Page 13

Chapter 12

Memories

Titus

T he surface of the lake ripples with soft gusts of wind. The afternoon sun reflects like tumbling diamonds. Its serenity offers no comfort. Its beauty is wasted on the hollowness where my heart used to be.

My brothers sit in silence with me on the bank, the same look of emptiness in their eyes. We came here right after the Fortitude Trial and haven’t said a word since. Ecker keeps picking up small sticks and breaking them in half, then half again and again until he can’t snap them anymore. Bishop found a flat stone and has been turning it over and over in his hand for the last thirty minutes.

I want to know what they saw, experienced. What memory came back to them as the worst moment of their lives? Was it the same as mine? Our lives have run parallel since birth. No, not parallel. Parallel implies clean lines, running alongside each other but never touching. Our lives have always been intertwined, three strands on the same rope.

Perhaps it’s Sinclair whose life has run parallel to ours. She was the mirror of our exile. We all grew up hiding who we were, living under shadows our ancestors hung. Until now, when our individual ropes are tied together with a permanent knot.

“So, what did you see?” Ecker breaks the silence but doesn’t tear his gaze away from the lake in front of us, just snaps his twigs and stares unseeing—or seeing too much.

“The crash,” Bishop responds without emotion. He doesn’t need to specify. Even if that wasn’t what came to me in the trial, I would still know. The crash that killed our parents, murdered our parents.

“Same.” Ecker finally turns to look at us, his brows knitted together. “Ti?”

“Same,” I confess. “But it wasn’t the crash itself. We were at the apartments, and the police were putting them in the van and they were fighting, resisting.” The hollowness in my chest carves a little deeper. “My dad was yelling for me to help. He kept saying, ‘They’re going to kill us. You can’t let them take us.’

“I fought so hard, but every time I would get past one guard, another one would appear, then two. I would break their holds only to be grabbed again.” All the while, my parents were kicking and screaming, doing everything they could to not get in the van.

I don’t know what hurts more. That I didn’t fight hard enough now or I didn’t fight at all then. Ten years ago, we just let them get in that van and drive away to their deaths.

“I was at the crash,” Bishop says. “I didn’t realize what it was until I heard my mom calling for help. She was trapped inside, and I tried to get to her, but my legs stopped working. I was still dragging myself to her when the car went up in flames.” He throws the stone into the lake. It disappears with a small, insignificant splash.

Ecker picks up a new stick. “Mine was like a bad dream on a loop. It was like I was out of my body, just a being looking down from the sky. I saw the van driving on the highway and then farther away, a semi losing control.”

He snaps the twig in two. “They didn’t see it coming. They couldn’t get out of the way.” Snap. “Then it would restart, and I’d get this feeling that this was my chance to change the outcome, that it was on me. I was watching for the semi, but it never came. Instead, the van blew a tire and ran off the bridge, into the water.” Snap. “It kept happening again and again in different ways, and every time I’d know this was my chance to save them, this time was it.” Snap. “ Just for them to die over and over again, and there was nothing I could do.”

When he finishes, we just continue sitting in silence, nothing but the sound of the wind and snapping sticks.

The next morning, it’s time for Cora to transition from Doc’s makeshift hospital to Celia’s apartment. Sinclair wants to stop by her grandma’s place to grab some of her things.

“Since we’re here, does that mean we have to return the car?” Ecker asks about Griswald’s “borrowed” sedan as we get into the apartment’s elevator.

“Hell no,” Bishop says flatly as I smash the button with my finger.

“Cool.” Ecker sighs half-heartedly, and we’re all silent for the short ride up. Maybe we’re just all listening to the gears whir, waiting for them to give out due to Griswald’s no doubt half-ass job.

But more likely, we haven’t been able to shake the depressing simulation we underwent yesterday. Even Sinclair’s warm body wrapped around mine last night didn’t help. I didn’t want to fall asleep, scared of dreams that would only be full of black vans.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Sinclair mutters when we get to her old apartment. Rather than fixing the busted-down door, a tarp has just been nailed to the top of the doorframe.

“I’m sorry. We’ll fix it,” I say and hold up the edge for her to walk under.

“It’s not your fault— oh my god.” She gasps as if sucker punched and races to the kitchen sink.

Frantically, she soaks a sponge, drops to the floor, and begins hysterically scrubbing the dried blood still staining the linoleum. “Nobody—why didn’t anybody—I can’t believe nobody cleaned this, her blood, her blood. Well, of course no one did,” she scoffs. “Who would have? Me. I should have done this. I should have been there—” Her voice cracks. She stops scrubbing to squeeze her eyes shut.

“You let me handle this,” Ecker says, kneeling down and gently taking the sponge out of her hand. “You don’t need to be doing this.”

She sits back on her heels and bites her lip, tears brimming her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” she says softly, getting to her feet.

“C’mon, I’ll help you pack.” I reach out to place my hand on the small of her back but stop myself. I don’t know why.

As I follow Sinclair into the back of the apartment, Bishop adds, “And I’ll go see our favorite super about a door.”

Sinclair goes through Cora’s drawers, handing me clothing items to pack up in a duffel. After a few shirts, she pulls out a leather-bound notebook.

“Huh.” She turns it over and sets it on the dresser, not giving it a second thought.

There’s a design embossed on the cover, but it looks like someone tried to scratch it out.

“Hold on, is that flower an azure aster?” I realize.

“Why would she have . . .” Sinclair trails off as she opens it, reading the name on the first page. “Guinevere Azurite.” She quickly flips through the pages. “Oh my god, I think this is her diary.”

“Who?”

“My great-great-grandmother.”

Entry #1 The ceremony was even worse than I expected. Bradford was so rough, I wanted to cry. He tore through my virginity like a brute and now my wrists are all black and blue from where Joshua and Nathanial held me down. I thought going into heat would make it hurt less, but it didn’t. And it did nothing for the terrible, searing pain of the carving. It truly felt like being gouged by a knife and branded with a hot iron at the same time.

Four ran a hot bath for me afterward, but I couldn’t stay in it more than a few minutes. All I wanted to do was curl into a ball in bed, hide under the covers, and pretend the day never happened.

When I woke up this morning, my body ached and I was so sore between legs that I knew it had.

Sinclair doesn’t turn the page or close the notebook. She just sets the diary on the dresser and takes a step back. “I shouldn’t be reading this.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because she never showed it to me before. If she wanted me to know about it, she would have . . . right?” She looks at me with uncertainty.

Selfishly, I wonder if the answers to our exile will be in there. But even if I knew they weren’t, my answer would still be the same. I go to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear but end up just lightly twirling it around my finger. “I think whatever is in this journal is part of your story too, and you have every right to know what that story is.”

Her ancestor’s words burn up at us, and I can’t stop my gaze from dropping to the place where her carvings hide behind her shirt. “Did it really hurt that bad?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. Did it hurt? Did the scar carved into your skin hurt? I shake my head. “I’m sorry—”

I stop when she touches the neck of my tee shirt. Her fingers gently pull it down and trace the fresh cut above my collarbone. I mirror her action, placing two fingers on her sternum.

“Some scars are worth the pain. And some . . .” She lifts my hand, bringing my fingers to her mouth. My stomach somersaults at the soft flutter of her lips against my fingertips. My breath gets trapped in my throat as she then takes my hand to cup her cheek. “You wear more proudly because of that pain.”

She leans into my palm and the tumbling in my stomach doesn’t stop. When I think of all the ways we hurt her . . . I can hardly take it. I clench my jaw, just to bear the guilt of it all.

“How’s it going in here— oh . . . am I interrupting something?” Ecker swaggers in with a shit-eating grin.

Sinclair presses a quick kiss to my palm before turning around. “Is Bishop back?” She holds up the diary. “’Cause you’re both gonna want to see this.”

Entry #2 I am living in hell. I am sure of it. I feel like a hollow corpse, just a sack of flesh and bone. My alphas are determined to break me. And after last night, they have done just that. For three days prior to the Games, they kept me tied to one of their beds and took turns raping me again and again. It was horrible, their sweaty bodies and burning gold eyes. Every time they triggered my heat, I felt crazed and feverish. I acted in wanton ways that I cannot even write here. Only for it to end. When they were finished, I would be left with their seed leaking out of me and shame so crushing, I was certain it would break me in two.

Last night was the Games and the first time I was allowed out of our wing since the ceremony, and I felt like a ghost disguised among all the people, just a shell of a human. I should have known it would only get worse.

The Victor’s Prize was created by Satan himself. Only the devil would give a pack of bloodthirsty alphas in rut a sacrilegious altar and an omega to desecrate.

They violated me every which way. They took and took until I was crying and bleeding. My heat didn’t last nearly as long as their ruts. More than once, I almost lost consciousness. Nothing I said would make them stop. In fact, the more I screamed and begged, the more vicious they were. They are nothing but heartless, merciless monsters.

Entry #3 I am with child. One of those monsters’ child.

Tear drops mar the paper.

Entry #4 I sat on the dock all night in nothing but my nightgown. The wind must have been bitter cold, but I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel anything. I am nothing but numb.

I sat on the dock with coils of heavy steel chain, trying to convince myself to tie them to my ankles. I sat there until the sun rose, eventually leaving those chains on the dock, untouched. Perhaps if I had the courage when the Trials first began, I would have been successful. But now, I am too numb to even care whether I live or die.

Entry #5 I felt her kick today. She is a strong little one.

I must be strong for her.

Entry #6 Tonight’s the night. My hand shakes as I write this. Nerves, both excited and anxious, consume me. I am doing everything I can to stay away from the alphas tonight. Not that I ever make an effort to be near them, but I am terrified I will give something away. Little one is quite restless too. She tosses and turns in my belly.

Of course, I owe it all to Tormund Cerulean. He heard there might be dried dusk daisies being stored in the vault. He risked everything, breaking in to get them for me. I am equally terrified for the Ceruleans if anyone finds out they’ve helped me.

It feels like this sunset has lasted forever. There’s nothing I can do to calm the pounding of my heart while I wait for nightfall.

I cannot fathom the punishment if I am caught. My only option is to succeed.

“They helped her?” I gape at the page, feeling like my world has turned upside down. “He knew what they were risking.”

“And he did it anyway,” Sinclair says quietly, like she, too, isn’t sure what to make of this new information. “We were never enemies.”

Bishop exhales. “We were allies.”

Entry #7 Dear daughter,

We made it. I’m writing this at a hostel just outside city limits. I haven’t felt you move since we got here. I hope it’s because you know you are finally safe. You can rest now, little one.

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring or the next day or the day after that. But I hope that by the time you are born, we are no longer on the run. I pray we find a safe place where you can grow up without the shackles that tried to keep me bound.

I do not expect a perfect life for you. I know hardships will be a part of wherever life takes you. My only wish is that losing your freedom is never one of them.

There are dozens of pages left in this notebook, but I think it’s best I end it here. For I’m no longer Omega Azurite. I’m Guinevere Ash and her story has only just begun.