Nobody
Page 17
I don’t know how to do this.
She tried to close her eyes, but couldn’t. Tentatively, she caught his lip in between her teeth and then let go, and in the moment that their mouths met again, hesitation gave way to something sweet, something pure.
She stood on the tips of her toes, her hip bone digging into the flesh just below his. She didn’t know what she was doing, hadn’t ever realized that kissing was something you could feel with more than just your lips.
Nix.
All there was, was Nix. The way he smelled. The way he tasted. The way he pulled back, dragging his lips away from hers and lightly down her neck.
No one ever touches me.
Neither one of them said it, but Claire could see it in his eyes and wondered if he could see it in hers.
I’m touching you. You’re touching me.
She ran the tip of her thumb over the scar on his throat, and then, feeling his sadness, his loneliness and hers, she bent her head to his neck and traced her lips along the line her thumb had taken, inch by inch across his scar. Slow kisses, careful kisses, soft and light and from the soul.
I’m touching you. You’re touching me.
He sank to his knees, and she sank to hers. There was nothing before this moment and nothing after. No up, no down, no left, no right, no secrets.
Nix. Nix. Only Nix.
Together, they were somebody.
10
Nix woke the next morning with a weight on his chest. For a moment, he thought that he had been buried alive. They did that with Nobodies sometimes, to teach them the necessity of being able to fade. But a moment’s observation revealed that the weight on his chest wasn’t dirt.
Back arching—lips on fire—bodies touching.
It was Claire.
They’d fallen asleep on the ground, dirt and leaves and damp grass beneath them. Claire’s head was on his chest. As he watched, it lolled gently to one side. And just like that—
Nix is fifteen. In a strange bedroom. Watching. Waiting.
His target gasps. Collapses. The Null’s head lolls to one side. His fingers twitch. Eyes roll back in his head—
Nix kept himself from following the memory any further. That was Three. Warren Wyler. Eleven letters, another body in the morgue.
From her spot on Nix’s chest, Claire murmured something in her sleep. She was small and warm and his—but Nix couldn’t let this go any further.
Couldn’t risk bleeding his darkness onto her.
He knew how to do one thing, only one thing—and when he’d told Claire to kill, she’d said no.
Wyler’s head lolls to one side. His fingers twitch. Eyes roll back in his head, and a sickly sour smell fills the—
Eleven targets, and Nix had never said no. Eleven people he’d thought were Nulls, because The Society had said it was so. Claire could have been number Twelve—another line tattooed onto his arm, another job well done.
He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t breathe because he wanted to look at her and touch her and not think about—
A sickly sour smell fills the room. From the shadows, Nix watches. He watches the man stop breathing, watches the fingers stop twitching, watches—and smiles.
Nix was sweating and shaking, and Claire just burrowed farther into his side. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t. He pulled his body away from hers. Laid her head gently on the ground. Stood up.
I’ve killed. I’m a killer. I will kill again.
That thought was dull in his mind. Maybe once, he could have been something else. But not now. Never now, never with her. Killing was easy. Walking away from Claire—that was hard. Nix made it a hundred yards before his fingernails began to dig into the skin of his palms.
Pain didn’t help. He barely felt it. Felt her light touch on his scars instead.
Keep walking. Don’t look back.
He and Claire couldn’t happen again. Ever. Eventually, he’d hurt her. He’d sooner cut off his own hands.
Nix focused on that as he walked away from her. He wouldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t let anyone else harm a hair on her head. The Society wanted Claire dead. Nix knew them well enough to know that they wouldn’t stop. Not unless someone stopped them.
That, he could do.
Claire woke up with swollen lips, a crick in her neck, and a smile on her face. She felt older. Wiser.
Special.
Like the Claire she’d been before kissing Nix was another girl. Like that girl was the one who people talked over and bumped into and stared through. And then she turned over onto her side, her fingers fanning out, one by one, exploring the crevices of the forest floor. Stretching her hand toward the place Nix should have been.
Stretching farther.
Claire opened her eyes.
The dawn had come and gone. And so had—no. She wouldn’t go there, couldn’t think that. She scanned the woods around her. Nervous hands found each other, her fingers interlocking.
Trees. Leaves. Dirt. Sticks. Bugs. Birds.
No Nix.
Interlocked fingers pulled Claire’s knees tight to her chest. The longer she sat there, the more her thoughts began working their way up to a deafening roar, white noise that threatened to start saying things—horrible things—about girls who touched boys and boys who lied to get exactly what they wanted from stupid, stupid girls.
You’re here, and he left, and this time, he isn’t coming back. You know he’s not.
“Situation.” Claire said the word out loud, and her teeth chattered, even though she wasn’t cold. “Situation: What if—”
What if he’s the only one? The only person physically capable of really looking at you, seeing you, caring about you, remembering you? What if you’re the only two Nobodies in the whole world, and he’d rather be alone than spend one more hour with you?
“Situation.” Claire couldn’t think of one. The sole thing she could think about was Nix. Touching her. Kissing her. Hands on either side of her face.
All she could think was that he’d left her lying on the ground. Leaves in her hair. Lips swollen. He’d left her. The cacophony of emotion in her head receded, leaving only one emotion, only one thought.
You don’t get to leave me.
The road leading up to the institute was long and straight. Gravel crunched under Nix’s feet as he walked the familiar path.
There’s a knife in his right hand. His left is coated with blood. His body feels heavy.
He can’t fade. Not now. Not after—
Nix shook off the memory. Not Three this time. Seven. He could feel the images fighting to take hold of his mind. Darkness dotted his field of vision. He forced himself to keep walking. Closer to the institute. Closer to the people who’d sent him to kill Claire.
There’s a knife in his right hand. His left is coated with blood. His body feels heavy. He can’t fade. Not now. Not after what he’s done. Not this time.
He should feel something. Triumph, nausea, fear—anything. But he doesn’t. His arms hang listlessly by his sides. The blade in his right hand swings gently as he walks.
He’s never used a knife on a living, breathing being before, but this time, his orders were different.
This time, The Society told him not to fade. No poison, no guns, no “accidental” drownings.
This time, his orders said to make it messy.
With hard-won, painful effort, Nix banished the memory of his seventh kill, the blood. He focused on one thing and one thing alone.
At the end of this road and past the gates, through twisted hallways and beyond the security checkpoints—that was where he’d find Ione. The Sensors. The scientists.
The people who’d sent him after Claire.
11
Situation: You wake up in the woods with no memory. No name. No idea how you got here. There’s a white index card beside you on the ground, telling you that you have until nightfall to find your way to civilization—if you want to get out of this forest alive.
As far as Situations went, it was closer to a horror movie than a daydream, but that was nothing new. Claire had imagined her way out of worse. The only difference was that this time, it was real. Not the amnesia, or the index card, or the imminent threat of death—but the problem.
She was alone in the woods. She had no idea how Nix had brought her here, no idea which direction to walk to find the closest town—or how far she’d have to go. The day before, she’d stalled. She’d given up. She’d wallowed in the fact that he left her—but Claire was done with wallowing now.
She tried to close her eyes, but couldn’t. Tentatively, she caught his lip in between her teeth and then let go, and in the moment that their mouths met again, hesitation gave way to something sweet, something pure.
She stood on the tips of her toes, her hip bone digging into the flesh just below his. She didn’t know what she was doing, hadn’t ever realized that kissing was something you could feel with more than just your lips.
Nix.
All there was, was Nix. The way he smelled. The way he tasted. The way he pulled back, dragging his lips away from hers and lightly down her neck.
No one ever touches me.
Neither one of them said it, but Claire could see it in his eyes and wondered if he could see it in hers.
I’m touching you. You’re touching me.
She ran the tip of her thumb over the scar on his throat, and then, feeling his sadness, his loneliness and hers, she bent her head to his neck and traced her lips along the line her thumb had taken, inch by inch across his scar. Slow kisses, careful kisses, soft and light and from the soul.
I’m touching you. You’re touching me.
He sank to his knees, and she sank to hers. There was nothing before this moment and nothing after. No up, no down, no left, no right, no secrets.
Nix. Nix. Only Nix.
Together, they were somebody.
10
Nix woke the next morning with a weight on his chest. For a moment, he thought that he had been buried alive. They did that with Nobodies sometimes, to teach them the necessity of being able to fade. But a moment’s observation revealed that the weight on his chest wasn’t dirt.
Back arching—lips on fire—bodies touching.
It was Claire.
They’d fallen asleep on the ground, dirt and leaves and damp grass beneath them. Claire’s head was on his chest. As he watched, it lolled gently to one side. And just like that—
Nix is fifteen. In a strange bedroom. Watching. Waiting.
His target gasps. Collapses. The Null’s head lolls to one side. His fingers twitch. Eyes roll back in his head—
Nix kept himself from following the memory any further. That was Three. Warren Wyler. Eleven letters, another body in the morgue.
From her spot on Nix’s chest, Claire murmured something in her sleep. She was small and warm and his—but Nix couldn’t let this go any further.
Couldn’t risk bleeding his darkness onto her.
He knew how to do one thing, only one thing—and when he’d told Claire to kill, she’d said no.
Wyler’s head lolls to one side. His fingers twitch. Eyes roll back in his head, and a sickly sour smell fills the—
Eleven targets, and Nix had never said no. Eleven people he’d thought were Nulls, because The Society had said it was so. Claire could have been number Twelve—another line tattooed onto his arm, another job well done.
He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t breathe because he wanted to look at her and touch her and not think about—
A sickly sour smell fills the room. From the shadows, Nix watches. He watches the man stop breathing, watches the fingers stop twitching, watches—and smiles.
Nix was sweating and shaking, and Claire just burrowed farther into his side. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t. He pulled his body away from hers. Laid her head gently on the ground. Stood up.
I’ve killed. I’m a killer. I will kill again.
That thought was dull in his mind. Maybe once, he could have been something else. But not now. Never now, never with her. Killing was easy. Walking away from Claire—that was hard. Nix made it a hundred yards before his fingernails began to dig into the skin of his palms.
Pain didn’t help. He barely felt it. Felt her light touch on his scars instead.
Keep walking. Don’t look back.
He and Claire couldn’t happen again. Ever. Eventually, he’d hurt her. He’d sooner cut off his own hands.
Nix focused on that as he walked away from her. He wouldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t let anyone else harm a hair on her head. The Society wanted Claire dead. Nix knew them well enough to know that they wouldn’t stop. Not unless someone stopped them.
That, he could do.
Claire woke up with swollen lips, a crick in her neck, and a smile on her face. She felt older. Wiser.
Special.
Like the Claire she’d been before kissing Nix was another girl. Like that girl was the one who people talked over and bumped into and stared through. And then she turned over onto her side, her fingers fanning out, one by one, exploring the crevices of the forest floor. Stretching her hand toward the place Nix should have been.
Stretching farther.
Claire opened her eyes.
The dawn had come and gone. And so had—no. She wouldn’t go there, couldn’t think that. She scanned the woods around her. Nervous hands found each other, her fingers interlocking.
Trees. Leaves. Dirt. Sticks. Bugs. Birds.
No Nix.
Interlocked fingers pulled Claire’s knees tight to her chest. The longer she sat there, the more her thoughts began working their way up to a deafening roar, white noise that threatened to start saying things—horrible things—about girls who touched boys and boys who lied to get exactly what they wanted from stupid, stupid girls.
You’re here, and he left, and this time, he isn’t coming back. You know he’s not.
“Situation.” Claire said the word out loud, and her teeth chattered, even though she wasn’t cold. “Situation: What if—”
What if he’s the only one? The only person physically capable of really looking at you, seeing you, caring about you, remembering you? What if you’re the only two Nobodies in the whole world, and he’d rather be alone than spend one more hour with you?
“Situation.” Claire couldn’t think of one. The sole thing she could think about was Nix. Touching her. Kissing her. Hands on either side of her face.
All she could think was that he’d left her lying on the ground. Leaves in her hair. Lips swollen. He’d left her. The cacophony of emotion in her head receded, leaving only one emotion, only one thought.
You don’t get to leave me.
The road leading up to the institute was long and straight. Gravel crunched under Nix’s feet as he walked the familiar path.
There’s a knife in his right hand. His left is coated with blood. His body feels heavy.
He can’t fade. Not now. Not after—
Nix shook off the memory. Not Three this time. Seven. He could feel the images fighting to take hold of his mind. Darkness dotted his field of vision. He forced himself to keep walking. Closer to the institute. Closer to the people who’d sent him to kill Claire.
There’s a knife in his right hand. His left is coated with blood. His body feels heavy. He can’t fade. Not now. Not after what he’s done. Not this time.
He should feel something. Triumph, nausea, fear—anything. But he doesn’t. His arms hang listlessly by his sides. The blade in his right hand swings gently as he walks.
He’s never used a knife on a living, breathing being before, but this time, his orders were different.
This time, The Society told him not to fade. No poison, no guns, no “accidental” drownings.
This time, his orders said to make it messy.
With hard-won, painful effort, Nix banished the memory of his seventh kill, the blood. He focused on one thing and one thing alone.
At the end of this road and past the gates, through twisted hallways and beyond the security checkpoints—that was where he’d find Ione. The Sensors. The scientists.
The people who’d sent him after Claire.
11
Situation: You wake up in the woods with no memory. No name. No idea how you got here. There’s a white index card beside you on the ground, telling you that you have until nightfall to find your way to civilization—if you want to get out of this forest alive.
As far as Situations went, it was closer to a horror movie than a daydream, but that was nothing new. Claire had imagined her way out of worse. The only difference was that this time, it was real. Not the amnesia, or the index card, or the imminent threat of death—but the problem.
She was alone in the woods. She had no idea how Nix had brought her here, no idea which direction to walk to find the closest town—or how far she’d have to go. The day before, she’d stalled. She’d given up. She’d wallowed in the fact that he left her—but Claire was done with wallowing now.
