I turned and regarded her through the doorway. Behind me Caden paused.
“Yes?” I said.
“Can you stay for a moment—Caden, you too.”
I raised my eyebrows at Caden. “Sure.” They really weren’t fooling around with this partner business; he seemed to be involved in everything I was.
We approached her desk and dropped our belongings.
“Ember, has anyone told you what role you’ll be playing during your simulations and eventually your missions?”
Missions. There it was again. Proof that we were going to be used as weapons.
Out of my peripherals I saw Caden tense up.
“Role?”
“I’ll take that as a no.” She grabbed a folder and came around her desk. “All students have been genetically modified in some way. These modifications give you certain advantages—things you have an affinity for. The Prometheus Project helps fine-tune these modifications through training. And partners train in tandem,” she said, giving Caden a sidelong glance.
“So what’s my role?” I asked.
She flipped open my folder. “‘Exceptional people skills—’”
I wanted to snicker at that one. Yeah right. That’s why I was so well liked at my last school.
“‘A remarkable ability to read people.’” She snapped the file closed and slowly eyed me up and down. “Athletic. Beautiful. You are a distractor.”
Out of my peripherals I saw Caden’s jaw work. At least he seemed as displeased by this news as I did.
“And Caden is an extractor,” Debbie continued as though she hadn’t heard me. “Those will be your main roles on these missions.
“What’s a distractor?” I asked.
“It’s literally someone who distracts our targets,” Debbie said. “You, Ember, will be focusing your missions on establishing trust with certain individuals and, to some extent, seducing them, while Caden extracts whatever it is that the government needs.”
“You’re joking, right?” Seduction?
“Stop looking queasy,” she said. “We’re not asking you to get physical with anyone. Just distract them.”
“You promise?” I asked.
She stared at me for a long moment. Her eyes shifted to the floor before she met mine again. “Promise.”
I knew that expression well. She was lying.
Chapter 11
Ticking. That was the first sound I heard.
“Ugh, not you again.” The voice came from behind me, bringing goosebumps to my skin.
Adrian.
I turned. He sat at a desk, a pencil behind his ear and a file folder in his hand. Open books and scattered papers were spread in a halo in front him. Sun streamed from behind pale curtains. Next to him was a grandfather clock, which was where the ticking came from.
I folded my arms. “Don’t you ever throw me out of a room again.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t respond well to threats.”
“Too bad,” I said. “I don’t respond well to being manhandled.”
He eyed me. “I won’t throw you out so long as you behave yourself while you’re here.”
“Fine.” I could deal with that.
My eyes moved from him to the natural light streaming onto the desk’s surface. “Not in the U.S. anymore?” I asked.
“What gave that away?”
I nodded to the window. “Sunlight.” I glanced down at myself. I wore a black fitted shirt and jeans, which suggested that I’d brought myself here, not the government.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” He sounded tired.
I sighed. “I thought I went over this already. I don’t have control of where I appear.”
“Just—stop haunting me.”
I rolled my eyes and stretched my muscles. “I’m not a ghost.” My muscles ached badly from overuse. “Where are we?”
“As if I’d tell you.”
I walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. I could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance. “Ah, Paris. Last time I was here I showed up naked inside Notre Dame. Talk about sacrilegious. I’ve never had so many people yelling at me in a foreign language before.”
“I’ve meant to thank you,” Adrian said, ignoring my confession. From his tone, he didn’t sound all that sincere.
I swiveled my body to face him and raised my eyebrows.
“I couldn’t access my father’s safe until the evening you did it for me,” he said. “He left … notes about his work, most of which have to do with people like you.”
“People like me?” Now that was news. I wondered what the government wanted them for. More importantly, I wondered what they said.
“It was some genetic project my father had been a part of two decades ago.”
“Was he—did he do this to me?”
Adrian furrowed his brows and frowned. “I don’t know.”
The next morning Coach Painter came into the gym where Caden and I waited with the rest of our class.
“Morning guys. I’ve got a good one for you today—sparring.”
Please no. Not another day of playing catch-up.
Caden looked like he was relishing the thought.
“Find a sparring partner and get to practicing. I’ll be calling you up two at a time for official matches.”
During the commotion, I made my way up to Coach Painter. “Coach?”
“Yes Pierce?”
I fidgeted. “I don’t know how to spar.”
“Well then, today’s your lucky day.”
“But Coach—”
“Pierce,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “like most of the students in this room, people have undervalued you your entire life. I know you can do this. You’ll pick up the technique by watching what others do. But what I want students to learn—what I want you to learn—is that sparring is in large part thinking under pressure, improvising, and controlling your emotions. Can you do that?”
The way he phrased that question compelled me to nod my head—like I actually wanted to please the guy. It was only as I walked away, that I felt like I’d just gotten suckered into something.
When Debbie had shown this room to me, I hadn’t noticed the lines on the foam mats. Now that I noticed other students grouping around them, I could see the edges of eight practice arenas and one main arena where Coach Painter would referee official matches.
“Hawthorne! Sorenson!” Coach called. “You’re up!”
I watched Caden and Eric make their way up to the main sparring arena, put on soft helmets and gloves, and enter the ring. I edged closer. The two were giants. They tapped each other’s gloved hand and then stepped back.
Coach whistled and the two began to circle one other. Each constantly moved, staying on the balls of his feet. Eric attacked first, kicking high and aiming for Caden’s chest. Caden sidestepped the move and took advantage of Eric’s position. He spun and kicked Eric, the blow knocking the latter off balance.
Eric stumbled, and Caden used the moment to throw a few punches at Eric’s midsection. Eric fell, and once he hit the mat, Coach Painter blew the whistle.
They did this for two more rounds. The second round Caden lost—if landing on the ground was the determining factor.
I stayed and watched the last round, taking notes on how they shifted their weight, how they attacked, and how they defended each other. The two were powerhouses, and they moved with deliberation.
The more I saw the more reluctant I was to fight. I’d studied enough videos and practiced enough rudimentary skills on my own to know how to throw my weight into a blow, but I didn’t have any of the structure that Caden and Eric seemed to have.
I walked away from the main arena and eyed the rest of th
e room. I’d need to try out some moves if I didn’t want to mortify myself.
A sweaty arm draped itself over my shoulder. “Like what you saw, princess?” Caden asked.
I shrugged his arm off of me, but smiled. He must’ve seen me watching. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Too late for that.” His dimples appeared and his eyes glittered. “Want to practice?” he asked nodding to the practice rings.
“Yeah, that’d be great actually,” I said. “But I have to warn you: I don’t know anything about sparring.”
Caden wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “You will once I’m through with you.”
Wasn’t he just so sure of himself? This time, though, I appreciated the confidence.
We waited for a ring to open up, and once one did, we walked over.
“Okay,” Caden said, turning to face me once we stepped into the ring, “when you begin, keep yourself grounded but your muscles loose. That means feet placed roughly shoulder width part, knees lightly bent, and arms held in front of your chest.”
I did as he said.
“Good,” he said studying my form.
Like in weaponry, some of Caden’s mask fell away, and I saw that he missed nothing. I wondered if I looked that way when I wasn’t aware of myself.
“Now when you begin, make sure to keep moving,” he said. “This will make it harder for your opponent to strike and easier for you to find an exposed weakness.” As he gave out instructions, a lock of golden hair fell in front of his face.
I brushed it away before I could stop myself. Caden’s eyes shot to mine, full of that same something I’d seen in them yesterday. A slow, smoldering grin spread across his lips.
I cleared my throat, ignoring the way my heart stuttered. “How do you notice an exposed weakness?” I asked, bringing us both back on topic.
His smile turned just sly enough to let me know that he could read me like a book. “That’s where your sleuthing skills come in. Some people are aggressive; usually that means they are overcompensating for a weak defense. The stronger, bulkier type tends to be slower. The key is to analyze your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses as well as their own perception of their skills.”
He adjusted my stance, moving my arms to better cover myself, pulling my torso back a bit. I tried to ignore the way my stomach tightened at his touch.
“What do you think my weakness is?”
Caden, who was still studying my form, looked up at me. The intensity of his eyes caught me off guard; he stared at me as though he could see every one of my secrets. I didn’t like it. It made me feel vulnerable.
“Well, I’d imagine that what you’ll initially lack is confidence. That only goes away with trial and error. But once you get the hang of sparring, I think your weakness will be how you perceive the opponent. I think you underestimate people—I think you believe most people are predictable.”
I wasn’t prepared for that, and the truth was a punch to the gut.
Caden’s eyes moved over me, missing nothing. He shrugged. “If I am right, then you’ll need to be very careful. Most of our classmates and the individuals in this line of work are anything but predictable, and they’ll take advantage of that weakness of yours.”
“Then how do I fix it?” I asked, not bothering to deny any of it.
Caden crossed his arms. “Oh, a few months here should take care of it.”
“Because … ?”
He gave me a dark look. “Because you’ll find out that no one here is who you think they are.”
“Pierce! Payne!”
I started at my name.
Caden’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “You got this, princess.”
“You’re a liar,” I said, “but I appreciate it.” We’d only been practicing together for a little over ten minutes; I still hadn’t gotten the hang of it.
I walked away from him, and I could feel his gaze still searing into me.
When I arrived at the arena, Coach Painter handed me a helmet and a pair of gloves to wear. “You ready?” he asked.
“Not even close,” I said, fitting the helmet over my head.
He shook his head. “Everyone’s got to start somewhere. Now get in there.”
I stepped into the ring and put on my gloves.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?”
I glanced up and groaned when I saw my opponent. Desiree Payne. What a fitting last name.
Unfortunately, she looked like she knew what she was doing; she wrapped tape around her hands before sliding her own gloves on. I hated the thought of getting owned by this prissy bitch.
My fists clenched inside my gloves and I studied her.
Cocky—that’s obvious. And it’s safe to assume she’s going to play dirty if she can.
She was a small, slight thing, so she would probably be quick. And I bet she had a great idea of what shots would place the most damage the quickest. Kidneys, face, and other soft tissue areas. Knowing this didn’t help much; it didn’t give me information on how to protect these three separate locations—head, lower back, and stomach—at once.
What was my strength? Desiree didn’t know me, she didn’t think highly of me, and she probably—accurately—assumed that I’d never sparred before. I was unpredictable, and she’d underestimate me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Caden saunter over to the side of the ring. I turned to him and he gave me a thumbs up.
“Let’s begin!” Coach shouted.
My heart accelerated, though I didn’t let it show in my expression. Desiree and I approached one another, tapped gloves like I’d seen others do, and waited.
Coach Painter blew on his whistle. Showtime.
Desiree shot forward and punched me in the face. My head snapped back from the impact and I went down like a sack of potatoes.
So much for strategy.
Coach blew the whistle, signaling the end to round one. I’d only have to go through two more before I’d get the chance to scrape up the remnants of my pride.
I lay on the ground, staring at the ceiling. How had my life gotten me here?
“C’mon Pierce!” Coach shouted. “I need to see a little more effort.”
I began to laugh—it was that or cry. You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.
I pushed myself up off the ground and stared at my opponent. She smirked at me. “Had enough already?”
“Of you?” I asked. This girl had officially pissed me off. “Definitely. But your boyfriend?” I threw a quick glance over at Caden, so she’d be clear whom I was talking about. “I’m only just starting to have fun with him.”
I said it to get a rise out of her, and it worked.
Desiree’s lip curled and she snarled something nasty at me. Out of my peripherals I could see Caden pounding it with another guy. Men.
“Pierce! Payne!” Coach yelled. “Leave your baggage outside the ring, or you’ll be doing tardy exercises for an entire week—together.”
The threat was enough to pull our emotions in line.
“Round two: let’s begin!” Coach whistled.
Desiree rushed me again, but I wasn’t a fool. I ducked and punched her in the gut. Despite how bloodthirsty I was after that last comment, I couldn’t put much force behind my fist. It seemed wrong to practice like this on a peer.
I heard her grunt, her body bent over mine. I felt a shooting pain in my lower back as she drove her fist into my kidney—once, twice, three times. I collapsed in a heap on the ground.
“Fuck you,” Desiree whispered in my ear before backing away.
Did I mention that I disliked her?
I could hear the growing crowd jeering. Lucky me, I was their entertainment right now. So I stood up and did the one thing that I’d lear
ned could diffuse teasing: going along with it. I smiled at the crowd and bowed.
The jeering turned into laughter, and it earned me a few claps.
I smiled and looked at my opponent.
Desiree shot me a dirty look. “You think this is funny?” she spat.
I could hear the frustration in her voice. She wanted to humiliate me, to cut me to pieces, but it wasn’t quite working out as she had intended.
“Round three!” Coach yelled, and the whistle went off.
This time Desiree didn’t pounce forward. Instead she watched me, shifting her weight from foot to foot. What was her strategy?
Stop thinking defensively, Ember, and do something.
I didn’t even let myself ponder it; I moved in on Desiree quick and aimed a punch at her face. She blocked it, and I clumsily followed it up with a jab to her stomach. She deflected my second attempt and began to strike out at my face.
“C’mon Pierce,” Coach yelled. “Put some confidence behind those punches!”
I shuffled backwards and used my gloves to help block the blows. But as soon as my arms lifted, she hit me hard in the stomach.
I stumbled back, and she jabbed me hard in the face, making my teeth chatter and my nose scream in pain. The force of the blow knocked me down.
Coach Painter whistled and the round ended.
Desiree bounded out of the ring, giving me a mean little smile as she passed me.
Slowly I rose to my feet. I pulled off my gloves and helmet and tossed them into the corner of the arena as Coach called for the next pair of individuals to meet at the arena. I pinched my swollen—but not broken—nose as I walked out of the ring.
Ridiculous. The whole experience was ridiculous. Why would I ever fight someone in such a controlled manner? That had only served to humiliate me.
“Pierce!” Coach called as I passed him. “Come here for a sec.”
I huffed and walked over to him.
He whistled and the next match began.
“What was that?” he said when I reached him, his voice rough with disapproval.
The Vanishing Girl Page 7
