The Taking (The Taking 1)

There was only one question left as I sat there, staring at his perfect, completely uninjured and unscarred skin. “What . . . are you?”

I could’ve used one of Cat’s tequila shots right about then. I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so disoriented, not even when I’d first come back and realized I’d lost five entire years. Or when I’d gone to the dentist and learned I hadn’t aged a single day during that time.

Because what Simon was telling me now went beyond far-fetched and ventured straight into no-freaking-way territory.

Except that I’d just watched him heal a gash that surely needed serious medical attention in less time than it took to make Top Ramen in the microwave.

“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that when we’re ‘returned’”—I pulled out the air quotes again because it was too weird not to use them—“we’re not the same as before? And you think you were taken by . . . ?” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I knew how—I just couldn’t say the word.

“Aliens,” he filled in for me, completely nonplussed by the whole deal.

“Seriously?” I asked, my voice chock-full of disbelief.

Simon nodded, the same way he had the other three times I’d asked the very same question, trying to phrase my doubts in different ways and hoping for a different response. “I am, Kyra. I’m saying we both were. That’s what happens when we’re taken. We’re not the same when we come back. Not the same at all.”

“And when you say ‘not the same,’ you’re talking . . . ?” I’d never had such a hard time completing sentences in my entire life.

Simon looked at me like I was being intentionally dense. “Well, this for one.” He held his arm up for my inspection. “Have you ever seen anyone else do that? And what about sleep? I’m guessing you haven’t slept much since you’ve been back.” He studied me, waiting for me to answer, and I wanted to deny the truth.

Really. I wanted to flat-out lie to avoid feeding his delusions, but he was right; I’d barely slept, and not in the way people say that so they have something to complain about, like it’s a competition.

I shook my head and shrugged. “So, I have some insomnia issues. It’s been a big adjustment. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“That’s not it, and you know it. You’re not even tired.”

He didn’t bother asking if he was wrong, and he wasn’t. I hadn’t even considered that before this minute. That it had been five long nights without more than an hour’s sleep in any given night, and I wasn’t the slightest bit drowsy. I hadn’t yawned once.

“What about that?” I pointed at the dried blood on his arm. “I can’t do that.”

He shot me a challenging look. “You so sure about that?”

I jolted in my seat. “Are you freaking kidding me? You don’t seriously want to test it out! You’re even crazier than I thought, you know that?”

Suddenly I needed to get out of there. Simon wasn’t just a fruitcake, he was a dangerous fruitcake.

But before I could open my mouth to tell him I was taking off, either with or without a ride, he’d reached out and snatched my arm, and the edge of his blade was sliding into my wrist.

This cut was longer than his, though, probably because I’d flinched and the blade had slipped. Blood spurted out, spilling onto my lap and seeping from between my fingers as my hand instinctively shot around it, trying to staunch the seemingly endless flow.

“Why did you . . . ?” I managed. But I knew why.

I continued to stare at my arm while my chest burned.

Beneath my fingers, even while Simon was trying to pry them away from my injury, I could feel something happening. There was the sensation of hundreds of needles all around the injury—not painful but prickling.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered this feeling.

“It’s okay,” he promised, his voice so soothing that my pulse slowed and my breathing evened out. And without releasing my grip to look beneath my fingers, I knew he was telling me the truth, because the surge of blood began to slow. Then it stopped altogether.

I waited only a few seconds before venturing a glance. I removed first one finger and then another, peering beneath, only to find my suspicions confirmed. The wound was completely healed. Or rather, absent. If it hadn’t been for all the blood still covering my hands and my legs and the seat of the car, I would never have believed it had been there at all.

That was when I remembered where I’d felt that before, that sensation of tingling—of skin closing and healing. It was the day I’d been in the hospital and had my blood drawn, when the guy couldn’t get the needle out.

Had I healed around it? So quickly that was why he’d had to yank it back out again?

“Less than a minute.” Simon breathed the words as if it was some accomplishment I should be proud of.

“What are you talking about?” I shot back at him, furious that he’d cut me at all. What if he’d been wrong? What if I hadn’t healed and I’d bled out, right there in his car?

“This is a new record. No one’s ever healed this fast. I had a feeling. I’m sure it has something to do with how long you were gone. They’ve done something different to you—to make you special.”

At that moment, all I really wanted to do was kick his teeth in. I’d show him how “special” I was. But for now I had to know more. For every answer he provided, I had five questions of my own.