Is he unconscious?
Is he dead?
The last thought kicks me squarely in the stomach and what little wind I have left after my efforts is gone. Crushed upon impact.
I reach out and touch his face. Gently stroking his cheek. His dark thick eyelashes flutter twice and then his eyes drag open. I exhale loudly and collapse onto him, crying softly into the dirt-soiled collar of his shirt.
“Shhh,” he soothes, moving with difficulty as he attempts to caress my hair.
“I thought … I thought you were…” I can’t finish the sentence. Mild tears give way to thundering sobs that choke the last word and hold it captive in my throat.
Gone.
One second later and he would have been.
“It’s okay,” Zen says to me, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. His features contort in torment with every inch he attempts to move. Finally, he gives up and falls onto his back again.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck. It’s scalding hot. So hot I have to pull away. Panicked, I glance down at him. It looks like he dunked his head in a bucket of water.
I dab at my wet cheeks with the heel of my hand. “What’s happening to you?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He attempts to reassure me. “I’m fi—” But he never finishes the sentence. He breaks into violent coughs that cause his entire body to shudder. I watch helplessly, wincing every time another powerful convulsion rips through him.
“You keep saying that, but you’re clearly not fine!” I shout, no longer able to hold in my exasperation.
He clears his throat and presses his fingertips against his temple, cringing. “Okay, maybe I’m a little sick,” he finally admits. “But I’ll be fine. I’m a quick healer. Always have been.”
I hear people yelling far in the distance but I ignore it, choosing instead to focus on Zen. I reach out and brush his damp hair away from his forehead, trying not to flinch as his skin scorches my fingertips.
One look at his pale face and sunken eyes and I can’t handle it. I collapse into him again, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him tightly to me. He lets out a soft chuckle and continues to stroke my head. But I can tell that it’s a difficult task because his hand barely grazes my hair. Like a faint breeze, hardly even strong enough to rustle the leaves of a tree.
The sound of yelling is suddenly louder. Closer. And I feel Zen’s body stiffen beneath me. “Sera,” he says cautiously. His hand falls from my head and taps me feebly on the back.
But I don’t move. I don’t want to go anywhere. The carts and horses and people can just go around us.
“Sera,” he says again. This time there’s a severity in his tone that sends a chill through me. I jerk up. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes are dark and wild. Focused on something in the distance. Something behind me. The voices. I spin my head around and see a mass of people congregating. Speaking in frantic, fearful tones. Pointing in my direction. Sharp, angry fingers extended. Jabbing.
“She’s right over there!” one of them says.
“I saw it with my own eyes!” Another chimes in. “She lifted up the wagon as though it were made of feathers.”
“And did you see her move?” a woman asks the growing crowd. “Like wind. Like lightning!”
I look back at Zen with panicked eyes. He’s calm but alert. I open my mouth to speak but he holds one finger to his lips. He nudges his chin purposefully in the direction of my chest.
“We need to get out of here,” he whispers, holding my gaze intently, speaking to me with his eyes as well as his tongue.
I glance down at the tip of my kerchief, confused. The chaotic sounds behind me turn my attention back to the swarm of people. It’s almost tripled in size. Scattered murmurings have turned into a roar of outrage. Three muscular men shove their way to the front of the group. Their angry eyes home in on me. They yell one rallying word to the crowd and start stalking toward us. Everyone follows, spreading out until they’ve covered the width of the road. An impenetrable wall of rage.
At last I get it.
He doesn’t just want to get out of here. He wants to get out of here. Out of this town. Out of this time. Our sojourn in 1609 is over. I’ve done exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. Cause a scene. Draw attention to myself.
And judging by the size of that mob, it’s a lot of attention.
He motions toward my chest again and now I understand. He’s gesturing to my locket. I need to get it out. Get it open. Activate the gene. Otherwise, I’m not going anywhere.
“It’s the devil’s work! I’m sure of it!” comes an enraged voice behind me. They’re getting closer.