Seven
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, DR. Davidoff knocked at my door again. Time for a history lesson, apparently. He led me to his office and entered the code to a closet-sized vault lined with bookshelves.
“We have more reference books than this, naturally. The rest are in the library, which you’ll visit soon. However, this”—he waved at the closet—“is what a public library would call its special collection, containing the rarest and most prized volumes.”
He slid a red leather-bound one from the shelf. Silver letters spelled out Nekromantia.
“The early history of the necromancer race. This is an eighteenth-century reproduction. There are only three known copies, including this one.”
He lowered it into my hands with all the ceremony of passing over the crown jewels. I didn’t want to be impressed, but when I felt the worn leather, smelled the mustiness of time, a thrill rippled through me. I was every great fantasy hero raised in ignominy, then handed the magic book and told “this is who you really are.” I couldn’t help falling for it—the story was hardwired in my brain.
Dr. Davidoff opened a second door. Inside was a surprisingly cozy sitting room with leather chairs, a jungle of plants, and a skylight.
“My secret hiding spot,” he said. “You can read your book in here while I work in my office.”
After he left, I checked out the narrow skylight, but even if I could manage to climb twenty feet to get to it, I’d never fit through. So I settled into the chair with the book.
I’d just opened it when he returned.
“Chloe? I need to leave. Is that all right?”
Leave me alone in his office? I tried not to nod too enthusiastically.
“If you need anything, dial nine for front reception,” he said. “This door will be locked.”
Of course …
I waited until I heard the outer door close. I was sure he’d locked my door, as promised, but I had to check.
It was a rich girl lock, Rae would say—the kind that keep out only kids who’ve never had to share a bathroom and, occasionally, break in to grab a hairbrush while their sister hogs the shower.
A side table held a stack of paperbacks. I found one with a cover sturdy enough to do the job, then copied Rae by wriggling it in the door crack until the lock clicked.
Voilà, my first break-in. Or breakout.
I stepped into Dr. Davidoff’s office. What I needed was a file cabinet, stuffed with records on the study, but all I could see was a desktop computer.
At least it was a Mac—I was more familiar with those than PCs. I jiggled the mouse and the computer popped out of sleep mode. The user login screen appeared. There was only one user account—Davidoff, with an eight ball as the graphic. I clicked it and got the password box. Ignoring it, I clicked on “Forgot password.” The hint appeared: usual. In other words, his usual password, I supposed. That really helped.
At the password prompt, I typed Davidoff. Then Marcel.
Uh, do you really think it could be that easy?
I tried every variation on Lyle House and Edison Group, then, in what I considered a stroke of insight: Agito, with several possible spellings. After my third wrong guess, it had again prompted me with the hint: usual. A few more tries and it asked me to enter the master password so I could reset the user account password. Great. If I knew what the master password was …
I remembered reading that most people kept their password written near their computer. I checked under the keyboard, under the mouse pad, under the monitor. As I peered under the desk, a voice whispered, “It’s Jacinda.”
I jumped so fast I banged my head.
A tinkling laugh. “Careful, child.” It was the demi-demon. Again.
“The password is Jacinda?” I said as I backed out from under the desk. “That’s Rae’s mom’s name. Why would he—?” I stopped myself.
“What connection does Dr. Davidoff have with Rae and her mother? Another delicious secret. All these scientists, so proud and lofty, pretending they are above mere human frailties. Foolishness. They are prey to them all—greed, ambition, pride, lust. I’m particularly fond of lust. Very amusing.”
As she prattled, I typed in Jacinda. The password box vanished and Dr. Davidoff’s desktop began to load.
I opened a Finder window and searched on my name. The window began filling with hits. I tried clicking on one in a folder labeled “Genesis II subjects,” but misjudged and instead opened a file called simply “Genesis II” in the root folder of the same name.
The first paragraph looked like something out of Aunt Lauren’s medical journals—the summary of an experiment. I read:
The blessing of supernatural powers is tempered by two serious disadvantages: dangerous or unpleasant side effects and the constant struggle to assimilate into human society. This study attempts to reduce or eliminate these disadvantages through genetic modification.
Genetic modification? The hairs on my scalp prickled.
The DNA of five subjects from five of the major races was modified in vitro. This modification was primarily designed to reduce the side effects of supernatural powers. It was expected that reducing these effects would aid assimilation, but this was further tested by raising twenty of the children in ignorance of their heritage. The remaining five served as a control group and were raised as supernaturals. During the intervening years, the study experienced some subject attrition (Appendix A), though contact has been reestablished with most.
Attrition? They must mean kids they lost track of—like Rae, Simon, and Derek. Did that mean there were others like us out there, ones they hadn’t found?
As the remaining subjects proceed through puberty, side effects have been drastically reduced in nine (Appendix B). However, in those subjects who did not improve, the genetic modification itself has had serious and unexpected side effects (Appendix C).
Fingers shaking, I typed “Appendix C” into the Find box. The document scrolled down.
One problem noted in the nine successful subjects was a general reduction in powers, which may be an unavoidable consequence of reducing negative side effects. It appears, however, that with the unsuccessful subjects, the reverse occurred. Their powers were heightened, as were the negative side effects, particularly sudden onset of these powers and, more seriously, their uncontrollable nature, apparently emotion based.
Uncontrollable powers. Emotion based.
I remembered Tori sobbing that she couldn’t help it, that when she got mad, things just happened. Like Liz. Like Derek. Like Rae. Like me?
I skimmed over the next page. It detailed how they’d handled these “unsuccessful” subjects—put them into a group home, tried to medicate their powers and convince them they were mentally ill. When that failed …
The powers of supernaturals increase through puberty, meaning the powers of these failed subjects will continue to grow. It can be reasonably hypothesized that their powers will become more volatile and uncontrollable, threatening the lives of the subjects; the lives of innocents around them; and, perhaps most important, posing an immense exposure risk to the entire supernatural world.
We undertook this experiment in hopes of bettering the lives of all supernaturals. We cannot, through our actions, endanger that same world. As responsible scientists, we must accept responsibility for our failures and deal with them decisively to minimize the damage. While the decision was not unanimous, it was agreed that if the predetermined rehabilitation process fails, the subject must, with deep regret, be terminated quickly and humanely.
At the bottom was a list of names. Beside each was their current status.
Peter Ricci—rehabilitated
Mila Andrews—rehabilitated
Amber Long—terminated
Brady Hirsch—terminated
Elizabeth Delany—terminated
Rachelle Rogers—rehabilitation progressing
Victoria Enright—rehabilitation progressing
And finally, at the bottom, two names.
Derek Souza—???
Chloe Saunders—???
I don’t know how long I stared at that list—and those question marks—before something hit my skull. I spun as a stapler bounced onto the carpet.
“Café mocha,” said Dr. Davidoff, right outside the door. “Decaf, nonfat.”
As I logged off, my gaze flipped between the reading room door and the kneehole under the desk. The kneehole was closer, but then I’d be trapped. A spurt of courage sent me lunging for the door. I made it—to the door, not through it into the reading room—as the hall door clicked open. I wheeled and pressed myself against the wall, beside a tall bookcase. I was out of sight but just barely.
I reached for the reading room doorknob. If I opened it wide enough to get through, though, he’d notice.
Go to the desk, I pleaded. Check your e-mail. Check your voice messages. Just please, please, please, don’t check on me.
His footsteps headed straight for me. I plastered myself to the wall and held my breath. His arm appeared. Then his knee. Then—
He stopped. The arm and knee turned toward the desk. He bent and picked up the stapler.
Oh, God. He knew. I had to come clean. Make up a story and turn myself in before I was caught. I stepped forward. A chattering broke the silence. My teeth? No, the pen holder on his desk was shaking, pens and pencils rattling.
Dr. Davidoff stared at it, his head tilting as if to say, Am I doing that? He caught the pen holder. It stopped shaking. As he pulled back his hand, the mouse rolled across the pad.
“Well?” a voice said by my ear. “Are you just going to stand there?”
Liz stood at my shoulder. She jabbed her finger at the door.
“Go!”
I made sure Dr. Davidoff had his back to me, then eased through the door.
“Lock it!” she whispered.
I reached around and turned the lock. The pens chattered again, covering the click of the door latch.
Liz stepped through the wall and waved me to the chair like she was shooing a cat. I’d barely settled in with the book when the door opened.
Dr. Davidoff took a slow look around the room. I followed his gaze, frowning, like I was wondering what he was searching for. I forced myself to look past Liz perched on the side table.
“Dr. Davidoff?”
He said nothing, just looked around.
“Did you forget something?” I asked.
He murmured about checking on dinner, then left after pausing at the door for one last, slow look around.
“Thank you,” I said to Liz after Dr. Davidoff had locked me in again. “I know you’re mad at me, for saying you’re dead—”
“Because I’m obviously not dead, am I? You said the reason I couldn’t touch stuff or move it was because I was a ghost.” She smiled smugly, pulling her knees up and hugging them. “So I worked really hard at moving stuff. If I concentrate, I can. That means I must be a shaman.”
Earlier I’d tried to explain why I hadn’t told her sooner that she was a ghost. I’d said I’d thought she might be a shaman, because Derek said they could astral-project—appear without their bodies.
“They’ve got me drugged up,” she continued. “That’s why I keep getting all confused. I can’t wake up, so my spirit is moving around instead.”
She dangled her legs again and made figure eights with her feet, watching the giraffes on her socks dance. She didn’t believe what she was saying. She knew she was dead. But she wasn’t ready to face it.
As for being able to move objects, Dr. Davidoff had said one kind of ghost could: a telekinetic half-demon. When Liz got mad, objects had attacked whoever she was angry at. Now, as a ghost, she’d finally learned to harness her power.
In life, Liz thought she had a poltergeist. In death, she was one. She just couldn’t accept that yet. And I wasn’t going to force her.