Boundless (Unearthly, #3)(31)

I’m relieved for the cool air that greets us when we make it outside. There’s a bench on the porch, and I steer Christian over to it. He sits, then abruptly puts his face in his hands. Groans.

“I’m drunk,” he says, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened to you?” I sit down next to him, reach to put my hand on his shoulder, but he sits up.

“Don’t touch me, okay? I don’t think I can handle it like this.”

I fold my hands in my lap. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

He sighs, runs his palms over his hair. “You know how you said Angela could make herself have the vision by walking in that thing at the church? Well, I did it. I went there.”

“I went there, too,” I gasp. “We must have just missed each other.”

“Did you have the vision?”

“Yes. I mean no, not at the church. But later, I had it.” I swallow. “I saw you with the sword.”

“Fighting?” he asks.

“Fighting two people.”

He nods grimly. “I think we’re having the same vision. Did you see who I was fighting?”

“It was too dark. I couldn’t tell.”

We take a minute to process this, which is hard with the Bee Gees blaring out at us, “Somebody help me, somebody help me, yeah.”

“That’s not all,” Christian says. “I saw you.”

Hopefully he didn’t see the part where I was cowering against the wall, trying and failing to summon the courage to get up.

He shakes his head. “No, you were …” His voice is raspy, like his throat is dry, and, absurdly, he wishes that he could get another drink.

Dread boils over me. “I was what?”

“You were hurt.”

He puts his hand on my wrist and shows me what he saw. My own face, tearstains on my cheeks, my hair loose and tangled around my shoulders. My lips pale. My eyes glazing over. The front of my shirt covered in blood.

“Oh” is all I can think to say.

He thinks I was dying.

He licks his lips. “I don’t know what to do. I only know that when I’m there, in that room, wherever it is, I have one overwhelming thought. I have to keep you safe.” Something works in his throat. “I would lay down my life to protect you, Clara,” he says. “That’s what I feel. I’d die to protect you.”

We don’t talk as I drive him home. I walk him up the stairs and into his room, past Charlie, who’s sprawled on the futon playing his Xbox. I guide Christian over to his bed.

“You don’t need to take care of me,” he protests as I pull back the covers and sit him down on the mattress. “I was stupid. I just wanted to escape for a minute. I thought—”

“Shut up,” I say gently. I pull his shirt over his head and toss it in the corner, then go to the minifridge and find him a bottle of water. “Drink.” He shakes his head. “Drink.”

He downs almost the entire bottle, then hands it back to me.

“Lie down,” I tell him. He stretches out on the mattress, and I go to work removing his shoes and socks. He stares up at the ceiling for a minute, then groans.

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever had a real headache. I feel like—”

“Shh.” I cast a glance at Charlie over my shoulder. He’s faced away from us, his fingers punching the buttons on the Xbox controller passionately. I turn back to Christian.

“You should sleep,” I tell him. I stroke his hair away from his face, my fingers lingering near his temple. He closes his eyes. I move my hand to his forehead, and peek again at Charlie, who’s as oblivious as ever.

Then I call the glory to my fingers and send the tiniest bit of it into Christian.

His eyes open. “What did you just do?”

“Does your head feel better?”

He blinks a few times. “The pain’s gone,” he whispers. “Completely gone.”

“Good. Now go to sleep,” I tell him.

“You know, Clara,” he sighs sleepily as I get up to leave. “You should be a doctor.”

I close the door behind me, then take a minute to lean against the wall and catch my breath.

It’s funny. Here I’ve been seeing this dark room for months, and I know something bad has happened right before Christian and I end up there, hiding, and I know it’s not going to do any good for us to hide, and I know that this whole vision could be life or death. Those people, whoever they are, want to kill us. I’ve sensed that from the beginning.

But I don’t think I ever truly considered that I might die.

Okay, God, I cast upward at breakfast Sunday morning, nibbling at a dry piece of toast while the bells of Memorial Church chime in the background. Give me a break. I’m eighteen years old. Why put me through all of this, the forest fire and the visions and the training, if I’m going to kick the bucket, anyway?

Or maybe this is a punishment. For not fulfilling my purpose the first time.

Or maybe it’s some kind of ultimate test.

Dear God, I write in my notebook as I’m sitting in chemistry class on Monday morning listening to a lecture on the laws of thermodynamics. I don’t want to die. Not now. Sincerely, Clara Gardner.

Please, God, I plead when I’m up at three a.m. on Tuesday morning trying to dash off my Waste Land paper. Please. I don’t want to die. I’m not ready. I’m scared.