Page 7 of Across Eternity

My mouth opens to voice a thousand objections: we would not be stiff and cold like corpses, first of all. And what if we get outside and we’re too drugged to jump? Or they do something to us before they leave to ensure we can’t jump?

She speaks before I can suggest a single one.

“If the plan fails in any way,” she says, “it means we’ll probably be buried alive.”

“So, it’s the nuclear option.”

“Nuclear?” she asks. “I don’t know this word.”

I wave it away. “I’m just saying…we only do it if all else fails.”

“Unless you’re able to jump back and warn yourself, all else has already failed,” she says. “Have you tried? I have, but it hasn’t worked.”

“I can’t,” I reply. “I don’t seem able to get the words out, and I doubt it would do any good if I could. I came with my friend and I know she won’t listen no matter how hard I warn her.” There is no warning that could keep Marie from making the journey she did. And the fact that she is here at all is my fault. I’m the one who told her where her mother went, when Henri begged me not to. How might their lives have gone if I hadn’t listened to my sister, if I hadn’t ever ventured back to 1938 in the first place?

“Your loyalty is admirable,” she says. “But I’m worried it might get you killed.”

We hear the echo of a guard’s boots in the hall. “You really think this infirmary plan will work?”

She squeezes my hand. “I’m not sure, but the fact that you exist, and are my descendant, makes me believe it must.”

She bolts to her bed, and I lie awake, thinking too many things to possibly hope for sleep. Is what she’s saying possible? Could I be her granddaughter, a product of a first family?

Or have I given her the kind of false hope that will get us all killed?

* * *

I wake just before the guards come in, craving Henri. I roll to my stomach, wishing I could dull the sharpness of missing him. My heart beats faster. I know I only have a moment, but I need this. I need one bright spot before another long day of pretending and worrying begins.

I squeeze my eyes shut, doing my best to ignore the shrieking of the alarm, and I go to him. It’s early in the morning, those last peaceful days of summer before the harvest began, and the night sky has begun to dull and soften. I press myself to his back, let my hand rest on his broad shoulder.

I bury my nose in the nape of his neck to smell him, a faint hint of soap from last night’s bath and summer air. I want to weep at the feel of his skin under my hand, at the smell of him. I miss him so much that the ache feels impossible to bear.

His hand comes up to close over mine. “Did you just smell me?” he asks with a sleepy laugh. I want to weep at the sound of his voice, husky with disuse. I had all of this—his sweetness, his laughter, his warm skin, his smell. I had all of it and I appreciated it, I did, but I never imagined how badly I would miss it. How desperate I’d feel, willing to give up everything just for a single piece of him. Just to carry his voice inside me, the smoothness of him beneath my hands. Just to be able to lean against his chest and tell him what is happening to us and have him direct me, or even just promise things will be okay.

I wouldn’t demand all of it. Just one of those things would suffice and I can’t have any of them.

I can’t answer. I press my lips to his neck instead, and he tenses…but it’s a good kind of tension. As if he’s allowing his brain to shut down while his body picks up the slack.

“Do that again, little thief,” he says. His voice huskier.

So I do, and then his hand drags mine down, down, to where he is hard and ready. “That’s all it took,” he says, squeezing his palm over mine, against him. And then he rolls toward me. I’ve been so good, lately, only visiting him at night. But, my God, I missed the look I see on his face right now. His eyes taking me in as if he will never want to see anything else as long as he lives.

“Will it always be like this with us?” he asks, his mouth moving over mine, pressing to my jaw.

“Like what?” I ask, arching into him.

“Like nothing but you matters,” he says. “Like I’ll die if I’m not inside you every minute we’re awake.”

He nudges my thighs apart with a knee and my legs fall open, more than willingly. Yes, I think. I don’t have long but yes. His mouth descends on mine as he starts to push inside me, and then I hear the heavy door scraping the floor as it opens, blinding light in my face as someone flips a switch.

“Hurry,” I urge Henri, but already the shrieking is making itself known and the sound of shouting is pulling me out of it.

I stumble to my feet. The women around me are already up and it’s only because someone closer to the door is unresponsive that I didn’t get caught.

“Fuck!” the guard roars. “We told them there were nineteen left.” He kicks the woman in the bed once and again and then a third time, much harder. My blood begins to heat. That rage in my chest has become as familiar as my own hand.

“It’s not our fault she’s dead,” replies the other. “They still have plenty to choose from.”