Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1)

by Veronica Sommers

  "I—I think I've got it." I feel around with my tongue to make sure my teeth are intact.

  "Good." He picks up an unattached skull-port device—probably untraceable—and flicks it on. Another touch, and the semi-transparent holo-screen projects into midair and shows me an image of myself, locked into the chair in my ripped purple shirt, stained pants and all. My black hair hangs in tangles around my shoulders, and my light brown skin is flushed red where the man hit me.

  Staring at the holo-screen, I turn my head slightly, until I see the string of small red birthmarks scattered across my right temple, curving around the corner of my eye onto my cheekbone. A bloody constellation of raised circles that would have earned me relentless teasing had I been anyone but the Magnate's daughter.

  When I was twelve, the same year I met Vern, I drew a tattoo design and persuaded my parents to let me have it done; and now my birthmarks look like roses blooming on a thorny vine. Flowers and spikes, beauty and pain—a symbol that I can take whatever I'm given, good or bad, and claim it as mine.

  "What do you want me to say?" I ask the sandy-haired man.

  "Tell your parents that you're alive. Beg them to do whatever we ask, to save you. Let them know we're not bluffing."

  One look into his eyes tells me he's deadly serious. "I can do that."

  "Then begin. Now."

  I close my eyes for a second and let the pain in my face and the agony in my head overwhelm me. The fear of what could happen to me surges up and I'm not sure I'll be able to shove it back down after I finish shooting the vid. Tears overflow, running down my cheeks.

  "Mom!" I say brokenly to the red blinking light on the port device. "Mom, Dad, please, I want to come home! Give them whatever they want. I can't handle this, I just can't. Please come get me. They're not bluffing—I think they're going to kill me if you don't do something soon."

  The sandy-haired man holds up his hand. "Good. You're done." He turns to the guard with the scarred mouth. "Give her clothes, and some food. Hold the gun on her while she changes."

  He strides out of the room, leaving me with Scar-Lip and Crazy-Eyes Muscle Man.

  Okay. So they're not going to kill me. Not yet. I have to play for time, and influence—get these guys to like me, look for weaknesses and possible escape routes. I've got to suck it up, crush down my fear, and pretend I've got this handled.

  "Hello there." I smile at the guards despite the fear roiling in my stomach. "Do you guys have names?"

  "Shut up," says Scar-Lip.

  "How about I call you Scar, and you Muscles?" I ask.

  Scar walks to a stack of crates and backpacks against the wall and shuffles around in one of the boxes. He pulls out a shirt, eyes me, and then stuffs it back in. After digging through the box some more, he comes back with a pair of cargo pants that look too small and a T-shirt that looks too big.

  "Gun up, Mav," he says to the big muscled man, who pulls out a gun and trains it on me.

  "Mav? That's your name?" I smile at the big guy with the gun. He gives Scar an infuriated look.

  As Scar places his thumb on my bio cuffs to open them, he flushes under that mop of greasy hair. He made a mistake saying his buddy's name, and he knows it.

  "Don't worry, Mav," I say soothingly. "I definitely won't be telling the Magnate your name, or giving him a full description of either one of you—as long as you're nice to me."

  Scar gets down on eye level with me, the hatred so hot in his gaze that I almost flinch away. "Stop talking," he says. "Or I'll gag you. You won't like it."

  With the cuffs off, I stand up, my legs stiff and unwieldy. Scar drops the clothes on the floor and backs up, pulling his gun on me, too. I don't know what they think I'm going to do here. I've had some kickboxing classes, and a self-defense session or two, but no formal training. These guys are obviously combat-trained, but they're holding guns on me like I'm some kind of butt-kicking assassin.

  And they're not going to look away while I change. Normally I wouldn't care; I wear bikinis at the beach in front of dozens of men. But in this setting, with these men, uncovering feels more dangerous.

  But I'm not staying in these pee-stained pants.

  I slide the pants to the floor and slip off the sleeveless blouse, too, thankful that I'm wearing a bra. Next I pull on the oversized T-shirt—it comes to mid-thigh on me, and the short sleeves hang loosely to my elbows. "Really? There wasn't anything smaller?"

  Scar is trying to watch me and not look at me simultaneously, his eyes darting back and forth. His efforts are so comical I almost laugh.

  Tugging the T-shirt down even further for coverage, I reach underneath, slip off my soaked underwear, and pull on the dry cargo pants. They're snug, but manageable. I can run in them, and that's what matters.

  I kick the ruined clothing aside. "Now what?"

  "Back in the cuffs," says Scar.

  Sighing, I move as if I'm going to sit back down in the chair. And then I dart around Scar and sprint out the door.

  I make it a few steps down the long hallway outside before a horrific buzzing sensation freezes my spine. One of the bastards stunned me. I'm falling—my face is going to smash into the floor. Too bad. I like my face.

  A hand grabs the back of my T-shirt, sparing my nose from being crunched against concrete. I'm picked up and carried back to the chair, where Scar locks me in. My fingers twitch from the effects of the stun bolt, and I struggle to focus my eyes on Scar's face.

  "Don't try that again," he says harshly.

  "Whatever you say." Fighting through the pain, I flash him the smile I use for publicity vids—huge, winsome, totally fake.

  For a while I sit quietly, checking out the room—a plaster-and-concrete box, with dozens of pipes and wires running along the walls and ceiling. Most of the pipes bear signs of corrosion. Whatever this place was designed for, it hasn't functioned that way in a long time.

  It's cool in here, but not underground-bunker cool. The air smells musty and artificial, like a breeze from a ventilation system with temp control. I trace the flow of the air to a grate overhead. Too high to climb to, and too small to accommodate a girl of my size—not skinny or heavy, just average.

  How am I going to get out of this?

  It's one of many questions swirling in my mind. How long did we travel? Did we go the whole way in the bumpy vehicle, or did we use air transport or hovercraft? How many hours since I was taken?

  My stomach gurgles. How many hours since I last ate?

  "Aren't you supposed to bring me food?" I say to the scar-lipped man.

  He glares. "Only good prisoners get food."

  I pout at him.

  For a while longer, he and Mav stand and watch me; but Scar soon loses interest in that. I don't think he'd make a good bodyguard; he's much too restless.

  "Game?" he says to Mav, and Mav nods. They lounge on the floor not far from my chair and pull out a pack of playing cards. Old school. I guess they don't want to use their holo-screens when they're supposed to be keeping an eye on me; or maybe they don't have holo-screens. I can't see skull-ports or attachments on either one of them.

  Being held for ransom is excruciatingly boring. Even watching Mav and Scar play their game loses its charm after a while, so I stare at every square inch of the room again—the concrete floor, the plain plastered walls, the pipes, the ceiling, the bright halo lights. Except for my chair and the pile of boxes and bags, there's nothing else in the room. No weapons, no doors except the one exit, no windows.

  With nothing else to do, I study the two men in front of me.

  Woven into a strand of Mav's beard and a lock of Scar's hair are tiny, multi-colored beads, all in a row. They must be Maraj, a tribe from the northern province of Emsalis. The Maraj generally follow the Fray or Unity factions, although I'm sure there are a few who lean toward the Vilor way of thinking. If I knew more about the Maraj, their culture and customs, maybe I could forge a connection with these two. Why didn't I pay better attention in my World Culture
s class?

  Idly I watch Scar dealing the cards. His sleeveless shirt shows off lean brown arms, the left one scarred across the shoulder and near the elbow. Definitely a soldier. But his narrow wrists and long, slim fingers could have belonged to any aristocratic boy at my university.

  Crazy-Eyes the Muscle Man is a different story. His shirt lies partly open over a broad, hairy chest thick with muscle, and his hands end in squared-off, stubby fingers.

  Judging by what I can see, I don't stand much chance of escaping either one of them. Certainly not both of them together. Could I split them up somehow—maybe get one of them to leave?

  "You boys have such a boring job," I say.

  Mav looks up and speaks for the first time, his voice thick and deep. "Stop talking. You should be crying and whimpering. That's what hostages usually do."

  I raise my eyebrows. "You'd really prefer that? Seems like it would get annoying."

  "It does."

  "Take a lot of people hostage, do you?"

  "Some. A while ago."

  Scar kicks his leg. "Shut up."

  "Scar, please," I say. "We're having a harmless conversation."

  "Harmless?" says a voice from the doorway. The mean guy with the sandy hair is back—I'm going to call him Temper in my head, as a warning to myself not to be too cocky when he's around. "Nothing here is harmless, Zilara."

  "I like to be called Zil."

  "We've sent your message to your parents, along with our demands," he says. "Don't expect me to update you on our dealings with your father—I won't. You'll stay here, silent and still, for as many days or weeks as the negotiations take. Don't try to escape, or I'll order one of my friends here to slice your ankles."

  He doesn't know that I already tried to run. I wait for Scar-Lip or Mav to tell him about it, but to my surprise, neither one of them speaks up.

  "Zilara?" Their leader is looking at me, expecting a reply. "Can I trust you not to run?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think if you want bathroom privileges and intact tendons, you'll give me your word and keep it."

  I swallow the fear that's slithering up my throat. The other two don't scare me, not really, but for some reason, this man does. "You have my word."

  "Good. Then I think we're done here. Rakhi, feed her, then sleep. Mavlej, first night watch."

  Apparently he doesn't care about using his men's real names in front of me.

  When Temper leaves, I smile again, even though my heart feels icy in my chest. "Rakhi, is it?" I say to the scarred guy. "A pleasure to know you." It's a formal phrase in Ceanna, used when people meet each other at parties.

  "It's Rak," he growls. "Our boss likes to use full names, for everyone. But the others call me Rak."

  "And what's your boss's name?"

  "You'll know it when he wants you to know it." Rakhi retrieves a nuribar from one of the supply boxes and rips the package open.

  "That's my dinner?" I raise my eyebrows. "I hate nuribars. So bland and chewy. They taste stale even when you've just opened them."

  He looks at the brown rectangle in his hand. "They have vitamins. Nutrition."

  "They're disgusting."

  "Do you always complain this much?"

  "No. This is a special show, just for you."

  Am I crazy or is there the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth? He frowns more deeply the next second and pushes the nuribar toward me. Sighing, I lean forward and take a bite. It's as nasty as I expected, but I'm starving, so I keep eating until he puts the last bit in my mouth. His fingers touch my lips briefly, and he whips them back like I burned him.

  "You seem nervous," I purr at him. "Don't worry, I don't bite."

  In answer, he shoves a water bottle against my mouth. I drink greedily, not even caring when water spills out the corners of my lips and dribbles onto my pants. With a snorting scoff he turns away.

  "What, a little drooled water disgusts you?" I say. "Wash your dirty hair! You look like you crawled out of a vat of old grease."

  Mav stifles a guffaw. Frowning, Rakhi reaches up to touch his hair, fiddling with the clumpy strands.

  I smirk at him. "See what I mean? Feels gross, doesn't it?"

  He ignores me, sitting back down with Mav. "What in Death's Dark is wrong with this girl?"

  Mav whirls a finger around and around near his temple, the universal sign for crazy; and I laugh, letting a maniacal edge seep into the sound.

  "I'm first watch, Rak," says Mav, eyeing me. "You get some sleep."

  Without another word or a glance at me, Rakhi pulls a sleeping bag out of a box and lays it out. He's tucked inside and snoring within minutes.

  "How am I supposed to sleep?" I ask Mav. The back of the chair is too low to rest my head on it, and the whole thing is uncomfortably hard.

  "You sleep, you don't sleep—we don't care," says Mav, shrugging.

  He's watching me, so I stare right back until it gets awkward. I don't want to be the first to look away, but there's something about those hooded eyes of his—something predatory and primal. Something that can't be reasoned with, or persuaded.

  He's still staring when my head starts to dip on my neck. My eyes are so heavy. I want to sleep, but every time my head sinks, my spine jerks it up again. I moan a little, thinking of my bed at university, of my room back home.

  At the sound, Mav rises and prowls toward me. He puts his huge hand across my mouth, gripping my cheeks painfully tight. I nod to let him know that I understand, that I won't make any more sounds.

  But he doesn't let go.

  Instead, his other hand reaches for me, thick fingers trailing down over my chest. I twist and wrench away as best I can, trying to scream through the solid flesh of his hand. I kick the legs of the chair, but my heels don't make more than a faint clanking sound.

  Rakhi doesn't move, and Mav leers, pulling up my shirt for better access, stroking and squeezing. I fight to open my mouth and bite his hand, but his grip is too tight. So instead, I reach out with my ability and I flood him with feverish heat. I turn up the temperature as high as it will go, higher, higher than I've ever managed before. Mav is flushing, but I can't tell if it's from lust or discomfort.

  I concentrate on forcing heat and power through the skin of my lips into the skin of his hand, pulsing it through his blood, the energy from me making the molecules of his body gyrate faster and faster.

  I don't realize I've closed my eyes until I hear Mav scream.

  3

  My eyelids pop open, and I see the red, steaming, hissing mask of Mav's face before mine. His eyes bulge as red welts bubble across his skin. His hands fall away from my mouth and body, steaming and boiling like his face.

  My jaw drops. Did I do that to him?

  Rakhi is on his feet, running to Mav, asking him questions in the Maraj language. Mav is babbling, pointing at me, his face a scalded mess. Running to a communication panel in the wall, Rakhi calls for backup. Then he strides over to me. "What did you do?"

  "What did I do?" I'm shaking with rage and shock and terror. "He was touching me. I defended myself."

  "How?"

  I don't know. I've never done anything like this before. I didn't know I could.

  I pinch my lips together. My Evolved nature isn't something I hide on purpose; I just don't tell many people about it. I like having secrets, special things that are mine alone. And I'm not about to spill one of those secrets to this grungy Maraj rebel.

  Flanked by two soldiers, Temper appears in the doorway. He takes in the situation—my shirt, scrunched up over my breasts, my bare stomach, the seared skin of his soldier.

  "You're Evolved." It's a statement of fact, not a question.

  "Yes, but I've never been able to do anything like that," I say. "I can—warm things, like food, or a bath, or something. Never—never that." I stare at Mav's skin. Some of the blisters are bursting, leaking clear fluid.

  "Your skull-port implant must have included a suppressor," says Temper.
>
  "Wait, what's a suppressor?"

  He smiles at me, like a kind uncle might smile at a misbehaving yet adorable niece or nephew. "A suppressor reduces the level of an Evolved person's power. We don't use them in Emsalis. Perhaps you do things differently in Ceanna?"

  "I don't know."

  He yanks my T-shirt back into place over the bra, the motion jarringly harsh compared to his smooth tone. "Perhaps I've done you a favor by removing the device." He rises and jerks a thumb towards Mav. "Get him up!"

  The pair of guards who came in with Temper lift Mav to his feet. He's groaning and mumbling Maraj words as they haul him out of the room. Unless they have the finest medical nano-tech here—which I doubt—he's going to be scarred for life.

  Temper pauses on the way out the door. "Stay away from her," he warns Rakhi. "Gun at the ready, and watch her. I'll send two more guards down."

  Rakhi salutes as the others leave. When we're alone, he sits cross-legged on the floor not far from me, his gun loosely held in one hand.

  "I didn't mean to do it." I don't know why I say it, or why I need him to believe me.

  He doesn't react; he only stares at me with a mix of anger and repulsion.

  "Why do you look at me like that?" I say, annoyed. "I've never met you, never done anything to hurt you. But you seem to hate me, like I'm this disgusting squirmy alien thing you want to squish. Why?"

  Several minutes pass, until I'm sure he won't answer. And then he says, "I hate your people for what they've done to mine."

  My eyebrows rise. "What we've done? We've tried to keep the peace here. Your country was tearing itself apart until we stepped in and stopped it."

  "Stopped it?" He scoffs.

  "Yes, stopped it. We instituted law and order, created peace. Otherwise your private civil dispute would have escalated and dragged everyone else into a global war. We did the world a favor!"

  "A favor?" His eyes are dark fire. "You invaded our land. Interfered with our government, made laws without understanding our history or customs. You didn't give us a chance to work this out among ourselves. Your people just came in and took over."