Deviation (Clone Chronicles #2)(50)

And even though I know it will only make it worse, I allow myself to imagine Ida’s delicate hand suspended wrist-deep in a jar of clear fluid on a shelf. Or Lonnie’s hand, fingers curled into a fist, sitting on a frozen tray in a cryogenic chamber. I stop walking. My eyes burn with hot tears and I blink over and over again, willing the images away. I’d give both of my hands to keep each of theirs whole.

At least they have each other, I tell myself. And they are safe—for now. I remember them on the screen, playing tennis, laughing and running and breathing. Even without me, their bond is clearly intact. I am grateful Titus hasn’t separated them and if nothing else, they are safe inside the walls of the City.

I’m not sure I knew the depth of my resolve until this moment, but suddenly conviction surges to the surface with a strength I didn’t know I possess. I will free them. I will see Titus fall.

Through the window I pass on my right, something pokes at the edge of the curtain.

Fear grips me. My first instinct is to run.

I gasp faintly and step back, bracing myself before I remember there is a thick pane of glass separating me from whatever lies on the other side. I glance sideways to see if Titus has noticed but he’s far down the hall and deep in conversation with the other two.

The curtain twitches again.

A quick scan of the rest of the hall reveals only more windows like this one. There are no access doors to what lays beyond the glass. Only window after curtained window on this side of the hall. The other side of the wall, the side at my back, is blank. No windows, not even artwork to break up the stretch of bland beige paint that curves softly left and obscures the exit at the far end.

I look back at the curtain in front of me. It’s fallen still. The darkness beyond is thick, and I can’t see around its edges.

I step closer.

There is no warning before the curtain is abruptly edged aside and the left side of a girl’s face is revealed. Her features are shadowed and contoured through the thick pane. Slender fingers hold the curtain away, the arm disappearing underneath thick locks that spill over her shoulder. Hair so blond it’s almost white.

I blink.

A set of indigo eyes mimic me. Eyes whose color perfectly matches my own. I take in the smooth, pale skin. The stubbornly set chin. The dainty nose with the slight point. The arched brows and heart-shaped hairline.

Adrenaline pumps, slowly at first, then faster and thicker, winding its way from my heart to the tips of my toes and back.

My mouth opens but no sound comes out.

I press against the glass, fingers and palms and nose. The girl on the other side slides more fully into view and does the same. I notice a thin scar along the base of her chin. It’s barely there in the darkness that envelopes her from behind, but it glows iridescent from the light above me.

She wears a white long-sleeved shirt that is fitted to her slender body. It only makes her skin more translucent underneath. I wonder absently if it’s warm in her room. I can’t see a single thing beyond the curtain. I don’t know if she has a bed or a couch or a warm blanket or food.

My gaze is drawn to her mouth. She is moving her lips but I can’t make out a single word. I lean closer, but it does no good. I want to ask her to speak louder but I don’t dare draw attention to myself. I shake my head, letting her know I don’t understand.

Her brows furrow and she pauses in thought. Her eyes light with a new idea and she flips her hair off her shoulder. She points with a slender finger to the side of her neck and arches it sideways to give me a better view.

A tattoo of six numbers and a small leafless tree is imprinted in black ink, a stark contrast to her alabaster flesh.

Morton’s words ring in my ears. Seven at last count. Which one is she?

I stare at her, wishing I could transfer my thoughts to her and vice versa. The question burns within me and I have no way of asking. Her lips form the words, “Leave me,” before the rest is lost in translation. My eyes light with an idea. I slide the phone from my pocket, hold it up in front of the girl. I capture her face on camera and slide it away gone. Her mouth is still moving. Silent, unintelligible. Clearly she has a message for me.

I need more time. I don’t know how much longer I have before—

Raven’s eyes widen as they shift to something over my shoulder. She clamps her lips shut and in one fluid movement, she slides away and the curtain falls back into place. By the time I’ve blinked, it’s as if she was never there to begin with. The only real evidence is the slight swing of the curtain’s edge.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Titus asks.

“I feel sick,” I say. Not a lie. The pounding in my head has returned.

He grunts but doesn’t argue. When I turn, I find him engrossed in his phone again and I breathe in relief. He’s too distracted to notice the swinging curtain or my speeding pulse. His hand slides to the edge of my elbow, guiding me away. I let him lead me down the hall, all the while wanting nothing more than to rush back and fling myself at the glass until it breaks and lets me in or her out.

Why is she here? Why is he hiding her in the City? She doesn’t seem happy to be here. And she didn’t look surprised to see me. Nor did she look … mean. I know that’s silly. You can’t tell by looking at a person. I’m a carbon copy, after all. But after spending so much time and energy hating her for the position she’s put me in, I expected more evidence of evil in her than what I just saw. And the tattoo only confuses me more. Raven is human. That’s what they said.