Elusion(28)

I know there’s an emergency button on my wristband that would send me spiraling back to the real world, but I’m not afraid.

Even in the darkness, I recognize him.

His lips slide up in an all-too-familiar grin. “Regan,” he breathes.

And then I’m racing toward him as fast as I can, my heart lodging itself in my throat. As soon as he’s in range, I throw my arms around his neck. He holds me, cradling my head with his warm hands.

“My girl,” he whispers.

This is real. He is real. I know it.

My father pulls back abruptly, staring desperately into my eyes.

“Listen to me. You’re not safe,” he says, shaking me by the shoulders. “No one is safe. You need to find me. . . . I’m—”

All of a sudden, I can’t hear him anymore. My ears are flooded with a deafening bolt of static, and though his lips are moving, I have no clue what he’s saying. The crackling sound gets so loud I almost let him go to cover my ears with my hands, but then a hurricane-force gust wallops us both, threatening to rip us apart. I grip his arms, and he holds on to me, his face straining while our bodies buckle under the intense pressure. The windstorm funnels around his legs, lifting them off the ground.

“Don’t let go, Dad!” I shout. “Don’t. Let. Go!”

But it’s no use. Something enormous and invisible erupts from the sky and plucks him out of my grasp with one greedy snap. I watch, helpless, frozen in place as he is taken away from me, sucked behind the fuzzy gray wall.

Then I’m slapped by a quick flash of white light, and in one frightening instant . . .

I’m home.


I can’t open my eyes or move my legs. The only thing I can control is my left hand, which I use to peel off my Equip visor in one sluggish movement. I try to lift my head, but it feels like I’m being weighed down by hundreds of wet stones.

I lie there, as what I just saw sinks in.

My father. He was right in front of me. I talked to him and held him in my arms.

I need to figure out what’s happening. I have to call Patrick and tell him everything—even if I’m not sure what it all means.

Another minute passes by, maybe two, and I’m able to open my eyes. I’m sprawled on the couch, facing up so my gaze is trained on the ceiling. I crane my neck and push my shoulders forward, but then nausea hits my stomach, knocking me flat on my back. My head is pounding and my ears are ringing. I try to swing my arm down so I can grab my bag—my tab is in one of the interior pockets—but my arm still doesn’t have full function yet.

I have to fight through this. After another thirty seconds, I regain a little more strength and slowly lower my trembling hand toward my bag. Thankfully, I left the zipper open, but when my hand dips inside for my tab, my fingertips graze the smooth, slippery touch screen and I’m unable to grasp it. I try again, focusing harder this time, pitting myself against the stiffness that’s disappearing from my muscles.

Finally, I manage to wrap my fingers around the tablet, pull it out of my bag, and drag it up to my face. When I pull out my earbuds and press the Call button, I open my mouth to say Patrick’s name—his number was the first one I entered into my voice-activated dialing list—but nothing comes out. It’s like my throat is coated with the Florapetro grit I sometimes inhale when I forget my O2 shield.

After swallowing a few times, I’m able to say, “Call Patrick.”

The tablet dials, but the call goes directly to voice mail. I let out a soft groan. Will I even be able to say more than two words right now?

“Leave a message and I’ll call you back pronto,” Patrick’s recorded voice says in a half-business, half-playful tone.

“Patrick,” I say hoarsely. “My dad. I saw him . . . in Elusion. What’s—”

A long, high-pitched buzzing interrupts me, followed by an automated response:

“The recipient’s inbox is now full. Good-bye.”


I hang up and curse under my breath, pushing myself up on my elbows and shaking out my feet. I hope that partial message saved on Patrick’s tablet, but I know I can’t count on it. And I can’t wait. I have to return to that beach in Thailand this very instant and figure out what’s going on.

I type in my destination code, but it won’t go through.

I try a second time and receive an error message, blinking on the touch screen in bold red letters like a broken traffic light.

MANDATORY LOCKOUT: YOU MAY RE-ENGAGE ELUSION IN 55:37 MINUTES.

I enter the code again, and the same message pops up. I bow my head, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I totally forgot that my dad added this safety measure to protect people from exposing their brains to intense hypnosis without giving themselves adequate recovery time.

There has to be some kind of special administrator code that can circumvent the timer, or at least I’m praying that there is one. As luck would have it, the only person who’d know it isn’t picking up his damn tablet. So I call the InstaComm at Patrick’s penthouse apartment atop Erebus Tower, where I’m met with another dead end. Then I break down and call his office. I usually don’t like to bother him while he’s at Orexis, but obviously this is an emergency. I ask his executive assistant to patch me through to him, but after keeping me on hold for ten minutes, he tells me Patrick is at an important meeting off-site and that he’ll leave word with the second executive assistant, who’s in charge of his return calls.