by Naomi Martin
He reaches out and grabs my arm, slinging me into the cell. The door bangs shut behind me and I hear an electric chime sound followed by the hard clank of the locks on my door slamming home. I turn in a circle, taking in the eight-by-eight cell that has been cut into the rock. Just like outside, the walls are rough, dark stone. There’s a bed, a sink, a toilet in the corner, and overhead hangs a long fluorescent light.
I drop the bundle on the bed and drop myself down beside it. Locked into my cell alone, with nobody around me for the first time since I was taken, I’m able to shed my mask of indifference and let the waves of emotion come crashing down over me. For the first time in… I don’t even know how long it’s been, I’m able to let go and let my emotions take over.
I bury my face in my hands and my body is racked by long, heaving sobs. Curling up on my side on the scratchy, lumpy mattress, I lay my head on the bundle they gave me. My mind filled with an overwhelming sense of loss and images of those I’ve lost flashing behind my eyes, I bury my face in the makeshift pillow and sob wildly. I let the raw power of my emotions—of my grief—consume me, and cry until I’m exhausted and can’t cry anymore.
It’s not long before I’m swept away by a tide of exhaustion and the darkness pulls me under. The world goes black again.
Chapter Three
Raven
When I wake up, I feel like I’ve got a three-alarm fire of a hangover—without the benefit of having had a single drop of alcohol last night. My head is throbbing, my eyes are red and puffy, and my throat is raw. I sit up and hold the sides of my head, groaning miserably. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to keep my head from splitting open.
Beyond the door, I hear the sound of the prison waking up. Through the narrow viewing slit, sunlight rains down from above, filling the giant common area outside with natural light. I hear voices out there, loud and booming. I hear laughter and, to me, it sounds a lot like the hallways at school did a lifetime ago.
I stumble over to the sink that stands in the corner and use the toiletries they gave me last night to clean myself up. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and run the comb through my hair before pulling it back into a simple twist. Looking at myself in the polished steel square that serves as a mirror, I don’t even recognize my face. There are dark circles under my eyes and my skin is pale and drawn. I feel like I look ten years older than I did just last night.
I lightly touch the steel collar around my neck, looking at it closely while I run my fingertips along the strange symbols that have been carved into the metal. They’re similar to the symbols that are etched into the plexiglass booth. As I touch them, I feel a tingle upon my skin. It’s as if they’re emitting a magical energy all their own.
A loud buzz sounds and a moment later, I hear the loud clank of the lock being disengaged and the door pops open a couple of inches. And it sounds like the volume of the voices in the common area was suddenly cranked up to ten, making me wince as the pounding in my head intensifies.
I lean against the wall and cup my head in my hands. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to quiet my mind—and as I do, I feel my energy flowing through me. It fills me, sending an electric warmth and tingle to every corner of my body, bringing with it the familiar wave of elation I get when channeling my power.
But then I remember what happened when I tried to lash out with my power in the back of the truck last night. It knocked me on my ass and shot what felt like pure electricity through every nerve ending in my body. It felt like I was being burned from the inside out. Because of this fucking collar.
Still, I’m curious. I reach out with a thin stream of my power, gritting my teeth as I brace for the shock. It doesn’t come, though I’m also not able to channel enough of my power to do anything. The blanket on my bed stirs like a light breeze is blowing but that’s it. Frustrated, I channel more power and try to something bigger.
Focused on the power welling inside of me, I feel a sharp tingle and a warmth radiating from the collar. A split second later, I cry out and fall to my knees as the device reacts to my power and sends that current of electricity streaming through my body again. I wrap my arms tightly around my stomach and clench my jaw, a low groan passing my lips. I squeeze my eyes shut as the pain grips me, willing it to pass.
“Hurts, don’t it?”
Startled, I look up to see Captain Sherman standing in the door to my cell and looking down at me with a smile on his face, as if he’s enjoying my discomfort. Shakily, I get to my feet, swaying slightly on unsteady legs. The jolt from the collar has left me feeling like fire is consuming my insides, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me writhe in misery. I clench my jaw as I face him, my arms still wrapped over my stomach protectively.
“Sooner or later, you’re gonna learn that tryin’ to use your freak powers ain’t worth it,” he chuckles. “Not for the amount of pain it causes you.”
“I guess we’ll see about that.”
Sherman’s got a malevolent sneer on his face but as his eyes slide up and down my body, I see the light of pure lust in his eyes. He licks his lips as he looks at me, letting his eyes linger. It makes the anger in me swell once more, which thankfully helps me to more or less forget the pain that’s gripping me.
“I’m going to need a hot shower and some bleach,” I say. “Your eyes are leaving a trail of grease all over my body.”
A grin quirks a corner of his mouth upward. “Always got a smart-ass comment for every situation, don’t ya?”
We stand there in a stare-down for a few moments, the tension in the room rising quickly. I can see the thoughts spinning through Sherman’s mind, and judging by the bulge in his pants—which he’s taking no measure to hide—I know what he wants to do. He’s just trying to figure out if he can get away with it. But the moment passes, and he smirks.
“You’re gonna learn how things work ‘round here,” he drawls. “And that you’re better off bein’ nice to me.”
“And by being nice to you, of course you mean letting you fuck me whenever you see fit,” I spit.
He shrugs. “You’d be surprised at how nice your stay here can be if you gimme what I want.”
“Fuck off.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’ll come ‘round,” he says. “They always do. Even the hard cases like you.”
“Yeah, well, life is full of disappointment,” I snap. “I’m sure you’ve got to be used to hearing that from your parents by now.”
His face darkens and he glowers at me. “Get your ass out for breakfast.”
With that, he turns on his heel and storms out of my cell. Clearly, I’ve touched a nerve. The guy has got mommy and daddy issues or something. I give it a minute before taking a deep breath and walking out of my cell. My stomach is turning somersaults and my heart is racing like I just ran a marathon.
As I walk through the large common area, I see people—most of them around my age—sitting at the tables, huddled over their trays of food. Heads lift and I can feel the eyes on me, hear conversations cut off abruptly, leaving silence in their wake as I walk through the space. It only reinforces the whole high-school feel of the place to me.
I walk through a door and into a cafeteria. Standing at the end of the line, I grab a brown plastic tray and shuffle along with everybody else. Nobody speaks to me and the glances being thrown my way are suspicious, if not downright hostile. I couldn’t feel more like the new girl in school if I tried. But, just like I did at school and with Captain Sherman, I lift my chin and put on a mask of cool indifference, doing my best to project an unaffected air.
In reality, my stomach is churning wildly and I feel nauseous. I taste bile in the back of my throat but swallow it down. I can’t allow myself to look weak in front of these people. Boys and girls my age, maybe a bit older—all of them with collars around their necks—are working the service line. As I pass by each station, I’m given what passes for food around here. In truth, it looks like hot, unappetizing garbage.
I’ve lived on the streets and have eaten worse, so I probably shouldn’t be such a food critic. You do what you have to do to survive. But I still remember Saturday morning breakfasts with my parents: waffles, sausage, eggs, fresh-squeezed orange juice. Just thinking about those long-gone days fills me with a grief so profound, it threatens to overwhelm me. I choke it back, though, and walk out into the common room, finding a table off in the corner. I set my tray down and take a seat.
Though I’m looking down at my tray, I’m surreptitiously keeping an eye on the room around me. The last thing I want is to be caught unaware. I’m not the biggest girl ever, and I’ve always relied on my power to protect me. Without it, I feel like a sitting duck. There are some large, angry girls and even larger, angrier-looking boys in this place, and given the behavior of Captain Sherman, I don’t think whoever is running this facility puts a premium on our safety.
As I pick through my meal, the hair on the back of my neck stands up and I get a queasy feeling. Having lived on the street as long as I did, I developed a pretty good instinct. It’s like a sixth sense that’s kept me safe and I’ve come to rely on it.
Somebody’s watching me.
I slowly raise my head and my eyes are immediately drawn to a tall, red-haired boy who’s sitting by himself at a table across the common area from me. And when our eyes meet, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, the breath driven out of me instantly. There’s something familiar about him. Not like we’ve met, it’s not that kind of familiarity. But there’s something about him that resonates deeply inside of me.
I stare at him for a long moment, chills running up and down my flesh, trying to place him. But then his gaze grows too familiar, too uncomfortable, and I lower my eyes to my tray again, trying to shut out all thought and feeling.
Chapter Four
Three Years Ago…
Elliot
He shoves me in the back and I pitch forward. My hands are filled with books that go flying as I windmill my arms, trying to keep my balance. It doesn’t help, though, and I land hard on my belly; my teeth clack together, and the breath is driven from my lungs in a loud whoosh. My nose is pressed flat against the tile and all around the corridor is the booming sound of laughter. Dozens of my classmates all stand there, laughing at me.
I quickly jump to my feet and turn to face him, my face red, my stomach twisting around itself as rage and humiliation course through me. Trip Wells stands with his arms folded across his chest and a smug smirk stretching his lips. His toadies, Tommy and Albert, stand behind him, wearing matching smirks on their faces.
I didn’t even do anything to him. I was just walking by when he pushed me down. But then, they’ve never really needed a reason. These three have been tormenting me since we were little kids, but it seems like it’s only gotten worse since we all started high school. They used to screw with me now and then; this year, it’s become an almost daily thing that they’ll mess with me somehow.
And I know it’s because they’re jocks and I’m not. They think I’m a nerd because I value education, because I would rather sit with a book rather than throw a ball around on a field. They think they’re the coolest and I’m somehow lesser, just because they can bench press three-hundred pounds or whatever, and that sort of stuff doesn’t interest me.
Trip steps closer to me, his face scant inches from mine, a cruel smirk on his face. I clench my jaw and ball my hands into fists at my sides, feeling my rage flowing through me.
“What?” Trip asks, that smirk on his face. “What are you gonna do, Elliot?”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t want to do this, Trip,” I say. “You really don’t want to push me.”
The crowd around us “oooooohs” in unison, filling the hallway with the sound and cranking up the tension even further. I should have turned and walked away. Even though he pushed me down and stood there with his toadies laughing at me, I should have been smart and walked away. There’s a beast inside of me that I don’t know I can contain.
“I don’t?” Trip sneers. “And what’s gonna happen if I do, nerd?”
When I turned fifteen, my powers began to manifest, and it was the first time I had ever seen my parents afraid of me. But more than that, they were afraid for me. We had long heard rumors about some shadowy government agency rounding up anybody who displayed supernatural abilities and shipping them off to secret camps where they’re never heard from again.
To protect me, they found somebody who helped teach me how to manage my power. And for the last year I’ve been working on that, on not letting it get out of control. But I haven’t mastered it yet. When I get angry, it sometimes gets away from me. And right now, with Trip in my face, sneering and mocking me, I’m having a real hard time pushing down the anger that’s bubbling inside of me and threatening to unleash that beast. I don’t want that. I can’t afford to lose control. Not just for me, but because I don’t know what I’ll do to Trip in that state.
Trip reaches out and pushes me, drawing more “oohs” from the crowd gathered around us. I search the group, looking for a teacher or somebody who can intervene. But I see nobody—only see the faces of my classmates, eyes alight, eager smiles, anticipating a fight.
“Huh, freak?” Trip presses. “What are you gonna do if I keep pushing you?”
As if to emphasize his point, he reaches out again and shoves my shoulder, drawing laughter from his toadies and some of the other sycophants in the crowd. I recall what my parents told me about de-escalating a situation, about walking away from a bad encounter, not just to be the bigger person but as a means of self-preservation. I can’t afford to let anybody get that sort of a rise out of me. Not until I’ve mastered my powers.
I let out a long breath and try to gather my wits about me. This situation is starting to slide off the rails, and I need to walk away before something bad happens. Something I can’t take back. I turn and start to walk off, but Trip grabs me by the arm. He spins me around to face him again.
“I didn’t say you could go, asshole,” Trip spits.
The crowd parts as he grabs me by the front of my shirt and pushes me back against the lockers. I hit the metal with a loud clang and wince as the latch on the door digs into my back. I feel the anger welling within me, climbing like a thermometer on a hot day.
“Trip, you don’t want to do this,” I gasp. “You really want to do this.”
“No? What are you gonna do? Kick my ass?”
He cuts a look back at his toadies and they share a laugh. Yeah, they’re all having a great time. The crowd around us moves closer, the tension rising along with their bloodlust. There’s little that brings kids together and bonds them like a fight on campus.
“Let go of me, Trip,” I warn. “Seriously, you don’t—”
His hand is a blur of motion as he lashes out and I don’t even see it coming. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoes around the hallway and I feel a sharp sting in my cheek. It takes me a second to process the fact that he’s just hit me with an open-handed slap. I hear the crowd giggling as I turn my face back to Trip, my eyes wide with shock, my blood starting to boil in my veins. In all the years he and his toadies have picked on me, he’s never slapped me like that. Push me down, knock the books out of my hand, stuff me into a locker, and insult every generation of my family, sure. But slap me like that? No. Never.
With that slap, Trip’s taken this whole thing to a new level. He’s crossed a line and I don’t think there’s any way of going back now. As my rage grows, I feel the power inside of me building, feel the already feeble control I have over it slipping, and I know this is about to get bad. Really bad.
“I’m warning you, get out of here, Trip,” I hiss. “Please, get out of here now. Don’t do this.”
He laughs in my face and slaps me again. The rage inside of me is nearing critical mass and I’m trying my best to push it down, to dissipate the power like I was taught. But nothing I try is working. My control is slipping away, and I don’t k
now that I’ll be able to hold it in much longer.
“Seriously, Trip, get out of here.”
“Make me, bitch,” he spits.
A familiar warmth spreads throughout my body as the power starts to peak, nearly reaching the point where I won’t be able to hold it back, even if I wanted to.
“Everybody get out of here! Get out of here right now!” I scream. “Get away from me!”
Laughter and catcalls ring through the hallway. Nobody is taking my calls to run seriously. Trip is in my face; his sneering laughter fills my ears. Behind him, his toadies are doubled over, slapping their knees in hysterics. On the wall across the hall hangs a hand-painted banner announcing a spring dance.
Time seems to slow to a crawl and as I remain pinned to the locker by Trip’s forearm pressing hard against my neck, I see the edges of the banner start to brown. Wisps of smoke begin to rise, and then the long strip of butcher paper bursts into flames with a loud whooshing sound.
Scared, confused screaming echoes through the hall and I narrow my eyes as I look at Trip. He grabs the sides of his head and staggers backwards, smoke rising from his hair. A moment later, his entire head catches fire with the same loud whooshing sound that ignited the banner. He falls to his knees and howls in agony as his two toadies erupt into twin pillars of flame behind him. They fall to the ground, desperately thrashing and rolling, screaming as they try to put out the flames.
They won’t be able to.
All around me is chaos. The corridor is filled with smoke and fire, and students run in a panicked frenzy, screaming and crying. The alarms shriek and water rains down from the sprinklers ineffectively—water is not going to put out the fires I’ve created. I look down at the charred bodies of the three boys, my three tormentors, watching them burn. The acrid stench of their flesh cooking fills my nose, making me grimace. At least they won’t be able to mess with me anymore.
I turn and walk down the suddenly empty hallway, pushing my way through clouds of black smoke, the intense heat of the fire at my back. Students are sheltering in the classrooms, hiding behind their desks, looking at me like I’m some sort of monster. They all fear me. They’re all disgusted by me. They all hate me.
