’s been affected. She needs time to process what is and isn’t real.”

“She’sreal,” I whisper. “Stop saying she isn’t. Please.Pleasestop.”

Volkov snaps. “We don’t have time for this! No wonder it isn’t working! She’s consumed by denial.” Pushing aside the doctor, he grips my wrists, forcing me to look at him. “Who are you?”

“Wh-what?”

“Who are you?”

“Stacia Andr—” I cut short with a gasp as he tightens his grip.

“That’s the problem. You still don’t believe the truth of who and what you are. How can you inherit the Leonov legacy if you won’t even accept their name? Your old self is still in the way. That is where we must start. If Anya Leonova is to live, then Stacia Androva must die.”

It’s midnight, and I’m sitting in the corner of my too-large room, tucked into the wall. I stare at the floor, chills running over my skin like I’m feverish. When I close my eyes, I can feel their needles pricking me, their fingers prodding. My body aches from the seizure the brainjacking caused. Even still, I feel tremors in my fingers.

But none of that compares to the moment I saw Clio’s name written in my DNA.

Rocking back and forth, I relive my entire life, trying to make sense of the chaos raging inside my skull.

I work backward, sifting through my mind and grabbing at every memory I have of Clio. I turn them over desperately, looking for confirmation of what I know to be true—that Clio is a girl with blond hair and blue eyes, that she’s funny and kind and wise, that she’s my best friend, that she’sreal.

The memories seem real enough. I can picture her so clearly. I can hear her voice.

“Your name is Clio,” I whisper, hugging myself and staring hard at the white carpet. “You are seventeen years old. You’re a hopeless romantic. You’re madly in love with Pol.”

Pol.

Pol would tell me she’s real, if he were here. He would laugh at the veryideaof Clio being some sort of hallucination. He’d tell me a hundred reasons why that was ridiculous, and then he’d tease me for ever considering it might be true.

Except …

Except hetoldme Clio wasn’t on Alexandrine.

He didn’t want me to come here. He tried to stop me.

All along, I’ve wondered how he wasn’t as concerned about Clio as I was. He always hesitated when I mentioned going after her. I thought it was just because of his continued belief in his “mission.” But what if that wasn’t it at all?

What if heknows?

With a cry, I burst to my feet and begin pacing the room, my hands knotting in my hair, my breath coming fast and ragged.

“Your name is Clio. You are seventeen years old. You love sleeping late and romance shows and you’re terrible at math. You live in …”

I stop dead.

My hands lower to my sides, curl into fists.

“You live … in a house …” I shake my head, fighting through the fog that envelops my mind. “You live in a house in Afka. Right? Or … an apartment.”

Slowly, I raise my eyes to the diamantglass window, to the reflection of the girl standing there. She is disheveled, pale, frightened. She is a ghost of myself, thin as the air and fragile as a spider’s web. Beyond her, the lights of Alexandrine flicker like strange, indifferent stars, reminding her how very far away from home she is.

“Clio,” I whisper. “Where do you live? Where do you sleep? Stars, Iknowthis! I have to know this!”

But the more questions I ask myself, the more gaps I uncover.