Sherry Ficklin - Extracted

“What was that about?” Stein asks, pocketing her pills.

I shake my head, mostly because I have no idea. “I wonder what’s so important?”

She doesn’t answer as we walk down the hall, and I know that she’s doing the same thing I am—wracking her brain, trying to remember everything in the room. It’s all such benign stuff. Nothing that screams “dangerous object,” at least.

We reach the door to her room, and I pause as she pushes it open and steps inside. I’m not sure why I hesitate. I’ve been in her room a hundred times before, but something about it still feels strange, like entering a foreign country. She turns, grabs me by the wrist, and pulls me inside. I lean against her dresser as she flops on her bed and pulls a pillow onto her lap.

“It’ll be fine,” I tell her. I hate seeing her look so worried, but I don’t want to press her about it either. “We’ll just be really careful. Gloves is sending us there a few hours after our last rift in, so there’s no risk of running into our alternate selves. We just need to get in, get the object, and get out.”

She shakes her head, her face paler than usual. “I know. It’s just…I have a weird feeling about that place. Like something really bad happened there. Or will. I know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Stein.” I take a deep breath, choosing my next words carefully. “You have good instincts. I trust them, and I trust you. But you have to know, I will always come back for you.”

Her face softens, and the tension slips from her shoulders.

I reach behind me and pick up a piece of paper from her dresser. It’s a picture she drew of Nobel. It’s so lifelike I can almost hear him laughing. She captured him in a rare mood that day. We’d been working on some new weapon designs, and he’d accidentally shot me with a Taser bolt. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to wet himself.

I’m so focused on the drawing I don’t even hear Stein get up and cross the room, but in an instant she’s here, plucking the picture from my hands and tossing it aside.

“It’s really good,” I say, a slight squeak in my voice. I blush. How does she do that to me?

Stein just nods and leans into me. I wrap my arms around her tightly. She usually doesn’t like to be held like this. I think it might be some kind of residual claustrophobia or something from her past life that she can’t remember. I have little things like that—small triggers that set off weird feelings or make me hesitate. But now she’s clutching me like I’m the last solid thing in the world, and it feels really good. She buries her face in my neck, and I can feel the heat of her breath. When she finally turns her head up, I lean down and press my lips against hers. She’s so impossibly soft I forget to breathe. My mind goes blank. It’s just me and Stein.

When she pulls back, I let her go even though I really just want to hold on. She sighs, grabs her long, black leather jacket from the closet, and tosses it over her shoulder.

“We should go eat. I’m starving,” Stein says.

The door squeaks and Nobel pops his head inside. “Did someone say dinner?”

I push myself off the desk, trying to hide my disappointment. “Yep. Let’s go get some grub.”

As we walk, I fill Nobel in on what Gloves told us about the Amber Room. I expect him to be surprised or at least curious, but he’s neither. All he says is, “How is it that everything else in that room is filthy, but somehow those gloves are always clean?”

I shrug. “No idea. Maybe he uses a really good stain repellant?”

“If so, I want some. I’m tired of trying to wash blood out of my jacket,” Stein chimes in.

Nobel and I exchange a smile as she lovingly pets her coat.

“Then stop making people bleed on you,” I say, putting my arm around Stein’s waist as we enter the kitchen.

She looks up at me, and all traces of her earlier uncertainty are gone. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

EMBER

The scream builds like an explosion in my throat, only no sound erupts. The smoke is thick and black, and I can’t draw a breath. My lungs burn. I blink, wiping the smoke-induced tears from my eyes with my sleeve. Above me, Ethan smiles. He’s calling my name. I reach for him, desperate to escape the heat before I melt. But his face changes. He’s yelling now, and his eyes are angry.

“Ember. Open up.”

I jolt upright in bed, gasping. Along the walls, the gaslights flicker to life.

“Ember!” Ethan calls from the other side of my door.

I moan and throw back my wool blanket, stumbling forward to the brass keypad next to the door. I punch it with the side of my fist, and the door slides open with a rusty groan. On the other side, leaning casually against the doorjamb, is Ethan. His smile is bright, but the mischievous lift of his brow betrays his true colors. Only the barest hint of the bruises from our last mission remains along his square jaw. I sigh, wondering how he manages it. He looks perfect, whereas I look like I’ve been hit by a train. My hand immediately flies to my hair, fighting to smooth the unruly strands.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks nonchalantly. As if I should have been expecting him to be at my door, as if it was totally commonplace. I lean past him, glancing down the hallway in both directions. Finally, I shrug and motion for him to come in. Why not? What’s one more rule broken today?

“I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re all right. The fire—”

He doesn’t have to finish. Without thinking my hand goes to the inside of my arm, to the lumpy flesh there. My scars are old—healed—but the pain is still fresh. I don’t remember the fire, not really. Every so often I get a glimpse, a whiff of smoke or a flash of flame, and it drills into my head like a corkscrew. Something about the first trip through time erases the mind, wiping the memory slate clean. All I remember is Flynn carrying me through the doors of the infirmary. I remember the blistering pain and wishing they would just let me die.

But it healed. I lived, thanks to Flynn. The only reason Ethan knows about it is because once, during a random practice drill, the teachers thought they’d see how we’d handle being thrown into the fire, literally. I’d fallen into a panic and frozen up. I never told him the whole story, never mentioned the nightmares, and he didn’t ask. He just sort of knew.

I shake my head and try for a reassuring smile which, judging by his arched eyebrow, he doesn’t buy for a second.

“I’m fine. It’s just…” The words are replaced by a rush of emotion like a dam bursting inside my heart. Before I can process what’s happening, Ethan is holding me tightly to his chest, and I’m heaving with silent sobs as tears roll down my face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head and wiping my face on my sleeve. “I was having a bad dream and you were there and…”

“Oh. Dreaming about me again, eh?” he asks, making my head snap up. I sit back, pushing him away.

“No, not like that.”

He holds up a hand. “No. No. I understand it’s all right.” Lots of girls dream about me, Ember. After all,” he begins, walking around my room and running his hand over the collection of old skeleton keys hanging on my wall, making them chime like bells, “I am incredibly handsome. And strong. And brave.” Then, he walks his fingers across the stack of books on my desk. “It’s only natural that you’d dream about me. I’m practically Prince Charming.”

I snatch my books out from under his hand as he smirks. “And humble too, don’t forget humble.”

He holds his hands out in front of him. “And that, of course.”

My mouth twitches. I know he’s joking to make me feel better, but those things are all true, too. Not that I’d ever admit that to his face.