Zane grabbed hold of the shelf and pulled it back. Wheels clacked over the cement floor. Levi hadn’t noticed that the shelf was on wheels. Behind the shelves, a black-and-green-checkered blanket hung on the wall. Omar drew it aside and held it, which revealed a door that Zane pushed open. Zane stepped up into the doorway and into who knew where.
“Ooh! A secret door?” Jemma ran forward to peek into the darkness.
“What every lair needs,” Omar said, grinning.
Refrain from anger. Levi fought to keep his expression neutral and hurried to catch up to his wife, who thankfully had not jumped through the doorway until he could investigate. “Do we have time for this? We’re supposed to meet Ruston any minute now.”
“Trust, peer,” Zane called from within the secret room. “You need to work on it.”
Fine. Levi climbed inside what turned out to be a tunnel. Jemma followed and took hold of his hand. Behind them, Omar pulled the shelf back into place, straightened the blanket, then shut the door. Darkness engulfed them. Levi put his arm around Jemma, but before he could say anything, light spilled into the tunnel from the other end.
Zane stood there, a black silhouette rimmed in a rectangle of pale yellow light. “Welcome to the nest.”
They made their way out of the tunnel and into the center of a small room. A Wyndo wall screen covered the entire wall on one end, hanging above a GlassTop desk. The opposite wall was painted bright green. Another entrance stood directly opposite the one they’d come through. Shelves lined the side walls and were filled with guns, all types of portable Wyndos, pre-packaged food, jugs of water, and enforcer uniforms. No ammo.
“Is that a green screen?” Jemma asked, pointing at the green wall. “I learned about those at the entertainment orientation in the harem.”
“That’s where we film Omar for his reports,” Zane said, sitting on the chair in front of the GlassTop, but facing toward them. “I can change out the background to make it look like he’s anywhere. Raises the intrigue.”
Levi didn’t like this whole Owl thing, but knowing that his little brother wasn’t alone in it, seeing that Zane was keeping him safe … It made it easier to swallow. “Who’s equipment is all this?”
“Ruston’s,” Zane said.
“So he’s in on the Owl thing too?” Levi asked.
“He knows about it, but he’s not helping us, other than letting us use this place,” Zane said. “Still, this is a big risk, bringing you people here. Ruston hasn’t taken a risk like this in … well, since I’ve known him.”
“And how long have you known him?” Levi asked.
Zane waggled his eyebrows. “All my life.”
A moment of silence passed, and Levi went to inspect the weapons on the shelves. Omar sat on the chair in front of the green wall.
“Omar, I haven’t seen Red around in a while,” Jemma said. She was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, ready to fight.
Levi groaned inside as he admired a shelf filled with stunners. This wasn’t the time to fish for details about Omar’s love life, but his wife was determined to get a happily-ever-after for her sister.
“We broke up,” Omar said. “She’s crazy.”
Levi couldn’t argue there. He’d been a victim of Red’s lies too.
“She destroyed my apartment,” Omar said. “Ruined a bunch of my paintings.”
“I wish she’d get help,” Zane said. “But she’d rather destroy apartments.”
“Help for what?” Jemma asked.
“They’ve got classes at the Midlands Civic Center that teach women to disconnect when a guy moves on,” Zane said. “Wash off the paint.”
“You mean like counseling classes?” Jemma asked.
“I guess.”
Jemma squealed like an angry child. “Where are the heroes in this place? Where are the men willing to die for true love? Where are the Westleys and Mr. Darcys?”
Zane looked at Levi. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
Levi picked up one of the stunners and gripped it. Jemma’s love of romance stories was fine between the two of them, but he never talked to other guys about it.
“So I’m a scoundrel in a fairy story, is that it, Jemma?” Omar asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice laced with tears. “You are the scoundrel. You’re Mr. Wickham!”
“Jemma …” Levi said, putting the stunner back on the shelf. “Let’s do this another time, okay? We’re probably already late for our meeting with Ruston.”
But Omar wasn’t done. “Maybe I am, Jemma. But Red doesn’t think like Eliza Bennett, Jem. She’s more like the wild little sister. And the sister liked Mr. Wickham and was too stupid to know he was a maggot.”
Levi fought back a laugh and inspected a pistol on the next shelf down. Not loaded. He wondered where they kept the ammo.
“Which is why Mr. Darcy swept in to set things right,” Jemma said. “Mr. Wickham and Lydia got married.”
“You want me to marry Red?” Omar said. “That’s what you want?”
“No! I want you to …” She took a deep breath, and Levi knew she wanted to tell Omar to marry Shaylinn. “I want you to stop living like Mr. Wickham and start living like Mr. Darcy.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Look around you! But you know we’ve already got us a Mr. Darcy, Jemma.” He pointed at Levi.
“I hate this place,” Jemma said. “How can a society exist without true love and commitment and sacrifice and families?”
“There are families here,” someone said.
Levi spun around, pistol in hand, though he knew it wasn’t loaded. A man stood in the second entrance to the nest. He had black buzzed hair, a bushy chin beard, and was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. He looked like he could have been from Glenrock.
“Hey!” Zane jumped out of his chair and limped over to the man. “Meet Ruston, peers. Ruston, this is Omar the Owl, Levi the elder of the Glenrock remnant, and his wife, Jemma the softie.” Zane winked at Jemma, who stuck out her tongue in return.
“Pleased to know you.” Ruston focused his attention on Jemma. “To answer your question, there are families in the Safe Lands, like the ones from your softie stories. They’re called Naturals. Some call them ghosts.”
Levi put the pistol back on the shelf and gave Ruston his full attention.
“Rewl told Shaylinn he was a Natural,” Omar said. “That he didn’t have the thin plague.”
“It’s true,” Zane said. “Rewl is technically clean, even if he’s dimmer than a dead Wyndo.”
“A Natural is a person who exists but has no record,” Ruston said. “Someone born in secret. Off-grid. They were raised in the basements. And enforcers call them Naturals because they were conceived the natural way.”
“How would they keep such little children hidden, though?” Jemma asked.
“We have our ways,” Ruston said with a smile.
“You’re a Natural, aren’t you?” Omar asked Zane.
“Sure am.” Zane lifted his gloved hands and wiggled his fingers. “That’s why I always wear gloves. Fingerprints are the only way enforcers can register Naturals, since we aren’t in the grid. And when enforcers register our prints, we become ghosts in their system. Faceless problems.”
“Is Bender a Natural?” Levi asked.
“Yes,” Ruston said. “As are my sons, Nash and Zane.”
Jemma clapped her hands over her heart. “Zane! Why didn’t you tell us?”
“That was Ruston’s call, femme,” Zane said.
“How many of you are there?” Levi asked.
“There are about sixty-two Naturals who live in the basements almost exclusively,” Ruston said. “And we’ve got twenty-six men who work with Bender, though the FFF is their true loyalty.”
“The family thing?” Levi asked, recalling the graffiti he’d seen.
“Freedom for Families,” Ruston said. “It was started by my great-great-grandfather and his friends back in 2029 when the gov
ernment required all minors to move into the boarding school. It didn’t sit well with some people, so they moved into hiding, eventually into the basements and storm drains. Been there ever since.”
“What about Bender and Rewl?” Levi asked.
“Lots of people leave the basements,” Zane said. “I did. Ran off when I was fifteen. Thought I knew everything. But I came back. Some don’t, though. Some think the Black Army’s plans are better than the FFF’s. Bender joined the Black Army a long time ago, so when Rewl got old enough, he followed.”
“Mr. Neil,” Levi said, “we’re planning to rescue our children from the boarding school soon, but Zane tells me the storm drains are no longer safe. Do you agree?”
“Some of them are and some of them aren’t,” Ruston said. “Enforcers have been exploring storm drains in the Highlands and have closed all the drains on the perimeter wall, so if you’re hoping to get out the way you came in, it’s not going to work.”
Which was just about the worst news Levi could have gotten. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to keep the children inside that cabin once we get them out.”
“They’d be welcome in the basements,” Ruston said. “You all would be. But it’s going to be tough to get the kids out of the school.”
“Tough times never last,” Jemma said, taking hold of Levi’s hand, “but tough people do. Faith makes all things possible. And we have plenty of faith.”
“Good,” Ruston said. “You’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER
18
The next night Omar helped Zane haul a truckload of food and supplies to the cabin. Omar wore his Wyndo watch, and the SimTag detector made it easy to know that no officials were following them. He didn’t want to go inside, though. He still couldn’t believe Shay had told Jemma he was the Owl after she’d promised not to. He’d convinced himself Shay was different from other girls.
Wrong again.
Omar managed to stay outside the cabin, enjoying the soft breeze and leaving things on the porch for Jordan to take inside, but when his aunt Chipeta asked him to carry a box of clothing inside, he couldn’t really say no.
He lugged the box after his aunt, who led him to Shay and Mary’s room. Shay wasn’t inside.
“Just put it on one of the beds,” Aunt Chipeta said.
Omar dropped the box on Shay’s bed and spotted the painting he’d given her hanging on the wall above the headboard. His heart seemed to bob, like it was trying to soar but had been anchored by Shay’s big fat mouth. He fled the house, made it to the front porch, down the steps …
“Omar.”
So close. He took a deep breath and turned around. Shay walked down the steps and across the gravel, clutching a stack of envelopes in her hands. Maybe he should just let it go, forgive her for telling. Levi had freaked out at first, but he was already accepting the Owl now that he’d seen the nest and knew Zane was helping. That wasn’t the point, though. Shay had promised not to tell. She wasn’t any different than Bel or Red or any other blabbermouth girl.
“What’s wrong?” Shay asked, stopping very close to him.
He looked down on her face. The curl had come back into her hair, framing her face in tangles of brown and silver, the soft wind making it sway. Her burnt umber eyes stared into his, and he felt himself slip, the quicksand pulling him in. “You told Jemma I was the Owl,” he said before falling completely under her influence.
She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “No, I didn’t.”
“Now you’re going to lie?”
Her eyebrows pinched together. “I’m not. I swear it on the Bible.”
Omar frowned, unsure how much the Bible mattered to Shay. She’d memorized much of it. Could she be telling the truth? Was there some misunderstanding here?
An urge seized him. Kiss her, it said. She could be yours.
Kiss Shay? He inched back, afraid of himself, of how carnal he’d become. “I don’t want to talk to you right now,” he said. “And stop giving me those stupid messages to deliver. I’m done helping you.”
Her eyes swelled with tears, but she said nothing. Just stared at him. Why wouldn’t she fight back? Didn’t she care that he’d insulted her messages?
His posture sagged at her silence. He wanted her to say something. Anything. But she just stood there, staring, fighting back tears, clutching her letters to her chest. He felt terrible and mean. His words had hurt her. He should apologize, say he’d keep delivering her messages anyway, tell her they were good messages. Wise. Hopeful.
Instead he turned and walked away.
Omar vaped his entire PV on the walk back to his apartment and looked forward to taking a short nap before a late night as the Owl. Sleep and a refill were the only things that would help him get his mind off Shay. But when he reached the lobby of the Alexandria, it was so packed with people that he couldn’t even get in the front door.
“What’s going on?” he asked a guy in the doorway.
“Art sale,” the guy said, showing Omar the flyer in his hands.
Exclusive Art by Omar Strong
Make an Offer
Monday, August 9, 8:30 p.m.
The flyer had three images of Omar’s paintings on the bottom. One he’d done of City Hall, one of a forest, and the one of Belbeline’s face.
What in all the lands?
“Here he is!” a familiar female voice sang, and everyone applauded.
Red. She was standing on the stairs inside the lobby, pointing at him.
“I want the painting of the girl,” the guy at the door said. “I’ll pay fifty credits.”
“Fifty?” Omar couldn’t believe it. “Do you know how long it took me to paint that?” He wouldn’t sell it, ever, but it was worth at least five hundred credits, in his opinion.
The crowd mobbed Omar, asking about the paintings on the flyer, if they could see his other work, if he did commissions.
“There’s been a mistake!” he yelled. “I’m not having an art sale. You can all go home.”
“I’ll pay a hundred for the painting of the girl,” the guy at the door said. “Final offer.”
“Still no.” Omar squeezed around people, fighting his way across the lobby. Red smiled as he passed her on the stairs, and all he could think to say was, “Real mature.”
“He’ll be opening the art exhibit momentarily,” Red called to the crowd.
“No, he won’t!” Omar yelled. “You can all leave. There’s nothing for sale!”
The people grumbled and continued to ask him about the paintings. Stupid Red, anyway. It took Omar a half hour to get inside his apartment. He went straight to his bedroom and found a spare vial of grass. He crawled into bed and vaped until he fell asleep.
A knock on the door woke him. He would have ignored it, but he was thirsty. He still felt good from the grass, but it was fading. He got up and walked to his fridge, grabbed a beer, then looked out the peephole in his front door.
Kendall Collin stood alone in the hallway.
He opened the door, and the spicy smell of her perfume reached out and grabbed him. She was wearing a green fitted top and very short shorts. He forced himself to look up from her legs to her face. What would it feel like to kiss her? To touch her hair? He shook the thought away, angry it had come at all. He blamed the grass. “Hay-o, Kendall.”
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Can I come in?”
The words skyrocketed his pulse and imagination. He had to stop this. Figure out what to do about Shay. This was all Belbeline’s fault. The things they’d done had opened his mind to obsession. He could barely look at a girl without thinking about pairing up.
And while he had fully intended to pursue Kendall when he’d met her the night of Chord’s death, that had changed when he’d learned about Shay. He was going to be a father, whether he — or Jordan or Levi — liked it or not. He had to stop living like a dog.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, trying to act like girls came up to his apartment every day. B
ut his place was a disaster again. He never had time for chores. “Uh, can you wait out here for just a minute? I need to check something.”
Omar closed the door and tossed his beer can. He picked up all the clothes lying on the floor and threw them on his bed, hoping that would keep him from trying to take Kendall in the bedroom. On his way back to the door, he grabbed six different food containers and three beer cans and crammed them into the trash.
Better.
He opened the door, panting slightly. “Come on in.”
Kendall entered. “It smells like paint.”
“That’s because I, uh, I paint.” He gestured toward the kitchen, his makeshift art studio. Kendall walked toward it. He closed the door and followed her, wondering how her legs would look with SimArt patterns up the backs like Belbeline had.
He shook the thought away and focused on the back of her head, but that was no good, either. Omar had always loved painting hair. Kendall’s wasn’t as wild as Belbeline’s or as thick and long as Shay’s, but it was real hair, not that straw-like stuff Red had implanted. It looked soft. It probably was.
Walls, why had he vaped so much grass? He tried to keep his thoughts on track. He thought about his Owl plans for tonight, and then pictured the tiny baby pants Shay had made for Naomi’s boy. But the smell of Kendall’s perfume was like a hook, pulling his eyes back to her again and again.
She had stopped in the kitchen, standing before his easels. One easel had the old Night Owl marquee on it. The other easel held a painting of a little girl’s face.
“Who is this?” Kendall asked.
Omar joined her in the kitchen. “Sophie. She was a girl from Glenrock. Her face has, uh, kind of been haunting me.” Because it was his fault she was dead.
“She has Shaylinn’s eyes,” Kendall said.
Omar studied the painting. He had given Sophie Shay’s eyes. Huh. “I guess Shay has been haunting me too.” He removed the canvas and set it, backside out, at the end of a stack of canvasses that were leaning against the wall. He flipped through them. “This one is kind of nice.” He picked it up and set it on the easel where Sophie had been. It was a landscape of Mount Crested Butte with the sun rising behind it.
Outcasts Page 21
