LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t do anything,” I blurt. “It’s not your fault.”

      My voice finds its way through his devastation, and his eyes narrow. “You’re right,” his says, his lips curling into a terrible grimace. “It’s your fault. Why couldn’t you leave me alone!”

      “I was trying to save you,” I reply, my voice barely more than a whisper as I wilt beneath his accusations. My heart bleeds at his revulsion.

      “Save me? The only reason I’m here is because of you.” He limps but manages to get across the room to the mirror, having clearly also identified it as the place where our captors are hidden. He pounds on it with both fists so hard I’m sure it’s going to shatter beneath his rage. “Please, get me away from her!”

      “Logan, stop!” I shout, tears running down my face. I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to.

      He’s right. I brought attention to him and in so doing I got his family killed.

      I would hate me too.

      There’s nothing I can do but crouch there on the cold, tiled floor, the strength drained from my body. It’s been eight months since my parents died, but watching Logan pound on the mirror, my mind flies back to the moment I realized our plane was crashing. Tears stream down my face in a torrent that splashes on the tile and joins the puddle of water that still drips out of Logan’s discarded bottle. For an instant it almost seems like the entire pool could have been formed from my tears.

      It feels like hours before Logan relents. Finally, he crumbles into a heap on the floor, his face pressed to his arms, his forehead dotted with sweat.

      I can only imagine what the people watching us are thinking.

      Are they amused? Satisfied? Is this what they wanted? To watch us be so helpless? So at each other’s throats?

      We’ve got to be in the hands of the Reduciata. Surely the Curatoria wouldn’t kill Logan’s family.

      Surely.

      But I can’t muster up a great deal of confidence to back that up.

      My head aches from crying, and my eyes feel like cotton balls. But none of that compares to how my heart feels. Broken, shattered. No, something else. Empty.

      After a while I feel my eyelids droop, and I fall into an exhausted, desperate sleep. Logan must as well because when I open my eyes again he’s calm. He’s back in his corner, far away from me, but his eyes are dark and glittering when they meet mine. He’s been waiting for me to wake up.

      “Who are you?” he asks, his voice a little hoarse. Whether from screaming or disuse after sleeping I’m not sure. “And don’t lie this time.”

      “I never lied,” I say, massaging my aching leg and trying to clear my foggy head. “I’m Tavia, like I said.”

      “The whole truth.”

      I look him in the eyes. What can I say to make him trust me? “I’m your eternal lover. We’ve been together since the beginning of time—in every lifetime that we could find one another.”

      He lets out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Right. I should have known better than to even ask.”

      “Then you tell me why you feel like you know me,” I say, my voice low. I’ve decided to focus on Logan and Logan alone, not the fact that we’re trapped or that we’re probably being watched by creeps who get their jollies from making us suffer; just Logan and getting through this conversation with him.

      “Some people just seem familiar,” he says, brushing off my words. But I can tell, from the tiny creases between his eyebrows, that it bothers him. He doesn’t want to believe. He’s desperate not to believe.

      “You saw me make that furniture,” I say, even as I wonder why I thought to make something so trivial.

      He shakes his head. “A trick. Something to distract me while people were blowing up my house,” he says, the words a savage growl.

      Okay, he’s right, that coincidence is not a happy one.

      “Where did the water go?” I ask, and though a slight shake in my voice betrays me, I’m fighting not to let him know how much his mistrust is affecting me.

      “What water?”

      “The water bottle that spilled on the floor.”

      He looks away. “They came and cleaned it up while we were asleep,” he says with total dismissal.

      “Are you thirsty now?”

      His eyes only dart toward me for a moment, but I can tell the answer is yes. I’m parched myself. And hungry. And I have to pee. But that’ll have to wait.

      I take a chance and look directly at the glass, then hold up two fingers like I might to order coffee at a diner. If I have to depend upon my kidnappers, at least I can be sarcastic about it.

      Within seconds two water bottles pop into existence on the floor. One within my reach and one within his. His jaw is shaking, and I wonder if I’ve just shoved him over that delicate precipice into insanity.

      “I can’t … I can’t. No.” He turns away from the water and curls his face against his knees, his whole body shuddering. I don’t know if he’s crying or trying to keep his mind from cracking.

      But clearly I’m not going to get any help from him until he figures out who he is. And that likely won’t happen unless I can get him out of here. Not that I don’t empathize. I was pretty much a wreck when all this stuff started happening to me too.

      But the timing is … less than ideal.

      I stand and walk the perimeter of the room, giving Logan as wide a berth as I can. My fingers stray up to Rebecca’s necklace and I fiddle with it as I consider the situation. I think about what happened when Logan pounded on the glass—how the surface rang with vibrations but never cracked. The material must be something stronger than glass. What can I create that could break it? And how could I do so without anyone noticing?

      I take deep breaths, trying to keep my thoughts hidden. My shoulders slump as though in defeat but in my mind I see a heavy sledge hammer. In an instant my knuckles are white on a splintery wooden handle, and with a loud grunt I swing the newly formed hammer at the mirror. Shards of glass rain down like snow and my heart races for three beats, four, enjoying the sensation of success.

      It doesn’t last. A burning that feels like knives assaults my arm.

      I can’t move.

      Every muscle in my body rebels and clenches tight, My tendons ache and twitch, and it’s only when the sensation releases me that I look down at my arm and realize that I’ve been tased.

      Shit.

      I fight for consciousness, my body already overwhelmed from whatever tranquilizer they gave me earlier and today’s lack of food.

      Or has it been two days without food? I don’t even know.

      My knees give out, and I sprawl to the floor. My fuzzy brain grasps for daylight, and I manage to push back the darkness gathering at the edges of my vision. I will not succumb again. I suck in air, focusing on my breath until I’m certain I’m not going to lose it.

      I glance about me.

      It’s as if my entire attempt never happened. The mirror is as it had been—whole and unbroken—the shards of glass I distinctly remember peppering my skin are gone. Even my bottle of water is sitting full and upright, just how it was when it first appeared.

      “I suggest you don’t try that again.” A bored voice booms in from an unseen speaker, frightening me as much as anything. I know that voice. I just can’t put my finger on it. “As you can see, you can be instantaneously subdued if you try anything.”

      I nod shortly—since it’s clear they can see me—anger trickling

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