Earthquake - Aprilynne Pike

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      “For our safety. It’s not something we ask of our sworn members. But we have extra restrictions on you.”

      “Why let me in at all then?”

      “Because Daniel wants to see you.”

      Every cell in my body freezes at the name.

      Daniel: the leader of the Curatoria. He’s here.

      Not merely here, expecting me.

      I don’t know whether I just became exponentially safer or more at risk. But I’m pretty sure it’s one or the other.

      I shoot Logan what I hope is a meaningful glance, but he obviously doesn’t understand any of this. Regardless, we’re led into a space that feels more … domestic, for lack of a better word. Once the doors close behind us, the noise of the helicopter engine, the slowing blades, the crew shouting instructions to each other are all gone. I hadn’t realized until now how loud they were. Now, even the noise of our footsteps is muffled by thick, soft carpet that feels absolutely luxurious on my tired feet.

      I take a few quick steps to follow the still-nameless woman as she heads down a dimly lit, long hallway that reminds me of one from a hotel, albeit a nicer hotel than the type I’ve been staying at lately. Doors line each side, and pretty little tables abut the walls, which themselves are covered in pleasant—if generic—pastel paintings. I glance back and see that everyone else has peeled off and disappeared, and part of me wishes Audra were still here. Although I only just met her, she seemed to genuinely care about our well-being.

      The woman before us evidently does not, however. “It won’t be today that you meet him, of course,” she says without turning to face us, and I have to strain my ears to hear. “He wants you to rest. To sleep. We reported the condition you were held under for the last three days—”

      “Three days?” Apparently, I spent more time unconscious than I’d thought. “What day is it now?”

      “Thursday,” she responds automatically, not missing a beat. “As I was saying, Daniel insisted you be fed and rested before he meets with you.” The tone of her voice tells me just how ridiculous she finds all of this. “Now, we’ll house you here—where all of our Earthbounds-in-Residence live—and you can simply pick up the phone if you need anything.” She pauses, then sneers, “Daniel has ordered us to be at your service.”

      “Really?” Logan pipes up. “Why would he—”

      “This is you,” she says, cutting him off. She raps sharply on a door with a silver number seven on it and then hands us each a key. “We have duplicates,” she warns, and I wonder just where the hell she thinks we might go. What we might do in this classy, but nonetheless clearly fortified, underground fortress. One of us powerless, the other with abilities that last for five minutes. Maybe we could rip those sconces from the wall and stage an incredible escape. Right.

      I mumble a quiet thank you, not wanting to get even more on this woman’s bad side. Logan says nothing, just pockets his key and squeezes my hand.

      “Daniel left you a gift on the table,” she says as she pushes the door open, which swings silently on well-oiled hinges. “He says you’ll know what to do with it.”

      Curiouser and curiouser, I think wryly. But I’m anxious to get out of this woman’s sight and be able to talk to Logan without overly attentive eavesdroppers. “We’ll be fine,” I say aloud.

      “Food,” Logan blurts, then looks at me apologetically. “I’m starving.”

      The truth is I am too, so I can hardly blame him. The dried fruit only went so far in making up for three days with only one meal.

      “I’ll have something sent up.” She looks Logan up and down and adds, “Something substantial,” in a tone that makes me want to smack her.

      Whatever. As soon as she’s through the doorway I close it behind her, just inches shy of knocking her over. “Finally,” I say, my back to the door.

      We’re in a very large room that seems to be part kitchenette, part bedroom. Like a studio apartment, really, with a sitting room around the corner on one side and what looks like a doorway to the bathroom on the left.

      Logan is standing a few feet from an elegantly made king-size bed, and he runs his fingers through his hair awkwardly. Trusting me, even holding my hand, is one thing; being shoved into a bedroom with only one bed after being told to “get some rest” is another.

      I look away, giving him a few seconds to get his bearings, scoping out the room instead. The hallway was elegant and nice, but this room is a completely different kind of elegance. It’s sparse and a bit artsy, with silver and black trim on pretty much everything. In place of paintings, black and white photos of buildings and cityscapes dot the walls. Here and there a touch of maroon breaks up the color palette: a throw on the back of a plushy chair, a vase that stands empty on a high shelf, one pillow in a pile of several on the bed.

      I remember the woman’s cryptic comment about a gift from Daniel and look around for the table—seems like it would be easy to find, but it turns out that it’s a semicircular, bar-height table that’s mounted below a mirror, and so I miss it at first glance, thinking that it’s just part of the decor.

      Still trying to avoid awkwardness with Logan, I walk over and pick up the cardboard tube sitting atop it. “No note,” I muse. But whatever. I pop the top off the tube and start to shake it out, but as soon as I realize what’s inside I yank my fingers back like they’ve been burned.

      It’s from the dugout back in Camden that Quinn took me to. The painting that messed me up so badly. My breathing is sharp and noisy and Logan is walking toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him and force myself to calm down.

      A little.

      This canvas was in Benson’s backpack the night I found out what he was. Why does the Curatoria have it?

      “What is it?” Logan asks tentatively.

      “It’s just a painting,” I respond absentmindedly. I’m too caught up in the sight before me to attempt to act like less of a total weirdo.

      “If it’s just a painting, then why did it make you jump out of your skin?”

      He’s right. It did make me jump out of my skin. But that was nothing compared to what happened the last time I touched it.

      I’ll never forget the sensation. It was like I was a radio set to the wrong frequency.

      “Tavia?” Logan says.

      I look up at him with what I’m sure is a nearly manic expression. If it was the wrong frequency for me, then there’s only one person who it could be right for.

      And in a bright flash of light, I remember. I remember! Quinn and I knew our artifacts were too obvious. Him a jewelry maker, me an artist. Of course a necklace and a painting would be obvious creations, with obvious owners. So we reversed them. I created a replica of a necklace he made me; he created a copy of a painting of our home. That way someone looking to destroy all of Rebecca’s memories would miss one. Then we packed them away in the dugout.

      That’s why the necklace worked on me and not him.

      I didn’t paint this painting; Quinn created it.

      My whole body trembles now as I realize what a treasure I’m holding in my hands. “Logan,” my voice is too quiet and too high-pitched all at the same time. “You should see this.”

      His eyes are hooded, fearful, and I realize that in a world that has literally turned upside down on him in the last three days, anything might happen. Any paranoid fear might become a reality.

      “It’s a good thing,” I say quickly, hating that expression of terror cast in my direction. “Just … here, take it.”

      I hold out the painting and he obliges. The second his fingers come

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