mutter as I climb the ladder.
“Wait!” Pete says, grabbing my ankle.
Clutching my knife, I jump down, grip his shirt collar, and throw him against the brick wall. I hold the tip of my dagger to his neck. “Don’t. You. Touch. Me!”
“Whoa! Hold on!” Pete says, holding up his hands, his eyes wide with actual fright. “The truth is … the truth is I need you.”
Surprised, I loosen my grasp on his shirt. “What? Why?”
He hesitates. His reluctance to share his thoughts stirs a sick feeling within me. I grip his shirt again, shaking him. “Talk!” I shout, gritting my teeth.
He grimaces and lets out a breath. “You see, there aren’t really Immunes, or at least not any I have found until I came across you.”
“What do you mean by ‘aren’t really Immunes’? That’s what you’ve been calling me this whole time,” I accuse.
“It’s complicated, but what you need to know is this: Not all children are resistant to the Horologia virus. Especially not girls, it seems,” Pete explains. Running a hand through his hair, he paces, stops, and steps toward me. “Look, I won’t lie to you. The few girls we have found, they don’t last long. In fact, they rarely last a month. When we find them, they are already showing symptoms and …”
My hammering heart skips a beat. “And then what?” I demand.
Pete stares at me, his gaze intense. “They die.”
Time stands still and my vision blurs. I back up, placing my hand on the hilt of my second dagger. “So if girls aren’t immune, what use am I to you?”
Pete looks away. “Because … Bella is dying.”
His words strike me like a stray bullet piercing my heart. I meet his glassy gaze. He swallows. The muscles in his face grow taut. He’s not lying.
“What do you mean? She looks perfectly healthy,” I say.
“Bella is alive only because of Doc.” He winces and shakes his head, as if saying those words is painful. “The virus is like some bizarre, cancerous, flesh-eating disease. Her fingers and toes are black, blistered, and the flesh is peeling away. The only reason she appears well is because her gloves and stockings are lined with medication to dull the pain. Doc also came up with some sort of a booster shot from the antibodies of us Lost Boys, but it only slows the progress; it doesn’t cure it.” Pete pulls up the sleeve of his jacket. A macramé of dark tattoos gives his skin the illusion of machine parts. The intricate details permanently etched in ink are stunning. I reach for his arm, hoping to get a better look, but something catches my eye and my breath hitches. A colorful display of blue, purple, and yellow bruises in varying stages of healing tint the inked gears, springs, and other mechanical gadgets. Before I have a chance to really inspect the tattoos and injuries, Pete pulls his sleeve back down and continues, “But you … you show no signs of infection. You may really be immune, and if you are … well, maybe … just maybe …”
A thousand thoughts flood my mind, but only one renders me speechless. I can’t utter the words that are about to make me crumble like the rubble along the street.
Pete lets out an audible breath. “I believe you are an Immune, a real Immune. That’s why Hook wants you, I’m certain of it. You’re the only girl I’ve seen who actually seems unaffected by the virus. How you lived out there without showing symptoms is a miracle. Judging by the fact you have a sister who has also survived, there has to be something about you two. Something genetic, I suppose. Maybe the cure lies in you and your sister.”
Unable to catch my breath, I rest my hand on my chest, lean against the ladder, and will myself to inhale slow and steady breaths. “Joanna’s not immune.” My words barely tumble out as a whisper.
Pete places a firm hand on my shoulder. “What?”
I meet his gaze, his green eyes searching mine with confusion. “She’s not immune,” I say, shaking my head, accepting the truth
“Wait!” Pete says, grabbing my ankle.
Clutching my knife, I jump down, grip his shirt collar, and throw him against the brick wall. I hold the tip of my dagger to his neck. “Don’t. You. Touch. Me!”
“Whoa! Hold on!” Pete says, holding up his hands, his eyes wide with actual fright. “The truth is … the truth is I need you.”
Surprised, I loosen my grasp on his shirt. “What? Why?”
He hesitates. His reluctance to share his thoughts stirs a sick feeling within me. I grip his shirt again, shaking him. “Talk!” I shout, gritting my teeth.
He grimaces and lets out a breath. “You see, there aren’t really Immunes, or at least not any I have found until I came across you.”
“What do you mean by ‘aren’t really Immunes’? That’s what you’ve been calling me this whole time,” I accuse.
“It’s complicated, but what you need to know is this: Not all children are resistant to the Horologia virus. Especially not girls, it seems,” Pete explains. Running a hand through his hair, he paces, stops, and steps toward me. “Look, I won’t lie to you. The few girls we have found, they don’t last long. In fact, they rarely last a month. When we find them, they are already showing symptoms and …”
My hammering heart skips a beat. “And then what?” I demand.
Pete stares at me, his gaze intense. “They die.”
Time stands still and my vision blurs. I back up, placing my hand on the hilt of my second dagger. “So if girls aren’t immune, what use am I to you?”
Pete looks away. “Because … Bella is dying.”
His words strike me like a stray bullet piercing my heart. I meet his glassy gaze. He swallows. The muscles in his face grow taut. He’s not lying.
“What do you mean? She looks perfectly healthy,” I say.
“Bella is alive only because of Doc.” He winces and shakes his head, as if saying those words is painful. “The virus is like some bizarre, cancerous, flesh-eating disease. Her fingers and toes are black, blistered, and the flesh is peeling away. The only reason she appears well is because her gloves and stockings are lined with medication to dull the pain. Doc also came up with some sort of a booster shot from the antibodies of us Lost Boys, but it only slows the progress; it doesn’t cure it.” Pete pulls up the sleeve of his jacket. A macramé of dark tattoos gives his skin the illusion of machine parts. The intricate details permanently etched in ink are stunning. I reach for his arm, hoping to get a better look, but something catches my eye and my breath hitches. A colorful display of blue, purple, and yellow bruises in varying stages of healing tint the inked gears, springs, and other mechanical gadgets. Before I have a chance to really inspect the tattoos and injuries, Pete pulls his sleeve back down and continues, “But you … you show no signs of infection. You may really be immune, and if you are … well, maybe … just maybe …”
A thousand thoughts flood my mind, but only one renders me speechless. I can’t utter the words that are about to make me crumble like the rubble along the street.
Pete lets out an audible breath. “I believe you are an Immune, a real Immune. That’s why Hook wants you, I’m certain of it. You’re the only girl I’ve seen who actually seems unaffected by the virus. How you lived out there without showing symptoms is a miracle. Judging by the fact you have a sister who has also survived, there has to be something about you two. Something genetic, I suppose. Maybe the cure lies in you and your sister.”
Unable to catch my breath, I rest my hand on my chest, lean against the ladder, and will myself to inhale slow and steady breaths. “Joanna’s not immune.” My words barely tumble out as a whisper.
Pete places a firm hand on my shoulder. “What?”
I meet his gaze, his green eyes searching mine with confusion. “She’s not immune,” I say, shaking my head, accepting the truth
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