The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,53

dress I wore to level Coop. That seems like years ago now instead of weeks. In any case, the dress is small enough to look like a one-piece skirted swimsuit, and it’s better than swimming in cargo pants or drowning in the wench dress.

I try my best to enjoy this picture-perfect moment and give my brain a rest, but it’s harder than it should be. Images of Kora, Rico Suave, Diego Salvador, and even the damn sharks from the maze keep appearing before my eyes. I try to push the images away, back to the no-man’s-land part of my brain, to save for later. I don’t want to think about them now.

I remember the meditation exercises Jill makes me do whenever I’m stressing about school and college too much. I close my eyes for a moment and try to empty my mind. I focus on the sound of the waves around me, the smell of salt in the air. I hold my breath and duck under the water. The images in my head slowly disappear and everything goes dark.

The water presses in around me.

Black.

I stifle a scream.

Memory of the Black overwhelms every thought, every sense I have.

Pain.

Fire.

Death.

No, not again!

I snap my eyes back open and pull myself up from the water.

I break the surface and search for Wyn.

I don’t see him. I call his name and start to panic. I pump my arms and legs, thrashing in a full circle, searching the water for him.

“Wyn!” I scream, just as he surfaces down the shore from me, shaking the water from his body like a dog. He turns and waves, a big grin on his face.

Wyn.

I calm myself and wave back.

Just stay with Wyn, I tell myself.

Wyn will keep me safe.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN HERE?” I SAY AS WE FOLLOW A PATH through the island jungle. I am picking ripe berries from the foliage and tossing them to our monkey friends in the treetops. They squeal with pleasure as they take flying leaps from tree to tree.

“Three days,” Wyn says, glancing at me in concern.

He’s worried about me, I can tell.

And honestly, I’m worried about me.

We don’t talk about it but we both know.

I’ve changed.

I’m not me anymore.

I’m scared.

Scared of feeling pain again, the excruciating pain of the Black.

Scared to do anything at all that might make it return.

Scared to leave the island.

I even refuse to go into the sea now, afraid of its murky depths, afraid of losing myself in its darkness.

So we go for walks instead. We play catch with Larry and pick fruit with the monkeys. We catch our own fish from the island streams, grill it on the beach, and wash it down with guava juice. We don’t remind each other that it’s only virtual food and drink, that our real bodies are back home being pumped full of IV fluids to keep us alive. We don’t remind ourselves that we’re running out of time. We don’t talk about our latest strategy, because we don’t have one.

The fact is, the only plan I can think of is to go back to Havana, hope that Rico Suave shows up again and pray that we can successfully ambush him this time. Oh, and then convince him to tell us more than Kora did. It is a lot to hope for. Too much to hope for. And besides, I don’t want to go back to Havana. The Black is there.

“Tell me more about your childhood,” I say, trying to take my mind off our troubles. I like hearing Wyn talk about his life before his mom died, how she used to take him with her on her musical tours, about the adventures they had together in Paris and Rome and Buenos Aires. It all sounds so perfect, like a fairy tale.

“What more would you like to know?” asks Wyn, popping a berry into his mouth. “Pretty sure I’ve told you all the good parts by now.”

“Did your mom sing you to sleep when you were little?” I ask. “My dad used to sing me Irish drinking songs every night. I’d usually fall asleep after a few rounds of ‘Nancy Whiskey’ and a ‘Danny Boy’ or two.” I belt out a few lines of “Nancy Whiskey” in my best Irish brogue and Wyn rewards me with a grin.

“Can’t say my mom ever lulled me to sleep with pub songs,” he answers, “but she did read me nursery rhymes every night. She had a big illustrated Mother