Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
“Ten days.”
“Ten—” I gasp. “Ten?”
He doesn’t answer, just nods.
“And… how many times have I asked you these questions?”
“Seven. You recovered pretty quick the first several times—just a few hours. But it’s takin’ longer now.”
“I’ve lost my memory?”
“Not exactly. You do remember. At least, you will. It just… takes time. And it’s… gettin’ worse.”
“How long was I out this time?”
“Two days.”
“Two days?”
“That’s how long it took for you to make enough spark to fill your reserves.”
My reserves. And then, I remember. All of it. The lie I told to keep the secret of Tyse and me. That he walks through worlds, killing people so he can steal their spark and fill me back up.
There is no lake of spark inside me.
Well, I guess there is now. But I don’t make spark. He just fills me back up with the souls he stole.
“It’s OK,” Tyse says again, for the third time.
And in my experience, when people feel the need to convince you that things are OK, they are decidedly not OK.
So I drop it. And look around the room. It’s not big, or luxurious, or even clean. But it’s better than being strapped to a wall and surrounded by a cage of needle-thin harvest tubes.
There’s a bed, which I’m in. A little table to the left of the bed with some knives scattered across the top.
On the other side of the room is a large screen built into the wall. It’s black now, so that means it’s off.
Under the screen is the chair where Tyse sits. And next to the screen is the open door with steam still pouring out—the bathroom.
Finally, just to my right, there’s a countertop that acts like a little kitchen. There are dirty dishes all over the counter. Evidence of us living here that I simply don’t remember.
“Do you want a shower?” Tyse asks.
What I want are answers. But I don’t think it’s safe to say that. I’m not sure why, I’m just picking up a vibe from Tyse. He’s… distant. Different. “How many times?” I ask.
“Seven.” He doesn’t even ask for clarification. Which tells me, this is the only thing on his mind as well.
Seven times. “Seven fights?” I ask.
“Yeah. And seven… recoveries.”
Which is referring to me. Which also matches up with the seven times I’ve questioned him. “When is the next one?” I ask.
“Tonight.”
It’s too much, that word. Tonight. “We don’t even get a day off?”
“I’ve had two days off now, Clara. He’s not a patient guy. I had to bargain pretty hard to get him to let you recover fully before… you know.”
“Harvesting me?” I shake my head as these words come out. How the hell did we get here so fast? I feel like we were just leaving our quarters in Delta. And now… it’s almost two weeks later. And while the memories are floating on the surface, I have to rescue them to make the timeline fit.
And I don’t feel like rescuing them. So I don’t even bother trying to understand.
This is my life now.
I am one of those women in Delta’s factory.
My only purpose is to be harvested.
Suddenly, the bed dips down and Tyse is next to me. He slips an arm underneath my body and pulls me close as he lies back, allowing my head to rest on his chest.
I have so many questions. It’s just… I don’t want to ask them. Because I already know the answers. How many times can he do this? Maybe eleven more? Maybe only four.
But the most pressing question is how many times can I do this. Because right now, I feel like that number is zero.
“You’re OK,” Tyse says, for the fourth time.
“Are you sure?” I feel exhausted.
“Positive, darlin’. Absolutely certain. You’re doin’ great. And… I’m making a deal with Epsilon.”
I was just getting sleepy again, but this wakes me right back up. “What kind of deal?” I say these words through clenched teeth. Not because I’m mad. I’m not mad. I’m angry. At that stupid god. For what he’s taking from us. For what he’s doing to us. Because we’re dying.
“It’s no big deal,” Tyse says. “Just some mRNA injections.”
“I don’t know what that is.” My voice sounds very weak now and I feel like I might start crying if I don’t make an effort not to.
“It’s just another way to augment. To change things inside me.”
“Change what things?” The pitch of my voice is too high, the panic building inside me.
“Clara,” he says, pushing some sweaty hair off my forehead, “I’ve been augmented with so much mRNA, it’s not even trackable at this point.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Yeah, it is. Because I’ve got this. I promise you, I’ve got this. All I need from you, is rest. I need you to recover.”
“So he can harvest me.”
“Nah. Well, that’s one way to think about it, I guess. But the way I see it is that, I need you to recover so I can fight.”