Uninvited

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  Outside, it’s like stepping into a hothouse. The morning’s rain had passed and the air immediately sticks to my skin.

  Tucci motions us away from the front door to where he stands near the flagpole. He drags both hands through his hair, clearly rattled. “Look. You all need to leave before the bell rings and the students see you. Or we’ll have more of that.” He points to the building where we left Sean. My stomach twists. “Given the present climate . . .” He shakes his head as if the possibilities were unspeakable.

  “I don’t need to be told twice.” Nathan and Brian head into the parking lot, a bounce to their strides, and I’m convinced they see this as nothing more than a holiday and not the end of something. An end to carrier tolerance and the beginning of something else. A new era . . . where carriers are more than simply reviled. Where we’re less than animals. Where we’re more than identified. More than monitored.

  Coco follows them, her pace swift, humming with urgency. There’s none of Nathan’s or Brian’s levity to her. She understands what it takes to survive. And to a certain degree, I admire her for that. She’ll always land on her feet.

  I linger with Gil, looking toward the front door, reluctant to leave Sean still in there—especially after he got himself into trouble for helping me. I didn’t expect that. He’s helped me before but never at risk to himself.

  “Go on, get out of here.” Tucci waves at us before turning back and disappearing inside the school. The final bell rings inside the building, the echo discordant, vibrating on the air. Still, I stand there, my feet rooted to the sidewalk, staring at the doors, willing Sean to appear.

  “Davy, we gotta go. They’re going to pour out of those doors and we can’t be here when they do.”

  “What about—”

  “He’s with campus security. We’re not. He’s safer than we are standing out here. Let’s go.”

  I nod jerkily and move, my head still ringing from the earlier blow. I cup the back of my neck as if that will help. Gil walks close to my side, one hand wavering between us as if he’s prepared to support me if I should trip or fall.

  “You mind if I get a ride again? My apartment’s not far. I usually walk, but today . . .” His voice fades, but I can hear his apprehension, see it in the way his eyes scan the parking lot, pausing on the doors in the distance where the first students start to exit. I’m reminded that he’s been a student here before he was ever declared a carrier. These were once his fellow classmates and they know him on sight. He doesn’t need an imprint on his neck to identify him. Walking home, any student driving past will know who he is . . . what he is.

  And as Tucci pointed out, with the current events, anything could happen to him.

  “Sure,” I respond, punching the UNLOCK button. He dives into the passenger seat.

  The parking lot is already crowded by the time I back out, cars in the front impeding our exit from campus. As I inch behind vehicles, I glance to the doors and migration of students, scanning for one taller than the most. An ink collar on his neck. But he never appears.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  * * *

  (FBI interrogation)

  AGENT OALLEN: Why did you do it?

  KEVIN HOYT: What are you talking about?

  AGENT OALLEN: C’mon, man. We’ve confiscated your computer. Your phone. I’ve talked to the other three. They didn’t pull off the largest mass shooting in this country’s history on their own. We know you’re the brains behind this.

  KEVIN HOYT: That’s kind of you to say.

  AGENT OALLEN: So. Why?

  KEVIN HOYT: Why not?

  AGENT OALLEN: You don’t even care? You feel no remorse? One hundred and twenty dead. Over fifty injured . . .

  KEVIN HOYT: Pretty good. We were aiming for two hundred but, like you said. Over fifty injured. We might get there yet.

  AGENT OALLEN: You’re a monster.

  KEVIN HOYT: That’s what everyone keeps saying. . . . It’s good to know they were right. Isn’t it?

  EIGHTEEN

  IT DIDN’T TAKE TOO MUCH INVESTIGATING TO FIND out where Sean lived. I still had my notes from his interview, including the name of his foster mother. A quick online search uncovered only one Martha Delaney in the area. I plug the address into my phone and head downstairs, finished with sitting at home with nothing to do. Four days of no school. No friends. No leaving the house. Mom said it’s too dangerous for me to go out. It isn’t safe for imprinted carriers to walk the streets. All over the country they’re targets for vigilante justice.

  She’s right, of course. I should just stay home, but there’s only so much television a person can watch.

  Snatching my keys off the hall table, I abandon the empty house. I haven’t seen Dad since the day I was imprinted. Mom says work keeps him away, but I know it’s not that. It’s me.

  Mom faces me every day, her smile in place, but even she has taken to avoiding me, increasing her hours at the office. Mitchell’s Jeep sits out front and I’m sure he’s sleeping late. I heard him back out of the driveway last night while I was in bed.

  With one eye on my phone’s map, I drive, leaving my safe neighborhood behind and getting on the highway that takes me closer to town. I pass the exit to Keller High School and keep going. I pass the next exit that would take me to Gilbert’s apartment.

  I never would have visited anyone this close to the city before. Not only would my parents have forbidden it, I would have been too afraid. Bad things happen within the city limits. Even on the outskirts, where I’m headed. Like an infection, the crime is spreading, spilling into what once used to be safe suburbs.

  The hills get smaller. More houses and buildings appear as I head south. Buildings that look like they’ve seen better days. Graffiti is everywhere. I exit the highway and take a right at the first stoplight. The buildings aren’t rock here like where I live. They’re mostly a mud-colored HardiePlank that reminds me of cardboard. I weave to avoid hitting a stray cat that looks more like a skeleton. Patches of fur broken by raw flesh cover it.

  The road narrows and I have to ease off the gas so that I can maneuver around cars parked in the street. The apartments get shabbier, interrupted by an occasional house with cracked concrete porches and yards overrun with weeds and miscellaneous junk.

  A siren sings in the distance. A moment later, it soars through the cross street in front of me. I watch it for a moment and find myself wondering where they’re going, who they’re after. A carrier? Like the ones splattered all over the news. Shaking my head, I glance down at the address again.

  I mutter under my breath, searching for house numbers that aren’t visible on most homes. At a corner sits a rusted Dumpster. A hand peeks out from its depths throwing something that might be a rotting watermelon into the arms of a waiting youth.

  I slam on my brakes as a body bolts across the street in front of my car. A split second later another person flies after the first. He tackles him on the sidewalk with a bone-jarring crack I hear through the windows of my car. The two tussle, arms swinging, fists slamming.

  I blink and gawk, unsure whether I’m witnessing an assault or high-spirited horseplay. Given where I am, it’s pure optimism to think I’m watching a couple of boys wrestling good-naturedly.

  I step on the gas and drive on, almost missing Sean’s house, the numbers mostly hidden behind an overgrown bush.

  I consider his home for a moment as I idle in the street. It’s a little better than the neighboring houses. The yard is mowed and there’s a pot of flowers in the window. I park directly behind his truck and step outside, taking my time to shut the door, assessing my surroundings.

  From somewhere inside the house, music blares. I stand motionless for a moment in the driveway before walking up the uneven sidewalk and stopping on a threadbare doormat. I lift the chipped brass-plated knocker and let it fall twice.

/>   The door opens and the music hits me harder. It’s a fast beat, heavy on the electric guitar. The vocalist is more screaming than singing and I wince.

  The guy in front of me is shirtless, wearing only gym shorts, and I almost don’t notice the imprint around his neck because I’m so distracted by the tattoos covering every spare inch of him. He’s grotesquely muscled. Not even an ounce of body fat.

  “Who are you?” he asks, his voice lifting over the music.

  My gaze jerks off the tattoo of a dragon on his chest to the dark eyes watching me curiously.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Have yourself a good look?”

  I shake my head, tossing my hair. A few strands stick to my lips. Lip gloss. Why the hell had I worn lip gloss? Was I hoping to impress Sean? I just wanted to make sure he was okay. To thank him for the other day.

  I swipe the strands away from my mouth. “Davy,” I answer, letting my name hang, shifting my weight between my feet as he studies me. I hadn’t really thought about coming face-to-face with the others. His foster brothers. Carriers. I should have guessed when I heard the loud music that he wouldn’t be the only one home. Sean doesn’t seem the type to listen to music at decibel-shattering levels.

  “Davy.” He stretches my name into something three or four syllables long. He props one hand on the door frame and leans forward a little. “You seem a little nervous, so I’ll make this easy, sweetheart. Who are you here to see?”

  “Sean. Sean,” I answer quickly.

  He leans back again. “Of course. Sean!” he shouts loudly, still looking me over. “You got company.”

  I think I hear a thud from inside, but it’s hard to tell with the blast of music.

  His head bobs as he speaks. “Haven’t seen you before. I’d remember.” His mouth curls. “Not too many girl carriers. Especially imprinted ones. You don’t exactly look the type.”

  I can’t help myself. “No? What type do I look like?”

  He gives a short laugh. “Not Sean’s type, that’s for sure.”

  I suck in a breath, stupidly stung. Sean has a type? And I’m not it?

  His gaze flicks over me again. “You look like you’re headed to choir practice or something.”

  I glance down at my khaki shorts, bright blue tank top, and tennis shoes. I thought I looked fairly ordinary. It’s not like I dressed in a cotillion gown. What does he see when he looks at me?

  He waves at my necklace. It’s a simple silver chain with a cute ladybug charm. “That’s sweet. Gift from Daddy?”

  My cheeks burn at the accuracy of his guess. Dad got it for me on my thirteenth birthday. He always called me his “ladybug.” I cover the charm with my hand, oddly more self-conscious of that than the disfiguring tattoo circling my neck.

  “You go to school with Sean.” It’s more statement than question.

  I nod.

  He smiles. “I’m done. Graduated last year.”

  I want to say, But you still live here . . . with your foster family. Martha Delaney can’t still be collecting money for keeping him. And yet he’s here. There’s a lot I don’t know about Sean and his life in this house with these people.

  I press my mouth into a hard line. Just because I’m curious, just because I brought myself to his door, doesn’t mean I have a right to pry.

  My stomach turns. When had I become curious? When had he stopped being something strange and frightening?

  “I’m Simon, by the way.”

  “Hello, Simon.”

  Sean appears behind his foster brother. For a brief moment, his expression cracks and his surprise seeps through. He blinks and then it’s gone. The hard-chiseled mask back in place.

  “Davy. What are you doing here?”

  Simon stands to the side. “Man, don’t be rude. Invite your friend in.” He emphasizes the word friend. Heat fills my face.

  Sean stares hard at his foster brother and something passes between them. Something I can’t read, but the words are there. I look from Sean to Simon and back again, trying to decipher their silent exchange.

  “Sure. Come in, Davy.” He looks at Simon warningly and holds out his hand for me.

  I stare down at that hand for a moment, the long tapering fingers, the wide, broad palm. We’ve never held hands before. This thought enters my head dumbly. Along with the knowledge that maybe I want him to hold my hand. Maybe I want someone to touch me. Him. As I am. Like this. And not just some jerk who thinks it’s okay to put his hands on me because I’m a carrier. Like Brockman. Or even Zac.

  My chest suddenly grows tight and I’m not at all sure about entering this house, but I remind myself that I did this. I brought myself here to see him. And despite everything, despite my discomfort in this moment, I’m not afraid of him. Not anymore. Not in the way I first was. Now, if there’s any fear, it’s a different kind. Fear for the unknown. For the breathless way I feel around him.

  I place my hand inside his and try not to think about how it feels to hold the hand of someone other than Zac.

  Sean pulls me after him. The inside is clean enough, filled with worn and faded furniture. He cuts through the living room. We skirt the bench press where Simon had presumably been working out when I knocked on the door.

  The hallway is narrow and dim. A few photos line the walls, the faces shadowy blurs. I try to glance at them, to see if any are of a younger Sean, but we’re moving too quickly. From somewhere in the house, the music stops abruptly.

  As soon as I step inside his bedroom, he drops my hand. Chafing my palms on my thighs, I stop in the middle of the room and look around. There are two beds, both unmade. The room is otherwise tidy. One desk. Two dressers.

  “You share the room with Simon?”

  “With Adam.”

  I nod like he’s told me all about Adam. Like he’s told me about anything.

  “What are you doing here, Davy?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Pollock didn’t come after you for what happened?”

  “The Agency’s got its hands full right now trying to decide the fate of all carriers. Not just one. Me by myself . . . I’m not that important.”

  “Do you think we’ll be back in school soon?”

  “Doubtful.”

  I moisten my lips, uncomfortable beneath his glittering gaze. Crossing my arms, I sink onto the edge of one of the beds. “Why do you sound angry?” My voice comes out a whisper.

  “Because I am,” he bites back, dragging one hand through his hair and pacing the middle of the small room.

  “I came here because I wanted to thank you for what happened at school when that boy hit me and you’re treating me—”

  “You shouldn’t have come here at all. It’s not safe.”

  At this, I give a little laugh and wave at my neck. “Where will I ever be safe now? Am I supposed to never step outside again?”

  He stops and stares at me in a way that makes me feel like I’ve said something really wrong. “Carriers are being attacked just for walking outside their front door. It’s not safe for us. But you decided to get in your car and come here of all places? You’re just asking for it.” His lip curls up at this last bit and succeeds in making me feel officially stupid.

  I rise in one motion, flustered, embarrassed . . . angry. “Sorry. I’ll leave you to hide in your house then.”

  I start for the door, but he stops me, grabs me with both hands. His breath crashes with mine, lips so close I can almost taste them. “You’re just begging for trouble—”

  I jerk free and look around at his sparse room. “What’s worse than this?”

  “Oh, c’mon. You really don’t know? Where’s your imagination?”

  He advances on me and I inch back until I bump into the mattress. Sinking down, I gasp when he follows and straddles me, his knees on each side of my hips.

  “W-what are you doing?” I press a palm against his chest.

  “Painting a picture of what’s worse tha
n this. Wasn’t that your question?”

  I nod, at a loss for words.

  “You have no rights. You’re a sublevel human. That means anything can happen to you and no one will care.” His face dips closer. His cheek rests against mine as he hisses close to my ear, “Anyone can do anything to you. There is no protection. No place in this whole country where you should feel safe now.” His fingers flex on my shoulders. “Understand?”

  After a moment, I nod again.

  “And it’s only going to get worse for us. It’s been getting worse every year, but after this shooting, the Agency is only going to get more powerful. . . .”

  The gust of those words so close to my lips does everything he intends—they frighten and intimidate me.

  All of me shivers, quakes inside.

  Something in his eyes shifts, darkens. His gaze sweeps over me and then, as though realizing just how close we are, he pulls back. “Sorry,” he mutters, the word a rough rasp. He drags a hand over his face. “You just need to be more careful. There won’t be someone around to protect you all the time.”

  I nod again. I could push him off me. He wouldn’t stop me. I inhale, breathing in the smell of him, soap and spearmint, and realize I don’t want to shove him away. Butterflies start to flutter in my stomach. I don’t say a word. It’s impossible. I couldn’t get a word past the lump in my throat. My fingers move, burrow against his shirt, testing the texture, the firmness of his flesh beneath the thin barrier.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” he says, his voice almost gruff.

  “What way?”

  His hand covers mine, stilling the movement of my hand against his chest, and I detect the fast thud of his heart through flesh and bone. Feeling his heart, it occurs to me that it beats just like everyone else’s. Like mine. A month ago, I would have crossed the street to avoid him. Now I seek him out, go to places I would never have dared.

  “You’re going to end up dead.” His gaze scans my face with hot-eyed intensity. “You need to stay inside the walls of your house . . . with your family. Your chances are better there.”