Page 112 of The Art of Exiley

“Oh, come on, you treat humans like animals all the time.”

“That’s not true!”

“Don’t be so self-righteous,” he snaps. He swipes blood off his chin and licks his fingers. “All of humanity has been benefiting from the blood of other humans since the beginning of time. This entire country has been leeching off innocent lives since they decimated the indigenous population and built your economy on the backs of slaves.” He uses the ruined bedsheet to wipe the worst of the blood from his neck and torso. There’s obvious power pumping through him. I can almost see his dragon tattoo ripple as his heart—which I now realize is a lot colder than I’d begun to hope—beats with power from stolen blood. “You pretend you’re more enlightened now,and yet you all still buy your technology and fashion and fuel your cars by putting money in the pockets of regimes that are killing and oppressing their people to continue making a profit. You spent your life ignoring the price for your modern conveniences, yet you’re always so willing to crucify anyone who is a little more honest about humanity’s parasitic nature.”

My mind is reeling at his accusations. He sounds like Grandfather, always trying to explain about big companies who take advantage of immorally cheap labor. But that’s not the same as the bleeding girl lying on the bed. “So you think that makes… this… okay?”

“It means that you and I aren’t so different as you like to think. I’m just honest about it. You can go ahead eating meat from animals you would never kill yourself and send children off to die in a war you wouldn’t fight yourself. If you’re going to profit off someone dying across the globe just because you’ve never seen their face, then you’re a gravdamn hypocrite. I know who I am and what I do. You can keep living in your world of denial. Keep lying to yourself, but don’t judge my actions.”

“Why didn’t you just drink my blood?”

This suggestion enrages him. “Don’t ever compare yourself to them.” His voice is an angry growl. “You are a Maker. You are aSire. You are made in the image of the Conductor and live a life dedicated to continuing the creation of the world, instead of living a destructive life of wastefulness, on instinct, like an animal.” His face is full of disdain. “You may have come to us as a weed, but you have the potential to be so much more. Being my food was the most relevant thing she”—he motions to the poor girl’s limp body as if she were a plate of discarded leftovers—“will ever do.”

“She’s aperson,” I respond quietly. I don’t understand how he doesn’t see this. Is that how he thinks of Georgie? Likefood? “They’re all people, with the same potential that Makers have. Don’t you see this amazing city?”

“More denial. You know how useless your life was before you came toGenesis.” He starts spraying everything down with stain remover—because of course the Makers have one that actually works. It’s done wonders for my period underwear. “They’re all lazy consumers. Only a handful of philistines have made any useful contributions to the world since the Maker Exodus. And it has all been used to fuel greed or war.”

He has no idea how wrong he is. “I’m just like them, and you seem to have stopped detesting me. Can’t you realize that if you gave them a chance, you would see their worth as well?”

He steps close to me, looks me straight in the eyes, his doped-up gaze a shiny, unnatural shade of steel, and oh so angry. “You. Are. So. Much. More. Than.Them.”

He’s so close that my clothes are in danger of being stained by the blood. So close that I don’t even see the blood anymore. So close that I hear his heart hammering at preternatural speed.

I look away first.

He says, “I’m going to get cleaned up.” I hear the bathroom door slam.

I wait for a moment, breathing heavily. Then I follow him in a huff. This conversation isn’t over, and I can’t be alone in the room with the girl’s unconscious body.

I enter the bathroom with my eyes shut. He’s already in the shower, water turned on full blast. I squint my eyes open, and when I see the curtain safety drawn, I open them fully. The remains of his clothing lie in a messy pile in the corner of the room. A lonely hair tie is discarded on the vanity near the sink. I close the door behind me so I don’t have to see the girl lying there, prone and limp.

“I can’t be part of this anymore.” I raise my voice loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water.

“We’ll get Hypatia and see to your grandfather, and then it will all be over,” he responds from the other side of the curtain. “I’ll bring you back tothe institute, you can go on living in denial, and we can commence ignoring each other once again.”

The room fills with steam. Everything I’ve just seen and heard makes it easier to ignore that we’re having this conversation while he’s completely naked. There’s a crack where the curtain doesn’t quite meet the wall, and through it I see pinkish water whirl down the drain.

Blood. Her blood. I turn away from the shower as I gag.

The steam is thicker now, the mirror fogged over. I can only make out strange parts of my face, distorted into a deformed image I don’t recognize. It’s becoming difficult to breathe the heavy, moist air. I draw in a deep breath, and my lungs fill with the metallic smell of blood mixed with the florals of the hotel soap. My head is swimming, and telltale saliva pools on my tongue. I know what’s coming next.

I drop to my knees in front of the toilet just in time. My pizza lunch burns my throat as it comes back up, and I retch into the bowl.

What am I even doing here? Planning to ambush my family with Rafe? Why did I never apologize to Georgie? Why did I tell Michael that he should date Kaylie? I’m severed from everyone who truly cares about me, and the one person I chose to trust turns out to be a monster. I retch again.

A rush of cool air tickles my neck, and the sound of water has silenced. I turn, and Rafe is behind me in a fluffy white robe. He’s opened the door to let out the steam, and I take in some long breaths of clean air. But there she is, lying on the bed with a vague expression on her sleeping face. I hastily turn back to the bowl to retch again, and Rafe kneels on the ground behind me, pulling back my hair as I empty the last remaining contents of my stomach into the toilet. I’m shaking and clammy all over; even my hands are damp as they slip around the sides of the porcelain bowl. There can’t possibly be anything more to come out. I spit into the bowl a few times, trying to clear the taste from my mouth. I sit up, pushing Rafe away.

“Don’t touch me.” My voice is strained. I’m exhausted, drained. Why did I trust him? I knew he was dangerous. Why did I let myself get caught up in our charade? I know that part of the pain I’m feeling now is the sting of disappointment. I can admit to myself that while this has always been about getting to Hypatia, it was starting to be about something else, too. Something I should have never entertained. Now it’s one more thing I’m losing as I regret this entire decision. I feel complicit in what Rafe has done. I should have known better than to be fooled by his good looks and whatever chemistry there is between us.

I’m trembling with chills, and my teeth are chattering. The shock of the situation enrobes me in a cloak of cold. We’re both still sitting on the bathroom floor. Up close I can see the fading of the years in the degrading grout between each marble tile. It’s not quite as glamorous a view from down here. Rafe is on his knees behind me. He reaches over and grasps my shoulders, trying to calm my shaking and pass on some of his warmth.

“Please don’t touch me,” I say again, but he doesn’t move. “Get off,” I weakly insist. But his hands are still there, grounding me as my body threatens to shake so hard it will shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Ada.” He speaks softly in my ear, his voice as deep as ever but unusually tender. “I’m not going anywhere until you calm down.” I hold my nose as the soft breath of his words plays along my face. I’m scared that if I inhale, I’ll smell her blood on his breath. He wraps his arms around me, swaddling me into stillness, his damp hair hanging into my face. The water has transformed it from golden blond into a dull, pale brown. I try to wriggle out of his grasp, but once again I find him to be as solid as a rock. A rock wrapped in soft terry cloth. I try to push away one last time, but I am well and truly trapped. After what I’ve witnessed, this should terrify me beyond words. But for whatever reason, it has the opposite effect.

I hate him. That’s what I tell myself. If I had the energy, anger wouldburn through me. I would scream. I would claw at him. I would spit in his face. But instead, I do what he’s waiting for me to do. I surrender, collapse into his chest, and let myself cry. It can’t be a pretty sight. This is no dainty, damsel-in-distress crying. My breath probably smells like puke, my face is wet from tears and, likely, strings of snot. My body shakes as I weep, and he continues to hold me tight while he strokes my hair and murmurs into my ear. He’s repeating something over and over, whispered words I can’t comprehend over my sobs.

When I’m finally all cried out, I stand and put some distance between myself and the still mostly naked boy who now feels like a stranger. I search his eyes, for what, I don’t know. But all I find is cool practicality.

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