TWENTY-FOUR
THE AIR SWIRLS WITH THE ODOR OF HEAT AND sweat. Tully bounces anxiously in place like he’s some sort of prizefighter. I can actually hear the thud of his bare feet smacking the red mat as he jogs in place, his face quickly growing red—whether from exertion or his eagerness to pummel me, I’m not sure.
Tully has one silver tooth that seems to wink in the light as he grins widely at me. He thinks this is going to be easy.
Even if I hadn’t met him already, I would know his name by now. I’ve made it a point to learn all the carriers’ names. The same way I’ve made it a point to mark the truly dangerous ones. Probably a useless task. It’s not always the ones who look dangerous you have to watch out for. Sometimes it’s the quiet ones. The ones with downcast eyes and fidgety hands. Just the other day, one kid jumped another one during a run and stabbed him with a fork for no reason I could determine. They were both taken away. One to the infirmary. Who knows where the other one went? I haven’t seen him since.
Tully slaps one gloved fist into his other hand. I roll my eyes. It’s like he’s acting out some fantasy movie. I wonder if it dawns on him that fighting a girl who weighs a buck twenty hardly makes him a hero.
I glance at the tae kwon do master who has been instructing us and raise an eyebrow. He stares back mildly without saying a word—doubtlessly waiting to see if I’m going to complain about being paired up with Tully. Apparently, matching me with this Goliath makes sense to him.
I bite back any objections and square my shoulders. Complaining won’t get me anywhere. Except maybe sent away. Of that I’m convinced. If I’ve learned nothing else since arriving at Mount Haven, it’s that my place here is far from guaranteed.
I’ve been giving everything of myself to make sure I can hold my own. That I can hang with the boys. And not just the scrawny ones. All of them. The best of them. Bruises of varying shades decorate my body as testament to that.
Going into our third week, we’re down from fifty-two to forty-eight. The kid attacked during the run is still in the infirmary. At least I think he’s still there. He could have been sent away. Or died. The boy that attacked him is, of course, gone. Another boy, a twelve-year-old who cried all the time, left on the fifth day. I noticed him missing in the morning at roll call.
The fourth kid missing is a boy who slipped in the shower. His injuries were too serious for the infirmary and he had to go to the hospital. That’s the explanation given anyway. In this environment, I suspect something else happened. There are other ways to get a cracked head. Other more probable ways when living among sociopaths.
The instructor ties off my gloves and then tests their fit with several hard tugs. “Good?”
I nod.
He looks over his shoulder at the guy who outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds. “Good luck.”
Before he steps off the mat, I scan the gym. We’ve all been broken into various groups. Other couples spar on mats like me with Tully. A few take personal instruction with trainers. Others run, circling the track.
I’ve lost sight of Sean and Gil. They’re here somewhere, but I don’t have the time to locate them. Not with Tully getting ready to pounce. I focus all my attention on him. Squaring off, I balance on the balls of my feet. In my mind, I replay all the tricks the trainer showed me. Specifically, the ones to use when I’m seriously outmatched. Which will be most of the time when it comes to me facing off with a guy.
Tully charges me. Fortunately, he’s slow. I pivot on my feet and he barrels right past me. He staggers and almost loses his balance. Arms flailing, he rights himself.
Whirling around, he scowls at me. “You can’t run forever.”
Maybe not, but that’s basically what the trainers taught me to do. Evade. Tire out my opponent. All their advice runs through my head: You’re always going to be smaller than the average opponent. So be quicker. Dodge them. Don’t let them get their hands on you.
He charges again and I cut sideways, managing to stick out my foot and swipe his leg out from under him as he passes.
I hear a bark of laughter and someone claps in approval. The trainer? Another carrier? I’m not sure, and I don’t dare take the time to look around and see.
Apparently, Tully hears, too. And he doesn’t much care for anyone laughing at him. He roars and lunges for me again, swinging his arms widely as though he’s going to sweep me up in one of the thick tree trunks.
He clips my shoulder, which makes my heart race that he’s even that close to me. Don’t let him get his hands on you.
I skip away faster, leading him on a merry chase. We do this for a while. Me just barely avoiding him. Him getting red-faced and angry. It’s working. He’s gasping. Getting tired. Frustrated. If I didn’t have to stay on this mat, I’d be long gone by now. But I do. Just like in real life—I can’t always run. Sometimes I have to stay and fight.
Instructors are watching and I want them to be if not impressed, then satisfied with my performance. I need them to scrawl down on their clipboards that Davina Hamilton needs to stay here longer . . . for the duration of the program.
Suddenly, Tully grabs my ponytail. I’m caught. The unexpected move catches me off guard. I scream as he uses my hair as a handhold and slams me back on the mat. My head bounces and I can’t help thinking that the mat isn’t nearly as soft as it looks.
The air escapes me in a pained whoosh. He straddles me and forces any remaining bubble of air from my lungs.
I try to buck him off, but there’s no moving the ox. My hands scrabble, punching, scratching until he traps them at my sides with his knees. I fall still, panting beneath him. No whistle blows, no shouts to stop the match. Grimly, I wonder how long they’re going to let this play out. In a sane world, in my old world, someone would put a stop to this now. Before the boy hurts the girl.
But I’m not in that world anymore. There’s only this.
I can feel dozens of eyes on us. Carriers and instructors alike, watching us like two specimen under the glass.
Feverishly, my mind works, trying to recall the practice moves I learned over the last week and if any of them can help me out of this situation.
He leans close and that silver tooth catches the light, winking down at me. “Think you’re so good now?” His gloved fist floats inches from my face, ready to connect. I fight the need to flinch that shakes through me.
I swallow my fear in a bitter wash of saliva. “Made you work for it though, didn’t I?” It’s all bravado. For him. For anyone watching. But I say it . . . spit the words out.
His face burns ever redder. A drop of sweat drips off his nose and splats onto my cheek. “Yeah. So this is going to be even sweeter.”
He spares my face.
A gloved fist connects with my side. Pain explodes in my ribs. I gasp, choke for air through the blur of agony. I haven’t recovered before he does it again.
The world darkens for a moment. And then flashes of light spin and twirl above me until my vision eventually clears. Then it’s him again. Tully in my face. Filling my world.
“So tough with your imprint? But you know what I think of all you guys walking around here with imprints?” He leans his face close to my ear. “You’re a bunch of tools to ever get caught doing anything in the first place. Me? I’ve done lots of things. Especially to girls like you. There was one girl that rode my bus. She had a big mouth. It was so easy to pin her to the backseat . . . break her finger. Like snapping a twig. Her mouth wasn’t so big after that. And I made sure she knew it would be worse if she told on me.” This he says with particular relish, his eyes getting an almost glazed look . . . like he’s remembering the pain he’s inflicted. “And I ain’t never been caught.”
He lets this sink in. Doubtlessly to feel and appreciate my chill of horror. I school my features, struggling to let nothing bleed through.
He continues, “If I hadn’t been tested, nobody would ever have known about me.”
The irony is that he’s right. Wainwright did something right getting this guy off the streets.
I struggle to free my arms. No luck there, I scan his fleshy, perspiring face. His nose, like the rest of him, is larger than average. Bulbous almost, veins popping along the outsides of his flaring nostrils. Before I chicken out, I lift my neck and crash my forehead into his nose. I hit him as hard as I can—overlooking the pain in my skull, knowing it’s only a fraction of the agony he’s feeling.
He howls and pulls back, slapping his hands over his nose.
It does nothing to block the gush of blood. I ignore it, shoving back my disgust at the dark red spray splattering my shirt.
Taking advantage of the moment, I jump to my feet. While he’s still down, I kick him in the stomach. Once. Twice.
He turns, angling his body into a protective ball, one hand still clutching his nose. I deliver a few more kicks, seizing my opportunity, knowing he could recover at any second and be on his feet. I simply act, not thinking about what I’m doing . . . about how it feels . . . heady and euphoric. He starts to push up, and I press my gloves together and bring them down on his head. He collapses back down from the blow.
My chest rises and falls with heavy pants. My arms hang at my sides. Incredulous, I hesitate, gawking at him . . . marveling that I beat him. All by myself. Grinning, I look around.
And that’s my fatal mistake.
He rushes me, shouldering my legs at the knees. I hit the ground like a limp doll. I fall harder than last time. My head collides into the mat so hard I think it rattles my brain. Jars my teeth and whips my neck.
He shows no mercy. This time his fist connects with my face in a vicious crack. The force stuns me. Every nerve in my face screams out. And when he brings his glove down a second time, I feel the skin split in my cheek. I bring my glove to my face.
My vision blurs, but I can make out his mangled face, the mashed nose dripping blood. His gloved fist is pulled back for another blow, and something tells me this time, when he hits me, I won’t stay conscious. It will knock me out. No way can I stay awake for more of this.
Then he’s gone.
I’m free. My aching lungs swell with air, but even that movement makes the pain in my face worse. Unbearable.
I force myself up, but my movements feel slow . . . like I’m underwater. My side screams and I clutch my ribs.
I hear them before I see them, before my gaze focuses, locating the pair on the mat. Sean wrestles with Tully, their bodies writhing and straining against each other.
Sean is fierce and wild, his body moving with a fluidity and ease that almost seems at odds with the power behind the violent blows he’s delivering every chance he gets. He’s getting more punches in than Tully. Pounding him in the face, the side of the head, the shoulders, the torso . . . anywhere he can reach. Finally, Tully’s not lifting his arms up to defend himself at all anymore. He just takes every blow, lies there like a sponge.
Dimly, I realize a crowd has gathered to watch. Several call out words of advice and encouragement. To Tully or Sean, I’m not sure.
Sitting on the mat, seeing what everyone else sees: Sean rescuing me, pummeling my opponent because I failed . . . because I had dropped my guard; disgust washes over me.