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Authors: V. M. Black
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time.”
He stepped back, and I kept my eyes fixed on him, rejoicing as I reached for the end of the iron rod. The brand was glowing red from the blistering coals.
I knew what he wanted. His eyes filled my world. I grasped the rod of the brand as close to the heated end as I could bear. I turned it toward me, toward my naked flesh, shivering in terror and desire.
And he didn’t even have to ask.
I pressed the brand against my skin, and the stench of the burning flesh filled my nostrils as the terrible, glorious agony of it swept over me—
And my own scream woke me.
I was sitting up in bed, the blankets kicked off onto the floor, the alarm of my phone blaring at full volume. Still panting and shuddering with reaction, I scrabbled for the off button, and then I scrubbed my face with the heels of my hands.
Thursday. It was the Thursday before finals—exactly two weeks after I had seen Mr. Thorne at Komi.
No wonder I was having nightmares.
I took a breath and lurched into the bathroom. A shower chased away the last of the dream, leaving me with a clearer head.
Decision time.
Dammit, I’d made my decision. I’d made it two weeks ago—before that, even, back at Johns Hopkins, when I’d chosen the mysterious card over the hospice brochure.
I glared at my thin body in the mirror, glared at the ravages the cancer had done upon it. I was going to take the leap of faith. Even if I landed on crumbling ground, I already knew the bridge I stood on now was doomed.
I wrapped up in the towel, went back into my room, and grabbed the phone from the bedside table. I searched for the number that I had stored under the contact LAST HOPE. I hit send.
“Cora Shaw,” came the familiar voice. “We have been expecting your call.”
“Yes,” I said. My voice shook slightly, and I swallowed hard. “I am ready to give my answer.”
“That is good to hear, Ms. Shaw. What shall I tell Mr. Thorne?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
“Ms. Shaw?”
I heard my voice answer as if from very far away. “I want to go through the procedure. Next Friday, after my finals.”
“A car can pick you up at six. Will that be acceptable, Ms. Shaw?”
“Very,” I said. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you , Ms. Shaw.”
The line went dead.
I’d done it. I was committed.
I put my hand to my chest, so I could feel the frantic rhythm of my heart, which circulated my poisoned blood with every beat. In eight days, it would be purified, rid of the mutant cells that threatened to overwhelm my body even as they failed in its defense.
Or else I would die.
Either way, I would see Mr. Thorne again. And I would know which of my fears were imagined and which were very, very real.
Chapter Eleven
“T hat’s it! Last final!” Lisette let out a whoop and slammed her textbook into the nearest trash can. “Take that, econometrics!”
“You know you could have sold that back,” I pointed out. “And anyway, it’s not like you even hated the course.”
She grinned. “A new edition was published two months ago, and now the university bookstore and Amazon won’t pay jack for this one now. I’ve been wanting to do that for three and a half years, but this is the first time one of my textbooks became obsolete the same semester I was using it.”
“That kind of defeats the purpose of a grand gesture,” Geoff said. “I mean, if it’s trash, anyway....”
“Shut up,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s celebrate.” She spied someone else across the green. “Hey, Ross! Sabrina! Come on, let’s celebrate!”
Sabrina waved, and they crossed over. “You guys done?” Sabrina asked. Ross Myo had been an economics major, too, before switching to statistics his sophomore year. He’d met Sabrina, a bio major, in the taekwondo club, and she’d become a fixture in our group when we got together.
“They are—until next semester,” Geoff said, nodding
He stepped back, and I kept my eyes fixed on him, rejoicing as I reached for the end of the iron rod. The brand was glowing red from the blistering coals.
I knew what he wanted. His eyes filled my world. I grasped the rod of the brand as close to the heated end as I could bear. I turned it toward me, toward my naked flesh, shivering in terror and desire.
And he didn’t even have to ask.
I pressed the brand against my skin, and the stench of the burning flesh filled my nostrils as the terrible, glorious agony of it swept over me—
And my own scream woke me.
I was sitting up in bed, the blankets kicked off onto the floor, the alarm of my phone blaring at full volume. Still panting and shuddering with reaction, I scrabbled for the off button, and then I scrubbed my face with the heels of my hands.
Thursday. It was the Thursday before finals—exactly two weeks after I had seen Mr. Thorne at Komi.
No wonder I was having nightmares.
I took a breath and lurched into the bathroom. A shower chased away the last of the dream, leaving me with a clearer head.
Decision time.
Dammit, I’d made my decision. I’d made it two weeks ago—before that, even, back at Johns Hopkins, when I’d chosen the mysterious card over the hospice brochure.
I glared at my thin body in the mirror, glared at the ravages the cancer had done upon it. I was going to take the leap of faith. Even if I landed on crumbling ground, I already knew the bridge I stood on now was doomed.
I wrapped up in the towel, went back into my room, and grabbed the phone from the bedside table. I searched for the number that I had stored under the contact LAST HOPE. I hit send.
“Cora Shaw,” came the familiar voice. “We have been expecting your call.”
“Yes,” I said. My voice shook slightly, and I swallowed hard. “I am ready to give my answer.”
“That is good to hear, Ms. Shaw. What shall I tell Mr. Thorne?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
“Ms. Shaw?”
I heard my voice answer as if from very far away. “I want to go through the procedure. Next Friday, after my finals.”
“A car can pick you up at six. Will that be acceptable, Ms. Shaw?”
“Very,” I said. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you , Ms. Shaw.”
The line went dead.
I’d done it. I was committed.
I put my hand to my chest, so I could feel the frantic rhythm of my heart, which circulated my poisoned blood with every beat. In eight days, it would be purified, rid of the mutant cells that threatened to overwhelm my body even as they failed in its defense.
Or else I would die.
Either way, I would see Mr. Thorne again. And I would know which of my fears were imagined and which were very, very real.
Chapter Eleven
“T hat’s it! Last final!” Lisette let out a whoop and slammed her textbook into the nearest trash can. “Take that, econometrics!”
“You know you could have sold that back,” I pointed out. “And anyway, it’s not like you even hated the course.”
She grinned. “A new edition was published two months ago, and now the university bookstore and Amazon won’t pay jack for this one now. I’ve been wanting to do that for three and a half years, but this is the first time one of my textbooks became obsolete the same semester I was using it.”
“That kind of defeats the purpose of a grand gesture,” Geoff said. “I mean, if it’s trash, anyway....”
“Shut up,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s celebrate.” She spied someone else across the green. “Hey, Ross! Sabrina! Come on, let’s celebrate!”
Sabrina waved, and they crossed over. “You guys done?” Sabrina asked. Ross Myo had been an economics major, too, before switching to statistics his sophomore year. He’d met Sabrina, a bio major, in the taekwondo club, and she’d become a fixture in our group when we got together.
“They are—until next semester,” Geoff said, nodding
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