Forever Between (Between Life and Death Book 2) by Ann Christy Page B

haven’t heard anything like it in years and I let out an involuntary sound, like I’m from some protected tribe never exposed to technology before.
    Then one of the shadows speaks. The voice is low, gruff, a touch sarcastic, and very, very human. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”
    I take a deep breath. A rush of relief runs through me at almost the exact amplitude of the terror, though in the opposite direction, making a chemically confused muddle of my systems. My voice is shaky with adrenaline, but I answer him, saying the words I’ve been longing to say since the moment Emily first told me what she had—or possibly had.
    “I think I may have the cure.”
     

Three Months Ago - A Community of Headaches
    I hand Emily the two tablets and a cup of water. She swallows them down a little too eagerly. Even the act of swallowing seems to bring her pain, though, because she presses her fingers into her temples and winces.
    “I’ll be better in a few minutes. I just need to let this start working,” she says quietly, softly. Her speech doesn’t sound right to me. It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but she sounds a little less clear, her words enunciated less crisply. Liquid-sounding is the only real description I can come up with.
    I bend down to squat next to where she lies on a mat of opened up cardboard boxes and a sleeping bag. This time of day everyone is outside that can be, either working in our gardens where the winter crops are starting to come in or watching the kids play. But for the last two days, Emily has been here in the darkest, coldest corner of the home warehouse, lying down and in pain.
    She eases back down, her eyes closed and pain etching her features in stark lines. I touch her forehead with the back of my hand to see if she has a fever, but if anything, it feels too cool to me. Her eyelids squeeze shut more tightly at my touch, as if even that hurts her head.
    “Emily, what’s wrong? Please tell me. Is this because of all the stuff you went through before?” I ask, wondering if the places where her skull was sawed into are what might be bothering her. She seemed fine when I first got here, but she did get headaches now and again. In the last few months, she’s grown pale—almost greenish underneath her sallow skin—and her headaches are growing worse. She’s fine most days, but even when she’s fine, there’s something off about her. She’s less energetic, but that’s not quite the right way to explain it either. Once in a while, when I see her walking, she looks like an old person, cautious and slow.
    For a moment she says nothing, then she opens up one eye a little in the dim light and examines me, clearly considering if she should tell me something or not.
    “Please,” I urge, and reach for her hand.
    Her open eye fills with shiny tears, but her gaze remains steady on mine. “Sit down,” she says quietly.
    I do and lean in close, blocking even more of the light that is coming in from the door on the far side of the warehouse. It takes her another minute to work up to whatever it is she’s going to say, but eventually, she disengages her hand from mine and levers herself up into a sitting position.
    “I’m pretty sure my cancer is back,” she says. Her voice is flat and very matter-of-fact, like she’s telling me we can harvest spinach tomorrow, or that we need to arrange a day to collect firewood.
    My mouth drops open and I stare at her. “What? How do you know? You can’t know.”
    Her pale, cool hand lifts my chin up so that my mouth shuts and she smiles at me. It’s a sad smile and now that I’m looking at it differently, I notice that it’s crooked, one side of her face not as responsive as the other.
    “Oh, no,” I whisper.
    She nods and grips my hands in hers. Her smile goes wry, which looks more normal to me somehow, and she says, “Things haven’t exactly worked out like I had hoped. But…”
    “But, what?” I prompt. Whatever she’s