Even here, in the middle of the swamp with no hope, his voice carries a certainty he can’t possibly feel, a fire that starts to banish the icy dread in my heart. This is the same passion his sister used to incite a war. I’m glad he’s on my side.
“Let’s get…” I start, but the words die in my throat. Over Flynn’s shoulder, out in the darkness of the swamp, is a light.
It’s so faint at first that I almost believe my eyes are playing tricks on me. Too small and pale to be running lights on a military launch, but too steady and green-white to be the lamps used by the rebels. It reminds me strangely of the phosphorescent algae in the rebel caves, as though it took wing and followed us out into the swamp.
Memory unfurls, no more than a single thread unraveling from my subconscious. It carries no image, no event, only the certainty that I’ve seen this before. The natives call them wisps, but I…I called it something else.
Flynn sees my expression and turns, his breath catching as he sees it too. He steps back, body tense with fear. I know I ought to react, ought to tense as well, let my training and caution win out. But the little ball of greenish light holds me transfixed, calling to a memory long, long forgotten.
Flynn’s talking, shouting in my ear; when I can’t answer, he draws his own gun, the one taken from the unconscious soldier at the spaceport, and aims it at the light. “Jubilee, snap out of it!”
“Wait.” I gasp the word, shaking myself free of my memory’s spell. “Flynn—stop. I’ve seen this before.”
“Avon’s wisps?” His voice is short, tense. The gun doesn’t waver; he may not be prone to violence, but he handles the weapon with confidence, with ease.
“No.” I reach out, laying my hand on his arm. “Not here on Avon. I’ve seen this on Verona.”
Flynn’s eyes finally snap to mine, away from the wisp bobbing gently in the air. “There were wisps on Verona?”
“In November,” I reply. “I’d forgotten them, until now. But I…I know this thing. I called it my ghost….”
But the wisp is answering me, dipping in time with my words, sweeping a glowing path through the night as though dancing with my memories as I try to piece them together.
“It could…create things,” I murmur. “Paint pictures in my mind.”
“Lilac told us the creatures—the whispers—can make you see things that aren’t really there.” Flynn glances from me to the wisp, the gun lowering, though he keeps both hands firmly in place. “And that LaRoux Industries had brought them to Verona.”
My thoughts are spinning, trying to piece together fragments of memory, things I’d long dismissed as childish imagination. I take a step forward and the wisp leaps up, darting away, then pausing—then darting again. “It wants us to follow it,” I gasp. But before I can move again, the wisp is gone, its glow flickering once, then vanishing. “Maybe Lilac was right, maybe they’re trying to help.”
“Unless LaRoux knows we know. If Avon’s wisps have been Lilac’s whispers all along…this could be a trap.” Flynn slowly tucks his gun back into his waistband, and when he speaks again, his voice is shaky. “I’ve caught glimpses of the wisps, but I’ve never seen one so…My cousin Sean said he saw one once, that it tried to lead him away through the swamp, to the east.”
“To the east?” My skin prickles; to the east lies the spot where Flynn’s vanished facility stood. Commander Towers’s words ring in my ears. We find them out there sometimes. Soldiers taken by the Fury. Drowned or buried in quicksand or dead with guns in their hands and bullets in their brains. They go east, into no-man’s-land, if there’s no one nearby to kill when they snap. They’re looking for it. They’re looking for the place.
My eyes are still searching the horizon, afterimages taunting my sight. I keep thinking I see the wisp, only to blink and find darkness. “Flynn,” I say slowly. “You mentioned Lilac—she said not to trust what we see.”
“Right.”
“Well, if these whispers can make you see things that aren’t there, what’s to say they can’t keep you from seeing things that really are there?” I turn away from the black swamp. “Flynn, we walked around that island. We never walked across it. Something kept us to its perimeter, and we never noticed.”
“The facility was never moving.” Flynn’s eyes lift, fixing on mine. “It was there all along, being hidden by the whispers.” For the first time in what feels like centuries, I see a flicker of hope there. It’s like surfacing after a long dive and tasting oxygen again. “Forget the hideout—that’s where we need to go.”
Before I can reply, a distant shout makes us both jerk our heads up. We freeze, listening hard.
There are voices out there in the fog—too far away to be clear, but there’s an unmistakable note of urgency in them. Whoever’s out in the swamp, whether military or rebel, they’ve seen us. And they’ll be coming our way.
I hit the button to retract the gangway and follow Flynn down so we can jump off into the boat. The emergency lights cut off as the door closes, leaving us in utter blackness. Flynn grabs for the oars stashed along each side of the runabout. They won’t work as well as the rebels’ clever poles, but they’ll get us moving without the noise of an engine.
Flynn settles in to row, leaving me free to cover our retreat if necessary. I touch his shoulder to get his attention, since he can’t see my face. “The shuttle’s pointed north, and we’re about half an hour west of the island. Can you find it again in the dark?”