Uninvited

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  Brockman enters the Cage to hand them out. The pair in the back sigh heavily as they take their folders. He stops by my desk and holds out my folder to me. I’m paranoid about looking Brockman in the face. I’ve been dreading it. I try to take the folder, but he doesn’t release it, holds it hostage until I look up at him.

  His gaze is intent. “Doing okay, Davy?”

  I nod. The grapefruit-sized lump in my throat prevents me from speaking.

  He continues, “Settling in? Everyone treating you well?”

  I can only stare. He leans down and it takes everything inside me not to arch away. I guess it’s my innate politeness—drilled into me ever since I could tie my own shoes. Ironic. I’m here because of my inherent dangerousness, but it’s my inherent politeness that makes me put up with this. With him.

  He grasps my shoulder, squeezes. And I see that hand as I saw it yesterday. Nails blunt-tipped, chewed up to the quick. My stomach rolls. Bile rises in my throat.

  “I’m here for you . . . if you ever want to talk. I’ve got your back.” He smiles. It’s patronizing at best. What I really see lurking in the curve of his lips is the smug knowledge that he knows I know that I’m at his mercy.

  I dismiss the idea of reporting him. I know enough to know that I lack any credibility. My word won’t matter. I remember my conversation with Mitchell. It’s like he said. I just have to make it through May. After that, I’ll figure out what comes next. Clearly it’s not Juilliard anymore. Everton will notify them of my expulsion. That dream is dead. But not every dream. Zac flashes in my mind. No. Not all of them.

  I find my voice. “Thanks. But I’m fine.”

  He angles his head and sets my folder on my desk. “Really?” The single word carries doubt.

  I lift my chin, determined to convince him that I’m fine and will never have need for his particular type of friendship. “Everything is good. I like it here.” Maybe I went a bit far with that last part, but it’s almost worth it to see the flicker of surprise cross his face.

  He lets go of my shoulder and straightens. “I see. Well. Good. Good.”

  He didn’t believe me for a second. There’s a glint of annoyance in his eyes before he turns away and moves on to Gil. I almost smile.

  Until I see Coco, twisting around in her chair. “You think you’re so smart?” she whispers and, even though she’s whispering, her voice falls hard.

  But there’s something in her eyes. A vulnerability, a fear, that gives me pause. I shake my head. “No. I don’t—”

  “Keep your paws off Brockman.”

  “You don’t seriously think I would let him touch me?”

  Her dark eyes flash and I know I offended her. Hot color creeps up her caramel-hued cheeks. “Oh. You’re so good, aren’t you? Better than me, is that it?”

  “No—”

  Her knuckles whiten where they clutch the desk. “We’ll see what you think after a month in here. Just remember what I said. Stay away from Brockman. Find someone else.”

  Before I can respond that I don’t need anyone, she faces the front again.

  What happened to her to make her think she needs to surrender to Brockman? My jaw locks. Whatever it is, I vow to never let that happen to me.

  Opening the folder, I try to focus on my assignments, the chorus of AC/DC’s “Back in Black” weaving inside my head. Right now, I could use some serenity. A wadded ball of paper hits me in the head. Touching my hair, I turn around and glare. Nathan blows me a kiss and throws another paper ball that I jerk to the side to avoid.

  With a huff, I turn back around on my desk and study the assignments. They’re a far cry from my usual workload, but I still need to get it done. The goal is that diploma. Even if it’s from the wrong school.

  Even if I’m living the wrong life.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  * * *

  Tori

  Don’t bring her

  Zac

  Told u I have 2

  EIGHT

  I FINISH MY ASSIGNMENTS BEFORE LUNCH AND take my work to Brockman as I’ve watched the others do. I stand at the Cage door until he motions me through. He takes my manila folder from me and I stand there as he flips through my work like he knows what he’s looking at. Like he’s a real teacher.

  “You work fast.” He hands me the folder. “I hope you did it all correctly.”

  I take it, unsure what I’m supposed to do with it now. He’s supposed to turn my work in for me so that the regular teachers, teachers I’ll never even meet, can grade me.

  “You can turn that in to the office.”

  This surprises me. “I can walk around on my own?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at me like he would like to say something else. Something more. “Classes are in session right now. Just hurry back. Don’t talk to anyone.”

  Who would I talk to? Nodding, I walk out into the corridor, through the haze of stink—the perpetual sweat that hangs in the hall. I can hear the squeak of shoes on the gym floor and know there’s at least one class going on down here now.

  I don’t pass anyone as I head up the stairs to the school’s main floor. It’s a straight shot to the office. The same receptionist is there. For a moment, I think she’s going to say something about me being loose in the halls. Out of my cage.

  Her lips just tighten like she’s holding her breath. Afraid to breathe around me. She snatches the folder and turns her attention back to her monitor. It’s still strange . . . wounds me. I’m the kid everyone likes. Teachers. Parents.

  I was that kid.

  Dismissed, I step back in the hall. A couple of students walk past me into the office. They don’t notice me. Specifically, they don’t notice my special badge. And I’m relieved . . . which makes me feel like a coward. Like I’m happy to hide. Like I need to hide.

  Feeling a little bit disgusted with myself, I stride down the hall, letting my shoes strike the floor loudly. Like I can make up for my cowardice by injecting force into each stride.

  At the top of the stairwell, there’s a trio of students. Two girls. One guy. It’s the guy that catches my attention. He leans back against the steel railing, relaxed. The girls flank him, talking, moving their hands animatedly with every word. They remind me of butterflies ready to launch into air. It’s a scene I’ve seen countless times. When girls are around Zac. They’re so obvious in their attempts to impress this boy.

  And the boy is none other than Sean O’Rourke.

  Sean. They’re not frightened of him at all. I slow my steps and watch, thoroughly baffled. If I didn’t have to—before I became one of them—I would never deliberately come into contact with a carrier.

  As I approach, the girls’ voices register in my ear. I recognize the pitch, the cadence as perfect as a C-sharp. They’re flirting with him. An HTS carrier who’s been imprinted? He’s proven himself dangerous and they’re into him.

  One of the girls reaches out and toys with his orange badge. They must be some type of masochists, I decide. They get off on the danger and potential pain a carrier like Sean can inflict on them.

  I give them as much berth as possible as I near the stairs. But just the same, I gawk at them like some kind of tragic car accident. I can’t not look.

  Sean’s elbows are propped back on the railing. He holds a can of soda loosely in one hand. He’s wearing a gray-and-black graphic T-shirt. HONEST BEES is written across the front and I wonder if it’s a cool band or edgy hot spot in the city that I’ve never heard of. I pretty much stick to a ten-mile radius of my house. Everyone I know does. The streets aren’t safe. Even the streets you know. No sense roaming the streets you don’t know. And there’s a curfew anyway. That always keeps me from staying out too late. Well, that and my parents. The few times I stayed out late I was always with Zac . . . and no more than a couple miles from home.

  His gaze
fixes on me. He shakes the sun-streaked hair back from his face as if to watch me better with those deeply set eyes. My hand closes around the rail, and I pause, staring back, seeing what they see in him. Confidence. Edge. The sexy, dark, misunderstood hero you see in movies or read about in books. Only this is real life. And he’s no hero. The tattoo around his neck proclaims that.

  The girls notice his straying attention. They look over at me, assessing, critical. The blonde one with dark roots asks, “Who’s that?”

  He doesn’t answer. His face registers nothing. It’s like he doesn’t even hear her. Just watches me as I begin to descend, but I can’t help wondering what he would say. Who am I? What am I to him?

  And why should I care?

  I try to pretend I don’t hear the Cage door opening. The clang of steel. The rattle of the latch. The solid tread of feet. The whisper of clothes as he slides into his seat a few desks behind me. I fill my mind with the lyrics of “Casta Diva.” It usually focuses me. The notoriously difficult aria flows through my head. I race along with the high notes, grasping for them, but it’s no good.

  I still see Sean in my mind. His image fresh from half an hour ago. That’s how long he stayed upstairs, talking to those girls, I guess.

  The cool smoke-blue eyes. The hair shielding a face that begs for an extra look. Even with that too-long hair, the imprint encircling his neck can’t be hidden. Yes, a turtleneck offers temporary cover, but they’re not standard in Texas. And anyone could just tug it down to see, anyway.

  And that’s the point. Imprints can’t be denied. Just like bad DNA.

  The ink-black band almost an inch wide. The circled H. It reminds me of a cattle brand. Dark. Deep. Permanent. Once you see that, it’s the only thing you see. Not the person. And that’s the purpose.

  The person doesn’t matter.

  It’s no longer who. It’s what.

  My back tingles, and I wonder if it’s him. Looking at me. Or is it just my imagination? My fear knowing he’s there, here, close, watching.

  My mind strays to that imprint on his neck again. What did he do to get that? Was it one thing? A series of transgressions until Pollock finally ordered the imprinting? I shake my head and press my pencil tip harder into my notebook where I’m spelling out my name: Davy Hamilton. Again and again and again.

  As if that will keep me sane. Keep me me.

  Because him. Behind me. Will never be me.

  “I’ll be back in two minutes,” Brockman calls from the back of the Cage.

  I start a little at the realization that he’s leaving us alone. Together. A room full of carriers, one of whom probably belongs in prison. My skin tightens sharply. This strikes me as a bad idea. The door clicks shut behind him. Too late for me to object.

  Immediately, Nathan and Brian are on their feet. They laugh low under their breaths, practically tripping over themselves to get out of the Cage. A quick glance reveals that everyone else is watching, too. Gil, Coco. Sean is turned, too.

  The two boys speak in rushed tones, scanning Brockman’s desk, their expressions giddy.

  “What are we going to do, man?” Brian anxiously asks.

  Nathan points. “His chair.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Let’s unscrew the bolts.” Brian nods stupidly, bending to tamper with Brockman’s chair.

  Nathan drops a hand on his arm, stalling him.

  He lifts his face, looks straight at Sean. For permission? Approval? I’m not sure which. Maybe both. But it’s clear to me these two guys don’t make a move in the Cage without considering Sean O’Rourke first.

  Sharp prickles break out over my skin. I’m almost disappointed. I don’t know why. Did I somehow think he was better than Nathan? I have no basis for that conclusion. If anything, the imprint on his neck should have told me otherwise. That he’s worse. More dangerous than these other boys.

  I watch Sean, wait for his reaction. It’s the barest motion. Just a dip of his head. Then he turns around and faces front again. My chest squeezes to find myself directly in his line of vision. I spin around, too alarmed to look into those cool eyes.

  I listen to Nathan and Brian as they loosen the bolts on Brockman’s chair and scurry back inside the Cage, laughing like hyenas.

  What does it mean when the guy that crushed my hand in his grip, the one who backhanded poor Gil, whose eyes gleamed when inflicting pain . . . answers to Sean O’Rourke?

  Brockman returns. I don’t dare turn around. Instead, I sit waiting. Listening.

  He crashes to the floor with a yelp. We all turn to look then. Nathan and Brian laugh, slapping their desks as the teacher pulls himself to his feet, cursing and red-faced. Even Coco giggles behind her hands. Gil grins.

  Huffing and holding his back as though he’s injured, he faces us through the chain-link wall. “Go ahead and have your laugh, you little bastards. We all know where you’re going to end up. All of you!”

  The laughter fades as Brockman storms from the room, still cursing under his breath.

  Nathan wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes. “God, that was classic.” He looks over at Sean. “Did you see that, O’Rourke? Priceless.”

  Sean turns in his desk, silent and unsmiling. Even though he sanctioned the little prank, he doesn’t look amused, and I wonder if it has something to do with what Brockman said. We all know where you’re going to end up.

  I don’t know where I’m going to end up. It’s hard for me to imagine that I would ever end up in the same place as Nathan and Brian and Sean O’Rourke.

  And yet here I am now. With them.

  Another office aide comes down toward the end of the day. Brockman enters the Cage and rouses everyone.

  “Okay. New assignment.”

  This is met with several groans. I can’t imagine we’re all in the same grade and I wonder what assignment we all have in common.

  “This is for your Community Awareness.”

  If possible, the groans only get louder. Even Gil reacts. “Those assignments are such a joke.”

  I’ve never heard of a Community Awareness class and wonder if it’s something unique to this school. I glance at the sheet of paper Brockman drops on my desk. A quick glance at the paper’s header clears things up. The Wainwright Agency is identified in the header. This is some kind of assignment specifically for carriers then.

  “According to my instructions, you have a week to complete the project.”

  A project? I sit up a little straighter. Even if it comes from the Wainwright Agency it sounds like this might be real schoolwork. Close enough anyway. My inner geek perks up. Anything to break up the monotony of sitting in this room. To tide me over until I can escape this place and return to my real life. Zac and the party tonight. When I can be myself again.

  “You will need to pair up.”

  At this, my enthusiasm wilts. Everything inside me tenses. I have to work with someone in this room.

  Obviously, Nathan and his better half in the back will pair up. They don’t even have to move desks.

  But what about the others? Who does that leave me with?

  It’s not as though I get a chance to decide for myself. Coco gets up and moves to the empty desk beside Gil. Leaving me to pair up with Sean O’Rourke.

  Fantastic. The back of my neck itches, the skin crawling as if something swarms beneath it. I look down quickly, stare at the paper on my desk, eyes feverishly moving, scanning the blur of words. I expect for him to move in. Like the predator he is. Like all of us in this room are supposed to be. Only I’m not. My being here is a mistake. I’m not like them at all. Maybe if I was, I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable. So afraid.

  Brockman leaves us. The door clangs. I can hear Gil and Coco talking in low voices. I guess they’ve begun to discuss the assignment. I toy with the corner of the paper, waiting for him.

  He never comes.

  Finally, I take a breath and stand, pen and paper in hand. As though he senses me, he lifts his head. His eyes settle on me, his expression mild, empty. H
ow does he do that? How does he look as though there is nothing going on behind the façade? Not a dark thought . . . not a thought at all. A blank slate.

  Squaring my shoulders, I approach and drop into the chair before him, turning so that we’re facing each other.

  I flex my fingers very deliberately around the paper so that it crinkles. “I guess we have to do this.”

  “I guess so.” His deep voice washes over me, and I realize I’ve hardly ever heard him speak. Except when he called me “princess” in Brockman’s office. It’s deeper than I expect. It makes him seem older somehow.

  Clearing my throat, I force myself to read the work sheet. Difficult, considering he doesn’t do the same. Instead, he continues to watch me with those absorbing eyes. Finally, I process the instructions. Dread sinks likes rocks in the bottom of my stomach.

  “We have to interview each other.” My lips move numbly. “Write each other’s biographies.”

  “Uh-huh.” His lips twist. Almost a smile but not quite.

  Why would the Wainwright Agency want us to do this type of exercise? What’s the point?

  As if he can read my mind, he says, “They’re trying to train us in humanity. You know. Because we obviously lack empathy for others,” he says this flatly with no inflection, and I can’t tell if he’s joking.

  I wave to the Cage we’re trapped inside. “Then maybe they shouldn’t treat us like animals in a zoo.”

  He angles his head, staring at me intently, his face that perpetual blank slate. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. He probably thinks that I’m getting bent out of shape over nothing. This is the life he’s accustomed to, after all. My gaze strays to the tattoo on his neck, before jerking quickly away. I don’t want him to see me looking at it.

  “Okay.” I suck in a breath. “You want me to start?”

  “Sure.”

  “Name?”

  “Sean.”

  “Sean?” I prompt even though I know his last name.

  This time he actually smiles, and I know he’s amused because I’m taking this so seriously. “Sean,” he supplies.