Page 38 of Winterveil

Professor Blanchard tapped his tablet. “Now that we have proven beyond all doubt that Giselle’s talents are . . . encompassing, it is time to make proper use of them.”

Before Nadiya could speak, she felt the familiar static hum of her nodes coming online. It was the same thing she felt each night when she slid into bed. Only now there was no darkness, no oblivious slumber.

There was only the blood.

The classroom slipped away from her. She was in the house again—her first house, her real house. The midnight shadows mingled with the white gleam of flashlights. The sudden noise had drawn her out of bed, bare feet against the carpet, mind still fuzzy with sleep.

She was at the top of the stairs when she heard the first shot ring out.

No. At first it was only a thought, and then Nadiya managed to vocalize.

“No,” she gasped. “Stop—whatever you’re doing—stop.”

When she blinked, she was able to fade the memory, though only slightly. A shuddery film of it remained. Through the film she could glimpse Giselle, her face a mask of horror.

“Stop it!” Giselle cried. “You’re hurting her. . . .”

“I’m not hurting her,” said Professor Blanchard. “She is in no physical pain. I am replaying one of her own memories. I have not placed anything in her head that didn’t already exist. It is a distressing memory, I grant, but that’s why you’re here.”

“Me?” Giselle’s voice cracked. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Your brains are linked through the nodes. All you have to do is replace her memory with one of your own.”

Nadiya choked. The vision was resurrecting itself; she couldn’t hold it back. She was in the house again, stumbling down the stairs. . . .

The blood was so thick in the air that it labored her breath. She had never smelled anything like it before, heavy and metallic. She came to the living room, almost tripping over the lip of the carpet.

“Please,” Nadiya whispered. “Please don’t do this, please, I can’t—”

Her father was on the floor, one arm splayed to the side, the other clutching his chest. Blood poured between his fingers. Help me, he said, his voice weak, broken. Help me, Nadiya. . . .

I will . . . I will, Daddy.

She felt herself stumble backward. Fall. A bullet cracked the air and she was turning, scrabbling for balance, catching herself on the banister, crawling up the stairs—

And then the memory began to fade, blurring to blackness. But instead of the classroom coming back into focus, she saw something else.

It was the blinding, neon brightness of . . . sequins? A parade of girls in bikinis, turned into living baubles under the searing stage lights. A voice peaked through a microphone. Please welcome our lovely contestants—

Not her memory. Nothing Nadiya had ever seen before. There were flashes, the abrasive clicking of cameras. The clash of ebullient, patriotic music, funneled through crackling speakers.

And then that scene faded. The classroom returned in shuddery increments. Giselle was bent over in her chair, head in her hands, shoulders rising and falling with exertion. She was trembling.

“Good girl,” Professor Blanchard said, sounding very faint and distant. “Keep going.”

Another scene, stealing Nadiya away from reality once more. She saw another girl, very pretty, with a freckled face and a halo of bouncy curls. She was lying down in the grass, propped up on her elbows. The sun glanced off her white teeth and made the green tones in her eyes shine.

You’re beautiful. It was Giselle’s voice.

I’m no pageant queen, the girl said teasingly.

You’re better. I really like you, Bonnie.

“Stop it!” The words shattered the vision like a bullet through glass. “That’s enough!”

Giselle. Nadiya had never heard her so loud before. So angry.

“Very well.” Professor Blanchard’s tone was even in response. “We’re finished now.”