The Infinite Sea (The Fifth Wave #2)(42)

“If I had a hundred-and-six-degree temperature, I’d be dead,” he pointed out.

“No, and you want to know why? Because dead people have no temperature!”

He was nodding thoughtfully. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“There! There it is, right there! Just like the Walker homestead, just like Camp Ashpit, just like Vosch’s death camp. Whenever I’ve got you cornered . . .”

“You had me cornered the minute I laid—”

“Stop it.”

He stopped. I sat on the bed next to him. Maybe I was going about this all wrong. You catch more flies with honey, my grandmother always said. The problem was that womanly wiles weren’t something I carried in my wheelhouse. I took his hand. I looked deeply into his eyes. I considered unbuttoning my shirt a bit, but decided he might see through that little ploy. Not that my ploys were that little.

“I’m not letting you pull another Camp Haven on me,” I said, adding what I hoped to be an alluring purr to the timbre. “That isn’t going to happen. You’re coming with us. Poundcake and Dumbo can carry you.”

He reached up with his other hand and touched my cheek. I knew that touch. I’d missed it. “I know,” he said. The expression in his chocolatey (gah) eyes was infinitely sad. I knew that look, too. I’d seen it before, in the woods when he confessed who he really was. “But you don’t know everything. You don’t know about Grace.”

“Grace,” I echoed, pushing his hand from my cheek, forgetting all about the honey. I liked his touch too much, I decided. I needed to work on not liking it so much. And also work on not liking the way he looked at me as if I were the last person on Earth, which I actually thought I was before he found me. That’s a terrible thing, an awful burden to put on someone. You make your whole existence dependent on another human being and you’re asking for a world of trouble. Think of every tragic love story ever written. And I didn’t want to play Juliet to anybody’s Romeo, not if I could help it. Even if the only candidate available was willing to die for me and sitting right beside me holding my hand and looking deeply into my eyes with the not-so-gah-now eyes the color of melted chocolate. Plus being practically na**d under those covers and possessing the body of a Hollister dude . . . but I’m not getting into all that.

“Grace again. You kept mentioning grace after I shot you,” I told him.

“You don’t know Grace.”

Well, that stung. I never knew he was so religious—or judgmental. The two usually go hand in hand, still . . .

“Cassie, I have to tell you something.”

“You’re a Baptist?”

“That day on the highway after I—let you get away, I was very afraid. I didn’t understand what happened, why I couldn’t . . . do what I came to do. Do what I was born to do. It didn’t make sense to me. And in a lot of ways, it still doesn’t make sense. You think you know yourself. You think you know the person you see in the mirror. I found you, but in finding you, I lost myself. Nothing was clear anymore. Nothing was simple.”

I nodded. “I remember that. I remember simple.”

“In the beginning, after I brought you back, I really didn’t know if you were going to make it. And I would sit there with you and I’d think, Maybe she shouldn’t.”

“Gee, Evan. That’s so romantic.”

“I knew what was coming,” he said, and that sure was something clear and simple. He grabbed both my hands and pulled me close, and I fell a thousand miles into those damn eyes, which is why the honey technique doesn’t fit me: I’m more the fly when I’m around him. “I know what’s coming, Cassie, and until now I thought the dead were the lucky ones. But I see it now. I see it.”

“What? What do you see, Evan?” My voice quivering. He was scaring me. Maybe it was the fever talking, but Evan was acting very un-Evanish.

“The way out. The way to finish it. The problem is Grace. Grace is too much for you—for any of you. Grace is the doorway and I’m the only one who can walk through it. I can give you that. And time. Those two things, Grace and time, and then you can finish it.”

44

THEN DUMBO, with perfect timing, popped his head into the room. “They’re back, Sullivan. Zombie said—” He stopped. Obviously he’d interrupted an intimate moment. Thank God I hadn’t unbuttoned my shirt. I pulled my hands from Evan’s and stood up.

“Did they find a canister?”

Dumbo nodded. “They’re putting it in the elevator now.” He looked at Evan. “Zombie said anytime you’re ready.”

Evan nodded slowly. “Okay.” But he didn’t move. I didn’t move. Dumbo stood there for a few seconds.

“Okay,” he said. Evan didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. Then Dumbo said, “See you guys later—in Dubuque! Heh-heh.” He backed out of the room.

I whirled on Evan. “All right. Remember what Ben said about the enigmatic alien thing?”

Then Evan Walker did something I’d never seen him do—or heard him say, to be accurate.

“Shit,” he said.

Dumbo was back in the doorway, slack-jawed, red-eared, and in the grasp of a tall girl with a cascade of honey-blond hair and striking Norwegian-model-type features, piercing blue eyes, full, pouty, collagen-packed lips, and the willowy figure of a runway fashion princess.