Author: Sophie Jordan

“And that justifies you lashing out?” The therapist glances down at her clipboard and flips a page. “Dylan, is it?”

“Hell, yeah, it justifies it.” Dylan nods. “I want to stomp all over them.”

She nods, and there’s no judgment in her gaze. Quite possibly, I detect a little gleam of approval.

“I see you have an imprint, too. How did you come by it, Dylan?”

Relieved that she’s moved on to someone else, I lean back in my chair.

“Last year, I was hanging out at an arcade with a friend, and the manager made us leave. Said we were too loud. I could tell he thought we were a couple punks.”

She waves her pen in a small circle. “And you hit him?”

He smiles. “You could say that.”

No one speaks for a moment, watching Dylan. His hand clenches in a fist on his lap and you can tell he’s battling his memories.

“What happened?” the therapist prompts.

“We waited for him that night in the parking lot. Cracked his ribs. Dislocated his jaw.” He chuckles. “Asshole was begging us to stop at the end.” His smile turns into something twisted. It chills my blood. “I had to serve six months in juvie, but it was worth it for the look on his face before we messed it up.”

I realize I’m holding my breath. I release it slowly, trying to look normal, unaffected by the story. Everyone sits quietly, scrutinizing Dylan. I wonder how many of them think what he just described is wrong.

The therapist’s voice scratches the thick silence. “Do you think you have a problem taking instructions, Dylan?”

He shrugs. “I never liked doing what my caseworker told me to do.”

She taps the paper. “Yes, you have a history of insubordination. But I see you were on your school’s football team at one time. You must have taken commands from your coaches.”

“Well. Yeah. But I liked playing ball.”

“So you did what they said because you wanted to play.”

“Right.”

“Hm. Interesting. And now you like stomping all over people.”

“I guess. I mean . . . you got to stick up for yourself.”

“What if . . .” She searches faces before pointing at Gil. “He insults you . . . calls you a name?”

Dylan looks Gil over, clearly unimpressed. “He’s scrawny. Wouldn’t take much for me to teach him a lesson.”

“What if you were teamed up together and he’s your partner on an assignment . . . would you still teach him a lesson then?”

Clearly, his answer should be a no. Dylan’s smart enough to catch on to that. He grins and drags two hands through his straw hair. “Oh, no. If we were working together, I’d control myself. Sure.”

“But what about your anger? Your aggression? What do you do with those feelings?”

“Guess I’d work out, go for a run . . . and focus my energy on completing whatever job you people give me.”

She stares at him contemplatively, saying nothing for several moments. Then she lowers her pen to paper. Everyone watches her as she writes on her clipboard, nodding. “Very good,” she murmurs.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Clearly, he’s passed her test . . . this borderline sociopath. It all comes together for me then. She seems to approve of admissions of violence. As long as we can claim we can be controlled. As long as we follow instructions.

Suddenly, I don’t feel quite so lost. I know what she wants to hear. What they want to see in us while we’re here.

My gaze flicks to Dylan. I think about what he did to get imprinted. What he did and I did just doesn’t even compare, and yet we’re both imprinted. We both, presumably, possess an aptitude for violence. I have it in me. At least according to my DNA. It just hasn’t surfaced yet. God willing, it never will.

And yet I have to believe I’m what they’re looking for. I need to make sure they see that. I cross my arms. I either succeed or I’m going to end up in a detention camp.

Looking up from her clipboard, she asks cheerfully, “Anyone else want to share?”

The question makes me think of all those first days of school when we would share our names and adventures from the summer. Trips to Vail, Costa Rica, Disney World. I don’t expect to hear any of that today. No. Here, I’m more likely to get confessions that make my blood run cold.

Maybe the day will come when I get used to this. My face starts to prickle with awareness and I turn sideways to catch Sean staring at me, his blue-gray eyes all smoke and shadows. Unfathomable.

Every time I’ve asked him how he got his imprint, he stays ominously silent. Would it horrify me? Apparently, it didn’t land him in jail. Would it be like in the beginning when I was afraid of him again?

I inhale, suddenly certain that I won’t ask again.

Transcript of interview with one of the first confirmed HTS carriers

DR WAINWRIGHT: . . . and do you remember the moment you took the knife from the drawer? When you cornered Monica Drexler and her daughter in the kitchen?

RYAN YATES: Yeah.

DR. WAINWRIGHT: When you approached Mrs. Drexler and her daughter . . . did she say anything to you?

RYAN YATES: Yeah. She begged me not to hurt them . . . not to hurt Amy.

DR. WAINWRIGHT: And then what happened?

RYAN YATES: I stabbed Mrs. Drexler first. Right here. In the chest—

DR. WAINWRIGHT: You stabbed her seven times. . . .

RYAN YATES: Yeah. I guess. I had to stop when Amy ran out of the room. She was fast. She almost made it to the door, but I caught her. . . .

DR. WAINWRIGHT: And then . . .

RYAN YATES: I told her she should have gone out with me. That she should have liked me. And I cut her throat.

DR. WAINWRIGHT: How did you feel then, Ryan?

RYAN YATES:. . . Better . . .

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.