The Raging Ones Read online

  Candidates nod at Seifried’s declaration. I shiver from toe to head and then Kinden barks, “You’re forgetting he’s in Vorkter. No one ever escapes.”

  Court’s hand tightens around mine.

  No one ever escapes.

  I clutch proof of someone who has.

  * * *

  Thief theories persist until bedtime, my canopy drawn shut and legs restless beneath the covers. Darkness cloaks my silent dorm room. Hands on my stomach, I stare up and sense Mykal hugging a pillow, breathing heavy in a deep slumber.

  Court is awake. Sitting against his headboard, he flips through a textbook, dim light causing him to squint his dry eyes. He rubs them repeatedly with the heel of his palm and sometimes he glances to his left side. As though picturing me, and my head turns.

  Picturing him.

  He mouths, Sleep.

  I’m trying, but my satchel, tucked in bed with me, contains a stolen fur coat that no longer feels right to wear or hold. And my fanciful imagination refuses to quit picturing Quick-Hands Jakker. I cover my face with my palms, about to groan, but floorboards creak.

  I stiffen.

  Creaaaak.

  I prop myself on my elbows just as someone draws back a sliver of my canopy, the figure shadowed before he clicks a handheld reading light.

  “Zimmer?” I hiss.

  A warm glow bathes his tired, sunken eyes, as he slouches in plain blue slacks and a sleeveless shirt. My guards lowering only a smidge, I straighten up and press my spine to the headboard.

  Very softly, he says, “I’m not asking you to like me.” He rests a single knee on my bed. Caught between staying and leaving. “I’m not saying that I like you either … but I can’t sleep—I haven’t been able to since we’ve been here. And I just … I thought you’d understand.”

  As he stares intently, exhaustion welling, it dawns on me.

  Zimmer Creecastle has never slept alone. Most Fast-Trackers would rather cram in one bed and spend their bills other ways. At the orphanage, I had a narrow bunk to myself, so I’m more used to our current situation than him.

  Mattress undulating, I move closer to Zimmer. Arms crossed, I whisper, “Ask me.”

  “Will you let me in your bed?”

  “No.” I reject him briskly. I’d never offer my bunk to someone I mistrusted. No amount of exhaustion would sway me then, and I won’t let it sway me now.

  Zimmer grips my canopy, not shying away. “Why?”

  “Why would I? Especially knowing you dislike me.”

  He cocks his head. “Then maybe I like you.”

  I hate that I can’t sense whether he’s lying like I can with Court and Mykal. Part of me wants to chuck his handheld light toward the armoire and tell him to “go chase after” but the other part would rather hear him out.

  I lift my chin. “You just want to use me.”

  “If that’s how you see it, then maybe a little.” He leans nearer to breathe softly, “But you used me too.”

  I owe him. Not this in particular, but I owe him something. Sharing a bed may be the easiest exchange, and I’ve never minded lying next to another person. It may be nice.

  Like old times.

  I won’t be some chump either. “Only if you tell me what your sleeping arrangements used to be in Bartholo.” I make these terms to gauge his desperation. For weeks, we’ve played a distant, coy game with each other, skimming the surface of our Fast-Tracker pasts but never treading deep.

  “Scoot over first.” Spotting my glower in the orange light, he adds, “I trust you about as much as you trust me, Wilafran.” He hisses lowly, “If that’s even your fykking name.”

  “All right, all right.” I thud to my bottom and slide, granting him half the bed. He climbs in, enclosing us in the canopy, and then sits on my satchel.

  “What the…?” Zimmer unburies the leather luggage and gives me a look. “Because you’re lonely or you’re afraid it’ll be stolen?”

  “The latter.”

  He throws my satchel onto the floor.

  “Heya,” I snap under my breath and then stretch across his waist to fish for my bag.

  He reclines on his elbows, rooting himself to the bed, not helping. Just watching me struggle for my possessions. “They’re Influentials,” he whispers to me. “No one cares about your socks and sweaters but you.”

  Retrieving my satchel, clutched to my breasts, I ensure my elbow drives into his ribs as I return to my side of the bed. He grunts and then flashes a “wiseass” smile.

  My heart hammers at three different speeds.

  Court slams his book closed and is motionless, and Mykal has woken, sitting up in bed. His arms hang on his scarred kneecaps. Both concentrating solely on me. Worried. Otherwise, they wouldn’t pry so intently. We’ve never invited anyone else to our beds before now.

  Zimmer crawls under the quilt and sheet.

  I situate my satchel on my left, pushing me a bit closer to Zimmer, but I’d rather protect my belongings from any thieving hands. Cheek on my pillow, I whisper, “You better tell me now.”

  Rolling on his side to me, he whips the quilt and sheet over our heads. Light still lit in his palm. Cocooned in a warm fort. I relax more than I should, and as he breathes easier, I wonder if he feels the exact same.

  In fear of our roommates overhearing, Zimmer speaks in an even more hushed tone. “Have you ever been to Putter’s place off of Fowler Street, Avenue Thirty-Four?”

  “Putter Vosscastle?” He’s not a particularly popular Fast-Tracker, but he often threw parties in his run-down flat. More so, I digest the fact that I have mutual acquaintances with Zimmer. Bartholo feels less like a giant, cold city and more like home.

  “Yeah.” Zimmer sets the little light by our shoulders, illuminating our faces. “I lived across from Putter’s, shared a space with eleven … no, twelve others. We all worked in hotel hospitality.”

  “Hmm.” I ponder what that means while our eyes dance along each other.

  “Hmm?” He scrutinizes me harder. “Hmm what?”

  Tempted to ask more, I open my lips. Then shut them. I wish to paint a picture of his life before StarDust. Even if I shouldn’t know or care. Impulse overtakes me. “How many beds did you have?”

  “Two, but half of us worked nights.” Growing comfortable, he slips his hand beneath his pillow, his long fingers unintentionally skimming mine.

  Mykal’s back arches, no longer slouched, and even farther away, Court bears hard on his teeth. Bottling emotions before they plunge hot to his cheeks.

  Gods. They have no visual of the person in my bed, so they’re left to assume. I doubt the truth would calm their fretting hearts, but as I lie serenely, they should understand that I’m in no danger. Hopefully they’ll stop forcing themselves awake and try to sleep.

  Zimmer supports his head up. “You all right?”

  I blink twice, focusing on him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It looked like … I think you must’ve zoned out for a second.”

  My brows spike. “You’re worried about me?”

  “About you? No. I’m worried you may knife me in the night … a little bit.” He pinches his fingers together, lying back on his side.

  “I wouldn’t knife you.” I pause, serious. “I may kick you if you aggravate me.”

  Zimmer yawns. “You’re a horrible bedmate.”

  “I lived in an orphanage. So it’s not like I shared a bed unless…” I bedded the other person. His sudden understanding passes between us. I miss hands roaming my skin, nerves blistering, and head lolling backward.

  Zimmer’s gaze softens. “Hmm.”

  My face roasts. “Hmm what?” My sharp tone prickles my ears.

  His lip quirks. “Hmm, you make more sense. I had a decent friend from the orphanage, used to complain about his boots being stolen in the middle of the night. He got so miffed that he began stealing from other orphans.” Gesturing to my satchel, he smacks the quilt above us. “Makes sense you’re protecting your socks.
”

  “Were you raised by your parents?”

  “Not for long.” Zimmer fights grogginess by blinking. “They were Fast-Trackers: had me at sixteen, died when I was ten. I’d already been working at the Catherina for a couple of years, so I wasn’t required to live in an orphanage.”

  I was. My mother died when I turned six, so Altia paid for my living expenses at Bartholo’s orphanage. To avoid overcrowding, they release FTs once they turn eighteen, but thinking I’d die before then, I never considered alternative housing.

  My jaw aches from Court biting down. I hug my feather pillow firmer beneath my cheek. “I was a Purple Coach driver,” I admit so unexpectedly that my lungs collapse.

  Nostrils flare—Mykal. I try to mutter a don’t worry but my lips barely move.

  Zimmer lets out a long breath, his gaze dripping down my body like he unmasks Wilafran to discover a stunned and bare Franny.

  I wrap my arms around my belly. “Say something.”

  “You’ve been yelled and cursed at, had bills thrown at your face, cleaned their puke off car seats, and now you’re pretending to be one of them. That,” he says with conviction, “makes no sense.” We’ve subconsciously scooted nearer, his breath warming my face.

  “You were a bellhop,” I combat.

  He gawks. “I was fired.”

  “Maybe I was fired too.”

  “When’s the last time Purple Coach fired one of you?” Forcefully, he swallows another yawn. “They need drivers so badly, you’d have to injure the whole fykking city to be tossed.”

  It’s true. No one likes learning to drive. Time consuming. Risk of personal injury. Little pay for dealing with high-strung personalities.

  “I can’t tell you why I’m here,” I whisper heatedly. “It’s not like you’re awfully forthcoming on these facts either.” Sitting up, my legs entangle with his.

  Mykal groans into a growl. This link is difficult when they only know my senses and emotions, not my intentions.

  I untangle from Zimmer and ease back.

  He hoists his head again to better look at me.

  My voice is a hurried breath. “You think I haven’t wondered how you blend in so well and speak so formally? At the Catherina, I heard you.”

  “What did you hear?” If my voice is urgent, his is gentle but scorched. As though to say, I am still a die-hard FT.

  I tuck my legs loosely to my chest. “You spewed Fast-Tracker slang like bullets, and here, you’ve been more like silk than a slingshot.”

  Zimmer rolls onto his back, his bent knees tenting the quilt along with my head. Staring up for a long moment before saying, “Truth? It starts in the core.” He jabs a finger at his chest. “I’m going to die one day soon, and because of that, I’m at a disadvantage. And they’ll lie to themselves and say, They’re the best opportunities for your life span. Pig shit. It’s not the lack of wealth that gases me. I don’t want their amassed familial fortunes or decades-long careers. It’s not that they’re ‘properly’ educated. It’s not that when I wake up, I’m on a stained mattress, intertwined with five other arms and legs—it’s not that the ceiling is rotted and the walls are chipped. It’s that every morning—every gods-forsaken morning that I strap on my cap, carry their bags, prop open doors—I know the only way to gain respect is to act like them. I earn better tips by my shift’s end, and then I go home and lie on that stained mattress and stare up at that rotted ceiling and curse with my friends.”

  Turning his head to me, he finishes, “Choke back Fast-Tracker slang long enough, it becomes easy to do it on command.”

  I lie back on my side, quiet while his fatigue heavies his eyelids. “If you could’ve saved your job that day at the Catherina, why’d you use slang in front of management?”

  He blinks and blinks, eyes reddening. “I was stunned and furious that Court lied—and that my wart of a boss—who’d known me since I was eight, sided with him. At the time, that was as much restraint as I could give but I botched it.”

  My throat is swollen, brain full with knowledge about how he’s pretending to be an Influential. Who he is. I think he’ll fall asleep now, his lids drooping and drooping. His drowsiness contagious, I yawn into my pillow.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says in the quietest whisper of all. “I saw you in the dining room and that day at the Catherina just flooded back. All my anger. For a split second, I wanted to hurt you and your friends as horribly as you hurt me.” He shuts his eyes, exhausted tears slipping from the corners.

  Turned toward each other, I breathe, “I think I deserved it.”

  Eyes still closed, he murmurs, “No.”

  No?

  “You’ve been kind.”

  As silent seconds pass, my own eyes sag closed, sheltered by a quilt. Warmed by dim light, we breathe fully, softly—freely. Unburdened from the weight of our hatred.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Court

  “We need to address what we’ve been avoiding.” I break an hour’s long silence between the three of us; StarDust’s library is relatively empty during breakfast.

  Most candidates study in the nonfiction sections on the ground floor. On the second, where fantasy novels are shelved, we’ve spread aerospace textbooks over our circular table. And with the nearby balcony, we overlook everyone below. The view and seclusion allow us to speak more candidly than anywhere else in StarDust.

  Mykal shoves his books aside, leans back, and smacks on mint gum. I only offered the gum when he longed for dry root and complained about “teeth being used for chewing”—I forgot how irritating this could be.

  Massaging my sore jaw, I wait for Franny to shut her journal. “Any day.”

  She shoots me a glare and then continues writing meticulously. “I haven’t been avoiding. It just hasn’t been important.”

  I drop my voice. “I woke next to a boy for the second night. This morning, my face was buried against his chest, and his arm was draped over my waist.” Her cheeks burn, and mine heat in kind.

  “A bony boy,” Mykal says huskily.

  I roll my eyes. “That makes absolutely no difference.”

  She frowns. “I didn’t realize that you felt like you were me in bed, Court,” she whispers. “Or else I would’ve had this talk much sooner.”

  Maybe I was concentrating too hard on her, but I don’t trust Zimmer.

  Franny didn’t bed or kiss him, nor did she imply that she desired to.

  I rake a hand through my thick hair. “I don’t trust Zimmer,” I finally announce.

  Franny reroutes her glare to me.

  I add, “We still don’t know his intentions for being at StarDust.”

  “We know they have nothing to do with us.”

  We still don’t know his intentions with you, I think but struggle to admit it aloud. Not knowing my place.

  Mykal rocks forward, chair thudding. “He sleeps in your damned bed.”

  Incensed, Franny presses her chest to the table. “Sleep. That’s all it is.” Eyes narrowed, she says, “If you both think this is more important than StarDust right now, then let’s acknowledge the real issue.”

  My abdomen tightens. “Which is?”

  “The link,” she whispers. “Are we expected to never touch anyone or never let anyone touch us?”

  Mykal chews rougher on his gum and growls, “Yeah,” just as I say, “I don’t know.” His head whips to me so angrily that he strains a muscle.

  I rest my hand on my neck. Our talk is so new—I don’t have the right answers, but if we think logically, maybe we can find them. “Can you really ask that of her?”

  “No, I’m asking that of you too.”

  “What are you saying?” My arm falls to the table, fingers on a worn hardback. He’s made it vitally clear that he’s too afraid to heighten the link. So we’ll never kiss again.

  Mykal extends his arms. “I’m saying that we’re not cozy with anyone. We’re losing nothing that way, you realize.”

  Franny and I exc
hange a knowing, apprehensive look. He’s been alone more than he’s been with people, and I haven’t been entirely blunt where my past is concerned.

  “We are losing something,” Franny says, brows raised. “Because I have needs that haven’t been met, and as far as I can tell … especially during baths, you both do too.”

  The closer we’ve become, the less we actively try to focus elsewhere. Our minds wander, we feel one another; it’s not a secret. So none of us balk, but the more Mykal processes, the harsher he grinds his chewing gum.

  He white-knuckles the table. “I’m not bedding anyone unless I love them.”

  “That’s fine. That’s what you choose, but I don’t have to be that way,” Franny says hurriedly. “Court doesn’t have to be that way either.”

  I say what’s been silently known, but they deserve the words. “In Vorkter,” I whisper, tension gripping our muscles, “I bedded people for the first time and I can’t say that I loved any of them.”

  Mykal rocks back, his jaw hard as stone. “So you’d do it now? You’d do it again?”

  I don’t know. I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s not what’s important right now.”

  His biceps flex, and he pushes his chair away from the table. His hurt punctures my heart.

  “Mykal—”

  “You’re both fools.” He lets out a daggered breath. “Just stretch your itty-bitty minds for a moment. Imagine sensing one another with someone else, and tell me, how do you really feel?”

  Franny inhales shallowly, head hung.

  I fight the truth, but the second I imagine Mykal and Franny with someone else, my chest concaves, my heart sinks. Her features twist, the realizations crashing against us.

  Tensely, I say, “Not well.” I lean back, loosening my tie. Needing air.

  “Me too,” Franny whispers and stares off, haunted. “What does this mean?”

  I don’t know. We may be three people in three different bodies, but our senses erase the lines that tell us what we are to one another. I truly believed I was in bed with another boy this morning. I had to blink five times, pat my quilt, and focus intently to realize that I sensed Franny.

  At times when the link is truly heightened, I am so much a part of Mykal and Franny that it feels like we share bodies.