He looks at me like I should have known—like I should have known all along that he was trying to help me. I don’t answer.
“Sit up,” Lockwood says. He takes my arm and pulls me up, until I’m leaning against the wall. Crouching in front of me, he lifts my face, angling to see my neck.
“I’m fine,” I say. I pull back, and his hand falls. He watches me, his eyes hard, lips pursed. I can see the conflict in his eyes. Something leaps in me. It’s a flicker of hope, and I reach for it.
“Why did you warn me?”
Lockwood glances toward the door. When he returns to me, his eyes are wider.
“If Gray comes for you, they’ll catch him. Does he know where you’ve been taken?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Lockwood stands, pacing. He runs a hand over his mouth, then says, “That’s good. It’s better that he doesn’t.”
Not better for me, I think. But Lockwood is right. If Cash were to try to rescue me, he would be captured. I meet Lockwood’s eyes. I was right. There are hidden loyalties there. Something lifts from my chest.
“I’m sorry,” he says, crouching in front of me again. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” His brows pull in. “You shouldn’t have reacted. That’s all Sterling wanted. Your emotion is weakness to him.”
All I am is emotion—pressed down and stifled. I look away. I can still feel the ache in my chest.
“But you were right to protect Gray,” he says. I meet his eyes again. “The Commander won’t let you live long if he finds you’re useless. I’ll see what I can do. Get some rest.”
When the door is closed and the lock engaged, I press my head to the wall and listen to the thumping in my ears. I’m not alone after all. That realization should be comforting. But the anxiety is physical. It eats at my stomach and claws at my chest. I close my eyes, blowing trapped air from my lungs.
30
His fist connects with my jaw, and bright lights flash in my eyes. The room spins and I drop to the ground on hands and knees, spitting blood on the floor. This guard is different. Lockwood didn’t come back. The one who replaced him has spent the last ten minutes beating me and has yet to say a word.
If he did say something, my guess would be: Compliments of Sterling.
“Please,” I plead, lifting a trembling hand. But his boot finds my stomach, and I crumple on the floor in a heap. I cough, curling like an infant. I cry for Cash, but only in my thoughts. I don’t dare say his name out loud.
The guard’s boots disappear into the hall, and the heavy door finally closes. I let the tears free, crying into my hands, pain shooting through my jaw when my mouth gapes.
It’s worth it, I think. I won’t give him up.
Cash would do the same for me—for any of us. Though it would never happen. My life is insignificant by comparison. No one would hunt me down, beating my friends to find out where I am. Cash is a high-ranking Watcher. Someone with prestige and power. Losing him has had an impact. Losing me wouldn’t make a ripple.
I close my eyes, and there is my father, telling me to breathe; that they need us. There is Edan, telling Cash not to stop. Telling me that I can do this. I try to start a dream, try to escape into a fantasy where none of this is real. I try to picture life outside of the valley—what the South must be like. But I’ve never seen it, and my mind can’t draw it out. Eventually I fall asleep.
I lie in silence, surrounded by darkness, listening. Something woke me, but there is nothing. Nothing but my heartbeat and this stale, metallic air. I touch my jaw and flinch at the pain.
Hauling my body from the ground, I groan when pain hits in too many places to count. I drag my body to the door, where a tray has been left holding a cup of water and a small bowl of oats. The water goes down easy, but when I try to chew through a mouthful of oats, the pain in my jaw makes me nauseous. I touch it again and wince.
He’s worth it, I remind myself.
A click. Somewhere on the ceiling. I look up, but I can barely see. This room is small, but the ceiling is high. If I could triple my height, I still wouldn’t be able to touch it.
There’s another click, and a quiet buzzing begins.
Warm air breezes from high above, sweeping gently across my face. It’s so amazing, I forget for a moment that I should be wondering why it’s happening. I close my eyes and pretend that the warmth is the sun and above me is the bright sky.
The breeze cuts off. My shoulders sag in disappointment. What was that?
The buzzing returns and my eyes clamp shut as the ceiling ignites in blinding panels of light. In seconds the heat is searing through my skin, baking into the deeper layers. I scurry to the corner, but there is nowhere to go. I can’t hide from these lights, and they will burn me.
This is it. This is the sick method the Council will use to do away with me. I should be weeping. This is the end. Instead, anger boils up, so powerful I slam my palms into the cement wall. Again. Again. I scream at the top of my lungs, hoping that they hear me—that they’re watching me. I will not show them the panic that is coursing through me. I will not let all the tangled-up sadness show. I scream until I’m coughing, my dry throat scraping against itself.
My skin is raw and red. My eyes are burning. The heat is drawing any leftover energy out of my limbs, and I crumple on the floor, curling in a ball, covering my face like it matters. But who cares about my face, when the rest of me is dying?
The lights switch off, and the relief is immediate. I lie still, dragging in shaky breaths, afraid that if I move, they’ll start it again. Maybe they think I already died. It was five minutes, maybe ten. Should I be dead?
There’s another click, and a cool breeze falls from the high ceiling. A laugh leaps from my mouth, and I clamp my hand over it. Are they serious? Is this an apology? We fried the wrong prisoner. Here. Have some cool air. It’ll help.
When I stand, my skin stings with the movement. I touch gentle fingers to my left forearm, and hiss through my teeth. They burned me.
I shiver. The air is freezing, blowing as strong as the wind in the alleys. Soon I’m shaking so violently that the muscles around my spine are clenching, sending shock waves of pain down my back and up my neck. At night, in the dead of winter, I would lie beneath my thin, scratchy blanket and shake so hard that by morning I was exhausted and sore. Most families huddle under blankets together, sharing body heat. I have not had that privilege since I was a child. And now I have no blanket. I have nothing to shield me from this freezing air.
I can’t sit still. The wind on my singed skin sets my nerves on edge. But soon all my exposed skin is numb, and I can’t feel the burns anymore. I can’t feel anything. I panic, pressing my back to the wall and pulling my knees to my chest. I stare wide-eyed into the darkness and think. What can I do? Nothing. No. There has to be something. My teeth chatter. My jaw aches, sending pain shooting to my head. There has to be something. I have to warm my body by my own efforts. I have to move.
I start slow. My legs don’t want to do this, but so much of me is numb, I have no choice. I walk the six feet across. Turn. Walk back. Again. Again. I keep my body moving. I force each step. My legs feel like lead. My feet are bricks. I take another step. Another. When they start to feel alive again, I stop in the middle of the room and jump. I kick out my legs to the sides and throw my arms out too. Legs in. Legs out. Arms in. Arms out.
I wonder what they think of this. What must they think of this poor, pathetic Worker who’s trying to live despite their efforts. But I think of Lockwood. If he felt safe kneeling in front of me, checking my neck, talking with me…that means they aren’t watching. The idea makes me furious. They don’t care if I live or die. I am entirely disposable to them. Why would they monitor me? I am nothing but a Worker.
I purse my lips and jump higher. Faster.
The cold air cuts off, and my body shudders, releasing it. I keep moving. I pace the room until I feel the pain on my skin again.
Dropping to the floor, I lean against the
wall and catch my breath.
The burning lights flip back on.
I sit stunned for several seconds. No. It was easy to be brave when I thought they were watching me. But now that I know that they aren’t…
How long will this go on? I shake my head, closing my eyes against the light. It’s too bright. I can see it through my eyelids.
Tears well up, and I crawl to the corner of the room. I curl in a ball and sob. What’s the point in being brave? I was only doing it to show them they can’t scare me. But they aren’t even watching. They don’t even care. It is only me. It is only me, and that isn’t enough.
When the heat cuts off, I am drenched in sweat. When the cold starts again, it is brutal against my wet body. I lie on the floor, shaking violently. I ask for it to stop. I beg them; tell them I’m sorry that I don’t know anything. That I don’t mean to be useless. But neither of those apologies are true. I refuse to help them. I won’t give my friend away. I barely notice when cold turns to heat again. I barely feel it, because I’m spinning down a black hole, my body slipping, and I wonder if this is death.
31
“Check her,” his heartless voice says. Panic stabs my chest. My body lies limp on the floor. My exposed skin is tight and scorched.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. Breath on my face. Stale mint.
Edan.
No. A tear slides out of my closed eye. Edan is dead. I blink my eyes open. It is Lockwood.
“Alive, sir,” he says, but his dark eyes hold mine. “Barely.”
“Barely is enough,” Sterling says, his tone disinterested. “Get her up.”
I open my eyes completely, and Lockwood is close, brows pulled in. From the way he’s examining me, I must look close to death. He lifts me like a child, under my arms. I whimper when pain tears across my flesh. My legs are weak, and my waist bends like a hinge. I can’t stand on my own.
Lockwood hands me a cup, and I drink the water in one gulp. It isn’t enough to revive me—just enough that I won’t die yet.
“Carry her,” Sterling orders. I glance at him, but his back is to me. He walks toward the door. “I don’t care how she gets there.”
Before exiting, he turns. Pulling his gloves tighter on his hands, he says, “Congratulations, little girl. You’ve survived the night. I think you’ll come to regret that.”
He leaves. Lockwood frowns down at me.
“What was that?” I say. “Why not just shoot me? If he wants me dead, why not make it easy?”
“That’s not how things work around here,” he whispers, glancing at the door. “It’s a game to them. You were…a lab rat.” He looks away. “We better get you moving.”
“For what?” I groan when he lifts me into his arms. I struggle to keep my head upright. My vision swims.
“You’re meeting the Council.”
I stiffen. Lockwood doesn’t say another word, and soon we’re in the hall. I catch the eyes of other guards. They look at me with interest—gazing at the charred girl who survived the night. It’s impossible to judge their intentions by one glance, but I try. I was wrong about Lockwood, so I don’t trust myself to really be able to tell. I think of Cash. I was wrong about him, too.
I’m dizzy from the sway of being carried, so I close my eyes. I don’t mean for my head to land on Lockwood’s shoulder. That wasn’t a familiarity I planned to share with him. But he is kind, and I’m too weak to hold up my own neck. I stare unfocused and wish this wasn’t happening. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to meet the Council. They will kill me. They will calculate my worth and find me lacking. I screamed at the Commander. I refused to be useful. Each step Lockwood takes is leading me toward my death.
He doesn’t say anything, but he knows that every movement hurts, so he’s slow walking through doorways and rounding corners. We ride an elevator up four levels. The sensation makes my stomach churn. When the doors open, we step into a dim hallway, with eerie lamps fixed to the walls—one every six feet. The bases are black, and the shades are midnight blue. The walls here are gray, with marble floors beneath us.
Watchers stand guard along the walls, growing denser the closer we get to the end of the hall. I look in their eyes, but they don’t connect with me. They stand like lifeless statues, bodies tense and straight, rifles clenched in gloved hands. I wonder what the requirements are to be a special guard of the Council. I wonder what threats keep them from treachery. Or maybe these guards are loyal by choice. Maybe they feel honored. My stomach sinks. We’ve stopped at a door.
“You’ll enter here,” Lockwood says. The gentleness is gone, and for good reason. Four guards flank the door, two on either side. They’re staring at me.
“Alone?” I ask, though I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t show any ease in Lockwood’s company. But it slipped out, because I’m afraid. I’d rather risk stalling then walk through that door. Lockwood nods. I swallow hard, my legs trembling from the effort of standing. A guard turns the knob and swings the door open. I hold my breath and step inside. When it closes, I’m standing in complete darkness.
I’m not sure what to do, so I do nothing. In this darkness, it’s impossible to gauge the size of the room. I struggle on my feet, swaying and stumbling forward a step when I lose my balance. The movement makes my head pound.
Ten seconds tick, then the room ignites in blinding white. I fall back, landing hard, pain shooting up my spine. I lift a hand to my eyes, and the panic is building fast. I don’t want to be burned again. But this light isn’t hot. It doesn’t sear against my skin. It blinds me.
“Please enter,” a female voice says. My heart rate speeds, and I scramble to my feet. Cracking my eyes, I stretch my arms forward, searching. I slide my hands along the wall, finding nothing but smooth surface. Opening my eyes is the only choice I have. I peek out slowly, then wider. The idea is that after a few seconds, they will adjust. But I take in too much white, and pain stabs my temple.
They’re playing with me. It’s a game to them, Lockwood said. I imagine the Council laughing to themselves, watching me and muttering. I purse my lips and squint, shielding my eyes with a hand. This room is small. On the other side is a door, and I stumble toward it. Pushing through, I find myself in darkness again.
The door closes behind me, and I try to blink away the spots, but I can’t.
“Ms. Hannah Bakker,” a male voice says. It slithers up my spine, raising bumps on my stinging flesh. I try to see, but I can’t get past the white still flashing in my vision. I blink fast and can barely make out a clump of shadows.
“Please,” the man says. “Step forward. We want to get a good look at you.”
My body is numb with fear, but somehow I find the strength to work my legs. I take a step, then another. Straining, I try to see the creatures who have stolen everything from me. If I have to, I will find a way to stretch this meeting until my eyes clear. I will see their faces before I die.
“How interesting,” a woman’s voice says. Her tone is cold, calculating. “I find it very intriguing that this child was able to cause such trouble for Commander Sterling. She doesn’t seem like much.”
“I was thinking something very similar,” a smooth male voice says. “Except, what I want to know is why she felt so compelled to fight him.”
Trembling, I open my mouth to speak. I don’t get the chance, because another male voice cuts in. This one I recognize. It is old and fragile, but superior. It is the voice I’ve heard over the speakers countless times growing up. A twinge runs through me.
“It is unimportant why she chose to cause trouble. The fact remains, this is what we are dealing with. A generation of ingrates who have no respect for authority!”
“Look at her,” the woman continues. “See the indignation on her face. It’s remarkable. How they’ve evolved.”
“It is unacceptable. They’ll soon remember their place.”
“Shall we question her?” the slithering voice says. “Or are we finished here?”
“Interrog
ate her if you like,” the woman says. “I’ve seen enough.”
My mouth drops open. That can’t be it. I haven’t said a word; didn’t get a chance to defend myself or explain my actions. They’re talking over me like I am nothing. Anger heats my face. I open my mouth, but I’m cut off again.
“Make an example of this one,” the old man says. “Her allegiances are too extreme. She cannot be allowed to return to the valley.”
“What will you do with me?” I stammer. My heart races when I speak. But taking the risk gives me courage, and I start to speak again. Words are just leaving my lips when I stop short. My eyes go wide.
In this dim light, I can make out a crescent shaped table. Behind it sits five figures, clothed in matching red suits, hoods covering their heads. Gray masks cover their faces, shadows sitting over their eyes. I want to hide from them. My legs shake, and I want to run. Even now, when death is next for me, they will deny me a view of their faces.
“I have a question for her,” a new voice says. It comes from the far left side of the table. The figure rises, his body growing larger as he steps around and approaches me. He is tall and broad, and he stops a foot away. I arch my neck upward, afraid to look away from his masked face. I clench my hands to stop the shaking. I can hear his breathing. I know that behind that mask is a man. But that doesn’t stop the fear.
“How is my son?” he says. I still. He leans close.
“I asked you a question, child. And I expect an answer. So tell me, has he found all the meaning he went searching for?”
I shake my head. “I don’t…know.”
“That’s not how I understand it,” he says, stepping closer, head angling. “So tell me, has his fall from grace been…liberating?”
This close, I can see through the holes cut for his eyes. I can see the golden brown, see the lightly colored lashes. He grabs my face under my chin, his nails digging into my raw skin.
“Perhaps,” he hisses. “You are the key to his return. Perhaps the harder I punish you, the sooner he’ll be home. Tell me, Ms. Bakker…would he do anything to save you?”
The Slave Series Page 18
