They got back to her room without seeing a single person in the compound, and that seemed wrong. But so much seemed wrong now. Connor and Aron had betrayed them, and who knew who else on the Council had gone along with it. Had they really betrayed him? Connor was right, Wren had said he would do whatever was necessary, if the Council agreed. What if they’d all agreed, and this was what they’d agreed to? Now Connor was dead, and probably Aron too, and no matter what, there was no way to come back from that.
Wren tried the door and found it was locked, but that was nothing to him, not anymore. He barely even had to think about it, and the lock flipped open, and he swung the door so hard it banged into the wall. Mama was still there on the floor, right where they’d left her.
“Help me,” Wren said, moving to her side, but even he didn’t know what he meant. He just knelt next to her and touched her face. She was warm, but limp.
“What do we do?” Painter asked, kneeling beside him.
“I don’t know,” Wren said, “I don’t know.”
Painter put his hand on her upper stomach and held it there for a moment.
“Look,” he said. “Look, she’s buh-buh-buh breathing. I think she’s… OK.”
“Can you pick her up? Get her on the bed?”
Painter shrugged, but scooted around behind Cass and scooped his arms under her shoulders. He stood up, dragging her with him. Wren tried to help with her legs, but it seemed like Painter was doing all the work. They got her onto the bed, though once she was there, Wren didn’t really know why he’d thought that was something to do. She was still out cold. Only now there was blood smeared across her shirt.
“Maybe you should go wash your hands,” Wren said. Painter looked at his hands, and then at Cass’s stained shirt, and then at his hands again. He nodded and went into the adjoining bathroom. Wren sat on the edge of the bed next to his mama and started stroking her forehead, her face, and her hands. Just hoping something would wake her. “Mama,” he said. “Mama, can you hear me, Mama?”
But no matter what he did, she didn’t respond. And he was so scared. So scared that she wasn’t ever going to wake up, and that someone was going to come and take him away, and that this was the end of everything they’d tried to protect. And that thought, the thought that everything was coming undone, really and truly undone, that’s when Wren felt it rising in him. It wasn’t the first time. He just hadn’t known what was happening before. But he was beginning to recognize the feeling now, when it started. And with it, Wren knew somehow he’d be able to do things he couldn’t usually do.
There was something inside him that felt like it popped, deep in his chest, down in his very middle, something so deep it almost seemed impossible that it could be inside Wren at all. And it hurt, and it scared him, but it also gave him strength. Wren stretched out a shaking hand, forcing himself to touch Cass’s forehead, and when he did, it seemed like he could see how she worked. Like a big complicated lock that needed opening. And, after a moment, he unlocked her.
Cass’s eyes floated open, scanned the room, lingered on Wren, unfocused and distant for a heartbeat, then two. Then they went wide and fierce, and she sprang up on a knee and drew Wren to her so fast it made his neck hurt.
“It’s OK, Mama, it’s OK!” he said.
“Where are they? Did they hurt you?” she asked.
Wren wrestled his way free. “No, Mama, I’m OK. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” she said. Her tone was sharp and certain, but Wren knew that it was more reflex than truth. “What happened?”
Now that she was back, now that he knew she was alright, he felt the surge of strength melt away, and he was just her son again and she was his mama, and only the fear remained.
“Something bad.” Wren didn’t know how much to tell her or even where to begin, and the tears came. He hated them, he didn’t want to cry, but he couldn’t help it. They just dripped out of his eyes and he kept trying to wipe them away. There wasn’t time for crying.
“They came in the room. Aron and Connor. And Aron hit me with something… dislocator maybe?”
“I think so. He shot you. Four times.”
Cass grunted as her hand went over her chest and stomach, probing the injuries. “No wonder everything hurts. Where are they now?”
“I killed them,” Painter said, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. His arms were wet past the elbows and the skin on both looked raw, like they’d been scalded. “It won’t cuh-cuh-cuh… come off.” There were still little splotches of blood on his forearm, shirt, fist, and sleeve.