Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1) Read online

  "Put the gun to her head," says Temper, coolly.

  The guard who shot Vern steps toward me. I feel the warm circle of the gun's firing end through my hair, against my skull.

  "Stop what you're doing, now," orders Temper.

  "Or you'll shoot me? Isn't that premature? Don't you need me for your bargain?"

  "Maybe. Maybe not." He smiles.

  I relax my fingers, allowing the molecules I was agitating to calm, to settle back into their normal rhythms.

  "Very good." Temper walks to the door. "Clean up the mess," he tells the guards. "And if she uses her ability again, shoot through one of her hands."

  They drag Vern's body away, leaving a smear of blood on the floor. After a few minutes a nervous-looking young soldier comes to mop the concrete. He doesn't manage to get all the blood up, and when he leaves I stare at the viscous red stain.

  They're going to kill me. Probably. Unless my father gives in and withdraws the Peace-Keepers from Emsalis—which he won't. My mother will beg and plead with him. She'll scream and threaten. She'll flip between sexy, submissive wife and crazy, knife-murdering vixen, trying to have some effect on my father. Neither mode will work with him—after all these years, he's immune to her manipulation. He'll watch her with an amused smile that will infuriate her all the more, and then she'll run screaming to their room to smash something of his. Which he will replace within a day, while she eats her feelings and then vomits them out again.

  Sometimes I hate them both.

  I can't imagine that my father would ever cede to my kidnappers. To do so would be to lose face in front of our people, in front of the entire world. He'd be giving in to terror tactics, and that would have immense ramifications across the globe. Fringe groups would resort to kidnappings more often, trying to get their way. Every child of an influential politician would be in more danger than usual. I know how this works. I know the reasons why he won't give in, and they make sense.

  But I still wish he would save me.

  My only hope is a strike team finding me. I don't know where we are, or what precautions these Fray soldiers may have taken to conceal their base here, but my father is an immensely powerful man with plenty of resources. Surely he can hire someone to figure out where I am.

  Or maybe I shouldn't be counting on him at all. If there's anything I've learned over the years, it's that he only comes through for me when my needs sync with his agenda.

  I need to focus on saving myself. And I have two days to do it.

  If they notice me heating the bio-cuffs again, they'll shoot one of my hands. I'll have a permanent hole blasted right through the bones and nerves and muscles. The best nano-patch in the world can't repair that kind of damage.

  Maybe I can attack one of them the next time I go to the bathroom. Grab a gun, shoot my way out?

  Convince one of them to let me go?

  None of the options are likely to work out well for me. But sitting here, doing nothing, is driving me insane. I'm not the kind of girl who stays put and waits for a rescue.

  After thinking for a long time, possibly hours, I've got no concrete plan. So as usual, I start talking.

  "I'm so hungry," I groan. "So, so hungry. Please. Anything but nuribars. Surely you have something else in this place? Please?"

  Watcher glances at Pig-Eyes. "Has she been fed?"

  Pig-Eyes shrugs.

  "Go find her something to eat."

  "Why me?" Pig-Eyes grunts.

  "Just do it. And then you can feed it to her."

  Pig-Eyes grins, licks his lips, and swaggers out of the room.

  One down, two to go.

  I look straight at Watcher. "Listen, there's something I need to tell your boss. The guy with the blue eyes and the bad temper. Can you go get him, please?"

  "I can call him." He heads for the communication panel.

  No, no. I need him to leave the room.

  "Oh, that panel isn't working," I say quickly. "Didn't they tell you? My last set of guards had the worst time with it. Nobody has fixed it yet, so I guess you'll have to go get him yourself."

  Watcher sighs. "This is a piece of crap hole they got us stuck in. First the perimeter monitors, then the showers, now the communications. Keep your gun on her until I get back." He walks out of the room.

  Now it's just me and the Ghost, who looks jumpy.

  I wait several seconds, until I think Watcher is probably far enough away. And then I start screaming, and jerking my head around. "It hurts! My skull-port—please, something's wrong, it's killing me, killing—you have to make it stop!" I shriek, and I writhe, and Ghost dashes out of the room, frantically yelling for help.

  I'm alone. I must succeed in escaping this time, or Temper will slice my ankles and I'll be hobbled, unable to try again. I burn into the bio-cuffs as fast as I can, concentrating on moving the molecules of the metal and the wires, overheating, melting—

  "What are you doing?"

  It's Rak, in the doorway. Startled, I lose the momentum, and the heat fades from the cuffs. I'm pretty sure I almost shorted out the left one, but I don't know about the right.

  He crouches in front of me. "Yazi said he's going to get a medic, that you were having pain. The wound where your skull-port was."

  "Um—yes. The pain went away."

  Again that twitch of his mouth, almost imperceptible. "You managed to get all your guards to leave the room."

  "It was too easy. You should train them better."

  "They're rebels. Not formally trained like your father's soldiers."

  "Yes, but they're also dumb. I mean, really? Like I said—too easy."

  He actually smirks this time. Then he catches himself, and the humor drains from his face. "If you had gotten out of your cuffs, my commander would have hobbled you. He doesn't make idle threats."

  "I know. But I had to try; he's going to kill me. They had me make a video, and they shot Vern, my head of security, right in front of me." Tears ooze into my eyes and I hate it, and I hate him for seeing me weakened. "Your commander says I'm going to be next. My parents have two days or I meet the same fate."

  He stands up, not looking at me.

  "You said he doesn't make idle threats." My tone is a challenge. "So tell me—am I going to survive this if my father doesn't cave?"

  He walks across the room, ignoring me.

  "Why did those guards wear masks for the camera, but no one wears masks around me?" My voice trembles. "Your boss is going to kill me, isn't he?"

  "You knew that was the plan." He speaks with his back to me. "You're a piece in the game."

  "I'm a person."

  He won't look at me.

  I'm about to start yelling at him when something drops from the ceiling onto my arm. Something about the size of my palm, long and flat and jointed. Its amber scales gleam as its body moves fluidly along my forearm, tiny feet pricking my skin. A large centipede. No, worse—because now I see the tiny arching tail at one end, and the bulbous pod of venom at the tip. The creature clicks a pair of pincers, showing a sucking mouthpiece, partly retracted.

  This is a scourgeling. My team warned me about them before we came here. They paralyze their prey with poison from their stingers, and then they suck out the victim's vital juices, working on a single body for days until it's drained. Even without the sucking part, the venom is lethal. These little things are the worst creatures in the country. They've been the subject of purges and pest control efforts in Emsalis for generations, but they never seem to go away, and they're always slipping through cracks into homes and offices and stores.

  And apparently into secret Fray bases.

  The creature hesitates, touching my skin lightly with its pincers. The hair on my arms rises straight up.

  If I try to use my ability, it might sting me before I could get the heat strong enough to fry it.

  "Rak." My voice rasps into my throat.

  He doesn't react.

  "Rak." Louder, and the creature backs up a step, mandible
s clicking. "Rak, please."

  He turns, exasperated. "What?"

  One look at the naked terror on my face, and his eyes follow mine down to the creature on my arm.

  "Don't move," he breathes, unsheathing a long, wicked knife. Creeping closer, he reaches out slowly toward the scourgeling. It lifts its stinger, ready to pierce my flesh—and Rak moves fast as a serpent striking—flicks it off my arm without even scraping my skin. His boot crunches the creature into goo and shards of exoskeleton.

  I can breathe normally again. "Thank you."

  He looks at me, and this time there's no hatred in his dark eyes. Instead I see surprise, and maybe a hint of warmth.

  "You know you saved my life, right?" I say softly. "Ironic."

  Pig-Eyes enters the room, carrying a bowl. He frowns at Rak. "What are you doing here? Where are the others?"

  "I'm not sure. Apparently all of you decided it was a good idea to abandon your post."

  "What?" Pig-Eyes is clearly confused.

  Rak takes the bowl from him. He picks up a piece of long yellow fruit, then a link of sausage. "Odd choices."

  "For her," says Pig-Eyes. "To eat."

  "Oh, you were going to feed these to her? I thought they were for me." Rak takes a large bite out of the sausage.

  Pig-Eyes shoves past him, grumbling, and Rak smiles at me—a real smile, for the first time. I can't help grinning back, even though his mouth is full of my dinner.

  "Do I get any?" I ask.

  He walks over to me and releases one of my wrists from the bio-cuff. "Help yourself."

  When Ghost comes back in with a medic, I'm enjoying mouthfuls of fruit between bites of sausage. "I feel better," I tell them. But the medic insists on checking the hole in my head anyway.

  "No infection or permanent damage that I can see. The nanites are crafting a layer of skin." She slaps on a fresh nano-patch. "You'll be fine. Keep it covered, and when you get home, have it looked at. You'll need a re-install or a permanent filling and seal."

  When I get home? She must not know what her boss and his cronies have planned for me.

  When Watcher returns with Commander Bad Temper, my heart sinks. I thought I would be out of the room and escaping the compound before they came back. Now I have to make up some reason for wanting to talk to him.

  "I'm a busy man," he says, putting one hand over each bio-cuff and leaning over me. He's not afraid of me at all. We're nose to nose, and I shrink in my skin, wanting nothing more than to be oceans away. "What did you want to see me about?"

  "I wanted to know if my parents have contacted you yet, about my release."

  He grips my face in his hand so hard that my jaws ache. "I told you I would not be giving you updates."

  "I—I know, but I thought I could help. Do another vid, maybe—a better one. To get their attention."

  "Trust me, we have their attention. What you need to do is sit quietly and stop talking." He turns to the medic. "Why are you here?"

  "Checking her skull-port wound, sir." She looks almost as nervous as I am.

  "Since you're here, put a nano-patch over her mouth."

  The medic's eyes widen. "Sir?"

  "You heard me. Seal up this hole. We won't be needing it anymore."

  "Please don't. I'll stop talking," I whisper.

  Temper straightens and snaps his fingers at the medic. Panic twists my insides. Once the nano-patch is in place, the nanites will begin building a layer of artificial skin over the seam of my mouth. I won't be able to speak, drink, eat, or breathe through it.

  "Can I at least have some water first?"

  "Get this food out of here, Rakhi," orders Temper, pointing to the bowl in my lap. "And give her a drink."

  Rak comes forward, and instead of giving me the leftover water from the bottle under my chair, he hands me his own water bottle. I take a deep gulp of the liquid before Temper snatches it away. Who knows when I'll get more.

  Commander Temper whips a strap from a nearby pack and passes it under my chin, drawing it tight and buckling it at the top of my head to keep my jaws together. The medic steps forward, her eyes wide under her fringe of blond bangs. She opens another nano-patch and spreads the silvery square of material over my mouth, leaving my nostrils free. As she smoothes down the edges, she whispers, "Sorry."

  The inside of the nano-patch is cold and slimy against my lips. I can already feel a faint prickling as the nanites start their work. To them, my mouth is a gash that needs to be closed.

  "Good," says Temper, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He points to the door, and everyone but my three guards and Rak leave the room. Rak turns to Pig-Eyes. "I'll take the rest of your shift. Mine's starting in an hour anyway."

  Pig-Eyes grunts and throws him an evil look, but he leaves. I'm glad to see him go.

  It's just me, and Watcher, and Ghost, and Rak.

  Being muted like this is humiliating. It's even worse to know that my mouth is being sealed with synthetic skin, and I'll have to cut it open in order to speak or eat again. Will my lips look the same after the new skin is peeled away? Maybe there will be damage, scars. My eyes travel to Rak's scarred lips, then up to his dark eyes.

  Our eyes connect, a bridge of unspoken thought between us. I project my pain, my humiliation to him. I plead with him. Help me.

  He doesn't break the stare. In his eyes revulsion wars with pity, or maybe it's hatred warring with humanity—I don't know him well enough to read his expression.

  What made him this way? What brought him to this cause, under a man like Temper? Why does he hate me and my people so much?

  The gaze, the connection between us has been going on too long—it's getting awkward. I shift my eyes from his and focus on my ability. I try to connect with the matter that's sealing over my lips, but the nanites are different from other particles I've encountered, and I'm not sure what to do with them. I can't agitate them at all.

  I'm tired, so tired. How can I endure another day or two of this chair, these cuffs? I long to stretch my arms out, lie down on a bed, writhe around freely and relax. Instead I stretch out my legs as far as they will go, and I twist in the chair, trying to get comfortable, to relieve some of the pressure on my backside. What I wouldn't give for a cushion!

  Hours later, my head jerks up for the thousandth time. My neck is aching; I must have slept with my head hanging for a longer stretch, out of sheer exhaustion. Ghost and Watcher are gone, and Frog is back on duty with Rak. They're stretched out on the floor, playing cards.

  The nanites are busy closing up my mouth. I try to move my lips, but the seal on the patch is too tight.

  A faint boom echoes far away, somewhere down the corridors of the building. Rak looks up, listening.

  Another explosion comes a few minutes later, louder this time, and the walls of the room tremble. My guards leap to their feet, guns drawn.

  "I'll check it," says Frog. He edges to the door and leans out into the hallway. I bend forward, craning my sore neck to see what's going on.

  A blast of white light, and Frog's head shoots off his shoulders, flying out of sight down the hall. Blood sprays the doorframe and his gun emits staccato pulses as his body tumbles to the ground. Rak lunges aside, dodging the stray gunfire, and leaps beside my chair, his gun propped across my arm, pointing at the door.

  My father. His men are here to rescue me.

  5

  Joy and relief flood my body, turning me weak—but then I glance at Rak, who's ready to fire on my rescuers. They're going to kill him when they come in here. It's too bad, really.

  Four men rush into the room. Shaved heads, faces tattooed with bold blue patterns, huge guns of a kind I've never seen in my life. Patches on their shoulders, a dramatic "V." Vilor, the third and most violent faction of Emsalis.

  Not my father's men. So this isn't a rescue, after all.

  The invaders sidle toward us, guns ready. The four of them are different heights, colors, and shapes, but all have the same fierce expression, the same glitte
ring, gleeful eyes. We are the prey, and they are the successful hunters.

  "Close your eyes," Rak hisses. I hate blinding myself at such a vulnerable moment, but I obey.

  The next second, a brilliant, frightening red light flares through my eyelids. Then Rak undoes my bio-cuffs and pulls me from the chair. My legs give out and I sink to the floor. The four who entered the room are also on the ground, hands pressed over their eye sockets.

  Rak hauls me up and drags me through the doorway, snatching a pack from the floor on the way out of the room. As we hurry along the hallway, another boom rattles the walls. Somewhere in the building men are shouting, gun-bolts whining and weapons blasting.

  Ahead, the sound of pounding feet, coming toward us. Rak yanks open a narrow door, shoves me inside, and squeezes in after me, forcing the door shut.

  In the darkness, I claw at the nano-patch over my lips. I peel it away and with my nails I scrape off the skin covering my mouth. It hurts, and my lips feel raw, but at least the seal didn't have time to fully take. Grappling with the belt buckled under my jaw takes a minute longer, and then I whip it off and drop it on the floor.

  Rak flicks on a small pocket light and shines it around. We're in a closet, stocked with dusty cans of paint, bottles of industrial fluids, and cobwebby bins of parts. Whatever this building is, it's clear that Rak and his crew didn't create it; they must have taken it over and adapted it for their purposes.

  Rak leans to the door, listening. I notice the flex of the hand that holds the gun, the strong lines of his neck, the sweep of his jaw. He turns his attention from the door to me, his eyes swirling with fury and distress.

  Something is tormenting him, something more than the invasion.

  "What?" I whisper, reaching out to him without thinking.

  He catches my wrist before I can touch him. "If something like this happens, I'm supposed to—I have to—" The raw scrape of his voice from his throat, the twitch of the gun in my direction—

  "You're supposed to kill me."

  He nods, turmoil in his dark eyes. He's weighing years of loyalty and service to his faction against a few looks and words exchanged between us. The flimsy link I've formed with him isn't going to be enough.