Inhuman

7

Contorting, I tried to see my attacker, but he forced me to face the wall. I swallowed my scream. Better to contend with one man than bring a whole slew of guards down on my head. I stopped struggling as well. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t going to let me go until he wanted to. Begging wouldn’t help — that much I remembered from self-defense class.

“I’m not going to report you,” I said in the calmest voice I could muster.

He tsked. “That was too easy. Most guards don’t promise that until after I’ve tied them up.”

The scornful way he said “guards” meant that he wasn’t one. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I said, “I’m not a guard.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “You just dress like one?” His breath warmed the side of my neck as he leaned closer. “And smell like — Hey, how come you smell like a meadow?”

“Get off me!” I shoved my elbow back, hitting what felt like ribs.

Spinning me around, he pulled the cap from my head. “You’re not a guard.” He smacked the wall beside me and the lights snapped on, bright and blinding.

As my eyes adjusted, the first thing that struck me was his lack of a shirt. Since line guards did not waltz around showing off an acre of sun-kissed skin, he clearly didn’t belong here any more than I did. I raised my gaze and lost my breath.

Hopefully he’d put my open-mouthed silence down to having startled me. Then again, with that face, he had to be used to gawkers. Sculpted lips, aquamarine eyes — an artist could put a sword in his hand and paint him as the archangel Michael. Fierce and beautiful.

“Feral got your tongue?” he asked.

Yes — if being from the Feral Zone meant that he was a feral. Wait, was he? He didn’t seem to have any claws or stripes or hooves or —

“Breathe, rabbit. I’ll only hurt you if you do something stupid.”

I cleared my throat. “Define stupid.”

When his lips pulled back, I flinched, only to realize that I’d amused him. “Have you been locked in a tower your whole life?” he asked. “There’s not a mark on you.”

Was he making fun of me? Probably, since he had to be around my age and yet was showing some serious wear and tear: Scars crosshatched his ribs and arms. Another edged his left eye. A few were the results of crude stitches, but the rest … claw marks? Scratches? Who cared?! I snatched my cap from his fingers.

“You know it’s illegal to impersonate a guard,” he said.

“Like you’re going to report me.” I didn’t know where to look. I wasn’t used to talking to half-naked boys.

“That goes both ways.” His mouth held the hint of a smile, but then he strolled away, lithe and unself-conscious, his pants riding dangerously low on his hips. They’d been slashed off below the knees — probably by the same knife that had done the hack job on his light brown hair. He crouched by a dirty green knapsack on the floor, stuffed to overflowing. After trying several times to zip it up, he resorted to dumping out some of the contents. I angled closer and saw pill packs, syringes, moldable casts, and sterilized packets of silica gel.

My anger flared. Having worked in a rescue shelter I knew just how valuable those supplies were. “You can’t steal from an infirmary!”

“Maybe you can’t.” He zipped up his knapsack and rose. “I’ve got it down to an art.”

He stood within a foot of me — close enough that I could smell the river on him — and looked me over, slow and deliberate. As much as I wanted to retreat, I smothered the impulse. Running from a stray dog just triggered it to give chase. And this guy was all street dog — definitely stray. “How did you get across the bridge?” I asked.

“Trade secret.” He swung the knapsack onto his back and headed for the door.

“Wait, are you going back to the Feral Zone?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Can I follow you?”

He swung around, surprised. “No, you can’t follow me.”

“I won’t get in your way.”

“Looking at you gets in my way.”

I wrinkled my nose. He was making no sense at all. But I had a feeling I knew how to speak his language. “I’ll pay you to take me to Moline.”

His eyes narrowed with interest. “Pay me how?”

“How much do you want?”

“How much of what?”

Was he being dense on purpose or along with those scars had he taken a few too many blows to the head? “How much money do you want for escorting me to Moline?”

“Money?” His grin softened the precise angles of his face. “That’s good. Silky, the only thing I can do with paper money is burn it or wipe my —”

“Got it,” I said quickly. “You don’t need money.”

“What’ve you got to barter?”

I pulled off my father’s bag and peered inside. “A flashlight, matches —”

“How about a sleeping bag?” he interrupted.

I slumped. Of course, something like a sleeping bag would be valuable in his world. “No.”

“Perfect. Share mine tonight and I’ll take you to Moline in the morning. Deal?”

My lips parted, but words failed me. He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. “You’re a pig!”

“Absolutely not.” He extended his arms as if offering himself up for inspection. “I am one hundred percent human.”

“That’s debatable,” said a voice from the doorway.

I turned to see Everson with a gun in his hand. With relief I took a step toward him, only to be jerked backward, hard. A tan forearm stretched across my ribs. The guy’s naked chest was pressed against my back. With a cry, I tried to pry his arm off, but then a cool line touched my throat. His knife.

Everson’s alarm froze me into place. “Rafe, right?” His too-calm tone amped up my panic another notch. It was the pitch I used when trying to soothe a snarling stray. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Jerk, right?” Rafe said, sounding sociable, though his arm tightened across me. “Shut up and get in the closet.” He tilted his head toward a door on the far wall.

Everson might have been taller and broader, but I had no doubt about which of them was more dangerous.

“Let the girl go first.”

“Why?” Rafe asked. “What’s she to you?”

Everson glared at him. “Let her go.” He set his gun on the floor and held up his hands. “And you can walk out of here. I won’t stop you.”

“Heck of a deal. Here’s my counter….” The pressure of the knife against my throat vanished.

Releasing my breath, I started to pull away when a flash of pain seared across my forearm.

“You son of a —” Everson beat a fast path into the closet. Once he was inside, Rafe dragged me over as well. Stumbling, I stared at the blood beading up on my arm.

He’d cut me. With a knife. Who did that?

He flung me against Everson, sending us both sprawling against the shelves at the back of the closet. “She’s all yours,” he said, and slammed the door shut.

Everson leapt up and grabbed the knob just as there was a loud scrape from the other side. The knob turned futilely in his fist. Crouching, I peered under the door and saw two legs of what must have been a leaning chair propped under the knob.

“Have fun, you two,” Rafe mocked, and his footsteps faded away.