Savage: an Adult Dystopian Paranormal Romance: Sector Seven (The Othala Witch Collection)

by Conner Kressley

  “There’s monsters the likes of which have never crossed your blushing little minds,” Marco said, his voice full of a sort of ‘“campfire tale” bravado that did little to take away from the seriousness of what he was talking about. “They crawl along the ground, they swim in the rivers, and they even take to the sky.” He looked up at the large steeple of the building that sat at the southern end of the Outpost. “That’s why we’ve always got a sharpshooter or two looking out for us.”

  “Always?” I asked, realizing that—if that was the case—there would never be a time when I could make my escape from this place without being seen and captured.

  “Always,” Marco answered. “There’s never a time, day or night, when there isn’t at least one person up in that thing, looking out to keep you safe.” He tipped his hat. “Sometimes, it’s even yours truly.”

  The next training session after that was of a more physical variety. There were five of us ‘piss ants’ altogether, which meant that, when the time came to pick sparring partners, I found myself without one.

  It wasn’t that these guys were afraid of me. They likely thought they’d be able to wipe the floor with a waif of a girl like me. They’d have been wrong, I liked to think. My father had raised me to be tough, and my mother had raised me to be paranoid. As a result, this was far from my first sparring session. Still, no guy in the Outpost wanted to be the person who’d beat up the girl. And they certainly didn’t want to be the person who’d been beat up by the girl.

  Even Chester did little more than shoot me a distant smile as he teamed up with an overweight guy with graying black hair and chubby cheeks.

  “Not sure what I’m supposed to do,” I said, folding my arms over my chest as I turned to our physical instructor, a man with broad shoulders and a pair of blue and brown mismatched eyes. His name was Art.

  “You’re supposed to fight,” he said, his voice lilting upward in a way I recognized. He was from a Hills family, no doubt about it. Maybe he was the black sheep of one of those noble bloodlines my father had spent his life working for, or maybe he was the son of a laborer too. Whatever his reasons for being here, I was sure I had more in common with him than perhaps any other Roamer on the premises right now.

  “Hard to do without an opponent,” I replied.

  “You’re not lying,” he said, a creeping smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Guess you’re not as popular in here as you were on the outside, are you, Red?”

  My eyes narrowed. What in the Sector was he talking about? He didn’t know me, and he certainly had no idea whether I’d been popular or not during my tenure in the Hills social circle.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” Art asked, shaking his head. “Can’t blame you. I don’t really remember you, either, but you’d have been little more than a baby when I left. Regent knows Manny was.”

  “Manny?” I asked, my eyes growing wide with recognition. Of course:, those mismatched eyes, that strong chin—he looked just like an older, gruffer version of one of my friends from back home. “You’re related to Manny Duncan,” I said, a smile gracing my face as well.

  “My baby brother,” he said. “Do I look like him?”

  “You do,” I answered quickly, remembering that both pictures and paintings from home were strictly prohibited within the Outpost. “You really haven’t laid eyes on him since you lefthome?”

  “Not so much as a glance,” he said. “In my mind, he’s still that fat little baby hanging off my mother’s apron strings.” Art blinked hard, something like regret—or at the very least, melancholy—flashing through his eyes. “I’ve heard from him, though. He writes me every month or so;, keeps me updated on the goings-on of all the people back home. And he had a whole lot to say about you.”

  I blushed. I had known Manny ever sinceI’d learned how to walk. His family were some of my father’s best customers, which meant I had spent a lot of time on his ranch while I was growing up. He was a kind guy, and, as we aged from childhood into adolescence, he was one of the few people who didn’t make me feel like I was “less than,” somehow. Of course, that sentiment did end up going a bit too far.

  “Said you totally blew him off,” Art said, hitting the nail on its proverbial head. “What’s the matter? My baby brother didn’t do it for you? Please tell me he’s not still hanging on Momma’s apron.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Manny is one of my best friends. When he asked me out, I was really flattered.”

  “Flattered, but not interested.,” Art chuckled hard. “He took it pretty hard, you know.”

  “I remember,” I said, flashing back to one of the only speed bumps our friendship had ever endured.

  When Manny had left that flower on my doorstep, a sure sign of courting, even my mother had wanted me to pursue it. He came from a great family. He could give me a good life, and we definitely got along like two pigs in a pen. She couldn’t understand why I was so hesitant to throw myself into what she believed was a perfect situation. I couldn’t explain it to her then, and I wasn’t sure I could explain it to Art now. But I could try.

  “I didn’t want to risk what we had for something I wasn’t sure would work out,” I said, nodding sternly. “Friendships last longer than love, anyway.

  He laughed as the Roamers in training pushed each other around a few yards away.

  “That’s the words of someone who’s never been in love, Red,” he answered. “Put your hands up.”

  ‘What?”

  “Put your hands up,” he repeated. “If you’re tough enough to break my little brother’s heart, then you’re tough enough to spar with a trainer.”

  He lifted his hands, moved into a scrapping stance and circled me.

  “You’re not serious,” I said, but I lifted my hands anyway.

  “Sure am,” Art replied, his mismatched eyes drinking in every aspect of my fighting stance in a way that made me feel instantly vulnerable. What was he seeing? What sort of imperfections had he already spotted? “Unless, of course, you’re too scared.”

  “You don’t know me very well, do you?” I asked, a smile flickering across my face.

  I lunged forward, throwing a balled fist in his direction. Art swatted it away easily, pulled backward and circled me again.

  “I think I know you better than I have any right to,” he told me. “Your favorite food is wild salmon, you can’t dance for shit, and your nose crinkles up when you laugh.”

  He moved toward me and struck my shoulder with a lightning-quick flat palm.

  Pain ran through me as I pulled away.

  “And how, pray tell, do you know any of that?” I asked, trying to take my attention away from the stinging in my arm.

  “Like I said, my baby brother sends me a lot of letters.

  “And do you write him back?” I asked, realizing that part of the reason he’d been able to strike me was that he could take me by surprise. He was splitting my attention by giving me information about myself. It seemed like fair play for me to do the same. “Or does he not give a damn about what you’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  I lunged again, this time going for his midsection. Again, he easily swatted me away. This time he countered with a flat palm that struck flush against my arm. I yelped.

  “You’re better than I thought,” he said, grinning. “Certainly better than you’ve got any right to be. You move well, you’re quick and concise, and you even know enough to try to throw me off my game. But the truth of the matter is that distractions aren’t the only reason I’m beating you, Red.”

  He swept his foot underneath me, taking out both my legs in one fell swoop and knocking me flat on my ass. “I’m beating you because I’m better. And, to answer your question, Manny’s very interested in what I do out here. He’s sure as shit going to be interested in this, anyhow.”

  He reached his hand out to me, and I took it. He laughed at me again as he pulled me upright. “You are good, though. I’ll tell you what: if
you want some extra practice, meet me up there tonight.” He pointed to the steeple at the south end. “I’m not supposed to pick favorites, and Marshal Weston would tan my hide if he knew I wasn’t focused on looking out for intruders. But animals haven’t tried to get in here ever since the ground started drying up, no Savages are stupid enough to attack us where we live, and I’m going to be all by myself, anyway.” He winked at me. “So, if you want to learn how to take out all these cocksure idiots by tomorrow morning, you know where to find me.”

  “Up there?” I asked, a glimmer of an idea taking shape in my mind. “You’ll be up there all night by yourself?”

  “Catch on quick, don’t you?” Art said. “Anyway, fall back in line.” He motioned to the other Roamers. “We ain’t done here yet.”

  He was right about that. As I moved into a straight line with Chester and the other trainees, I realized what I was going to do. Art trusted me. Well, sort of. And I was going to use that trust to make my escape and save my father.

  Chapter 7

  Later that night, after a painstaking day of training during which I tried my best not to think about the possibility of my father being murdered, I snuck out of my still-empty facility.

  The rest of the women were scheduled to be back by now, but they were nowhere to be found. That sort of thing must have been common in the Outpost, because Marshal Weston and the rest took their absence in stride. So did I. Sure, I had been excited to meet the women who had blazed this trail for me by jumping into a male-dominated sect, but I couldn’t afford to think about that right now. The only thing that needed to be on my mind tonight was getting out of this place.

  Well, that and… soup.

  My bowl of chicken corn chowder threatened to spill as I made my way toward the steeple at the south end. It was a family recipe with a few modifications to accommodate my restrictions and match my current needs.

  There was little butter here in the Outpost, so I’d doubled up on salt. There was no fresh corn, so I was forced to deal with the canned stuff. Oh, and I’d added a heaping helping of melatonin extract. That way, Art wouldn’t get through his second spoonful before he slumped over into the deepest sleep of his life.

  That was pretty crooked, yes. It was wrong, sure. But I wasn’t about to let that sort of thinking cost my father his life. I needed to do wrong so that I could do right, and that made it okay. At least, that was the sense I made out of it in my mind.

  I heard Art’s voice long before I saw him. A song I hadn’t heard in years drifted down the staircase and wrapped itself around me as I made my way toward him. The song, ‘“The Life of a Frontiersman,”’, was a classic in the Sector, and listening to it made me long for home in a way I would have sworn was impossible just days ago.

  It also made me rethink what I was doing. Would falling for this get Art into trouble? Would he lose his position or endure embarrassment because he’d been fooled by a piss ant?

  I couldn’t think about that right now. Regardless of how beautiful this song was or how well he was singing it, I had to keep my focus on what was important, and that was saving my father.

  My resolve had steeled back over again asArt came into view.

  “Took you long enough,” Art said, lazily turning toward me.

  He was sitting on the floor, looking out over a pitch-black expanse of land. I wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for out there. Whatever it was would be hard to see, for sure. Unlike the Outpost, the thick brush of the jungle swallowed up the moonlight, making anything beyond it hard to see.

  “I thought you were going to stand down there listening to the show all night,” he said.

  “My father used to sing that song to me,” I explained.

  “Mine too. That grub for me?”

  I lifted the tray in my hands, careful not to spill the soup as I set it in front of him.

  “Looks good,” he said. “I thank you kindly.”

  “No,” I said, a twinge of guilt sprouting up in my chest. “Thank you. For offering to give me extra help, I mean.” I swallowed hard and tried not to make eye contact with him.

  “Oh, right. Should I kick your ass again first? Really get into it? I’ll probably be less nimble with a full stomach.”

  “All the more reason for you to eat first,” I said, pushing the bowl closer to him. “I need all the help I can get.”

  “Fair enough,” he chuckled.

  He grabbed the spoon. I looked away, not wanting to watch him as he consumed the concoction that was meant to put him down. Instead, I saw something else as his coat fell open a little.

  “Is that the Remington?” I asked, seeing the glowing hilt of the gun peeking out from his holster.

  “Sure is,” he said, swallowing the first spoonful of soup. “Got it from your antsy little friend. Guess he didn’t hear the damn things were illegal.”

  “Oh, I think he might have.” I sat down beside him. “He’s from the outskirts. From what I hear, the laws are a little laxer out there.”

  “Good for me then, huh?,” Art laughed, patting the gun under his jacket. “Always wanted one of these things. I hear you can blast through a Ravager with two shots with one of these.”

  “One,” I said, pulling from personal experience.

  “No shit?”

  I could already see a glaze settling over his eyes.

  I swallowed hard, biting my tongue so I wouldn’t tell him what was going on here. All I could do was keep reminding myself just why I was doing this, and why there was no other option.

  “Sure as shit’ll come in handy out in those jungles,” Art said, his voice dropping to a nearly inaudible level as he reached for his second spoonful of soup. Instead, he dropped the spoon, and it clanked against the bowl, soup splashing everywhere. “’Cause them jungles, Red,” he muttered, his eyes fluttering closed. “Them jungles are no joke.”

  He licked his lips and then fell into a deep sleep.

  As he snored, I pulled the soup away and held it out over the side of the steeple. Tumping it over, I let the tainted mess spill out onto the ground. There was little need, in my opinion, to let it knock anyone else out if I could help it.

  Hopefully, Art wouldn’t take this too hard. He’d wake up in a few hours with a pounding head and an aching sense of pride, but maybe, when I returned (after I’d explained myself), he might find it in his heart to forgive me.

  Turning back around, I tossed the bowl to the floor beside his sleeping body and started toward the door. I didn’t have a lot of time before the others woke up, and I still needed to find a transportation disc to ensure my travel through the jungles. Still, something tugged at me as I neared the door.

  I turned around and went back to Art,pulled the Remington from his coat and stuffed it into the waistband of my pants.

  No need to let that go to waste. And, besides, I liked to hedge my bets. If something went wrong, this little beauty would come in handy.

  The heat of the Remington felt strange against my thigh as I rushed down the steps of the steeple toward the door. My heart beat fast, thumping hurriedly against my chest as if it was yearning to burst out and go back to fix the damage I had just caused.

  It was a strange sensation, feeling like a traitor and a loyalist all wrapped up in one. On one hand,Marshal Weston had been right when he told me that my duty was here with the Roamers. That was as clear to him as the oath we’d both taken (albeit years and years apart from each other). In his eyes, it should have been just as clear to me. Of course, he didn’t have a supernatural ability pointing to him toward the fact that his father might be murdered in cold blood. That was making things much less clear to me.

  I pushed through the doors of the steeple and went out into the main strip of the Outpost. The moon was big and almost full tonight and thankfully offered enough illumination for me to see my way out. I didn’t need to leave just yet, though. I needed to get to the supply building and find a transportation disc.

  Shrugging off the co
ol breeze that cut through my jacket, I took off toward the small supply building on the other end of the main drag. I couldn’t risk bringing my luggage out tonight with Art watching. For all I knew, that little mistake was why Marshal Weston had been so ready for me the night before. I’d left all my possessions back in the women’s facility, and now that I had some momentum going, it felt wrong to go back for them. None of the stuff in my bags mattered. It was just junk: dresses, pants, and bobbles that didn’t amount to anything if you stacked it up against what I was fighting for.

  I’d get new things when I got back to the Sector. It wasn’t like I’d be using them for very long, anyway. With any luck, whatever was going on with my father would be easily resolved, I’d have a vision of him with gray hair and a brand-new wife, and then I’d make my way back to the Outpost and the harsh punishment I’d be sure to face upon my return.

  I was winded by the time I got to the supply building. Sweat was pouring down my face, a sure sign of how fast I was running given how cold it was tonight.

  Luckily, the building was unlocked. I supposed there was little need to lock up things like that, given the fact that all of us were supposed to be on the same team.

  Another pang of guilt ran through me as I slipped into the building, but I pushed past it and took a look around.

  The place was filled with all sorts of stuff, including dehydrated foods, more liquor than I had ever seen in one place before in my life, and hundreds of saddles.

  None of that was what I was looking for. Luckily, it didn’t take me long to find exactly what I needed. Transportation discs were hanging along the back wall, shining in the artificial light that had popped on when I entered.

  I pushed through the clutter in the room, and grabbed one with both hands and jerked it off the wall. It made a loud clanging noise as I removed it, and I flinched. The noise probably wasn’t loud enough to wake a sound sleeper. But how many of these Roamers slept with one eye open?