School

The school was the size of a large house, the interior space divided up by age groups. Colorful charts and pictures decorated most of the walls, except for the one where the blackboard hung. It was smooth, but hard like a rock, and Mrs. James, the teacher, used white sticks to write on it. Sometimes the brats scrawled stupid messages on it, often about Stalker or me.

Mrs. James moved among us, supervising our work. I hated this because I sat with brats younger than myself. I held my pencil awkwardly; writing didn’t come as easy as using my knives. The brats laughed at me behind their hands, eyes amused and innocent. I couldn’t even bring myself to dislike them for their careless prejudice.

They knew only safety and comfort. These brats were smug and self-assured, confident of their place in the world. In some respects I envied them. They didn’t have nightmares, or if they did, they weren’t about real things. Most had never seen a monster, let alone killed one. They’d never seen a Freak feeding on someone who died in the enclave, and then was cast out like garbage. They didn’t know how ruined the world was beyond the walls; they’d never felt claws tearing through their flesh. Small wonder I had nothing in common with these Salvation young.

As for the teacher, Mrs. James thought Stalker was a savage. Fade she liked a little better, because his scars could be hidden, and he knew how to show a polite, distant face. He had been doing it for years, after all, well before we went Topside. Nobody saw anything he didn’t intend to reveal. Mrs. James liked Tegan, much as all adults did, whereas she sighed at me, calling me an “unfortunate case of blighted potential,” whatever that meant.

Today, she was running on about some terrible tragedy, determined we’d learn from our forebearers’ mistakes. “And so, that’s why it’s imperative to pay attention to the past. We don’t want to repeat such errors, do we?”

While Mrs. James lectured, my mind wandered. Things that happened in the enclave—that I hadn’t questioned at the time—troubled me now. I wondered how bad a person I was for not realizing there were problems sooner. Sometimes worry and regret balled up in my stomach like a sickness.

I killed my first man when I was twelve years old.

It was my final trial, the last test I would undergo before being accepted as a Huntress. Though I had been training for it, this deed determined whether I had a fierce heart. I could still see his face, even three and a half years later; he had been weak and injured. The elders told me he was a Nassau spy, caught skulking inside our borders outside the safety of a trading party. I remember how he begged for mercy, his voice hoarse with despair. I’d steeled myself. It was the first time I’d held a knife, as brats owned no weapons. In hindsight, I should have smelled the stench of the elders’ dishonesty, but I hadn’t paid close enough attention.

“They brought me here,” he’d moaned. “They brought me.”

I’d believed he meant when they captured him in the tunnels, and I considered his plea a contemptible effort to avoid his fate. A failed spy could at least die with dignity. Though my stomach had churned, I cut his throat, and his cries went silent forever. For my first kill, I didn’t know enough to offer him a cleaner death, piercing a vital organ instead. The elders had been pleased with me. Silk took me to the kitchen thereafter and Copper gave me a special treat. Most likely, the stranger had been captured for our ritual. They had done such things in the enclave and left us scuttling in the dark.

Though I had been in the light for months, the shadows still troubled me.

Sounding irritated, Mrs. James rapped her desk with brisk knuckles. “Will you do the honors, Deuce?”

My head came up, cheeks hot with humiliation. The teacher knew I hadn’t been paying attention, and in this, she was like Silk. She believed making a public example of people motivated them to do better in the future. I thought it just taught them to be ashamed. I met her gaze squarely; I wasn’t a brat she could intimidate, though I felt as she intended.

“I didn’t hear what you want me to do.”

“Read page forty-one, please.”

Ah. So the class had moved from history to reading. The others settled in to be entertained as I sounded the words out. My pronunciation was slow and laborious, interspersed with constant correction from Mrs. James. I liked stories, but I didn’t enjoy puzzling them out on my own. To my mind, books offered both entertainment and reward, but the recitation was best left to those who excelled at it.

Like Fade.

He watched me, dark eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. At last, I struggled to the end of the passage and sat back, silently hating Mrs. James for putting me in this position. In six months, I could stop pretending. In six months, I became an adult. That chafed since I’d passed my majority already, according to the laws down below. It wasn’t right that I could make my own way and choose my own course, until I reached the safety we’d dreamed of—and then it could be taken away from me.

That was enormously unfair. I’d once said as much to Longshot, who shook his head and laughed. That’s life, kid.

The boys were old enough not to attend classes, if they chose otherwise, but they came anyway. Maybe they thought listening to Mrs. James was better than working all day. This way, they only did chores after school. For Stalker, I suspected it was also a matter of pride; he couldn’t stand that Fade was so much better at reading, so he was working to catch up. Not that the teacher gave him any credit. For various reasons, she didn’t like either of us very much.

Later, as the others filed out to eat their lunches in the sun, Mrs. James called my name. “I’d like to speak with you a moment.”

I went up to the front, ignoring the looks and nudges. “Yes, sir?”

“It’s ma’am,” she corrected. “You call men sir.”

Down below, we’d called everyone the same—with the exception of the Huntress title—regardless of what private parts they had. I wondered whether that made us more open-minded or less attentive to detail. Knowing she didn’t like what she termed sass, I seamed my lips and waited for the admonishment that would follow.

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

I was hungry; I didn’t want to spend my break sitting in here, but I supposed that was what I got for daydreaming. “Yes, ma’am.”

To appease her, I arranged myself in the chair next to her desk, reserved for pupils who misbehaved. I sat in it more often than I’d like, not through mischief, but obvious disinterest. She knew I was counting the days until I could cut free.

“You could have a bright future,” she said then. “You’re a smart girl. I know you think this is waste of your time, but it pains me to see someone who won’t even try to better herself.”

My lip curled. “Do you know how to kill a Freak with your bare hands? Can you skin and cook a rabbit? Do you know what wild plants you can eat? Would you be able to get yourself from the ruins where I was born all the way up north?” I shook my head, knowing the answer already. “In my world, lady, I’m already as good as I need to be, and I don’t like your tone.”

Knowing I’d pay for it, I strode out of the schoolroom and into the sunlight. Even now, it still felt unnaturally hot against my skin, but I’d come to enjoy the feeling. The sky was blue overhead, high clouds adding contrast, but not offering any chance of rain. It had taken me a while to learn the weather signs, what meant fire in the sky, and what meant falling water.

Shading my eyes, I glimpsed Fade with Tegan, who had made friends with some local girls. They were sweet, I supposed. I was grateful to Doc Tuttle for saving my friend, but I felt as though I’d lost her anyway to the changes that separated and fixed us with different foster families. Tegan wasn’t the first, of course. Stone and Thimble went before, when I left College, my home down below. I missed them. You didn’t forget a brat-mate bond, no matter how much distance came thereafter.

I knew all the rules in the enclave. Nothing here made sense. Everything I thought was right, people told me I shouldn’t even consider. Day after day, they told me I was wrong—that I couldn’t be me and still be a proper girl. I studied Tegan and Fade, considered joining them for a moment, but Fade didn’t meet my eyes and while Tegan waved, it didn’t look like an invitation.

Heart heavy, I went over to where Stalker sat, eating alone. With a faint sigh, I flung myself down. Girls weren’t supposed to sit like I did, sprawling on the grass. Momma Oaks would complain about the stains on my skirt, but I didn’t care; I loathed these feminine trappings. I wanted my old clothes back, designed for freedom of movement, and tailored so I could strap my knives within easy reach. I didn’t understand why only men fought in Salvation when women could be just as strong, just as fierce about protecting their homes. It was a ridiculous waste of resources, and after growing up down below, where we made use of everything—sometimes four times over—that attitude struck me as completely nonsensical.

I peered at Stalker’s lunch. The blacksmith didn’t have a wife, which meant he always had simple fare, bread and meat, mostly, sometimes a crock of beans. He watched in envy when I opened my bag and found cold meat, sliced carrot, and a sweet round cake. It was a good meal; nobody could say Momma Oaks did wrong by her stubborn, unwomanly foster daughter.

“Want some?” I broke the pastry in neat halves without waiting for his answer.

It was spring, and the school year was almost over—just a month left. I’d heard they tended fields during the summer, growing food to last the winter. Living down below, I’d never imagined food that sprang up from the ground instead of being hunted or found, but it appeared some of the stories Fade’s sire had told him were true. The mushrooms grew, but it wasn’t the same thing; that felt less magical.

For that season, they needed Hunters to watch over the plants and those who tended them. It was the only time they permitted patrols, a decision I questioned. With me in charge, things would run differently, and we’d sweep the area, killing enough Freaks to make them wary. I couldn’t survive three months inside these walls with nothing to do but pull a needle through cloth.

“Thought any more about what I said last night?” he asked.

“About leaving? Not until we know where we’re going. It makes no sense to run off without a plan.”

It wasn’t just the need for caution, not that I’d admit it to Stalker. In truth, I couldn’t leave Tegan and Fade, even if they were settling in better. There was a bond between the four of us, and we shouldn’t split up, even if Salvation seemed to be doing its best to sever that connection altogether.

“Agreed.”

“You still dealing well enough with Mr. Smith?”

It was a common name, so I understood, but it also referred to the man’s trade. His father before him had worked the same forge, making metal goods for the town. Salvation had been here, in its current form, for fifty years—or so they claimed. Mrs. James reported this was a historic site, dating back to the Aroostook War. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded like a made-up thing. I tended not to listen when she rambled about Salvation’s history. If I decided to stay, then I’d soak it in.