The Skin Hunter Series Box Set

by Tania Hutley

  Cale, are you watching? I’m going to get your Skin back. And Ma and William will have a home again. Maybe even up in New Triton, in the sun. Yeah, Ma would like that. Tori, too. And I’ll be the leopard forever.

  I heave myself all the way up, managing to drag my whole body onto the flat piece of metal before I collapse. There are a couple of torn-apart metal creatures up here, too. A huge spiky body lies nearby, the biggest one I’ve seen yet. Still no sign of Sentin, so he must be dead. And there’s nothing but dark sky and blimps above me.

  I’ve done it.

  A light shoots up into the sky, blindingly bright. The circle of light’s coming from the center of the platform, and it’s so close, all I have to do is drag myself over to it and I’ve won. The crowd’s going crazy, cheering and stomping and clapping. When I haul myself back onto my paws they get even louder.

  Every step makes my body light up with pain, but I limp forward, keeping my injured paw off the ground.

  Ten more steps. Nine steps. Eight.

  The crowd are shouting something. What are they saying? So many voices, it’s hard to make out. Something about Sentin?

  He bursts out from where he was crouched behind the fallen metal creature. His reptile scales are a dull rust color, crusted with blood. Sentin’s on all fours and he’s limping too. He’s on me before I can think to react. When he rears up to his hind legs to shove me, I stumble, sobbing with pain. He keeps coming, determined, one goal in mind, and I can’t stay on my paws.

  I feel the edge of the metal platform. One last shove and I’m over it, plunging down, dropping backward off the tower.

  I fall, tumbling toward the ground. Then slam hard into a metal platform.

  Pain burns though my body, eating me up, taking me over.

  Pain is all I am.

  Consciousness floods in and out like waves. It takes a while for me to realize I’m screaming.

  I force the pain down, swallowing it, holding it inside me as I lie on my back, looking up. I have to see what happens next. I need to see the contest end.

  The light beams straight up from the top of the tower, projecting into the night sky. Sentin’s up there. His image is in the light. He lifts his hands, stretching them up.

  The bright spotlights that light the rest of the tower go out, leaving me in complete darkness. None of the other Skins matter now.

  The shining image of Sentin’s reptile lights up the sky. The crowd chants his name over and over. Sen-tin. Sen-tin. Sen-tin.

  He’s won. Sentin’s won.

  It’s over. I’ve lost.

  Chapter Thirty

  Metal robots scrape me off the tower and carry me to the arena floor in darkness. I’m glad nobody can see me. The crowd’s only looking at Sentin. That’s good. Nobody hears me scream.

  I’m battered and torn. My human body will be damaged too, but what does it matter? I lost. I may as well be dead.

  When I refuse to transfer out of my Skin, a doctor injects me with something that paralyses me. It makes my sight darken and narrow so it’s like I’m looking through a very long tube. My consciousness tears away from my leopard like bones breaking.

  I can feel human limbs, my human body.

  Pain.

  I hear myself scream again, this time from a human throat. My clothes are too heavy. I can’t bear the weight of them, pressing on my broken body. They’re wet with blood.

  Doesn’t matter.

  I lost.

  My human body is being carried somewhere, and it hurts so badly I can barely think. Through the pain, I search frantically for my leopard, stretching my consciousness out to find it.

  Where is it? There’s a hole in my mind, a piece missing. I’d rather have lost an arm or a leg. The most vital part of me has vanished, lost forever. What’s there to live for now?

  A hand grips my arm, holding it still, then another needle slides in. A powerful painkiller, because the pain ebbs away and my head clears enough that I can open my eyes.

  I’m in a small, white room that holds only a bed and a beeping machine that’s probably measuring my vitals. A white-coated doctor frowns at me. She has dark red hair scraped back into a severe bun, and her expression is unfriendly. Over the stench of my own blood, I catch her scent. If I were still in my Skin, I’d say I can sense what she’s feeling, that she’s excited about something.

  But no, it’s my imagination. I’m clutching at the idea, because I can’t stand that my leopard’s gone.

  And if she does smell, so what? Nothing matters now. Not the faint, muffled stamps and cheers above me that tell me I’m still in the arena complex, somewhere below ground level. Not the wounds that cover my human body, or the doctor tugging my bloody shirt off so she can examine the damage underneath. I don’t look to see how badly I’m hurt. I don’t care.

  I’ll never be the leopard again.

  The crowd gives another muffled roar, and I imagine Sentin up there, parading in front of the crowd. Raising his elongated, shimmering arms to the sky, reveling in his win.

  The doctor sprays something over my torso to seal my wounds. The cold liquid hardens as it hits, and my flesh tightens underneath. She makes me roll over so she can do my back, then she snaps, “Bring some clean clothes,” at someone, and I realize that somehow I already knew there were two people standing by the door even though they’re behind me.

  It’s only because I’m half naked that I summon the energy to look who’s there. A red-uniformed guard is standing at attention beside the door while another guard disappears out through it, his heavy boots making every step loud.

  Everything’s in sharp focus. I’m suddenly aware of every smell, every tiny movement, every sound. They’re not as clear as when I was the leopard, but far sharper than my human senses have ever been. Over the last few days I’ve noticed my senses were getting better, but nothing like this. Whether it’s because I’m still pumped up after the contest, I’m not sure. But I can smell the doctor’s perspiration, and I’m sure she’s excited about something.

  The doctor tries to strip off my jeans, and I grab hold to stop her pulling them down. She’s not going to get me naked. Not in front of the guard.

  I hear more footsteps. A pair of heavy boots in the hallway outside. Without a shirt on I’m not turning around, but when the door opens I know by his scent it’s the guard she sent away. The doctor takes some clothes from him and hands me a clean shirt. I sit up to put it on, amazed I don’t feel worse. Surely the painkillers she gave me can’t be that good? Is it another unexpected improvement, my body recovering extra fast?

  “Here.” The doctor gives me a clean pair of jeans. “Take the dirty pair off and I’ll treat the rest of your wounds.”

  The shirt is long enough to give some cover, and my jeans are a nasty black color, heavy and dark with blood, so I do what she says. It takes me a while, first to get my shoes off, then to tug off my heavy, sticky jeans, even with her help.

  When I’ve finally stripped them free, she sprays the cuts that cover my legs. There’s only one that’s really nasty, a deep gash in my thigh that she frowns at before she sprays.

  The ankle’s puffy. “Not broken,” she says once she’s scanned it. “Torn muscles. You’ll heal.”

  When she’s done, I tug on the clean pair of jeans and put on the shoes she gives me.

  The doctor looks me over before nodding in approval. “Wait here,” she says, then leaves.

  Watching the guards, I ease myself back onto the bed. What happens now? They’ve cleaned me up, but only on the surface. The doctor didn’t do a great job of cleaning or treating my wounds. I’m being held together with temporary spray and painkillers, then clean clothes to hide the damage.

  Guess the Morelle Corporation has officially stopped caring. Any minute now they’ll kick me out, back to Old Triton, which will probably mean a long, slow, miserable death. With Rayne’s band I’ve no chance of getting work or being able to stay in a shelter.

  The door opens and Director More
lle comes in. What’s she doing here? From the thumping coming from above, it sounds like the crowd are leaving the arena. Is the whole event over?

  “Wait outside,” she tells the guards. She looks at me like I’m a nasty bug that just crawled into squashing distance. If she’s glad I survived, she’s hiding it well.

  “Hello, Rayne. Your parents insisted on seeing you as soon as the contest was over.” Director Morelle inclines her head toward the door. “They’ll be here in a moment.”

  “My mother?” I croak.

  The director shoots me a scornful look, and my chest contracts.

  “You mean Rayne’s parents?” I ask. Is she crazy? She knows I’m not Rayne, so what kind of game is she playing? Damned if I’m going to stick around to find out.

  I push myself off the bed and up to standing, but Director Morelle steps forward and grabs my upper arms, forcing me back onto the hospital bed. I wasn’t expecting it, and wouldn’t have believed she could move so fast. Too late, I struggle. It’s like fighting back against a statue. When I throw all my weight forward, she doesn’t budge, doesn’t even flinch. How could she be so strong? New Tritoners often have nanobots injected to give them extra strength, but this is way too much. Is there some other kind of strength tweaking I don’t know about?

  She brings her face close to mine, and it shows no sign of strain. Not the smallest bead of sweat, not a wrinkle, not a hair out of place. I can’t smell perspiration, and I could never detect a hint of emotion in her, not even when I was the leopard.

  Is she even human?

  I freeze as the thought crystalizes and becomes so obvious I should have realized it earlier.

  Could she be a Skin?

  Bringing my face close, I take a deep breath, dragging in her scent. Human flesh and blood? I think so. But underneath the flesh, deep inside her, there’s something else. It’s not my imagination. It’s a core of carbon fiber. I can sense it. I know I’m right.

  She’s a Skin.

  But there are only supposed to be five Skin prototypes, the five for the contest, and humanoid ones are illegal.

  The door opens.

  Director Morelle lets me go and turns in one smooth motion. It’s a man and a woman, their worried expressions turning to frowns of dismay when they see me. They have the perfect features of floaters, and skin that’s a rich, dark brown. Rayne’s parents.

  The man turns his frown to Director Morelle. “This isn’t our daughter.”

  Rayne’s mother stares at my wrist, her eyes widening. “Why are you wearing Rayne’s band? How did you get it? What have you done with her?”

  The scent of their shock and worry fills the small room, so strong it makes my head swim.

  “I don’t... um…” I get up, my heart racing, and flick my gaze to the door. Should I run?

  Director Morelle speaks up, sounding surprised. “I had no idea this girl wasn’t Rayne.”

  “Where’s our daughter?” The man’s face is going red. His fists clench and unclench and when he lurches at me, I’m sure he’s going to attack. “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  “I haven’t done anything. I swear.”

  “Where did you get her band?” He tries to grab me but I pull away, fending him off though he’s much bigger than me.

  “I saw her in the shelter, but they killed her. The sharks did, I mean. Not me.” The more I back up, the further I get from the door. I raise both hands, trying desperately to show that I’m not dangerous. That I’m no killer.

  The man freezes, and the woman goes pale. She lifts both hands to her mouth. “What?” she whispers.

  “Some men were trying to rob her. One had a blade.” I suck in my breath, hating that I’m the one to tell them their daughter’s dead. Hating myself for taking the band from a dying girl. “He killed her and I took her band. I’m so sorry. I swapped it with mine.”

  “That’s not true.” The man deflates, his arms sinking by his sides. He looks smaller than he did a moment ago, as though he’s shrinking before my eyes. “You’re lying. She’s not dead.”

  “If she stole your daughter’s band, it’s likely she killed her so she could take her place in the contest.” says Director Morelle.

  The woman’s eyes fill with tears. “Where is she? Where’s Rayne?”

  I’ve no idea what she means. Does she want to know what happened to her body, or does she not believe that Rayne is dead?

  “Security!” At the director’s yell, the two guards come rushing in. “Take her into custody.”

  They grab me, one on each arm, their fingers digging into my flesh.

  “She needs to tell us where our daughter is,” says the man in a broken voice.

  “Rayne’s dead.” Director Morelle waves at the two men, gesturing them out. “I’ll turn her murderer in to the police and they’ll find your daughter’s body.” As the guards drag me toward the door, the director glances down at her band. “We must go. There’s been an explosion outside. They’re saying it could be a terrorist—.”

  “Where is she?” Rayne’s father cuts off the director, his shout filled with desperation. I still don’t know what he means.

  “I didn’t kill her,” I call as the guards drag me out. “Please believe me.”

  Outside the door, the red-haired doctor who treated my wounds is waiting, hypodermic in hand. She jabs the needle into my arm and my vision blurs. When I try to protest, a nonsense sound slurs slowly out of my mouth.

  The world goes dark.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I wake up with my arms strapped down. I’m lying on a bed in a lab room. My brain is fuzzy. I can’t think straight.

  A woman is speaking, her voice muffled and far away. “…changes at the cellular level,” she says. “A sympathetic reaction to extreme stimulation of the neural cortex. The surgeon reports a further improvement in eye function, far beyond the normal range.”

  A machine beeps next to me and I manage to turn my head enough to see it. Wires run from the machine to my head. Hard things are attached to my skull. They itch, and I wriggle my forehead trying unsuccessfully to shake them loose. Numbers run across the machine. I blink at them, but they blur into each other.

  “Yes, director,” says the woman. “She’s waking up now,”

  Whatever drug they’ve given me has made my vision blurry. I try to tug my wrists free of the straps that hold them to the bed, but the straps hold firm.

  Am I in hospital? In prison? I’m wearing a smock, so hospital seems more likely. But the room’s ceiling is the same color as the ceiling in the room they gave me at the Morelle scraper. Could I be there?

  I hear footsteps coming closer, then the woman says, “That’s it, Milla. Wake up.” Blinking at the white-coated doctor, I see it’s the same red-haired, hard-faced woman who bandaged me up after the contest. But behind her is another shape. I blink harder, trying to make out what it is.

  Could it be—?

  A sharp jolt of hope fights through the fuzziness in my brain.

  My Leopard Skin.

  It’s lying down, strapped to a large gurney. So many thick webbing straps tie it down that only its head is clearly visible.

  “What have you done to it?” I whisper, closing my eyes. I squeeze them as tight as I can, trying to transfer into my leopard. Transfer, dammit.

  My head is too stuffed with wool. My consciousness is trapped inside my own tied-down body.

  The doctor’s hands on my head make my eyes flutter back open. She’s adjusting the hard things—electrodes—on my skull.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” My voice sounds as fuzzy as my brain.

  When the woman doesn’t answer, I jerk my head away from her hands.

  She clicks her tongue, reaching for the electrode she’s trying to adjust. “It’ll be easier if you don’t fight.”

  “Tell me what you’re going to do.” I jerk my head again.

  Her mouth presses into an annoyed line. “The director wants to know why your bo
dy reacts to wounds inflicted on the Skin. We’re going to measure exactly what’s happening inside your brain as we—”

  “As you what?” But I already know. That much, at least, is filtering into my woozy mind. “You’re going to damage my Skin? On purpose?”

  The thought is so horrible, I jerk the webbing holding my wrists again, fighting to get free.

  “The sooner we get the data we need, the sooner this will be over. So please hold still and do what I tell you.”

  In spite of the fuzziness in my mind, my body isn’t sore and as far as I can tell, my wounds have healed. My Skin’s wounds, too. Though the straps holding it down look so tight they’re digging into its flesh, I can’t see or smell any blood.

  Last thing I remember, the director said she was turning me in for Rayne’s murder. But that little scene she organized was obviously just an act for Rayne’s parents.

  “How long have I been knocked out?”

  “Long enough to heal.” She sounds distracted as she checks some numbers on a tablet.

  I blink hard, trying to clear my head. Long enough to heal? Sounds like I could have been out for days. The director didn’t turn me in to the police. She’s kept me here.

  I’m officially not Rayne anymore, and nobody’s looking for me. The director can do whatever she likes with me. There’s nothing to stop her if she decides to cut open my head and dissect my brain.

  Worse, she can take my leopard apart, piece by piece, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop her.

  “Don’t hurt my leopard,” I gasp. “Please.”

  The doctor turns to a tray of instruments. “We have no choice. You’re the only one who’s exhibited those kinds of symptoms. We need to find out why.” She picks up a hypodermic. “When I inject you with this, you’ll be able to transfer into the Skin.”