Unforgotten Page 8

  Mrs. Pattinson looks discomfited. Her eyes dart from one end of the room to the other, as though she feels like she is the one on trial here. Not me. “The truth is, I can’t tell you.” She pauses, wringing her hands. “He disappeared two days ago.”

  Disappeared?

  The magistrate echoes my confusion. “Disappeared?”

  “Probably wandered off into the woods. My guess is the witch lured him out of the house with a spell.” Mrs. Pattinson spits in disgust. “But with that sickness in his blood, he wouldn’t last a mile.”

  She’s right.

  If he tried to go anywhere in his condition on foot, he wouldn’t make it far. If he attempted to transesse, looking for me, then he never arrived.

  Which means …

  “No doubt he’s dead somewhere in the woods,” Mrs. Pattinson concludes. “Food for the crows.”

  The floor is suddenly seized from underneath my feet. The room appears to be spinning. There is no more blood in my head, my face, my fingers, my toes.

  I feel my brain start to click off again. My body quickly follows. One by one, piece by piece, cell by cell, everything shuts down.

  I am floating. I am falling. The beautiful stillness of the looming darkness welcomes me. Invites me in.

  I go willingly.

  13

  RECORDED

  I awake on my feet. Hoisted up by two guards. I am outside, being hauled back into the angry mob, my feet dragging through the dirt behind me. As I come to, I try to walk, but the iron chains around my wrists and ankles make it difficult. Not to mention the numbness that has worked its way to my legs, threatening to cut off circulation to my heart.

  Good.

  Maybe then it will stop beating.

  Maybe then I can stop breathing.

  Just. Stop.

  I didn’t even hear what the verdict was. I passed out before it was announced. But I already know.

  Although I’m not sure why there was ever a need for a trial. It seems to me I was guilty from the moment I set foot on seventeenth-century soil.

  As I gaze out into the throng of people that awaits me, I’m reminded of when I left the hospital in the year 2013. After I was assumed to be the only survivor of Freedom Airlines flight 121. Mr. Rayunas, the social worker who was charged with the task of placing me in a foster family, had to guide me through a wall of reporters and photographers and news crews and onlookers wanting to sneak a peek at the girl who fell from the sky and lived to tell about it.

  At that time, I was revered. A celebrity. A miracle.

  Now I am detested. An abomination. A witch.

  Regardless, I feel exactly the same. Like an outcast. Like someone who will never belong no matter where I go, no matter what I do. I will always stand out. I will always draw attention to myself. I will never be safe.

  And now I’ve dragged a wonderful, innocent, beautiful boy down into my endless pit of destruction.

  And now he’s gone forever.

  Perhaps the Diotech scientists had it right. They kept me locked up behind concrete walls and security clearances. They restricted access to me. They even manipulated my own memories so I would never find out what a monster I actually am.

  Maybe that’s the only way I’ll be able to live.

  As a well-kept secret.

  Well, it’s a little late for that now.

  And besides, living just feels like an ugly, messy, thankless job I never want to do again.

  Once it’s evident that I can stand up on my own again, the guards release my arms and walk ahead, pulling me behind them. Most people won’t meet my eye as I pass—probably afraid that I will cast some kind of spell on them and cause their livestock to die or their children to grow third arms—but some of the braver bystanders lock eyes with me. I’m surprised to see not all of their faces exhibit fear or anger. A few show flashes of pity. Some even compassion.

  These are the stares that are hardest to return.

  The ones I want to shut out completely.

  And then suddenly, without warning, something unbelievable catches my eye. I blink to refocus my vision but there’s no mistake. Far off in the distance, rising over the heads of hundreds of people, I see it.

  I see … me.

  It’s not like looking into a mirror. The likeness isn’t crisp and reflective. It’s grainy and pixilated and not quite real. But there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s my face. Long hair. Small, heart-shaped mouth. A slender nose. The only detail that’s missing is my purple eyes.

  In fact, all the color is missing from my face. Every feature is in black-and-white.

  It takes me a moment to realize exactly what I’m staring at. And once I do, everything—what I’m feeling, what I’m afraid of, what I anticipate—completely shifts.

  The rules have been rewritten.

  The game is over. And a new one has begun.

  Because high in the sky, secured to a tall wooden post, under big block letters spelling out the words WITCH TRIAL, is a hand-drawn sketch of my face on thick parchment. And directly below it is a date:

  THE 6TH OF OCTOBER, SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND NINE.

  Today’s date.

  An official document. A public record. Proof of where I am at this precise moment in time.

  My heart hammers in my chest as I hastily peer into the crowd, this time with a new purpose, a new resolve.

  They’re here. They have to be here. There’s no way they would miss an opportunity like this. An opportunity to pinpoint my exact location.

  I admit, the timing would be perfect. Zen is gone. There is no one left to protect me. And in my current state—hungry, tired, weak, beaten down, hopeless, chained—they could take me easily. I can’t see myself putting up much of a fight.

  Fight.

  The word punches me in the chest and I instantly think of Zen. I hear him screaming it in the street. Echoes from days ago. When the townspeople were trying to take me. When he could barely breathe. His cries reverberate through my memory.

  “Fight, Sera!”

  “Don’t let them win!”

  “You’re stronger than they are!”

  But how can I fight? I can’t win. Not when my gene is dormant and my necklace is gone—probably destroyed. Not when the only thing I’ve ever had to fight for is dead.

  I’m tired of fighting. Tired of running. Tired of having to.

  Maybe Diotech appearing and taking me away isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least then I wouldn’t have to run anymore. They could erase all of this from my mind. I could forget any of it happened. That I ever loved him. That he ever died to be with me.

  I could just be the submissive, emotionless machine they always wanted.

  It would be easy. So very easy.

  I feel pressure on the chains around my wrists and realize I’ve stopped walking and the guard is yanking me back to the present moment.

  I continue to scan the crowd, searching for evidence of them. But I soon realize that I don’t even know what I’m looking for. They could be anywhere. Anyone.

  Would they send the same two agents they sent last time? The frightening man with the creepy scar slicing down his face? Would Alixter himself appear to bring me back?

  If they sent someone new, there’s no way I would ever recognize him. Or her. Plus, they would be smart about it. Diligent. The agent would blend in completely. Disguised in seventeenth-century clothing and a seventeenth-century hairstyle.

  Which means the only way I’ll know them is when they make their move to apprehend me.

  But so far, no one has.

  We’re almost halfway through the crowd now, on the way back to the prison, and there has been no sign of anything unusual. Perhaps they’re waiting for me to be alone. Surely that would be simpler. Create less of a commotion.

  An arm juts out in front of me and I release an involuntary shriek, momentarily quieting the crowd in the near vicinity.

  I glance down and see that the arm belongs to a small body, fighting
its way through the swarm of larger people blocking its view. When it finally makes its way through, I breathe out a sigh. The first tingle of sensation to make its way into my limbs since I was carried from the courtroom climbs tenaciously up my arms and legs.

  It’s Jane.

  Adorable, sweet, placid little Jane Pattinson.

  She must have come to London with her mother.

  Her delicate face is shining up at me and I notice there is no terror in her eyes. No fury like I see in nearly everyone else. As always, she looks serene. Contemplative. I don’t have much time. I’m already being tugged forward again but I manage to hold back long enough to crouch down so that I’m at eye level with her.

  I wish I could reach out and touch her soft skin, run my fingertips through the fine blond hair that’s curled over the tops of her tiny ears. I wish I could embrace her. I know it would chase every other emotion I’m feeling away. If only for a fleeting moment.

  But with my wrists bound in front of me, all I can do is offer her a genuine smile.

  She beckons me closer, waving her minuscule hands. I lean forward and she brings her lips to my ear. “I knew you were the princess,” she whispers.

  I close my eyes and inhale her sweet scent, trying to commit it to memory. It may very well be the last good memory I have.

  By the time she pulls away there are tears leaking from my eyes.

  She extends her arm again and this time I see she has her little cloth doll clutched in her hand. “Here,” she tells me. “Take Lulu. She will look after you.”

  I shake my head, unable to speak.

  But Jane is adamant, thrusting the doll into my shackled hands. “Please,” she begs. “Take her.”

  I feel another tug on my wrist, this one much more impatient. The two guards have stalked back in my direction. They’re lifting me to my feet. I wrap my fingers around Lulu’s slender neck to keep her from falling.

  Then I’m yanked forward, in the direction of the stone fortress rising in the distance, unable to say thank you, or even goodbye. I trip over my ankle chains, trying to put one foot in front of the other. When I finally regain my balance, I manage a single glimpse behind me. But all I see is the crowd.

  14

  HELP

  Hours pass and no one comes. Night falls and I’m still alone. I’m tormented by the thought of Zen’s death and confused by Diotech’s absence. They should know where I am by now. They should have seen the historical records. I have to be in them. I was tried in the central court of London. Steps away from the king’s palace. It had to be documented.

  Did they not recognize my face from the sketch?

  Were the descriptions of my superhuman acts not detailed enough?

  I find it impossible to believe that they simply stopped looking.

  There has to be an explanation. They have to be planning something. They’re not going to let me die. That much I can be certain of.

  Although I’m not sure which option I find more reassuring: death or an escape from it.

  Either way, I’ll soon be able to forget. And in my mind, that makes them equal.

  Somewhere deep inside of me, I feel a small shiver of release. Soon this will all be over. Soon the image of Zen’s face will be permanently erased from my memory.

  I lie on the floor of my cell and watch the shadows from the single torch flicker and dance across the musty wall.

  At some point during the long night, I start to shiver. And soon after, I feel a pressure against my temples. Like a creature living inside is fighting, begging, scraping to get out.

  Then I hear the voice again. This time, I know it’s not just the wind. This time, it’s clear and crisp and urgent. This time, I recognize the source.

  It’s coming from inside me.

  Like a thought.

  No.

  Like a memory.

  “Find me.”

  I still have no idea whose voice it is. Or why it’s coming to me now. I decide to take a chance. I sit up, draw in a deep breath, and speak back. Aloud.

  “How?”

  I’m not convinced an answer will come. In fact, I’m highly doubtful. I wait in the dark expecting nothing.

  But nothing is not what comes.

  The pressure in my head builds. My brain feels like it’s going to explode. Like I’m going to faint. The pain is unbearable.

  But eventually images flood to the surface. As though they’ve been long buried in the back of my mind—concealed, locked, hidden—and somehow only now I’ve managed to set them free.

  And then suddenly I’m no longer in my cell.

  I’m standing on a crowded street. People push into me from every direction. A sea of bodies trying to crush me. Drown me. Suck me under.

  I fight to move through them. Shoulders bumping mine. Elbows jabbing into my rib cage. My hair is caught and my head lashes back.

  Then the noise starts. A faint rolling thunder. A swelling rumble of deep booming sounds.

  It gets louder, louder, louder. Faster, faster, faster. Like a parade of gigantic horses galloping through the air. Stomping on the clouds.

  Until everything around me is vibrating. Pulsating with sound. Swelling. Heaving. Bursting.

  I recognize this sensation. The influx of imagery. The formation of a scene.

  It’s a memory. I’m certain of it.

  But of what? I don’t recognize that street. I don’t recognize that sound. Or any of the faces around me. Is it something that happened when I was living with my foster family in Wells Creek? But then why am I only remembering it now? Why don’t I recognize what I’m seeing?

  It can’t possibly have happened before that. On the compound. When I was at Diotech. Those memories are supposed to be gone. Erased forever.

  Perplexed, I push myself back in, trying to grasp the swirling misty images and hold them steady in my mind.

  Color starts to rain from above.

  Blue. Red. Yellow. Green. White.

  Tiny curling tufts of a material I can’t identify float down like crisp autumn leaves.

  Everyone around me turns at once. Their gazes high. Their fingers stretched upward.

  I turn and lift my eyes.

  High in the sky, a series of strange markings begins to appear. Scribbled among the clouds. Symbols from another world.

  And then … a hideous red beast with black-and-gold eyes emerges into the air. Swims effortlessly over the heads of the crowd. His features are distorted in rage. His jagged white teeth are bared.

  I choke down a scream and start to back away, shoving through the swarm of people. Knocking down bodies. Until I finally break free from the mob.

  I stumble down a deserted street, the raucous rumbling mercifully getting farther and farther away with each step.

  I scan the empty avenue. Every door is closed. Boarded up. Every storefront bears the same unfamiliar markings. The same foreign symbols that I saw in the sky.

  I come to a stop in front of a rusted metal stairwell, leading down, under the street.

  An old man stands at the bottom of the steps. In front of a dirty blue door.

  His skin is deeply creased. His eyes are dark and narrow—nothing more than slender slits cut into his face. His hair is white and thin, trailing from his head down his cheeks and into a long, colorless wispy beard that drips from his chin.

  For reasons I don’t understand, I’m pulled to him. Forced to look. To meet his gaze.

  He beckons me downward. Into his hole.

  “I help you,” he says slowly.

  My body wants to run. Keep running. Never stop running. But my mind tells me no. Stay. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

  I place one shaky hand on the grimy metal banister and start down the steps.

  The image shatters, breaking into a thousand pieces that spin and splinter and fade into …

  Nothing.

  The memory is over. Leaving me feeling more confused and more disoriented than before. I fight to get it back. To pick
up where I left off. To continue down that stairwell. But it’s no use. The harder I try to focus on the scene, the less clear it becomes. The more I try to hold the old man’s face in my mind, the more it slips away. Like trying to catch water in a net.

  What does it all mean?

  Who am I supposed to find?

  Who was that man?

  And how can he help me?

  I feel anger welling up inside me. Hot, blistering rage that expels from my body in the form of boiling tears that dribble down my cheeks.

  Because the truth is, he can’t help me. No one can. It’s pointless now. It’s too late. Zen is dead! I can’t change that. And tomorrow I will be dead, too.

  I bang my fists against the wall harder and harder until the jagged surface breaks through my skin and blood trickles down my forearms. I scream and scream until my throat is sore and raw and my lungs are empty. I kick the ground over and over again until I fall down from pure exhaustion.

  Through the blur of my tears, I see Lulu, Jane’s tiny doll, in the corner, where I dropped her after I was put back in the cell. I crawl over to her and stuff her cloth body down the front of my corset, pressing it close to my heart. Where my locket used to be.

  Where Zen used to be.

  Then I sink to the ground and wait.

  15

  ABSOLVED

  I’m awoken the next morning by the sound of metal clanging against metal. I open my eyes to see a guard standing outside my cell, banging his sword between two of the iron bars in an attempt to rouse me.

  “Last confession,” he announces with the same spite in his tone that all the guards use when they speak to me.

  I push myself up and wipe at my face. “What?”

  That’s when I see that the guard has not come alone. Behind him is a tall man dressed in a long black robe with a crisp white collar. A velvet hood covers his head and most of his face. I can only make out the tip of his nose and the curve of his strong chin.

  “The priest has come to hear your last confession and bless your soul,” the guard explains.

  I don’t know what any of this means but I soon realize that the man in the black robe is expected to enter the cell. The guard points his sword through the slats and uses it to nudge me to the far back corner. I watch with great interest as the door squeaks open and the concealed man enters.