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 than 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.”
“And what about you? Shouldn’t you follow your own advice? You attacked that boy in school. Not too smart.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I come from this.” He nods at his surroundings and I know he doesn’t just mean his room but the streets outside. “I’ve had to fight my entire life.” He shakes his head. “You can’t understand that. You’re different. You’re not violent, not a killer.”
“And you are? Is that what you’re saying?” Without thinking, I slide my hand against his throat, grazing my thumb over the H. “This is you then? You deserve this?”
For a moment, he says nothing. He holds himself still above me, but I get the sense he’s about to spring. Like something tightly coiled, ready to break loose. A muscle feathers the flesh of his jaw, and his eyes burn like charred-gray.
My thumb continues to caress his neck.
“Don’t,” he rasps. The sound is oddly satisfying. I’m getting to him. Penetrating his armor.
My fingers move, exploring, brushing his hammering pulse. Fascinated, my gaze slides over his face, stopping on his mouth. I want to kiss him with a fierceness I’ve never felt, heightened by my loneliness. The constant fear. The earth that won’t stay firm beneath me.
I lift my head off the bed and lean up for his lips. He jerks away with a gasp of dismay and scrambles off me. “Get out of here. Go home, Davy.”
I stand, feeling like the most repulsive girl alive. Rejected in action and words.
And why shouldn’t I feel that way? Suddenly, I see the girls he talked to in the hall at school. Maybe he preferred his girls normal. Normal and unmarked.
He turns his back on me. I stare at him, the stretch of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the dark gold strands falling against his neck. “You think I’m safer there than here?” I demand hoarsely.
The nerves in my neck tingle. It’s almost as though I feel the imprint there, a living thing awake and crawling. My hand goes there, presses against the too-warm skin.
He turns sideways, looks back at me like he wishes I was gone already. A stupid ache fills my chest.
“I’ll go, but it’s no longer my home. Home is safety and I don’t have that any more than you do.”
Before he can answer—if he even intends to—I leave the room. Simon looks up from the kitchen table, hunkered over a bowl of cereal. Milk dribbles from his chin.
He calls out a good-bye, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. Everyone I had is gone. Everyone has turned from me and I can’t even find solace with another carrier.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................
* * *
CNN Interview with Harlan McAlister, former classmate of alleged Texas gunman, Kevin Hoyt: REPORTER: Mr. McAlister, you attended high school with Kevin Hoyt, did you not?
HARLAN MCALISTER: Yes . . . we played football together. He was captain of the JV team before we all found out he was a carrier. It’s all just such a shock. A real shame . . . he was a good football player. Could have gone pro.
REPORTER: Can you tell us a little bit about Kevin Hoyt? What was he like?
HARLAN MCALISTER: Everyone liked him. He was a real leader. I mean, before, you know . . . not after.
REPORTER: Are you surprised that he did something so brutal and horrendous?
HARLAN MCALISTER: Yes . . . well, no. I mean . . . he was a carrier. Once that came to light, we all knew there was nothing he wasn’t capable of . . . right?