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  The feeling wasn’t mutual. Especially since he was letting Ryse have her way with me.

  “Ryse,” Dr. Swanson continued. He almost sounded angry. “I’m willing to tolerate the use of force for the purpose of Tavin’s advancement, but not for the purpose of revenge. You pushed him too hard. It’s reasonable to allow for some backlash.”

  Ryse faced Swanson with a calm smile. Her voice came out perfectly measured and respectful. “We all understand why you might wish to go easier on him, sir, but I don’t need to remind you—”

  “No, you don’t.” Swanson cut her off. “We’re finished here for today, Ryse.”

  She nodded, her expression controlled, and turned to leave. Before she did, she glanced down at me in my huddle on the floor. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  In response, I threw up again.

  two

  Swanson let me have a minute to collect myself. He even offered me a damp towel for my hands and face. I tried to snatch the towel from him, but my arm was so weak that I flailed at him like I was drowning. He caught my wrist with his other hand like he was going to help me up, but his grip slipped on the black sleeve and came into contact with my skin. Recoiling as if he’d accidentally touched a poisonous snake, he dropped my hand and the towel.

  “Let me get my gloves—” he began. He must have entered quickly, without adequate protection. From me.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” I snarled, my voice falling somewhere between feral and despairing. I seized the towel from the floor and pressed it to my face. It was cool against my hot forehead. “As much as I might want to.”

  “Tavin … ” At least Swanson always called me by my true name. His tone was stern but apologetic, maybe even a little hurt. “You know I—” He glanced at the reflective glass windows, then at one of the many surveillance cameras along the ceiling. “You’re showing remarkable control, now—too much, in a sense, bordering on stubbornness—but accidents can still happen. Let’s both get ourselves situated and let the janitorial staff have the lab.”

  I picked myself up off the floor, my knees wobbling and my head spinning, and followed him to the door. I doubted he was in much of a rush to have the lab cleaned, since it wouldn’t be used again until tomorrow—Gods, tomorrow, I thought, feeling another wave of nausea—so I figured he wanted to talk to me. In private.

  I trailed Swanson on unsteady legs into the rooms surrounding the lab, some of which were designed for observation, others for preparation. While he retrieved his gloves from a desk, I ignored the stares of the Godspeakers who’d been watching unseen on the other side of the windows. My first impulse was to shout something at them like, Enjoy that? Maybe I can practice on you next, make YOUR gaping eyes bleed out of your skull! But I resisted, since they knew as well as I did that I wouldn’t follow through on the threat.

  Swanson guided me into the dressing room, where my own gloves and shirt were, and mercifully no other people. Not that we weren’t under surveillance. My privacy wasn’t exactly a top priority for anyone other than me.

  It would be nice to put on a shirt again, even though I hated the thing. It was made out of Necron, of course, and it was too fitted for my comfort. Not that it was entirely uncomfortable; it was designed to flex and fold with my body and muscles, so was equally suitable for bending over a computer for hours in my attempts to decipher the keys or practicing kicks and punches in the gym. But it was as sleek and tight as spandex, and I didn’t like being shown off like a pet. More degrading, it didn’t zip in front like most shirts that put the wearer’s convenience first. It zipped in the back for the Godspeakers’ convenience only, a fact that Ryse had already demonstrated more than once. All of the Words’ clothing was designed like that. Even if she wasn’t around to humiliate me by proving she could gain access to my back with only a deft flick of her wrist, I still couldn’t get into or out of it easily on my own, and that was humiliating enough.

  Now I knew why Khaya had despised it here so much—being used, like a tool, every day. The Words were supposedly pampered and all-powerful, but there was no doubt the Godspeakers controlled every aspect of our lives. The thought of a Godspeaker doing these things to Khaya made the murderous chorus of Words rise in my head again.

  Gods, Khaya. Where was she? Would I ever see her again? Did she even want to see me again? She was the Word of Life, and I was the Word of Death.

  The Words grew louder in my head and I shut out all thought of Khaya along with them. That was my usual routine lately; beyond picturing her face, I could hardly stand thinking about her. Missing her hurt so much and sent me into the inevitable spiral that ended in the realization that she would most likely hate me now, because of what I was.

  I’m Tavin, I’m Tavin, I’m Tavin …

  Swanson lifted the black sleeveless shirt for me, like he was a butler helping me into a jacket, except it was all backwards. He held it in front, not behind, and I was the servant, not him. I thrust my arms through the holes, settling into it as quickly as possible, my face burning, while he stepped around me to zip it.

  I didn’t thank him.

  “Walk with me,” he said when I had my gloves on. “I want to show you something.”

  “Fine,” I said, as if I had any choice.

  We exited the lab area and headed down several brightly lit corridors until we took an elevator upward. Only then did our surroundings grow less sterile. Tame potted plants now lined the walls, interspersed with boring pictures of important people whose names I didn’t know. But at least it was something. The walls themselves were painted warm cream instead of cold white, the tables and chairs in the waiting areas outside of various offices became curvy glass instead of functional steel, and a floral rather than antiseptic smell pervaded the air. I wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the windows, however, which let in some sunlight and gave me a glimpse of trees planted outside.

  Really, though, it wasn’t outside. The building I was in, a massive structure reserved for the training, studying, and monitoring of the Words, was one of many contained within the Athenaeum—the elite heart of Eden City. The Athenaeum’s colossal glass pyramid encased an entire complex of skyscrapers, offices, apartments, restaurants, and the hospital where I still had room and board, so to speak. I only ever left the hospital to come to my lessons here in the training center.

  Before I’d become a Word, I’d been allowed into the Athenaeum only to collect the trash, like it was some sort of exclusive club. I now wished I hadn’t been let in, because that was what had landed me in this shit-pile of a situation. I wished I was still collecting trash, back when no one even looked at me twice. Back when the Athenaeum wasn’t a prison for me.

  But then I wouldn’t have met Khaya. And she would probably be dead now, or scheduled to die, along with the rest of the Words. I’d saved her life and ruined my own.

  I wasn’t sure where we were going, but I didn’t complain as Swanson took us into another elevator and higher up in the building, away from all the stares. Although I was sort of a secret, nearly everyone in this place, at least, knew who I was. Their expressions weren’t only curious but also afraid and excited, as if I was about to snap at any second and turn on them like a half-tamed lion at a circus. While I was in their view I pretended not to notice and walked tall, which was pretty damned tall thanks to the genes from the gray-suited guy leading me and the deceased mother I’d never met. But as soon as the two of us were back in the elevator, I slumped against the mirrored wall, trying not to look at myself. My hands were still shaking and I felt dizzy.

  Swanson hadn’t said anything else. He glanced at me once, and then away, standing a safe distance from me with his arms folded. The elevator continued to carry us up, past the normal gym and the now-missing Word of Earth’s rock gym, which was the highest in the building I’d ever been before. When the elevator finally stopped, Swanson got off in silence and started down y
et another hall.

  This time we didn’t have far to go. With a swipe of his keycard, Swanson opened a sliding metal door like the lab’s, then gestured for me to lead the way. I stepped into a dark, vast space. I could tell the place was big just by the feel of the cool air and the sound of my feet on the floor. But it didn’t echo like an empty room, and the air smelled rich. I couldn’t see a thing.

  “What is it you wanted to show me?” I said, squinting into the darkness.

  Swanson stepped inside and the door closed, cutting us both off from the light. His silhouette was backlit by the glowing green and red buttons alongside the doorframe, marked with arrows for opening or closing. There was also the outline of an inactive keypad next to the buttons, which could be used to lock someone inside the room if that person didn’t have a keycard or the code. The lab had one of those.

  The sweet smell of rot was one of many in the room, and I wondered what the Godspeakers hid up here. With black humor, I imagined that Swanson had brought me here to kill me, to get rid of this kid who’d come out of the past to haunt him and become such a frustrating embarrassment. Murdering the Word of Death would be ironically fitting.

  Never mind that he’d tried to save me twice already. No one but a select few knew he had anything to do with my childhood escape from the Athenaeum, or with what happened in the Alps when he’d nearly shot Herio, my half-brother and the previous Word of Death, to keep him from passing the Word to me. If only Swanson had shot him. He and I had never spoken about his actions since then, and sometimes I wondered if it had even happened.

  “They shut down the surveillance equipment in here a week ago because this room is no longer being used,” Swanson said.

  I barked a laugh, about to suggest the murder plot to him, but he interrupted me.

  “Tavin, listen to me. We don’t have much time to talk. There are two schools of thought on how to proceed with you.” He sounded serious—deadly serious, but not in the murderous sense.

  I swallowed my laughter. “And they are?”

  “One is headed by Ryse. She has influence amongst the City Council, originally due to my promotion of her as my protégé, but now … ” He didn’t finish.

  He was being delicate, like any good politician, but it was almost like he was trying to tell me he no longer supported her. Even so, withholding support didn’t mean he was putting her back in her place, and I’d seen little evidence of the latter, at least in the Death Factory.

  “And Andre,” he continued, “or Drey, as you like to call him, is the effort behind the second group.”

  “Drey!” My heart convulsed in my chest. I’d been anxious for any word of him over the past month but had been too afraid to ask, in case I either made his situation worse or found out that it was already far worse than I’d thought. I hadn’t seen him for well over six weeks, at my best guess, and even then I only had a hazy memory of him visiting me in the hospital. He’d reminded me what my name was, and shortly afterward, I’d been given the stylus and tablet to help me remember by writing it. Maybe he was still trying to help me now.

  “He’s under house arrest, isn’t he?” I asked. “How does he have a say in anything?”

  “He may be in quite the predicament,” Swanson said, “but the man is brilliant. He’s always possessed a way with words.”

  His wry tone made me smile. Drey had raised me in secret at Swanson’s request, hiding both our identities for seventeen years, and had taught me more than any wordless kid my age had probably ever learned, all while pretending to be a wordless garbage collector. He was definitely brilliant.

  “And with Words,” Swanson added with emphasis. “That’s why I chose him to be my assistant back before you were born.”

  Picturing Drey as a Godspeaker wiped the smile off my face.

  Swanson didn’t notice my expression in the dark. “People are still listening to him,” he said, “even after all these years. And he has a lot to say about you.”

  “But no one has let him anywhere near me.” Not since that one hospital visit, at least. I was nearly out of my mind then, so the City Council must have been desperate enough to ask for his help.

  “Indeed they haven’t. Ryse’s voice is the loudest, but that’s not to say that Drey has no influence. It’s largely because of him that you were able to keep your name. He—and others, as a result—feel that you will better adjust to your new situation if you’re eased into it, able to retain a few significant things from your past. Like your ability to see him, for example.”

  Hope rose within me, but it crashed and burned a few seconds later when Swanson said, “Meanwhile, Ryse, along with a powerful contingent of the Council, believes that a complete severance from your previous life is what is necessary, along with a strong hand in conducting your training.”

  “Yeah, I felt her hand,” I said, rubbing my aching shoulder where she’d twisted it. “She … she’s trying to break me. Literally! And she’s gaining support?” My voice grew panicked. I stared at Swanson, trying to find his eyes in the shadows. “Where do you stand?”

  His expression remained hidden, his voice flat. “It’s not my place to vote.”

  “But you’re the head of the Godspeakers and a member of the City Council! You can—”

  Swanson sounded almost pained as he interrupted me. “And I’m also your father, so my ability to make objective decisions in this situation has been called into question.”

  “By Ryse,” I said. Swanson’s silhouette didn’t nod, but it was obvious anyway. “I thought she was your subordinate or assistant or whatever.”

  “She is. But she’s also revealing—how shall I say—a strong independent streak. I can’t do much either way, Tavin, unless she missteps drastically.”

  “How can she misstep?” I asked desperately. “She’d be happy if I only screamed the Word of Death all day.”

  “That will happen only if you allow her to drive you too far.”

  “How can I stop her? She’s trying to kill me.” Maybe not physically, but there were other ways to die. A voice echoed in my head, one that was eerily similar to mine. It was the voice of Herio as he died, giving me the Word with a grim smile on his face: I have something better than killing. A way to kill your soul.

  “No, Tavin,” Swanson said. “You’ll kill yourself if you don’t cooperate more. Listen to me. A small minority of the council members have suggested a third, far worse alternative for what to do with you, particularly if the other two options fail. Nothing like this—you—has happened in recent memory. Some view it as fortunate that you were able to fill Herio’s place, not only preserving the Word of Death but the generational pattern of the Words. You were originally meant to be the Word, after all. And some see in you further advantage, in that … ”

  He paused, clearly deciding against telling me something. Even if he had some sympathy for me because of the whole father-son thing, he wasn’t exactly on my side. Not even close.

  “But there are others, Tavin,” he continued, “who would rather force you to surrender the Word of Death to someone more suitable.”

  For a second, I was thrilled at the thought of giving away the Word … until I remembered it would kill me.

  My throat was suddenly dry and my hands clammy. “To who—whom?” I asked, hearing Drey’s voice in my head correcting my grammar, even at a time like this.

  “That’s part of the problem,” Swanson said. “There’s no one currently able. No adult could take on the Word, or else they would be worse off than you in struggling to control it.”

  “Another Word can’t take my Word on too?” I’d never heard of that happening; individual Words always resided in separate people, but I didn’t realize quite how impossible my idea was until Swanson shook his head adamantly.

  “No! You could destroy both Words that way. Such a thing has been tried in the past, and both carriers
nearly died before the process was stopped.”

  “Then who else?”

  “A child would be the best, but none has been prepared. It would take six years for a female donor to come to Eden City, for her to give birth, and for the child to reach the proper age.”

  “A female,” I repeated. “You mean you’d use my … ” I searched for an appropriate word. “Genetic material? Gods.” Talk about the ultimate invasion of privacy.

  Swanson ignored my mortification. “For as long as anyone can recall, the Words have descended from the previous Words. But to ready your successor in the usual way would take too long for those who are dissatisfied with you now. Besides, such preparations are usually undertaken for all the Words at the same time, and that wasn’t due to happen to this generation for another twelve years.”

  “But you were happy to mess up the system in order to hand over the Words to automatons! Not that I’m arguing you should do that in my case—”

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” he interrupted.

  My breath stopped. It was a possibility that I could be forced to hand the Word of Death over to a mindless super-soldier and die in the process? A super-soldier that could then kill, in any way imaginable, on command? Such a Word wouldn’t even need a Godspeaker to force him to obey.

  My muscles tensed; I felt like running. But where could I even go in the dark, strange room, never mind in the Athenaeum? I couldn’t get out, and they would find me in a minute flat thanks to the monitors—black tracking bracelets—on both of my wrists. They were nearly impossible to remove. Khaya had cut off a thumb in order to slip her indestructible bracelet off and make an escape, and ever since her maneuver, the remaining Words wore two. I could hardly cut off both thumbs, at least not without assistance. And even in the unlikely circumstance that someone would help me do something so treasonous and gruesome, I would probably just bleed to death in hiding without Khaya’s healing touch.