Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1)

by Veronica Sommers

  Silently I lift the bottle and open it. Rak never stirs. One sip—no, with the level of exhaustion I'm fighting, it had better be two.

  Clarity rushes through me within seconds. I'm vibrantly awake—I can drive forever. My brain bursts into fireworks and I'm so incredibly alive, like I've never been before.

  Colors and images flood my mind—beautiful, intricate, breathtaking. A broad, glimmering lake, reflecting blue sky, rimmed with thick piles of green forest. The beach I visit with my friends, white sand speckled with shells, foam rushing around my ankles and retreating back to the sea. I can actually smell the salty air and hear the squeals of the gulls.

  More pictures in my head, so real they seem to leap from my brain and spring to life on the sand in front of me. It's memory and dreams and imagination and vision all at once. The boys I've dated, parading through the night—dark-skinned, gentle-voiced Mart, red-headed Kinna, Gareth with his pale hair. The musician I kissed once after a concert. A brown-eyed boy from my school who told me I was pretty and held my hand.

  And then Rak appears, tall and tanned, shaggy dark hair and dark eyes and that beautiful scarred mouth.

  He's a vision from my brain, a fantasy. And what good is a fantasy if I can't have a little fun with it?

  I imagine him coming toward me, head lowered, eyes burning under his dark lashes. Catching my chin in one hand, holding the back of my head with the other. Lips pressing to my lips. Tongues meeting, writhing, as we kiss again and again.

  But the vision won't hold, and Rak bursts into a thousand butterflies and blooming colors, iridescent and captivating. I'm watching them dance and flutter across the desert—I'm mesmerized—

  Suddenly the front wheels are airborne, and the entire vehicle soars for a second and crashes back to earth with a bone-shattering thud.

  20

  Alik yells, Rak jumps awake and grips the door handle.

  "Zilara, what—"

  Heart thundering, I stop the vehicle. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I got to thinking, and then—I was going too fast, I didn't see the ridge." I blink, trying to shove away the colors and shapes gyrating at the edges of my eyes.

  "I warned you about that," Rak says, frowning.

  "I was—thinking, about a lot of different things—I got distracted."

  "You fell asleep."

  "No, I—I took two sips of hulem."

  "Two?" Rak groans.

  "One is plenty," says Alik. "One will keep you alert. Two or more can disconnect you from reality. Your inner mind becomes too fun a place, and you forget to pay attention. As you obviously did. Rak, can you help me get Safi back on the seat? Not that I mind having a gorgeous woman on top of me, but I'd rather she were conscious."

  I turn around. Apparently the bump made Safi slide off the seat, and Alik's body softened her fall.

  "Alik, your chest—are you all right?" I say.

  "I'll live. Just get her off me."

  As soon as they lift Safi back on the seat again, she stirs and opens her eyes. "What's going on?" She moans, lifting a hand to touch her abdomen. "Why do I hurt everywhere?"

  "You almost died," I tell her. "Internal bleeding. Rak and Alik saved you. Maybe."

  "Don't move around too much," says Rak. He shifts one of the nano-patches, then settles it back in place. "Everything is holding." He glances up at me, rebuke in his eyes.

  I could have killed her. If her wound had broken open when she fell off the seat—

  Biting my lip, I clutch the steering grip with all my strength and pump energy into the cool metal, heating it hotter, hotter. The flow of the energy is relief, power, freedom. I'm siphoning my guilt into the wheel, out of my body.

  "Uh, Princess," says Alik. "Why is the steering grip glowing?"

  I glance down. The metal half-circle burns orange-hot under my hands. I jerk my fingers away, and the heat fades.

  Rak returns to his spot beside me.

  "I'm sorry," I whisper.

  "You didn't know about the hulem." He stares ahead at the sky sprayed with stars. "How are you feeling now?"

  "Calmer. It's wearing off; I think using my ability helped. I wanted to stay awake, so you could all rest."

  "I know." His slips his warm hand over mine. "Are you still going to drive?"

  I nod. "I'll go slowly until I'm sure the effects are gone." I glance back at Alik. "How do you feel about my driving a little longer?"

  He grins, his face half-shadow. "Makes life exciting."

  "Safi?"

  "I don't care. I want to go back to sleep."

  I smile, because she sounds more like herself, and I start the vehicle again.

  "I wish you all had lev-tech here," I say. "If we could glide over the ground instead of bumping, it would be a lot more comfortable for the wounded among us."

  "Tell that to your father when you get back," says Alik. "Maybe he'll gift us some lev-trails and trains."

  "My father." I shake my head. "He and I are going to have a long talk when I get back. First about the peace-keeping forces, and then about the suppressor he put in my head."

  "A suppressor?" says Safi. "What does that mean?"

  "It controlled my power. Limited it. I was suppressed for years and didn't know it. There could be hundreds of other children and teens in Ceanna with the same suppressors in their brains."

  Rak swears. "I hate skull-port tech."

  "What if there's a whole generation of powerful Evolved like me?" I say. "Limited, because their parents are afraid of them. Maybe some of them don't even realize they have abilities." The thought infuriates me. "When I get back, I'm going to find out, and I'm going to fix it."

  "Careful, Princess," says Alik. "When you mess with the beautiful status quo, the people in power tend to get pissed, and they retaliate."

  "I'm the Magnate's daughter," I say. "I have a voice."

  "Until they take it away," says Safi.

  I glance at Rak. He's looking at me as he might look at an enthusiastic, yipping puppy who has no idea that it can't possibly defeat the hulking jacanal in its path.

  "You don't think I can change anything." There's rebellion in my voice.

  "I think you'll try. And that means something to me."

  My mind stays clear and sharp from the hulem, but the sensory experience is over. No more parade of good-looking boys, no more kaleidoscope of color or immersive landscapes. When I glance back after a few minutes, Alik and Safi seem to have gone back to sleep. The desert flows past in waves, and I feel as if we're driving off the edge of the world into space. But Rak stays awake with me, and he's the gravity that holds me to the earth.

  Finally he speaks, low, mindful of our sleeping companions. "You're planning to confront your father when you get back?"

  "I have to. What he's doing isn't right."

  "With you, and the suppressors, or here in Emsalis?"

  "Both. Of course he won't listen, so I'll probably have to speak to some newsfeed runners, do some interviews. And then my father will cut off my allowance for a while in retaliation."

  Rak shifts in his seat. "Are you sure that's all he will do?

  "That seems to be his go-to method of punishment for me, now that I'm living at the university." I laugh a little.

  "What do you study?"

  "Management of the Modern Society." His head turns toward me, and I glance at him. "What?"

  "That doesn't sound like something you'd be interested in."

  "And what do you think I would be interested in, since you know me so well?"

  "I'm not sure. Something with action, and excitement," he says slowly. "You like a challenge. Competition."

  Shock. A thrill through my pounding heart. He does understand me.

  "What?" he says. "Did I get it wrong?"

  "No," I whisper. "You got it exactly right. I wanted to be on a professional aeroball team someday, but my father wouldn't consider anything but a political major."

  "Aeroball?" I can hear the smile in his voice.

 
"Shut up. I'm good, all right? Really good. Although after this, pursuing a sport as my life's goal seems silly."

  "I'm not passing judgment," he says. "My life goal was decided for me. I'm a soldier because I have to be, to protect my family and work toward freedom."

  "And safety," I say, remembering his words to me during our trek in the desert.

  "Yes, and safety."

  "What about your father?" I ask. "What did he do for a living?"

  "He worked in a factory, making machine parts. And he drank." Rak's voice falls even lower, as if he's ashamed. "He wasn't happy with his life, his job, or his family. He drank more and more, until there was talk of excising him."

  "Excising?"

  "The Maraj are a close-knit tribe," he says. "And our religion is part of our bond. It forbids excessive drinking, and a dark spirit like my father's is frowned upon. People like that—they're cut off. Excised."

  He leans forward, holding out the strand of his hair that carries the row of colorful beads. "This is an ayila, something all Maraj wear. Some of the beads represent your house, your family members, and your standing in the community. This one is my sister." I glance over at the pearly blue bead in his fingers. "Others stand for the values of the Maraj religion. When someone is excised, their ayila is cut off. It means they're cut off from the tribe, from their family, and from our religion."

  "They would have done that to your father? Because he was depressed?" I say. "In Ceanna, they would send him to a very expensive doctor for treatments and emotional regulators. My mother has been doing both for years."

  "My culture is not so forgiving or helpful," Rak says. "They were talking of excising my father, and one day my mother said to him, 'It would be better if you were dead than to bring such shame on our family.' And the next day he shot himself."

  "Rak. I'm so sorry."

  "My mother wasn't the same after that. She was always a hard woman to love, but she grew even more harsh to my sister and I. And then after the Vilor attack—I barely know her anymore." He takes a deep breath. "I'm not sure how she'll react to what I've done. Leaving the Fray."

  "She'll be proud of you," I say. "Your people are about following the light. Surely she'll see that you were trying to do the right thing."

  He chuckles, a sour, bitter sound. "You're so hopeful, Zilara. For all your cynical words, you've got this fierce spirit of hope in you. You never give up, no matter what monsters are staring you down."

  "I thought you were a monster at first. The way you looked at me—like you hated my very existence."

  "I hated your father, and I hated the idea of you. And then you spoke to me—and you were so different from anything I expected, from anyone I've ever met."

  The low, rough timbre of his voice sends vibrations through my very soul.

  I am not a lovesick fool.

  But this man is a walking temptation, with that hard, lean body and that roughly handsome face and those dark eyes. And when he talks to me, like he's dismantling the walls around his heart and opening it to me—how do I resist a man who's telling me the truth?

  I need to push him away. I'm leaving in a few days, or less. My life is in Ceanna, his is here.

  I will be practical. And I can be cruel if I need to be, for both our sakes.

  "It was too easy to make you talk, back at the base," I say. "Once you started speaking to me, I knew you'd be the best one to focus on. Younger than the other rebels, vulnerable and stupid. Ready to listen. You were easy to turn."

  He stiffens, hands curling around the edges of his seat.

  "When you wouldn't shoot me, in the closet, I knew I had you. You would do anything I wanted." I check the directional gauge again and adjust our route slightly. "See, my security team taught me how to survive in a hostage situation. You were my ticket out of there."

  Still he doesn't answer.

  "It's all a game," I say. "I learned to play back in upper school. Charm someone, get what you want, have a little fun. Move on to the next mark. Usually I'm the one being played—it's fun to do it to someone else."

  I don't dare look at him. By his silence and stillness, I know my words have hit their target. I've betrayed him, right after he told me about his father. Gritting my teeth, I force down the guilt.

  "You can't fool me, Zilara," he says softly.

  "Oh, but I have." I let out a harsh laugh.

  "No." He reaches over and touches the back of my neck, and my spine erupts with tingling tremors. His fingers trace from my hairline down my neck and then along the curve of my shoulder. "You would have taken that bolt for me."

  "All part of my plan," I say breathlessly. "A trick, to make you trust me even more."

  "Of course it was." I can hear that he's smiling, even though I refuse to look at him.

  My own smile starts in my heart and curves the corners of my soul first, and then my mouth. I can't help it.

  He chuckles. "There it is."

  "Idiot." And then I gasp, because he leans in and kisses my bare shoulder through the gap in my torn shirt, and the sensation courses along my nerves to my heart.

  "Drive," he says. "And stop pretending that you're some evil enchantress of men, because it's too sexy and I'll have to kiss you again." He leans back and closes his eyes.

  I'm wide awake now, no more hulem required. In fact, every inch of my skin is warm and alive and ready for something that isn't going to happen—something that can't happen, not just because I'm leaving the country soon, but because he's Maraj, bound by their purity rules. Ridiculous, old-fashioned nonsense.

  In Ceanna, we've evolved past the need for religion. It's a brace to support the weak-minded, so my father says. But Rak doesn't seem weak-minded. Neither was my grandmother, and she followed a religion of her own.

  "Rak," I say, "can someone become Maraj, or are you only born into it?"

  "Do you mean our culture, or our religion?"

  "The religion part."

  "You're born into it," says Rak. "There's a ritual for conversion, but it hasn't been used in decades, at least not in our village."

  "What if a Maraj woman wanted to be with a non-Maraj man?"

  He straightens. "Why do you ask?"

  "No reason. Curiosity."

  "Ah. Well, I've never heard of that happening. We choose a blood-bond match from within our tribe."

  "Blood-bond?"

  "It's a permanent connection between two people, until they die. Sealed in blood."

  I glance at him, eyebrows raised.

  "You think we're barbaric and old-fashioned, don't you?" he says.

  "Maybe. Just a bit."

  "We're used to it. Other tribes and groups in Emsalis think we're primitive too." He moves in his seat, stretching his legs out as far as they will go.

  "What about you? You're intelligent, you're Evolved—have you ever considered leaving it all? The rules, the belief system?"

  "Zilara. Look at me."

  I cut my eyes in his direction for a split second.

  "That doesn't count," he says. "Look at me."

  "I'm driving."

  "It's the desert, and it's flat right now. You won't run into anything. Look at me."

  Reluctantly I turn to him, and that burning gaze of his, the one that seems to search out the deepest parts of my heart and mind and soul.

  "Why are you asking me about this?" he says.

  "Stop looking inside me," I face forward again. "Go to sleep. That's the whole point of me driving this beast, so that you can sleep."

  "You're the one talking to me!"

  "And now I'm done."

  He swears softly. "I will never understand you."

  "You don't have to. I'll be out of your life soon."

  Silence, so lengthy that I'm sure he has fallen asleep. And then, "That isn't something I'm looking forward to."

  We don't speak again. I'm not sure if he sleeps or not, but for my part, I focus on driving straight north, and I push every confusing emotion, every contradictory tho
ught, into the deepest, darkest corner of my mind.

  An hour or so before dawn, the line of the desert breaks—a series of faint waves instead of a straight slice between sand and sky. Then, as I drive on, the wavy line grows, takes shape into blue and purple mountains, small and far away, but real as the pitted metal of the steering grip.

  The mountains and I creep towards each other at a frustratingly slow pace. I am a snail crawling with all its might across a vast expanse, desperate for what lies at the rim of the world.

  Desperate for escape from this place.

  When I finally get away, I'll be able to forget it all. The fear, the danger, the death. And him.

  21

  "Welcome to Saghir." Rak makes a sweeping gesture at the scattering of buildings before us. The place doesn't look much different from Ankerja, except that it's larger, sprawled wider instead of scrunched together. Behind it surge low hills, sprinkled with trees, gradually rising higher and higher until they transition to brown rocky mountains.

  "We can't drive too close in this machine," Rak says. "They'll think we're Vilor. Drive around that way, and we'll leave it outside the village in some trees or something."

  I turn in the direction he points, heading left and circling far around the village.

  "Good luck finding trees big enough to hide this monster," says Alik, leaning between the two front seats. "There's not much of a forest here."

  Once we're halfway around the town, with its buildings between us and the desert, the trees are thicker, taller. They stand far apart, like dissenting relatives at a family gathering, but I manage to find a spot where several scrubby ones grow closer together, their boughs almost touching. A large rock, about half the height of the vehicle, offers extra cover. The Vilor monster is going to be visible no matter where we park it, but a little concealment is better than nothing.

  I shut off the engine and look over at Rak.

  "We'll need a place to stay," I say. "Clothes, and medical attention for Safi. That will take money."

  We both look at Alik.

  "Why do I have to buy all the supplies and pay for the rooms?" he grumbles.