In Irina's Cards (The Variant Conspiracy #1) (19 page)

Cole tossed his car keys to Ilya. Faith helped Jonah into the back seat and I opened the front passenger door. I looked over as Cole scooped Vincent into his arms and walked back into the trees.

“Do you think Ivan is dead?” I said to Ilya, over the roof of the car.

“I do. His mind went dark,” said Ilya.

“I’m so sorry. I know you hoped he had his reasons. I don't think anyone wanted to see it end this way,” I said.

“He’s not my father anymore. I still don’t understand what steered him down that path, but he’s dead to me now either way.” Ilya sat down behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition.

“Look at it this way - you lost a father, but you gained a sister,” I said. The information hadn’t really sunk in until that moment when Ilya looked back at me. I saw myself in his eyes and felt the truth of our bond.

We stocked up on the limited sort of groceries found at a convenience store and headed back to the ferry, after picking up Cole. The glow of sunrise warmed the horizon when we pulled into one of the ferry ticket gates. We paid the fare and Ilya drove into one of a dozen lanes of parked traffic.

“Ready to get the hell out of Dodge?” Ilya said to the rest of us.

“You bet your ass,” said Faith.

Jonah nodded and I smiled.

“Right then!” said Ilya as he pulled into an empty spot. “The only thing we have to do now is ‘hurry up and wait’ for the boat.”

Epilogue

Sometimes, I look at the world and it seems perfect–like a toy play-set or a vibrant watercolor painting. Other times, I find myself examining the streets I wander, dwelling on all the ragged edges, scraps of trash, dingy surfaces, cracks, holes, and dents. When the world looks like it’s falling apart, every house and office and storefront appears more like the crappy cardboard and homemade plastic props I used to make for my Barbie dolls.

As a kid, I’d sometimes preferred that worn and faded view of the world because it helped me to relax and stop trying to acquire and conquer. On the days where I felt neglected and forgotten, the raw side of things only made me despondent that my life would never get better and no amount of patience or hard work was worthwhile.

Here in the Bella Maria Hotel–a dingy single room occupancy dive in Vancouver–it’s not a contest between shiny and dull, treasure and trash. I look out the window of my room and I see a street full of suffering with glitz and privilege along the skyline. Ivan had been right. This fragile imbalance is nearing its tipping point.

I’d spent my first few days in Vancouver frequenting an Internet cafe with my laptop. I searched for my name. I searched for Gemma and had no trouble finding her achievements–the most recent being a win with the UBC girls’ volleyball team. And then I found an obituary for Tabitha and Darryl Proffer. It confirmed the worst. They were survived by their only daughter, Gemma Proffer.

As if reading an obituary for my parents wasn’t bad enough, I decided I needed the print version of the paper. I wanted a hard copy of that photograph of my parents standing in front of our PG house. I’d thought it would make me feel better. What happened when I touched the photo destroyed me all over again.

After convincing the Prince George Observer to send a copy of that issue to a random girl at the Bella Maria, I wasted no time in clipping the only square of paper that mattered to me. I held it in my hands and my room disappeared. I stood in Ivan’s office. Rubin leaned against the doorjamb while Ivan sat at his desk.

“Start with the parents. Wipe them both and incapacitate the mother. She’s got latent variant DNA that might result in memory recovery. Kill her if needed. The stepdad doesn’t matter,” said Ivan.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time for Brad to step in on the tech side. Make sure he’s got all his research done before tomorrow. It won’t be my fault if he leaves any loose ends,” said Rubin.

I dropped the newsprint and snapped back to my dingy room in the Bella Maria. Back on my bed, shaking, I felt a surge of rage in my guts. I balled up my fists. I punched the wall ahead and yelled. I took a few deep breaths and picked up the photograph using a take-out sushi menu so as not to touch the image directly. I couldn’t risk seeing more of my parents. I needed my anger to stay fresh and not slip back into depression.

So my bleak world is made of grease-streaked glass, balancing on a house of cards, and I’m trying desperately to think of a way to unravel Ivan’s plan to turn his proverbial leaf-blower onto the whole world. And avenging my parents has to happen at some point. Yet we have no way of knowing how complex his work had become or how far Innoviro had gotten. We must assume that many of his destructive projects are still operational, like multiple motors inside a sophisticated machine. Uncover his plans. End his life. Simple, right?

It feels like Ivan’s plot is a force of nature and my friends and I are waving our hands uselessly against a hurricane. But we have to do it. With Jonah, Cole, Ilya, and Faith, I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to find a cure for Jonah if possible while we track down every geological event, every fountain of pollution, and every new mutated genetic strain Ivan planned to unleash on the world.

All we can do now is start by finding this book. The
Compendium Transmuto
.