He had those kind of eyes, like the world was always to be scrutinized. Not even the trees could be trusted.
Sometimes, in his snow-white paradise, Jaylin forgot he was dreaming. This time though, he knew. He knew because Quentin was art standing before him, rich skin ten shades darker against the ashy snow. He was stagnant in the same place he'd been before—not wolf now, but man. And in his presence, Jaylin wasn't afraid. That was why he knew. Because he didn't fear Quentin at all.
Quentin's body didn't move. Not even his eyes flittered from their fixed position. But Jaylin watched his hair billow in the icy wind, raven black locks fraying in the gale. It was the only part of him animated, the rest of him a wax figure in the frigid cold. All Jaylin could do was stare. Everything was frozen here but himself, and it was strange, this place he dreamt of. Because there wasn't a sound in this vast wilderness but his footsteps, crunching against compacted snow as he moved closer on bare feet. One step and then another.
"Quentin." He only had to whisper; there was no wind, no chittering animals. Only him and the sound of falling snow. "Quentin," he called again. But Quentin was a statue, skin bare and brilliant as flakes stacked on his round shoulders and stuck to his face, tiny and scintillant like diamonds.
"What do you want me to do?" He felt like falling to his knees. Begging. Quentin always had answers, he always knew the way. He'd tell Jaylin what he needed to hear; he only had to speak it out, dammit. Just speak.
"What should I do?" Jaylin shivered unpleasantly. "Tell me what to do!"
Then Jaylin felt the icy hands again, soft and slender as they wrapped around his wrists from behind. "Speak with your heart," she spoke in his ear, and her voice sounded like a thousand echoes in the emptiness. "He can hear your heart." It was not the snow that chilled his flesh, but the sound of her, the feel of her. And she was lifting his wrists, guiding his hands up to Quentin's face. His fingers uncurled, ghosted against the pleasant heat of his flesh until he held his cheeks in his palms.
And then Quentin's eyes, dark and distant as they were, fell shut.
Jaylin watched him with uncertainty squeezing in his chest. "No... no..." he quavered. "Wake up, please wake up. I need you." He brushed the flakes from Quentin's lashes with the tips of his shivering thumbs. And when Quentin didn't open his eyes, Jaylin turned to look over his shoulder for the hands that had guided him. And he found no one.
"No, no, no." He felt like sobbing. It was a dream, but it had to mean something. It had to serve a purpose. Quentin was here for a reason. "I don't understand. I don't know how to speak with my heart. I can't do it." He didn't know if it was possible to cry within a dream, but he could feel the tears burning at his eyes. Frustration and fear collapsing in on him. "Wake up. Wake up, Quentin. Wake up!'
Then Quentin's eyes shot open, and in the deep feathered umber of his gaze, fear gaped back at Jaylin. The fear of a man who'd stared into death's hollow sockets and watched the world and everything good in it burn to ashes in his hands.
Jaylin woke with a start, his heartbeat thunder in his ears. That petrified expression still burned like a visual echo in his head. He'd never seen Quentin like that. And how was it that he could dream something he'd never seen?
He squinted, the white of his little glass room cut at his eyes like bits of splintered glass.
Morning. He thought it was morning, at least.
There were no windows to show him the sun, no clocks or watches to tell him what hour it was, or how many he'd wasted staring at the panels on the ceiling.
But there was a woman—a woman seated at the desk outside of his glass walls, her brown hair tied back in a tight bun, little wisps sweeping back over her delicate mousy ears. He squinted to make out her name tag, and though she was too far away, Jaylin was sure he caught a P and an N. Peterson. Morning. It was morning.
She was humming a song out loud, clicking around on her mouse with the pestiferous after-tick of her acrylic nails. Jaylin pretended to be asleep, pressed into his pillow, waiting for the sound of her to finish her work and take her leave so he could at least pretend he was alone to himself for a good few hours.
The air still stunk of chemicals. Without moving too much, Jaylin looked to the grate in the floor at the farthest corner of the room from his cot. Between the roll of gauze and the medical tape Gunner had left beneath the bed, Jaylin had managed to seal off each slot in the vent. But the smell still came from somewhere, and though he was revitalizedin comparison to the day before, sleep still felt like a stone, anchoring him down to his uncomfortable metal cot.
His eyes left the grates, found the black-domed camera on the ceiling. There was only one he found for certain—in the far right corner of the outer room. He supposed they'd kept the camera out of his cell for fear that he'd have the means of breaking it—but it gave him leverage. Late at night, when the lights had gone off, Jaylin spent hours testing the motion-sensors. He found that if he stayed low to the floor—slithered inch for inch like a garter snake, the lights wouldn't turn on.
So when he reached the grate and needed to stand, he brought the blanket from his cot, and the tape from Gunner's medical box. And slowly—painfully, painfully slowly, Jaylin stretched the blanket over the glass and secured it with enough tape to give him just the time he needed to move freely behind his veil.
He would have to wait until dark to re-secure the gauze and find the source of the leak; the cameras only seemed to blink their tiny red lights when the motion sensors flashed on. Unless by chance, those cameras could see in the dark, night was his only cover.
For now, he was awake. Awake enough to function.
"Mr. Maxwell?" Dr. Peterson was tapping on the glass. Jaylin tried not to flinch at the sound. "Mr. Maxwell, are you awake?"
He stayed still and said nothing.
Dr. Peterson fluttered out a sigh and scraped her pen against her notepad. "Unusual sleeping behaviors. I'll have to have them raise the oxygen levels in here."
Good. Jaylin thought. Perfect.
And when he heard the door shut behind her, he threw himself from his cot.
His arms ached—not from the change or the blackened flesh, or the way his bones had started to contort again beneath his skin. But ached from the plentiful needles that had been pricked into his inner elbow. He wondered how much blood they'd taken.
He still had the camera watching his every move, but there was one tiny corner of seclusion in his little glass cell. The bathroom, with only enough space for the toilet and the sink that Jaylin didn't understand the purpose of. There was no soap, no toothbrush. He wasn't allowedthings like that. Maybe they thought he'd try to hurt someone, maybe they thought he'd try to hurt himself. Even the legs of his cot were drilled into the ground so they couldn't be broken and used to bludgeon someone. But there was one thing that tiny space did offer him. Privacy. Protection from the camera.
He was grateful for that tiny space because there was something in just knowing he was being watched that made Jaylin sick. He had one precious area of privacy. He wanted to find his footing, to wobble to his little white porcelain sink and feel cold water on his face. But as he tried to his feet, the back door of his cell opened with that thunderous brattle and two women stepped in, white masks on their faces and plastic caps on their heads. They met him at either side, lifted him up from beneath the arms.
"What's going on?" he asked, stumbling over two numb feet. Each step felt wrong, like broken bone. The dead, tired dullness of a spasmed muscle. "Where are we going?"
"You're to be showered," the woman said.
"And groomed," the other added.
Jaylin didn't fight them. Maybe it was a good opportunity, but he still felt so weak. Intoxicated by the sleep-gas. And even if he wasn't, he needed them to think that he was. He took one last look over his shoulder at the vent in the ground, then he let the women take him.
They carried him through the back room, the one with bottles and boxes. And into a hallway with dozens of other hollow metal doors like the one they'd just come from. Doors that probably led to rooms just like his.
"Are there more of them? More like me?" Jaylin asked as he was helped into a folding wheelchair, wrists bound in leather straps.
"Not like you," one of the women said.
"Janice!" the other chided, and at the scolding, her partner shrunk into herself.
Neither of them would answer any other questions, and eventually, Jaylin stopped asking. They rolled him down a hallway that never seemed to end, all cement from the floor to the ceiling. It felt like an underground bunker, the way the overhead lights flickered faulty and forboding.
They took him into a room, curtained by white vinyl strips, and into the smell of cleaning agents and running water.
The room he was in was one large shower, from wall to floor. All white tiles, save for the drain in the center and the single showerhead mounted eight feet up the wall.
The women stripped him of his clothes and Jaylin tried his best to carry on his tired facade, lulling his head as they jerked him this way and that to pull the shirt off his chest. His clothes were tossed in a bin, and the women analyzed him like an anatomy doll, inspecting his underarms, combing through the hair on his head, running cold rubber gloves down his legs as they searched every hair for something.
Eventually, the woman who'd been investigating his body stepped back with a short, "Clean."
Then the woman rummaging through his hair combed through his locks one last time and swung in swiftly beside her. "Clean," she said.
He was given a single bar of soap and nothing else, and the women left him to himself and the too-hot shower. And as Jaylin stood beneath the burning water, he let the heat sear his back.
Usually, he liked his showers burning hot. The kind of heat that leaves you red after. But here, in this place, it was as if the pain was melting through his flesh—burning away the exoskeleton he'd made for himself. And all of the fear crushed his chest like a hammer, breaking him apart with every hit.
What were the chances of seeing them again? Tisper, Matthew, Sadie? His mother? Oh god, his mother. What were the chances he'd meet her again? For over a year, he'd planned to be there with her for every declining step, until he was at her deathbed, holding her hand and praying once again to that god he didn't believe in. Because to die alone was something no one deserved. Especially no one like her.
She had the Sigvards. There was comfort in knowing that. They'd definitely take care of her if anything happened to him. Maybe they weren't good people, but as far as good people came, they had to be close. He'd never see them again either and the thought crushed him. He wanted to. He wanted to see them again.
Jaylin, that sweet, velvet voice pulled his attention like a receding tide. Surely, it was in his head, but it held a kind of direction that made Jaylin lift his gaze towards the ceiling. Again there was no one. Jaylin, her voice sounded again.
Then Jaylin saw just what he was meant to see. What this ethereal voice had been trying to tell him. In the ceiling's corner was a large metal grate, sucking out dense steam from the room. Large enough to climb through, but too far to reach. Impossible with his lack of energy. But it was there. It was there and it had to lead somewhere.
At the sound of footsteps, he snapped his attention away and curled back into himself. The women had returned through the vinyl strips, towels and clothes in their arms. They dried him, dressed him in a knee-length gown and shorts—both bleached white and hard on the eyes. He was taken back to his cell in the same wheelchair they'd rolled him out in, his flesh panging, heat burning his cheeks, and his limbs pulsing painfully with every breath and heartbeat.
He was given nothing to entertain himself with, save for his breakfast of plain eggs, just as Gunner had said. It wasn't until after the meal that Jaylin felt that pain in his stomach. The hunger he'd felt before when Bailey found him. The painful gnawing for meat.
He refused his next two meals—unsweetened oatmeal for lunch, and rice for dinner. They were trying to keep him as craved as possible. That was the only explanation. They wanted to see the lichund in all its disastrous glory.
Every wave of hunger zapped Jaylin's strength, and he spent much of the day in his cot, hoping sleep would bring him back to where he'd been this morning. Awake. Alive. Not half dead, the way he felt now.
Dr. Peterson came in on occasion, but she never spoke a word to Jaylin. At one point she entered his cell, examined his hands and legs and the black veining up his neck. And then she sat down at her computer again, Typed her information in and left him to his vain attempt at sleep.
For the most part, Jaylin just laid there until lights-off, eyes shut, fingers twisting around the threads of his single white sheet. Speak with your heart. That's what the voice had said. With his heart. What kind of bullshit was that?
Aren't we dreary today? Her voice again, a playful melody in his ears. But this time when Jaylin turned to look, she was there, blazing in the darkness. Long golden hair tucked behind her ears. A dimple on one cheek and not the other. Come on. Up, up.
Jaylin sat upright, the aching in his stomach so non-existent now. He was fascinated by the sight of her. So bright, so vivid in the shadows. A glistening, opaline statue.
She reached for his cheeks, in her ice cold palms and he felt comfort in the curves of her hands. He'd come to accept it was only his hallucinations. These four walls were driving him far from sanity. But she felt so real.
This isn't a time to lament, Jaylin, she said, eyes smiling. You have work to do.
"Work?" Jaylin managed.
You need to find a way out, Jaylin. I need you out of here. I need you looking out for them.
"For who?" Jaylin stammered, "How-how do I get out?"
For Mom. For Alex. For Quentin... especially for Quentin. She laughed, and god that laugh. Jaylin didn't know how such a beautiful sound could break his heart, but it did. There's something I need you to tell him, she said.
"What?" Jaylin asked. "What is it?"
She looked to the door outside the glass of his cell, like she'd heard a sound come from beyond it. Then she was gone—just gone. No more light, no more gentle hands to cradle his face. No more Anna.
"No! Come back! What do I tell him?" he sought for her in the darkness, but she was nowhere.
Then the door outside of his cell flung open. There was a quick, soft click, and when the lights would usually flick on, this time they didn't. A switch had been hit to keep the motion sensors off.
Jaylin squinted in the darkness, watching the only light from the room fade through the slit in the door. "Who's there?"
"Shhh, kid," the voice hissed. "The cameras can't hear you, but the walls are thin."
"Gunner?"
There was a beep as the door slid open and Gunner stepped inside, something small in his hands. He handed it to Jaylin, who felt around the plastic container, popping open the lid. Something smelled of cold meat and seasonings and the hunger engulfed him all over again.
"Brought it from home. Steak. I'm no chef but I know the shit they feed you here."
Jaylin was already digging in, breaking apart the meat with the teeth, swallowing it down before he'd even chewed properly.
"Jesus kid, slow down. You choke and die on a bone and I'm putting my life on the line here for nothing."
Jaylin swallowed his bite, licked the grease from his fingers. "Your life?" he asked. He could see only the glint of Gunner's glasses in the darkness. "Why would your life be on the line?"
"Doesn't matter. Eat your food."
"No." Jaylin set the container down. "Tell me."
"Eat, kid. I can't stay for long."
"Not until you tell me."
Gunner took his glasses off, rubbed circles into his strained eyes. Instead of putting them back on, he folded them and hung them from the collar of his shirt. "None of us really want to be here," he admitted. "Ziya has her own plans, but what we're doing is highly illegal in the human realm. And if you haven't noticed,"—he flung his arms out to his sides—"I'm no wolf. The scientists here—none of them are. They're humans, signed into contracts."
"If you don't want to be here, why don't you just leave?" Jaylin asked. "It's not like they can force you to stay. Right?"
"There's no running from wolves, kid. Once you know about them, you're stuck here. Under their laws, working in their favor. There are consequences for those of us who try our own way out. Grave ones." He looked to the grate in the corner of the room, shoulders shaking with a chuckle. "Knew it wouldn't be wasted on you. You're a smart guy, Maxwell."
"Why are you here, Gunner?" Jaylin asked. "And why are you helping me if it's such a risk to you?"
"I've been studying your kind for two decades," he said. "Wanted to help. Really help. Not this crap farce Ziya's built. I wanted to find real cures. Liberation. But I'm from New York, kid. Any wolf born in the East belongs to Ziya. Any human who wants to be integrated into the wolve's society, we sign an NDA. And any dumbass who signs the NDA under her domain belongs to her.
"I didn't know back then, about Ziya. About what she stood for. Who she really was. I just wanted to be a part of this world. I wanted to learn more, I wanted to do more. I flew to Washington to work on a case a few years back. A twenty-three-year-old girl, face of an angel."
"Anna," Jaylin whispered.
"Ah, you've heard of her. The first lichund of the west in ten years time. She was a good girl—a real good girl. Stuck with her every step of the way, collected all the data we could ask for. In the end it didn't matter. Never found a cure.
"But a week before she died, word hit the East. I was arrested, along with two other guys on the case. Forced to sign my life away for the sake of my family's safety. Last thing she had me do was take all of our documents and the body from our research facility. It's somewhere in Maine, unless they've disposed of it by now. Knowing Ziya, she's trying to find a way to replicate the genetics, clone her just so she can murder the poor girl herself."
Sickness welled in Jaylin. "You took her body?"
"They wanted it for research. Don't think her family ever forgave me; they were meant to have her cremated two days later. But it was that or threats to my own kids. I've got kids y'know. Two of them. Twins. I was sorry for them, I still am, but it was that or my family. It wasn't even a question to me."
"I don't blame you." Jaylin picked at his meat, scraped the pieces from bone with his fingernail. He would have done the same.
"Gunner," he started, "there's a vent in the shower room. I'm not asking you to help me get out of here, I just—does it go anywhere?"
"It'd probably take you to the roof," Gunner said, taking a seat on the floor beside his cot. He had a drink in his hand and he tipped it back with a savory exhale. "But the chances of you escaping on your own are..."
"On my own?" Jaylin brought his legs up to sit crisscross on his cot, and leaning forward on his palms he glared into Gunner, unyielding. "Why do you mean on my own?"
"They brought in others a few days ago. Not lichund, but wolves. About eight of them." Gunner passed the bottle to him and surprisingly, the smell of beer settled his stomach. Jaylin took a drink and watched his quiet contemplation.
When his silence ended, Gunner said, "It's not my life I'm worried about. My family's in danger too if I help you. But if you can find your way to them I think you've got a good chance at getting out of here."
"So it's possible?"
Gunner was nodding his head, just slightly, but enough that Jaylin felt the hope spark in him again.
"It's more than possible."