The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  We walk down the same dim corridor my mother brought me in. We pass the operating room on the way out and I realize that, other than these two rooms, there’s nothing else in this building. Did Nessa set up this place just for me? It’s an imposin’ thought, one I don’t get to ponder long since Betsy leads me at a fast clip out the door and into the night air.

  Twilight hunkers over the compound. The shrill night insects sing from cracks and crevices of abandoned buildings around us. The grounds are nearly empty, no sound of troops or Jeeps trundlin’ by. Down the street men’s voices talk in low, hushed tones. Very few electric lights burn along the sidewalks, so the paths are pretty dark, but this doesn’t seem to deter Betsy. She trundles us down the steps and onto the sidewalk.

  I could bolt right now, I think, glancin’ around the quiet compound. There’s a Jeep parked about thirty yards away. Then Michael’s boot heels click on the pavement behind us. I could beat him to the Jeep, but he’s got a gun and even if I did make it, there’s Ethan to worry about. When I see where he is, then I can formulate a plan.

  A gusting wind at my backside reminds me that I’m clad in a thin hospital gown, socks, and what Mother Nature gave me. “Any way you could get me some clothes?” I ask Betsy as she pulls me along.

  “He’ll be excited to see you,” she says, as if she didn’t hear me. “He’s been asking about you over and over.”

  “Who? Ethan? You’ve been with him?” A Jeep drives past us, its driver givin’ us a watchman’s once-over. Michael offers a nod that says all’s well.

  You keep thinkin’ all’s well, I think in Michael’s direction. Get real comfortable with me.

  Panting, Betsy answers the question I forgot I asked. “I’ve been watching him since he got here. He was scrawny, but I’m going to fatten him up.” Her voice has gone syrupy like a woman talkin’ to a puppy. Does Betsy think Ethan’s a baby?

  “Where’s Nessa keepin’ him?” I ask, still scannin’ the buildings as we pass. A large brick three-story with no windows or doors sits on our left, one they didn’t care to fix up. Lots of good hidin’ potential there.

  “Miss Nessa let me keep him with us. It’s so nice to have a little one around the house again.” Betsy’s pace slows as her breathin’ becomes labored.

  We take a right this time and seem to be leavin’ the military buildings for a housing development. Rows of empty, dark houses—all identical with white garage doors and chipped yellow paint—stretch around curved driveways. Some still have intact windows and doors, but most have vacant eyes and gapin’ mouths, lettin’ in critters and sand and time.

  Soon’s I see the biggest house on the block with the light burning in the parlor window, I know where we’re headed. This house has been touched up and fitted with new doors and windows. The paint’s fresh and there’s even a wooden rocker on the front porch and a tabby cat curled in the seat.

  “Ethan’s in there?” I ask.

  Betsy nods with smilin’ eyes. “Come on.”

  We walk up the porch steps and the tabby eyes us from the rocker. Betsy opens the door with no hesitation and pushes in, a big grin on her sweaty face. Michael waits on the porch as I step in after her, eyes wide and heart pumping.

  I stand stock-still for a moment, a feeling of déjà vu sending ice water through my veins. The house is done up just like pa’s house in town. There’s his silver tea set and the baby grand with the chipped middle C key, his Victorian armchair, and the hat rack he used to put his Stetsons on when he came in for the night. The side table’s not one I recognize, but the photo of me and my dad taken by the travelin’ photographer six years ago draws my eyes. I stagger toward it.

  “How?” I ask, graspin’ the cool silver frame in my hands. The last time I saw this was the day I left to help Riley and Ethan find their mama.

  “It’s all for you.”

  I whirl around, the photo still in my good hand. Nessa stands on the steps with Ethan beside her. One red-nailed hand presses Ethan into her side fiercely, while the other traces designs on the banister’s wood.

  “Do you like it?” Nessa says with her curved smile. She waves a hand around the house. “All of this is for you.”

  “You took the furniture from my pa’s house?” My eyes flit from piano to arm chair to the Oriental rug. He loved that damn rug.

  “He didn’t need it any longer.” Her voice is cold again.

  My eyes go to Ethan. “You okay, bud?” I ask, taking a step forward.

  Ethan’s eyes lock on mine and his expression is tight, like he’s excited to see me, but also afraid to show it. Like someone’s gotten to him.

  “Ethan, talk to me.” My fists clench. Michael steps into the room and shakes his head. Betsy’s watchin’ like it’s her favorite TV show. “Ethan, are you okay?”

  Nothin’ about this feels right.

  “My name’s not Ethan,” he says slowly in a deadpan voice. “My name is Cole.”

  Chapter 8

  Riley

  When Lord Merek swaggers into the cafeteria with his gang of meaty men behind him, I almost laugh. A big, round bald head shines in the sunlight from the doorway as he scans the cafeteria. He wears a curly beard that has been combed and oiled. I know he wants to look regal, but to me he looks like a second-rate ranch hand in a clown costume.

  Everyone kneels as Lord Merek enters the cafeteria. I can’t help but stare with my mouth open. The head honcho, the one everyone’s so afraid of, looks ridiculous. His stature is imposing—at least six-foot-four with thick arms and legs—but his outfit is laughable at best. Big, puffy sleeves and a matching vest made out of ornate maroon fabric are twined with gold cord and topped with gold buttons and tassels. Matching poofy britches clutch his thighs. Even in this heat, white silk gloves cover both hands. A chain of jewels hangs at his throat and he carries a gold scepter. His face betrays no embarrassment that he’s dressed like a fool. I snort quietly.

  A tug on my arm draws my attention to Nada. She shoots me a wide-eyed look. “Kneel, you idiot!”

  Kneeling to this ridiculous man is the last thing I wanna do, but he heads this way and the guards on either side have their batons out. The skin on my back is still raw from the last beating. I drop to my knees beside Nada and keep my eyes to the floor.

  Footsteps clomp in my direction and stop a few feet away. I flick a glance up. Lord Merek and his guards have stopped in the middle aisle. A guard steps forward and puts a long golden trumpet to his lips. The blast of sound makes everyone in the cafeteria jump.

  “Hear ye, hear ye,” the trumpet player says, tucking his instrument under his arm. “Let it be known that in three days on our Lord’s Sir Henry Merek’s thirty-fifth name day there will be a tournament in his honor. Competitors will go head-to-head in games of agility, strength, wit, and skill, including sword combat. The winner shall receive a prize beyond their wildest dreams.” At this, the trumpeter pauses for effect. The cafeteria is silent, all eyes on the scroll, its reader, and the very smug Lord Merek.

  “The prize,” the trumpeter repeats, “is your freedom and the freedom of one chosen companion. You will also be provided with transportation, traveling rations, and amnesty. Signups will begin tomorrow. The tournament will commence Friday morning.”

  Once again the cafeteria is silent. The trumpeter rolls up his scroll. Lord Merek stands, as pleased as a dog with his bone, letting his people admire him. Finally, he clears his throat.

  “I expect my best competitors on Friday,” he says. “Dareen, you’ll enter.” He nods at a big bender to his right. “Mister, too.” He locks eyes with a giant bender in the back. “And the rest of you strapping benders, this is the chance of a lifetime,” he says, grinning.

  “And if we lose?” Mister, the big bender in the back, asks. The guards stiffen, but Lord Merek seems fine with Mister addressing him directly.

  “Well, you’re not likely to lose,” Lord Merek says, gesturing to the bender’s massive size. “But these are not just carnival games, no. T
he swords will be sharp. The stakes will be real.”

  Several benders dip their heads. Dareen, the other big bender Lord Merek pointed out, frowns. But Mister smiles as wide as a kid on Christmas.

  Inside my chest, my heart is pounding as if my body already knows what I’m gonna do. I look over at Mister, big as a barn and twice my size, and swallow hard. But it wouldn’t matter if Mister was a hundred times my size.

  I’m signing up.

  After another six hours of hard labor, the bell rings and we’re herded into the bathroom to wash up. The little washroom is flooded with the big benders, Mister and Dareen going in first, while the rest of us linger outside, waiting for a splash of water for our hands and faces.

  My legs and back ache from standing and my arms and shoulders bunch with knots from grinding powder all day. There’s also an unpleasant whine in my ears that’s taken the place of the machine’s loud chugging. I stare at the black powder rings under my fingernails and wonder if an open flame could make my fingers explode.

  Nada walks over and leans beside me on the bathroom’s east side. The cool evening air puffs past us, wicking the sweat from my skin. Bet it’s still boiling in the bunkhouse.

  “What d’you think of Merek?” she whispers, her eyes staring across the dusty courtyard to his castle. Orange and yellow flags hang limp from the castle parapets. In the back, dogs yap at each other.

  “What’s with his obsession? Kings and knights?” I ask, leaning my back against the cool concrete. “His princely get up?” I raise my eyebrows, smirking.

  Nada smiles. “He’s got a different one for every day of the week.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say, leaning my head back. “Where’s he get them?”

  “He ships the fabric in from Albuquerque and has his wives do the design from old history books. He really likes Henry VIII.”

  I shake my head. Who’s Henry VIII? Nada doesn’t bother to explain.

  I think of his ridiculous outfit, his feminine voice. “Why would people follow him? Because he’s tall?”

  Nada leans closer. “They say he was a nobody until a couple of years ago when he found a set of books on homemade bullets and gun powder. He found an abandoned factory and started to work. He’s missing three fingers on his right hand. That’s why he wears the gloves.”

  I nod, thinking of the white silk gloves. “So he made bullets and people just started following him?”

  Nada shakes her head. “There’s only two things in this world that matter to people anymore, Riley.” She holds up two fingers. “What are they?”

  “Weapons,” I say, nodding to the guards.

  Nada smiles. “And?”

  “Medicine,” I say, thinking of Nessa Vandewater.

  “You would think so, but you’d be wrong.” Nada holds up one finger. “Knowledge. Knowledge is what makes the medicine, what forms the gun powder. Knowledge is what we lost when the computer systems crashed and all the data stored there couldn’t be retrieved.”

  I shrug my shoulders. My parents never really told me about computers and data.

  “Anyway, Merek built up both weapons and knowledge. He started supplying road gangs and militias first. Then the Breeders got smart and put him on their payroll. He’s now the number-one bullet and gunpowder distributor here.” She waves her hand toward the wall and all the dusty roads beyond. “And he never tells nobody how to make the powder. Even the benders who make it only make it in parts with the bins unlabeled so they can’t piece together how it’s done.”

  I look out, mulling this all over. If the Breeders control the only supply of bullets and ammo in the land, they’ll eventually control everything. Even the few free towns will soon fall into their clutches. I picture Nessa’s smug face and feel sick to my stomach.

  Then I think of Clay and my knees go weak. How long has it been since I’ve touched him? Two days? Three? I think of his hands on my neck, his lips brushing my collar bone. God, he has to be okay.

  “You gonna enter the tournament?” Nada asks.

  I slowly nod. “Yeah. You?”

  Nada’s lips form a tight white line. “Doc won’t let me, so I’ll have to figure out how to sign up without him knowing.”

  I consider Nada. She’s about five-foot-one, a hundred pounds. Even with a buzzed haircut, she looks like she’s barely out of training wheels. Then I think about how she smashed her own face to hide her identity. How she killed that tracker so viciously without a thought. Still, in hand-to-hand combat with Mister, she doesn’t stand a chance.

  Neither do I.

  “You’ll get killed,” I say, staring at the broken glass and sharpened metal topping the twelve-foot walls around the compound.

  Nada stares out with me. “So will you.”

  I look over and smile at her. Maybe she and I aren’t all that different after all.

  The line for the bathroom thins out and we wander in. There’s a few benders washing up at sinks and three or four of them piled into each shower, naked. A blush runs up my cheeks at the naked benders. I’ve always wondered what they looked like without their clothes, but it seems wrong to stare. Still, I catch some glimpses of small, budding breasts or thin nubs dangling between their legs. I turn away and shoulder up to a sink, waiting for a turn to plunge my hands under the cool water.

  “You can shower with me,” Nada says, stripping. Her bare chest is flat as Ethan’s. “Down at that end where there’s less light,” she whispers.

  It’s nice that she wants to help hide my secret, but her plan sounds too risky. I shake my head, turning away from her naked chest. “I’ll just wash up at the sink.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, stepping out of her pants. “It’ll be hot as an oven in that bunkhouse tonight.”

  I figured it’d be hot in the bunkhouse. What I didn’t figure was how to avoid being naked in front of the other benders. Luckily tonight everyone’s so dog-tired no one pays me any mind.

  I wait for Nada beside the door to the bunkhouse. The air is cooling and my wet hair and skin help with the heat. I lean back against the concrete and close my eyes.

  A hand on my shirt jerks my eyes open.

  Mister stands over me, my shirt bunched in his fist. He pulls me toward his sneering face. His tanned brown skin is pocked with holes, whether from a skin disorder or scaring from shrapnel I can’t tell. Either way, it makes his face menacing with tiny gray eyes, a bulbous nose, and thin lips. He’s wet his hair and braided it down his back like a girl, but on him it only makes him seem meaner.

  “’Nother pretty one,” he says, sniffing me like he’s a dog and I’m a steak. “Nice to have fresh meat in the bunkhouse.” He smirks, showing brown teeth.

  I pull back against the grip he has on my shirt. “I’m not your fresh meat,” I growl. My heart’s pounding in my chest. If I have to fight Mister, I’ll lose.

  Mister’s eyes narrow. His grip tightens on my shirt and the fabric pinches my neck. “Get one thing straight, fresh meat. I’m in charge here. You do what I say.”

  “I thought Merek was in charge.” I try to keep the fear out of my voice. So far it’s working.

  Mister flashes his teeth again. “He’s no concern when we go in there.” He jabs a finger toward the darkness of the bunkhouse. “That’s my concern.” He pulls me closer until my cheek is inches from his teeth. “You’re my concern.”

  “Mister,” a voice says.

  His grip on me loosens and I yank back, stumbling into the wall and nearly falling over. Mister shoots a glance my way, looking like he’ll come after me but a figure steps between us.

  Doc stands in front of Mister, hands on hips, head up. Doc’s at least one hundred pounds lighter and a foot shorter, but it doesn’t seem to matter. “Leave this one alone. This bender’s mine.”

  I’m his?

  Mister scowls. “Says who?” His big hands form into fists.

  Doc glances at them, but seems unfazed. “You may think you run this bunk house, but who do you think Merek wo
uld side with? A grunt who’s easily replaceable”—Doc gestures to Mister— “or a medical professional who knows things about the human body you’d never understand? Could you fix a vas deferens, Mister? Remove an appendix?” Doc smiles impishly, waggling his eyebrows.

  Mister glares at Doc and then at me. With a push to Doc’s shoulder, he shoves past and stalks to the bunkhouse.

  Doc turns to me, his impish smile faded. He leans in and whispers in my ear. “That was your favor,” he says, his breath tickling the skin on my neck. “You don’t need to say thank you. Just get inside.”

  I take a step back and shake my head. Around us, benders stream into the bunkhouse. Some glance our way. “I didn’t ask for your help,” I whisper, “so that’s not my favor. I could’ve handled that.”

  Doc raises an eyebrow. “You could’ve handled that. Mister? You could’ve handled Mister?”

  I nod, clutching the wall. Nada walks past, staring. Doc waves her in.

  “Yes, I could’ve handled Mister,” I whisper when the other benders are gone.

  Doc’s eyes search my face. “You’re really something.” He blows out a breath. “Fine. One more favor. Knowing you is going to get me into a lot of trouble, I can tell.”

  A corner of my mouth lifts in the hint of a smile. “A lot of people say that.”

  We enter the bunkhouse to a wall of heat and a smell that reminds me of our cow barn. Human bodies can be just as disgusting as animals and benders are no different. And once we’re in, we’re in for the night. The guards chain the doors behind us with a clink of metal on metal. I wonder about having to use the bathroom, but notice pots in the corners and realize that’s the stink. Great.

  The bunkhouse is bare—concrete floors and walls, rows and rows of metal bunks with thin, stained mattresses, no blankets (not that you’d want one in this heat) or pillows. Except Mister and Dareen and some of the other big benders have pillows and nicer mattresses with thin sheets covering them. Some of them have foot lockers, too, with padlocks. Probably got goodies inside. The rest of the benders got nothing but a ratty change of clothes piled under their beds.