Page 10 of The Art of Exiley

My gut says I shouldn’t go anywhere with him, but the sound of a door slamming followed by threatening footfalls has my gut changing its mind in favor of any option that will get me out of here fast.

“Quickly,” Michael urges, tugging me by the arm, and I follow, every cell in my body wanting to flee from the people on the other side of that door. The ones who knocked me out and put me in a crate.

The interior doorknob rattles with the sound of a key as Michael lifts the garage door—the lock has already been busted open—just high enough for us to scuttle through into the cool night. He pulls the door down with a bang and then takes my hand and starts to run.

“I’ll bring you somewhere safe,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll explain everything once we’re there.”

His long strides are too fast for me to keep up, but the mechanical sound of the garage door rising behind us convinces me I really don’t have a choice. I clutch tightly to his hand and run until my chest is heaving, my thighs are burning, and my bladder feels like an overfilled water balloon.

This safe place better have a bathroom.

3

Earlier in the evening, the thought of us ending up at Michael’s place, panting and hearts racing, had been a tempting outcome.

Fleeing kidnappers isn’t quite what I had in mind.

We’d kept running long past when Michael thought we’d lost our pursuers. Now we fumble our way into his building. I’m sweaty and shaky and still trying to catch my breath as I follow him through a cramped hallway to his door. My eyes dart around, and it sinks in how very alone we are and just how difficult it would be for me to escape if I’ve made a terrible error in judgment.

We enter a cozy studio with only enough room for a kitchenette, a desk, and a bed. I do my best to ignore the intimacy of the space as I dart into the tiny bathroom.

Finally peeing is oh so satisfying, but the walls feel too close. The drip of the sink causes my gut to clench, and I want to get the hell out of here.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It’s just a bathroom.

Once the panic has subsided, I feel around my head with my fingers. There’s no pain where I was hit, but there is some dried blood. The lumpmust have healed along with my palms. My long brown hair is wild and full of snarls. I comb through it with damp fingers and twist it into a knot at the base of my neck. I splash my face with water and wipe off the bruises left by tired makeup.

No, I don’t care that the handsome stranger on the other side of the door saw me looking like the Picasso version of myself. Or that he probably just heard me pee. I can’t care about any of that. Because I need to focus on not letting anything slip that could alert him to why I’m actually here.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I have a job to do.

I can’t get distracted by fear. And I definitely can’t get distracted by Michael’s dimples. Especially now that I know who he must be.

I’m here to do what I’ve always wanted: to be a member of the Families, the historic order that my ancestors have long been a part of. That I too amfinallya part of.

The Families have spent generations passing down the secret history of a group of exiles rumored to be in hiding. They supposedly have artistic talents and scientific knowledge far beyond anything we know to exist in our own society. I’ve grown up on stories of the exiles’ incredible innovations and their tragic disappearance, and I’ve heard countless fantasies of what the world could be like if we ever found them again and could share their knowledge.

And I’m pretty sure Michael is one of the exiles.

I take a few more calming breaths, ready to face whatever happens next.

When I come out, Michael is sitting at the desk chewing his nails and inspecting the gloves. His face is illuminated by the strands of dawn peeking through the window; his wound has been cleaned up, and there’s little evidence that it was ever there at all.

There’s nowhere else to sit, so I perch myself on the edge of the bed. I cross one leg over the other, then awkwardly uncross them.

“Here’s your phone,” Michael says, handing it to me.

“Thanks.” The screen is cracked and the battery is dead. No one knows where I am, and I have no mode of communication. Great.

Michael continues to tinker with the gloves. He lifts his multi-tool and uses a tiny magnifying glass to peer at the metal. “How did they get ahold of antimatter?” he mutters. “I can’t wait to bring these back to Genesis; they’re incredibly valuable.” He looks up. “And so are you.”

No one has ever called me valuable.

As his gaze locks on mine, his floppy hair a wayward mess, I remind myself that I have no reason to trust him. But I really need to convince him that he can trust me.

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