A Million Worlds with You
Page 51
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
Theo crashed on purpose.
My body and brain can’t agree on what to do. I stand there swaying, wanting to faint, then take a few lurching steps forward before bracing myself against a lamppost to keep myself from falling down. Within a few seconds, though, I’m able to push myself on and run to the wreckage. Someone shouts at me in Spanish, probably warning me to pull back to safety, but Theo explained once that crashed cars only explode in the movies. Nothing short of an explosion could keep me away.
I come up on the passenger side, where the door has been knocked off, and Conley—
It’s all I can do not to throw up. I hate this man . . . I mean, I hated him, when he was alive. But looking at him now nauseates me. Never did I need to see Conley’s head split open. I never wanted to learn how brain fluid smells. Now I can never forget it.
The coldest, most calculating part of my mind—the part Wicked would understand—knows that this dramatically changes the odds. In this dimension, Triad had only one leader, who was also their only perfect traveler. This world will never be a risk to mine again.
Yet none of that seems important compared to the fact that Theo is somewhere in this wreckage. He did this on purpose, and instinctively I know that he did it for me.
“Theo?” My voice cracks as I edge around the back of the vehicle. Please let him not be torn up like this, please don’t let him be split open, please, please, please. “Theo, can you hear me?”
“Meg?”
Finally I reach the driver’s-side door. Theo slumps in his seat, which hangs unnaturally far back—the impact must have dislodged it. His face is already swollen and purple. Blood trickles from his nose and ears. One of his arms, obviously broken in multiple places, lies limply across the gearshift. With the other, he reaches for me.
I take his hand, pretending not to notice the blood pooling between our palms. This is the same person who murdered the other me, the same fingers that gripped the scarf he knotted around my throat. Yet I can’t look into his bruised, despairing face—without accepting his grip. His hand is weak and shaky in mine. “Theo, what did you do?”
“I knew . . . knew I could take him out.” Theo tries to smirk, but then he coughs and winces from the pain. “The son of a bitch never . . . wore his seat belt. Always . . . always wear your—”
His seat belt cuts into his torso so unnaturally. Several of his ribs must be broken. Maybe his sternum, too. “Hang on. They must’ve called an ambulance, so the doctors will be here any second. Okay? Hang on.”
“That’s not . . . how this goes.” His head lolls toward me. His eyes seem to meet mine, but I’m not sure he can even see me. “I took a life. You can . . . you can only pay for a life with a life.”
“Oh, God, Theo—” I hate this Theo so much. I’ve hit him, cursed him, even attempted to kill him. But I’m not made of the kind of stuff that could enjoy watching him die.
My mind shows me an image from my second night in an alternate dimension: the Londonverse, where I wore the body of a girl who’s already dead. I believed my father had been murdered, and I staggered around drunk in a nightclub in the vain hopes that the alcohol would numb the endless pain inside. Theo came to me then, picked me up in his arms and held me right there in the club, cradling me against his chest while I sobbed, even as the drumbeat throbbed and the dancers swayed around us. He was pretending to be my Theo—manipulating me, even using me—but that night, I know, he genuinely hurt for me too. That moment might have been the realest I ever shared with this Theo, until this one, right now.
“Conley . . . he . . . he told the other one to move on.” He swallows, winces, gasps. “You have to follow her.”
“I will,” I promise. “Right away.”
“You asked me . . . how she felt. The other you. While I killed her.” Theo tries to smile, but his cut lip makes it grotesque. “Now I know.”
He shudders—no, spasms. He coughs again, and the trickle of blood from his nose turns into a heavy flow. His eyes roll up in his head, and his breath rattles in his chest.
“No,” I squeeze his hand more tightly. As much as I’ve hated him, it turns out I can’t bear to watch him die. “No, Theo, hang on. You can still help us. You can be the one who brings the Triadverse around! You could undo some of the damage—help bring things back. . . .” My voice trails off as I realize he can’t hear me anymore
The rattle in his chest stops, and for a moment I think that’s it, until Theo whispers, “Meg . . .”
His hand goes slack in mine. Blood flowing from his nose and ears slows, then stops. Theo’s head falls back, free of the broken car seat. Nobody is here any longer.
Trembling, I take my hand from his and touch his face. Closing his eyes feels impossibly strange, his eyelids thin and fragile against my fingertips. When I pull back, I see the bloodstains I left behind.
I stagger away from the wreck, oblivious to the gore dripping from my hand. Far away I hear sirens. Whatever limo driver or security guard or goon Conley had watching me obviously thinks I’m no longer a priority, or figures he’s no longer on anybody’s payroll. At any rate, nobody is trying to capture me or hurt me. I’m on my own in Ecuador, completely alone.
Think. I reach the coffeehouse on the corner, where all the patrons have gathered to gawp, and sink into one of their woven-cane chairs. You can reach a landline and call your parents again. They’ll come and get you. I mean they’ll come get the Triadverse Marguerite. As soon as I’m sure she’s okay, I intend to follow Theo’s advice and return to pursuing Wicked.
No, I need Paul. He’s here in this very city. But how do I find Paul in the middle of an enormous city I don’t know and where I don’t speak more than three dozen words of the language?
I focus again on the shattered wreck smoldering in front of me and realize—one of the world’s richest men just died violently in public. This will be on YouTube within minutes, if it isn’t already. News crews will get here before the ambulances do. Paul will find out as fast as everyone else on the globe, and if I’m in any of the pictures or video being taken by the zillion smartphones I see being held up by the murmuring crowd, he’ll see I’m here.
Paul will know to come for me.
I have Theo’s blood all over my hands. The thought seems simultaneously incredibly important and a thousand miles away. Some paper napkins have been left on a nearby table. I grab a couple and start scrubbing away the red. There’s so much red. Paul can’t see this, he can’t know what happened to the guy who used to call him little brother.
My body and brain can’t agree on what to do. I stand there swaying, wanting to faint, then take a few lurching steps forward before bracing myself against a lamppost to keep myself from falling down. Within a few seconds, though, I’m able to push myself on and run to the wreckage. Someone shouts at me in Spanish, probably warning me to pull back to safety, but Theo explained once that crashed cars only explode in the movies. Nothing short of an explosion could keep me away.
I come up on the passenger side, where the door has been knocked off, and Conley—
It’s all I can do not to throw up. I hate this man . . . I mean, I hated him, when he was alive. But looking at him now nauseates me. Never did I need to see Conley’s head split open. I never wanted to learn how brain fluid smells. Now I can never forget it.
The coldest, most calculating part of my mind—the part Wicked would understand—knows that this dramatically changes the odds. In this dimension, Triad had only one leader, who was also their only perfect traveler. This world will never be a risk to mine again.
Yet none of that seems important compared to the fact that Theo is somewhere in this wreckage. He did this on purpose, and instinctively I know that he did it for me.
“Theo?” My voice cracks as I edge around the back of the vehicle. Please let him not be torn up like this, please don’t let him be split open, please, please, please. “Theo, can you hear me?”
“Meg?”
Finally I reach the driver’s-side door. Theo slumps in his seat, which hangs unnaturally far back—the impact must have dislodged it. His face is already swollen and purple. Blood trickles from his nose and ears. One of his arms, obviously broken in multiple places, lies limply across the gearshift. With the other, he reaches for me.
I take his hand, pretending not to notice the blood pooling between our palms. This is the same person who murdered the other me, the same fingers that gripped the scarf he knotted around my throat. Yet I can’t look into his bruised, despairing face—without accepting his grip. His hand is weak and shaky in mine. “Theo, what did you do?”
“I knew . . . knew I could take him out.” Theo tries to smirk, but then he coughs and winces from the pain. “The son of a bitch never . . . wore his seat belt. Always . . . always wear your—”
His seat belt cuts into his torso so unnaturally. Several of his ribs must be broken. Maybe his sternum, too. “Hang on. They must’ve called an ambulance, so the doctors will be here any second. Okay? Hang on.”
“That’s not . . . how this goes.” His head lolls toward me. His eyes seem to meet mine, but I’m not sure he can even see me. “I took a life. You can . . . you can only pay for a life with a life.”
“Oh, God, Theo—” I hate this Theo so much. I’ve hit him, cursed him, even attempted to kill him. But I’m not made of the kind of stuff that could enjoy watching him die.
My mind shows me an image from my second night in an alternate dimension: the Londonverse, where I wore the body of a girl who’s already dead. I believed my father had been murdered, and I staggered around drunk in a nightclub in the vain hopes that the alcohol would numb the endless pain inside. Theo came to me then, picked me up in his arms and held me right there in the club, cradling me against his chest while I sobbed, even as the drumbeat throbbed and the dancers swayed around us. He was pretending to be my Theo—manipulating me, even using me—but that night, I know, he genuinely hurt for me too. That moment might have been the realest I ever shared with this Theo, until this one, right now.
“Conley . . . he . . . he told the other one to move on.” He swallows, winces, gasps. “You have to follow her.”
“I will,” I promise. “Right away.”
“You asked me . . . how she felt. The other you. While I killed her.” Theo tries to smile, but his cut lip makes it grotesque. “Now I know.”
He shudders—no, spasms. He coughs again, and the trickle of blood from his nose turns into a heavy flow. His eyes roll up in his head, and his breath rattles in his chest.
“No,” I squeeze his hand more tightly. As much as I’ve hated him, it turns out I can’t bear to watch him die. “No, Theo, hang on. You can still help us. You can be the one who brings the Triadverse around! You could undo some of the damage—help bring things back. . . .” My voice trails off as I realize he can’t hear me anymore
The rattle in his chest stops, and for a moment I think that’s it, until Theo whispers, “Meg . . .”
His hand goes slack in mine. Blood flowing from his nose and ears slows, then stops. Theo’s head falls back, free of the broken car seat. Nobody is here any longer.
Trembling, I take my hand from his and touch his face. Closing his eyes feels impossibly strange, his eyelids thin and fragile against my fingertips. When I pull back, I see the bloodstains I left behind.
I stagger away from the wreck, oblivious to the gore dripping from my hand. Far away I hear sirens. Whatever limo driver or security guard or goon Conley had watching me obviously thinks I’m no longer a priority, or figures he’s no longer on anybody’s payroll. At any rate, nobody is trying to capture me or hurt me. I’m on my own in Ecuador, completely alone.
Think. I reach the coffeehouse on the corner, where all the patrons have gathered to gawp, and sink into one of their woven-cane chairs. You can reach a landline and call your parents again. They’ll come and get you. I mean they’ll come get the Triadverse Marguerite. As soon as I’m sure she’s okay, I intend to follow Theo’s advice and return to pursuing Wicked.
No, I need Paul. He’s here in this very city. But how do I find Paul in the middle of an enormous city I don’t know and where I don’t speak more than three dozen words of the language?
I focus again on the shattered wreck smoldering in front of me and realize—one of the world’s richest men just died violently in public. This will be on YouTube within minutes, if it isn’t already. News crews will get here before the ambulances do. Paul will find out as fast as everyone else on the globe, and if I’m in any of the pictures or video being taken by the zillion smartphones I see being held up by the murmuring crowd, he’ll see I’m here.
Paul will know to come for me.
I have Theo’s blood all over my hands. The thought seems simultaneously incredibly important and a thousand miles away. Some paper napkins have been left on a nearby table. I grab a couple and start scrubbing away the red. There’s so much red. Paul can’t see this, he can’t know what happened to the guy who used to call him little brother.
