Wordless Read online

  He didn’t acknowledge what I’d said. “Promise me you’ll stay far away from Herio.”

  It actually hadn’t occurred to me to do otherwise. I couldn’t do a thing to the Word of Death, but maybe I could still help Drey. “I can bring Khaya here—”

  “Don’t even think it. That’s exactly what they want.”

  “But—”

  “No!” Drey shouted, shoving me with one last burst of strength, toppling me over backwards. “Go, get out of here! Now!”

  I stumbled upright and leaned against the front of the truck, shaking from head to foot.

  His blue eyes were almost angry as he stared at me. “If you ever wanted to do anything for me, son, do this. It’s my last wish. Now get the hell out.”

  His head dropped back against the shelf, eyes closed.

  “Goodbye, Drey,” I said. Like I hadn’t said the last time I’d seen him.

  I still didn’t move. Here was the man who’d raised me, who’d taught me everything I knew, who’d made me the person I was, and I couldn’t think of anything more to say than goodbye. No wonder the Gods had made me wordless. At the time I needed to say the most, words deserted me.

  Drey deserved better. I turned back to tell him everything I felt and had never said. But I stopped when I saw his slack face. He couldn’t hear me anymore.

  But I could still hear his last wish:

  Get the hell out.

  He was probably right—they were coming.

  I was a worthless, powerless nobody who couldn’t do or say anything to save the closest thing I had to family. But I could run, like a coward. I could get the hell out of here, for Drey.

  I swung the backpack over my shoulders and left the garage by the back exit, into a narrow alley, and was soon lost in the twisting and turning maze of alleys. I wasn’t even sure how I was moving; I could barely feel my legs. My life felt like a bag of trash with the bottom torn out, spilling its contents behind me as I ran and leaving me oddly weightless, empty.

  If the drive to the garage had passed in a blur, I could hardly remember the winding trip back to the waterfront. I was suddenly there, standing in a daze in the shade under the bridge until Khaya poked her head out of the old utility room, spotted me, and let out a gasp. I vaguely remembered I was covered in blood again—not hers, this time—with a backpack on my back. And then I was aware of hands on my shoulders, turning me and guiding me to the door.

  It took me far longer than it should have to realize it was Khaya doing this, and she was hopping on one foot. As soon as I was inside, she locked the door behind us and pushed me down on a cot. I fell over on my side and lay there, staring without seeing.

  She said something to me, but I didn’t hear what. It didn’t help that I hadn’t slept the night before, but something else, too—the weight of it all—pressed my eyes closed. I shut out the entire world, along with her, and fell into a deep, black sleep.

  seven

  When I woke up, I thought I was on my cot back in Drey’s garage. Then I remembered everything that had happened, and that I was actually on a strange cot in an old utility room under a bridge. I hoped I was still asleep, since my life couldn’t actually be this nightmare. But it was, and there was no waking up.

  For a while, I lay in the darkness without moving. I must have been crying, since my face was wet when I eventually stirred and rubbed my eyes.

  There was faint light from the crack underneath the door. As my sight adjusted, I made out Khaya’s profile sitting on a metal folding chair, her head in her arms on a table, along with a coffee press and a microwave. A small mountain of wrappers sat next to her arm. An empty box lay at her feet, with a dim picture of a cookie on the front. She’d devoured enough for a team of hungry people. Maybe her hunger had something to do with her healing, like her tiredness.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, but it didn’t matter. I never wanted to eat again. Even the sight of the wrappers made my stomach twist.

  I sat up and two things happened: I discovered I was in my boxers, and the cot creaked, cutting through the thick silence. Khaya jerked upright, her hand shooting for the light switch. The blinding glare didn’t bother me. It let me cover my eyes and shut out the world a little longer.

  “You’re awake,” Khaya said from behind my hands. “What happened? You can talk. Your friend … Chantelle … is gone. She went home to sleep right after you left.”

  “Drey’s dead,” I said, without further ado.

  “Who’s Drey?” she asked, with her characteristic lack of feeling.

  “My dad.” I hesitated, not wanting to clarify. “Close enough, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Not your fault,” I responded automatically.

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  I dropped my hand and squinted at her. “I never thought I would be the one to say this to anyone, but you could really work on your people skills. It wasn’t the bracelet keeping you from showing any feeling. It’s just you. So leave me alone right now, will you?”

  She almost looked hurt—more hurt than when she’d had a missing thumb. “When I said I’m sorry, I meant that I can relate.”

  “You can relate to me?” My scoff turned into a hiccup. “How?”

  “My dad is dead too.” She looked away, at the wall, where the concrete surface was covered in an oriental-patterned cloth. The room smelled like heavy incense to match, overlaying a slight hint of mildew. “He was a Word, the same Word as me. He died when he gave it to me. I was five.”

  I couldn’t really process what she’d said and I didn’t feel like asking why he’d died. But I didn’t need to.

  “Since Words are carried on the breath of life, it takes a life to pass the Word on to the next person,” she continued. “Someday it will cost me my life to give this Word away.”

  She drew her knees up to her chest, like she was cold. Her long-sleeved black shirt was off, her black tank top leaving her arms bare. From this angle, I could see the dark letters at the beginning of her shoulder, vanishing around her back.

  “Who knows,” she added. “Maybe the Gods gave their lives to give the Words to us.”

  “Well, I wish they hadn’t. I wish the Words didn’t exist.” Now that I knew it was possible to hurt her, it was like I wanted to. As soon I realized this, I felt terrible. More terrible, anyway. “Sorry. I don’t really mean that. But the Word of Death—Herio—killed Drey.”

  “He’s good at that,” Khaya said quietly. “He can kill you however he wants, as long as he can lay a hand on you—quick or slow, messy or clean. That’s all he’s good at.” Even quiet, her voice was hard. And colder than ever.

  Such enmity between the picture-perfect Words might have made me curious at another time, but I didn’t want to know about them anymore, or even why my shirt and pants were folded on the table instead of on me. I wished I could go back to the way things were, before I’d gotten Drey killed, before I’d even met Khaya. Well, maybe not that far. But I wasn’t particularly enjoying her company at the moment.

  “Your clothes had so much blood on them, I figured you wouldn’t want to get it on your friend’s cot,” she said.

  “You can read minds too, can you?” I wondered how the hell she’d gotten my clothes off while standing on one foot, and I didn’t know if I liked or disliked the idea of her undressing me while I was dead asleep. Then I hoped she couldn’t read that thought.

  “No. You were looking at them, on the table.”

  I reached for the backpack that I’d apparently been using as a lumpy pillow and opened it, just for something to do other than talk to her. Still wanting to know her made everything even worse, as if I’d somehow wanted Drey to die—like I’d traded his life for hers. Maybe I had, helping her and killing him in the process. She might be beautiful and powerful and important, but I didn
’t even want to look at her. I looked in the backpack instead.

  Everything was in plastic bags—waterproofed. I wondered when Drey had packed this; not recently, based on the number of things inside. There was a compass and a map; a flashlight with batteries; matches and a lighter; a first-aid kit; a packet about the size of my fist with a silvery, folded sheet inside; a water filter; food bars; a pocketknife that really deserved to be called a pocket-toolbox; and an envelope stuffed with euros, Swiss francs, and Eden City bills. A lot of them. The envelope also held the Matterhorn postcard.

  I turned it over, not wanting to look at the blue sky that reminded me of Drey’s eyes, expecting to find the message I’d copied from Khaya on the back. But there was something else instead.

  “What’s this?” I demanded, holding it out to Khaya, who’d been intently, almost eagerly, watching me unpack the bag.

  She leaned forward in her chair, her dark eyes scanning it. “An address … but not one in Eden City. It’s outside, in Switzerland. There’s also a message. It says, ‘You must go here.’”

  “Drey had an address in Switzerland?” I asked out loud, even though Khaya couldn’t answer that question. “So he was there—the place in the picture. He didn’t find this in the trash. He wasn’t wordless. He probably wasn’t even really a garbage man!”

  And then I was angry at Drey’s lies all over again, like I’d been when I’d found out he could read, except much, much angrier.

  I thrust my hand into the backpack again—the escape pack—to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. My fingers encountered cold metal beneath waterproof plastic. I pulled out the last bag.

  A gun sat inside, heavy and dark, along with an extra clip.

  “Gods,” I whispered.

  Khaya didn’t say anything, but she didn’t look eager anymore. Her intensity had turned to something closer to hatred as she stared at the gun.

  I didn’t feel hatred. With a gun, I could actually do something. With a gun I could blast a hole in Herio’s stomach like he had Drey’s—Gods, what was I thinking ? How could I even imagine taking on the Word of Death?

  I hurled it back in the bag, followed by everything else in a jumble, zipped the whole thing closed with a jerk, and put my head in my hands.

  Khaya didn’t say anything for a while. She still didn’t wait long enough.

  “We really should be moving,” she murmured. “We’ve slept almost the whole day, but at least night is better cover. If we don’t leave the city now, they’ll find us. I need your help—”

  I held up a finger without looking at her. “Don’t. Not right now. For once, stop thinking about yourself.”

  “I’m not thinking about myself.” She didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask her to.

  I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Well, I did. I wanted to eat an enormous bowl of Captain Crunch and go back to sleep.

  Basically, I wanted to do nothing.

  I’d rescued Khaya once already, but that was before I knew I was getting myself into a long-term thing. The legends never mentioned what happens after the hero saves the lady, especially if neither of them has anywhere to go. Well, sometimes they get married, but I sure as hell didn’t want to do that, and I was pretty sure Khaya would gut me if I even tried to kiss her. She only wanted me to take care of her, like her nursemaid, until she got better.

  Problem was, I might be killed in the meantime.

  I was all of seventeen years old—maybe—and the responsibility of having someone depend on me was some hefty shit. I couldn’t believe what Drey had done, taking me in when he didn’t have to. He’d had enough to worry about, if he’d been hiding from the Athenaeum. He could have left me where he’d found me. Just like I could leave Khaya now, taking the backpack with me. Part of me wanted to go off on my own and part of me didn’t. I wanted to be responsible, but I didn’t want this responsibility. Not when I wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep for the next year, then wake up to someone taking care of me.

  It struck me like a kick to the gut that Drey would never again wake me up with bad coffee.

  His words suddenly came to mind, like he was talking right next to me: It’s always easy to start something. The hard part is following through.

  Yeah, well, if Drey had been so wise, maybe he’d still be around to help me follow through.

  “Why should I keep helping you?” I asked, dropping my hands and startling Khaya in her chair. “You haven’t been the nicest person on the planet. Convince me.”

  She blinked at me, as if I’d awoken her as she’d been nodding off. “What else can you do at this point?”

  I stared at her.

  When I didn’t respond, she answered my question with yet another one, which was even more infuriating. “Don’t you trust me? If you didn’t, there’s no way you would have come this far.”

  “You make me sound like a brainless idiot, and yourself so all-knowing. You didn’t know anything about me, either, when you threw yourself on top of me.” Her eyes narrowed, but I kept going. “In fact, you knew less about me than I knew about you, since you’re a Word. How could you have been so sure that a total nobody-stranger would risk his neck for you?”

  “You helped me, didn’t you?” After she got only silence in response to yet another one of her question-answers, she added quietly, “I trusted you, too.”

  “Why?” I was glad I got to ask the question first, since my answer to her would have been something like, Because you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

  “Because you’re beautiful,” she said. “That was my initial reason, at least.”

  I gulped, choked on my own spit, and started coughing my lungs out.

  She kept talking. “You were almost beautiful enough to be one of us—a Word. Yet you were free, like I wanted to be.”

  I didn’t see how her description could apply to me, but my throat was burning too much to comment. Mostly I wanted to put my clothes back on.

  “But, of course, that would be impossible,” she said. “The Athenaeum keeps very good track of all of us.” She lifted the hand that no longer had the bracelet. The line around her thumb was now only a tender pink. “Plus, your nose is slightly crooked”—from a fist fight with a street kid when I was thirteen—“and there’s a scar on your forehead”—from yet another spill off the garbage truck. “Words don’t have flaws.”

  I was oddly grateful for my imperfections. They were like protection from that other stuff she’d said, the crap about being beautiful, which was distracting me from what was actually important: that she had been trapped in the Athenaeum, with that monitor bracelet like a collar.

  I still didn’t understand how it was possible. She was an all-powerful Word.

  “It was such a coincidence to see you outside,” she continued, “when I’m so rarely allowed to see anyone. Then I saw you with a trash bag, and I realized you had access to a disguise no one would ever expect … and a way out. I had to seize the chance, ask for your help in secret, wait to see if you came back, then get rid of the monitor. I didn’t have much time to plan, and of course I’m always being watched, so I had to take a leap of faith. Literally.”

  I cleared my throat. “How did you chop your thumb off, anyway?”

  A wince flickered across her face like an involuntary twitch. “An axe. There’s one for fire emergencies in the hallway of my apartment. It would never have been there if they thought I would actually use it for that purpose. In fact, they’ll probably get rid of all the axes in the Athenaeum just to keep the others from doing the same thing.”

  Normally, the thought of someone hacking off a thumb with an axe would have made me pause, especially since I’d seen the results, but I had too many questions. “So, all of you are like … prisoners, with these monitor bracelets? The other Words would want to escape, too?”

  “Not all of them.” She seemed to be
holding something back.

  “Why you, then? What made you jump out of your apartment, aside from my irresistible beauty? Or, better yet, in spite of my flaws?” Maybe I shouldn’t have sounded so sarcastic. Beauty seemed like any other measurable quality to her, not a compliment to others or vanity on her part. It was just a fact—not that I agreed with her when it came to me. I took a deep breath. “Why should I keep helping you?”

  She leaned back in her chair and put her hands in her lap, regarding me with level, dark eyes. “Because you’ll keep the world a free place by helping me escape from here. Or, as free as it is now. Trust me—it could be much worse.”

  “Oh,” I said, scratching my bare knee. Nothing she said could really have touched me through my numbness, but that came close. Because, for some reason, I did trust her. “The world, huh? I guess that changes things.”

  I looked around the room. There was only myself, Khaya, the backpack … and my clothes. I stood up, making sure my boxers weren’t gaping, shook out my stiff pants, and stuffed my legs into them. Then I tugged on my dark blue shirt. All of the encrusted blood made my chest itch. “You ready to go?” I asked.

  “Now?” she asked, leaping up from the chair. She sucked air through her teeth as her ankle hit the ground, then put her weight on it more slowly and was able to stand on two feet. Apparently she’d only needed sleep to heal—and maybe a shit-ton of cookies. One day’s rest had been far more recuperative for her than it had been for me.

  “Good. You can walk, at least,” I said. “You can tell me your story about the world on the way. It sounds important, but that means leaving is more important.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She snatched her shirt from the table and turned away—shyly?—to pull it over her head. “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice muffled.

  The incomprehensible letters shifted over her shoulders before they were covered. They looked almost alive in her skin. Guess that made sense, for the Word of Life.

  I smiled, but it felt hollow. “I hope you liked your trip in the garbage bag.”