“A creeper?”
“Yeah. You know. Always creeping up on you. Quiet as a mouse, but when you turn around, he’s there. Watching you.” She looks at me and repeats, “Creeper.”
Like it’s the most obvious and natural thing. Like this place is full of them. I shrug off my sense of disquiet and remind myself this place can’t be worse than Mount Haven. The carriers here want to be here. They’re helping one another. And others on the outside, too.
I nod and move on, still feeling his stare. Creeper.
We enter the women’s showers. Basically a locker room. Poor lighting. Concrete on every side. There are hooks and cubbies.
Rhiannon puts the fresh clothes she carries for me inside a cubby and picks up a towel from a folded stack. “Here.”
I take the towel. The fabric is rough and scratchy, but clean at least. I follow her to where the floor slopes into showers that are sectioned off with curtains. I’m almost surprised at the nod to modesty. Everything else feels so utilitarian . . . like such a thing would be beyond concern.
She helps me ease the gown off my shoulders. With careful fingers she peels back the gauze. “Try not to get it too wet. I know you want to wash your hair, but do the best you can to keep this dry. There should be some bottles of shampoo on the ledge in there.”
“Thanks.” Letting the gown pool to my feet, I step behind the nearest curtain. Even lukewarm, the water is heaven. I let it gently beat down on my battered body. I shampoo my hair twice, rubbing my scalp clean with my fingertips, noticing that the water darkens for a moment with some of the residual dye. Remembering Rhiannon’s advice to keep my shoulder as dry as possible, I finish the rest of my shower quickly and shut the water off. The towel appears through the curtain as if by magic, and I realize she must have been waiting on the other side the entire time. Like some kind of bodyguard. I shove off the uneasy sensation.
“Thanks.” I accept it and pat myself dry. Satisfied, I pull back the curtain with a noisy screech of the iron rings—and freeze. A girl stands there, but it’s not Rhiannon. It’s Tabatha. With her hands propped on her hips, her toned arms are highlighted to perfection. My gaze skips over her and skims the room.
“Where’s Rhiannon?”
“Doc needed her. I volunteered to stay.”
Because I can’t be left unsupervised?
Wrapped in the towel, I step from the shower, my modesty suddenly returning in the presence of a girl who looks like she works out every spare moment.
“I wanted to meet you anyway.” She studies me as I move toward my clothes. I feel her gaze on my neck, lingering on the band and the encircled H. This sleek—yes, sexy—dangerous-looking girl evaluates me. I’m almost surprised she doesn’t bear an imprint, too. There’s an aura of power about her. She definitely seems very capable of dispensing violence. They would have loved her at Mount Haven.
Even though a voice tells me I shouldn’t respond to her comment, I hear myself asking, “Why would you want to meet me?”
“I heard about you. The girl who Caden found. Who survived the wilderness alone . . . complete with a bullet wound.” The words are right, but there’s something to them. A lack of respect that crystallizes the point that she really isn’t impressed with me.
“Well, I wasn’t exactly alone, was I? Like you said, Caden found me.”
“Hm.” She lowers herself to a bench and watches me clinically as I dress. “But you got away from the patrols shooting you. So you have some skills.” She looks me over as if searching for evidence of this and not seeing it.
“None to speak of,” I hedge, hoping to appear nonthreatening. Let her think I’m a carrier passing through like all the rest.
“So what’s the deal with this camp you came from?” She brings her braid around her shoulder and toys with the end of it, running the dark strands between her long fingers.
At my sharp look, she shrugs. “I heard them talking about it.” I wince internally at the thought of anyone sitting around . . . discussing me. “They were training you to be some kind of specialized killer, huh?”
“Not really.”
“Did they train you in techniques and stuff?”
Finished dressing, I stand. “Ready?”
She hesitates, clearly wanting me to answer her. Shrugging, she drops her braid and rises from the bench. “Sure.” Even as lukewarm as the water had been, the air outside the room is decidedly less humid, and my breath flows easier out of my lungs.
We don’t make it very far before the iron-grate floor beneath us rattles with the weight of someone coming toward us. I look up and my gaze collides with the dark eyes of a guy who must have played football in his past life—or wrestled. His neck sits thickly on his shoulders. The great width of it only draws more attention to his imprint.
“Enjoyed your shower?” Reproach laces his voice. Like I’m somehow not entitled to such a thing. But it’s a voice I recognize. The nasal quality impossible to forget.
I stare at him, managing a nod.
“We met when you first arrived. I’m Marcus. Captain here.” As though he’s the only captain. He nods to the guy standing close behind him. He’s big, too, with close-set eyes. “This is Ruben.”
I hold silent. Standing between Tabatha, with watchful eyes, and Marcus, I don’t exactly feel like I’m among friends, even though these people and this place are the only things standing between me and certain death.
“Glad to see you’re on your feet. Maybe we can talk now, but not here.” He glances around, his dark eyebrows drawing together. His hair is shaved close to his head in a military-style crew cut. He’s in his midtwenties and holds himself rigidly, his muscled chest pushing against his tight camo T-shirt. “Let’s head to the interrogation room.”
Interrogation room? What is he—a police detective?
I moisten my lips and glance around, searching for Rhiannon. There’s no sign of her, and I turn back to Marcus.
He cocks his head, considering me. Waiting. And I know it’s not a suggestion.
I look at Tabatha, but there’s no help there. The expression on her face tells me she thinks this is a great idea. She would probably sit next to him and add her own questions to the inquiry.
Suddenly I feel very alone.
Marcus’s gaze lifts right and settles over my shoulder.
“That’s enough time on your feet for one day, Davy. Let’s get you back to the infirmary.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear the low rumble of Caden’s voice behind me. I blame my injuries. I thought my situational awareness—at least ever since finding out I have HTS—was better than that. Seems I still have things to work on.
I’m not sure if it’s Caden’s voice or his hand settling on my arm, but I shiver.
“Hey, Caden.” Tabatha straightens, gifting him with a bright smile. He nods hello.
“We were going to put a few questions to her, Anderson.” Marcus’s eyes take on a new gleam as he directs his attention to Caden. “We haven’t had an opportunity to do that yet given her unorthodox arrival. I’m sure you can see the wisdom in that. Your old man, the Colonel, was the one to set up such protocols, after all.” Ruben nods beside him.
Caden grins then, his teeth a flash of white against his tan face. He chuckles softly, and I think I catch him murmur the word “unorthodox.”
Marcus must have heard him, too—or he just doesn’t care for Caden’s amusement. He snaps, “That’s right. We have protocol in place. Protocol established by your father when he first started this cell. Protocol we’re trusted to maintain while Dumont is gone. Protocol that you broke when you failed to blindfold her.” He stabs a finger directly in Caden’s chest, and just like that all levity leaves Caden’s face.
The air thickens, and I’m convinced one of them—or both—is about to launch at the other one. By now I know carriers. Whatever else they are, they’re aggressive.
“I don’t need you to lecture me about my father.”
“I think I
knew the man better than you.” Ruben makes a grumbling sound of assent. Marcus nods and claps him on the shoulder as he continues, “I served under him for five years and Ruben here served under him for three . . . while you were some snot-nosed kid hanging out on a skateboard back home with your mommy. The General only made you a captain when you came here out of some screwed-up sense of loyalty to your dad.”
“Shut up.” Caden’s jaw tenses, and I know he wants to say more than that.
Marcus ignores him. “Following protocol keeps people alive. Your old man never got around to teaching you that lesson, I guess. For all we know she’s an Agency spy.”
“I don’t work for the Agency,” I can’t stop myself from protesting. I grab at my throat, stretching my neck for all eyes although it’s not necessary. My imprint is clear as day. “Does this mean nothing?”
“For all we know they put that on you so you could fit in better.” This from Ruben. I glare at him, standing so confidently beside Marcus.
“Really?” I feel my eyes go wide. “Are there many volunteers out there who would take an assignment where they have to get themselves imprinted?”
No one would want that stigma. I know that much . . . have lived through the ostracism firsthand. Family. Friends. The life that you thought yours all of a sudden vanishing. As fluid as water slipping through your fingers.
“Who said it was your choice?” Marcus shrugs. “Or maybe the Agency promised to remove your imprint after you completed your job.”
I pull back, feeling myself shrink a little inside, because it’s close to what Mount Haven dangled before me—that if I successfully completed their training, I could have a future without this imprint around my neck. But that ship sailed the day I escaped.
I’m not a spy.
Caden’s fingers adjust on my arm, just a light flexing. I could easily shrug him off, but that would leave me facing others who look ready to drag me away into some interrogation room. I envision it like in one of those old police dramas—with them beating me with a rubber hose to get whatever answers they want out of me.
“Back. Off.” Caden punctuates each word with a meaningful pause.
“Caden,” Tabatha says, and there’s a cajoling tone, a lilt to her voice that irks me, driving home the fact that while Caden and Marcus might not get along, Caden and Tabatha are a whole other story. She plays with the end of her braid again, curling the dark strands around her fingers with an elegance that belies her hard-as-nails-camo-wearing persona.
He shakes his head once at her. “We’re not doing this now, Tab.”
I glance at the hard set to his jaw. Not now. But later? This time I tug my arm free. The action liberates me, but I sway a little on my feet.
“See? She can hardly stand.” Caden wraps an arm around my waist.
Tabatha’s eyes narrow on that arm and her gaze feels heavy on me, heavier than Caden’s arm. Like a shackle. Caden walks us past them, still holding me like I might drop. Marcus stands aside at the last moment, letting us pass. My hip brushes with Caden’s and I try to lean away, but he yanks me back, tucking me to his side.
I glare at his profile. “I can walk.”
“Keep moving unless you’re in the mood to be interrogated,” he says near my ear.
“I thought you were in charge here,” I toss back.
“I told you . . . there’s not just one leader here.” He jerks his head back to the group. “If Marcus wants you badly enough . . . and convinces everyone else that you’re some spy, well then, there’s not much Terrence or I can do for you.”
My throat tightens as his voice fades. I swallow against the thickness rising up my windpipe. “Why not let them take me? Aren’t they your friends?”
“Marcus is not my friend, nor is his sidekick, Ruben,” he growls, his hand exerting the slightest pressure at my waist. “He’s power hungry. All this is a pissing match between him and me.”
“And I’m in the middle of it? Great. Maybe you should care a little less for my welfare then. Maybe I’d be better off.”
His mouth curves in a half smile, and that sends a warm little flutter through me—to know I made him smile. Perfect. I give myself a mental punch to the face. That’s what feeling so alone and starved for friends and companionship does to you. It’s made me weak and overly affected at the first smile a cute guy throws my way.
That’s not all it does. It makes me care. Again. Like before. I nod as the knowledge twists sickly through me, curling around my heart. Yeah. Right. And caring makes you do things like kill.
I suck in a breath at the reminder of Sean. I don’t regret saving his life, but taking the life of another? I can never shake that.
“Hey, Cade!”
I look up as another fatigues-clad guy advances. This one doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as Marcus and Ruben, however, even if he’s big, too.
“Been looking for you!” He holds a notepad, his face animated at whatever he’s got written there. He’s probably in his late twenties, but at the moment he looks like a kid who just discovered a forgotten lollipop in his pocket.
“Terrence.” Caden stops and nods at me beside him. “This is Davy.”
“Oh.” He blinks down like he’s noticing me for the first time. “Heard Caden found you out there . . . there was a lot of static on the wire about your group. They were going nuts trying to get you guys. Glad the others you were with made it across. Pretty lucky. More are captured than succeed. Except us. We rarely fail.”
“Yeah, it’s a real relief.” Whatever happens to me, at least there’s the comfort of knowing they reached the other side.
“Last night I was actually worried with Caden out there and the patrols so thick.”
“Yeah. I guess I’m lucky he was out there, though, to find me.”
“No doubt.” He takes my hand in a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
Terrence drops my hand and waves his pad at Caden again. “I’ve got some exciting intel about activity east of—”
“I’ll meet you in controls in a minute, T,” Caden says calmly.
Terrence looks ready to argue, but then he glances from Caden to me and seems to compose himself. He squares his shoulders, and his expression loses some of its animation. “All right.” He nods. “See you in a few.”
Caden holds the door to the infirmary open for me. I feel instantly more at ease once I step inside the familiar room. Phelps is there with Rhiannon. They’re peering over a microscope on the far counter. They lift their heads to give us the barest glance before returning their attention to their work.
Caden helps me toward the bed. “Kind of hard to stop now.”
I pause, looking at him in confusion, both my hands flat on the bed, ready to lift myself up.
“Caring,” he clarifies. “About you.”
The words send hot prickles throughout me. I quickly drag myself all the way onto the bed, hardening everything inside me. I don’t know why he’s saying such things or being kind. It’s tempting to trust him. To let myself lean on someone else. “It’s not hard,” I insist, staring at him intently, begging with my gaze. “You just stop.” I say this like that’s the easiest thing to do. I want to add that if you don’t stop now, it only hurts more later. I know this. Later, when the world crashes all around you, it will be too late.
He pulls the blanket over my legs like I’m an invalid. “Rest. Get better. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He glances to where the doctor and Rhiannon work. His voice lowers as he considers them. “Try to avoid Marcus. It doesn’t take much for him to stir up trouble. I’m sure you can understand how tense everyone is.”
Tense? With the world wanting you dead or under lock and key in a detention camp? With patrols swarming above us hunting for carriers? Yeah. I guess I understand why tempers might be quick to flare.
He continues to study me, adding, “I know it feels like you’re trapped here, but this place is freedom. The closest we can get, anyway, these days.
This compound exists for the sole purpose of helping carriers find freedom. You’ll get your chance. Just hang in there. I’ll help you. You just have to trust me.”
I shake my head at him, all my nerves squeezing tight. Resisting him and that impossible thing he suggests.
He sighs, a faint smile on his lips. “I know what you’re thinking. You don’t do trust.”
The corners of my lips tentatively lift. It’s a humorless smile that feels all wrong on my face. “It’s not in me.” To trust. To wait for life to happen to me. That’s not possible. Not anymore.
“You can’t go out until I say it’s safe. Do you understand? You can’t act without considering the whole group. None of us can. That’s how we’ve made it this far, and I’m not going to let everything my father built crumble to hell.” A hardness enters his voice. “If one of us is captured, or a group that goes out is taken, this entire cell is threatened. That won’t happen. I won’t let it.”
Staring into his earnest face, I know he’s for real. This place is his priority. As kind as he’s being to me, ultimately it’s the group he’s looking out for.
A whisper of respect weaves through me for this guy who would take on so much, who would fight for a cause . . . for an entire population of people he doesn’t even know.
I shove down the surge of emotion. I’d prefer not to feel this way . . . not to feel anything for him at all. If there’s respect, then before I know it, I’ll be liking him. I’ll care. My stomach twists.
“You don’t know me.” As much a reminder for me as him.
“Just because we’re carriers doesn’t mean we have to live without a conscience. The minute we forget that, the minute it’s every man for himself . . . then all is lost. We’ve become the monsters they say we are.”
There’s a chord of something in his voice—a plea? I roll over onto my side, away from him, almost hating him in that moment for reminding me of the person I used to be—the person I assumed I would always be before everything was taken away from me. My eyes burn, and I blink them hard once. He makes me remember and yearn for that girl again. He makes me think that maybe . . . just maybe, I can be her a little bit.
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