I follow Arlette downstairs and through hallway after hallway, her long strides making much better time than my own. At first I try to memorize her twists and turns in my head, but within minutes I am certain that I’m lost. I wonder if the Resistance is specifically designed this way in order to confuse anyone dumb enough to be down here without permission.
She guides me into a room much better lit than the rest of the Resistance I’ve seen so far. Here, the salt lamps glow in rings around the wall, throwing the entire room into sharp relief.
“Sit,” she says, pointing at one of the metal tables lining the wall. I comply without question, still unsure of what to make of her. If I thought Rowan was unreadable, Arlette is on another level entirely. I would pay Quinn’s weight in gold for the ability to keep my face so carefully devoid of thoughts.
Arlette disappears behind a curtain, and several drawers open and shut before she emerges with a pile of gauze and tape. She clangs the tray down onto the metal table next to me and disappears again. Her movements are brusque and businesslike.
The sharp smell of antiseptic stings my nose as Arlette emerges again from the curtain, this time with a damp cloth. She plops down on a metal stool in front of my table and dabs at the side of my face with quick gestures and no attention paid to my winces as the cloth digs into the gash.
My brother used to accuse me of being too rough with his injuries in childhood. On the receiving end of such treatment, I can’t say I blame him anymore. After the blood comes off, Arlette squints at the side of my face, whistling softly.
“I’ve told him a million times not to wear that ring,” she says. She dabs some kind of antiseptic into the cut, drawing another wince from me as it sears. “You’ll be lucky if that doesn’t scar.”
I can’t say that I care either way. Morran’s treatment stings far worse than any wound he could possibly give me. And I have a sinking feeling that this is only the beginning.
As she unwraps the gauze, Arlette’s sharp brown eyes fix on a point behind my shoulder. She freezes for a moment, her face blank until it sinks back into a scowl. She returns to her unwrapping.
“Again, Rowan?” I turn my head to watch Rowan make his way through the rows of beds to the curtain Arlette disappeared behind earlier. He limps slightly, putting weight gingerly on one of his ankles. His dark hair is mussed and a deep bruise is already flowering on his face.
“I ran into trouble on the way back,” he says as he rummages around behind the curtain.
“Clearly.” Arlette thrusts a piece of gauze at me and says, “Hold this.” Then she storms off towards Rowan. I press the gauze to my still bleeding cheek and wonder what Rowan was doing out, alone. If he’s as important in the Resistance as he seems, then why would he take the risk of leaving alone?
Arlette stands by the edge of the curtain, holding onto the edge of it, her fist clenched so tight around the fabric that her knuckles turn white.
“This isn’t helping,” she says. Her voice is clipped. “If Rae catches you—”
“She won’t,” Rowan says, still rummaging behind the curtain. “She doesn’t know when I’m out.”
“It won’t take her long. Her reach is far better than mine, and if you screw up and leave me with this mess, I swear I’ll—”
“It’s worth the information.”
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“Like hell it is. You’re no use to me dead,” she says. She makes an exasperated sound and yanks the curtain back into place, returning to me. She finds a roll of tape, but her hands are shaking as she unrolls it. The unfeeling, harsh woman I met upstairs is not the same woman that now shakes as she unrolls the tape. She is not the woman who defended me, however slightly, from Morran.
She glances at my face again and swears. I take away my hand from the gauze to find blood decorating it again, and sigh. Head injuries, no matter where the cut is, always take forever to stop bleeding, and this one will be no different.
“Stay put, and stop bleeding,” she says. A smile twitches on my lips for a moment. I can’t tell if she’s making a joke or not. Everything is made with such insistence on seriousness that it’s hard to tell. She darts behind the curtain at the same time that Rowan emerges from it, but makes a point to ignore him as she retrieves another wad of gauze.
He watches her as she returns to the stool and unwraps the second package. Rowan crosses over to inspect my face, a wad of ice pressed against his own cheek, dripping onto the floor as it melts.
“You’re making a mess,” Arlette says without looking at him.
“I thought I told you not to break the trainees,” he says, ignoring her. Arlette presses the gauze to my face again, and finally manages to tape it there.
“Wasn’t me this time,” she says. Rowan’s light eyes narrow, and his mouth twists downward. Beneath the bruise I can see that he’s slightly tanned, his skin an olive color.
“Morran.” I’m slightly mollified to hear Morran’s name said like a curse. At least other people hate him as much as I already do. “That wasn’t my idea of staying out of trouble,” he tells me.
I scowl at him for a reply. Too often my mouth is getting me in trouble, and there is something about the sight of Rowan’s bruised face and my own throbbing cheek that reminds me to rethink my words.
Arlette throws everything onto the tray and goes to wash her hands under a pipe protruding from the wall. Strangely, the water coming out of it is warm. I can see the steam rising from where I sit.
“You’re good to go,” she says as she dries her hands. “Don’t piss Morran off again, or it’ll be the last thing you do.”
I tell her thanks and hop off the table to head out the doorway. I can feel Rowan’s eyes on my back, and I hurry from the room before I realize I don’t know my way back. I grimace and spin around on my feet to reenter the room, but freeze as I hear their voices coming through the doorway.
At first, I wait out of a desire to be polite, which is ludicrous given my circumstances. But then a strange sentence catches my ear, and I freeze outside the doorway, my intentions entirely set on eavesdropping.
“Nine of them dead, and nine more a block over. What are they playing at, killing their own people?” Rowan’s voice, his voice partially muffled by the bag of ice presumably still on his face.
“They’re just trying to throw you off again. They know you’re obsessed with this—”
“They were all wearing lockets.” Rowan’s voice is quiet. “Rae’s using them for something.” Silence follows. My heart hammers against my chest as I lean against the wall.
“I’m not doing this again. I got bitten, and I’m done. You can run around trying to fix everything, but the fact remains that we screwed up.”
“I’m trying to avoid screwing up twice,” he says. “You still have a job to do—”
“I told you, I’m done doing it,” Arlette says. I hear a metallic clang as she slams something down. When Rowan replies, I can almost hear the grin in his voice.
“You’re not,” he says. “You never have been.”
“I’m still not sure why you think you know everything,” Arlette snaps. “If you did, you wouldn’t come back looking like a piece of tenderized meat every time you go out.” Rowan snorts, and I use the brief break in tension to knock on the side of the door. They both turn to stare at me as I make my best attempt to sound embarrassed at my inability to find my way around the underground.
Arlette leads me back to the dorm without comment, but I can’t stop the thoughts spinning in my head. Eighteen people dead, all wearing lockets presumably like mine. I don’t know enough, and it’s maddening.
I lay on the floor for a few seconds, on top of the tangled mess of my hammock. My cheek throbs with every heartbeat, and my body is finally complaining for its lack of rest. My belly rumbles and I realize that I’m supposed to be eating breakfast right now. At four in the morning. Insanity.
Right now, survival in the Resistance comes first. Survival, so that I can get to Oliver as quickly as possible. Dead people can wait. Rowan and Arlette’s secrets can wait.
I get to my feet and make my way downstairs to breakfast. I chase every thought from my mind and drown in the rhythm of my heartbeat against my cheek.