Stung. Part 5

I look at my bound arms. "You locked them up?"

"No. Right in the creases above your elbows," he says. I look at the creases. On both arms, the skin is clouded purple and green.

"I don't know," I answer, thinking I should remember how the bruises got there. Bruises form from blood pooling beneath the skin. Getting them must have hurt. I close my eyes and think. And am met by a gray wall of nothing.

"Your neck, too. You have bruises in the shape of hands circling your throat."

Those I remember. Vividly. "I was attacked in the tunnels." I open my eyes and swallow. My throat still hurts. "Someone tried to strangle me. Yesterday. I got away. Arrin was attacked too, but she killed the man."

"Arrin?" he asks, still studying me like I'm liable to explode at any moment.

"The girl who tried to save her brother. You killed her brother. He was only eleven."

"I didn't pull the trigger, kid," he grumbles, picking up the spit. He holds it out to me, an animal the size of my forearm, with a long scaly-looking tail that has been blackened by the fire.

I take it from him and, with my fused arms, attempt to eat. I shove my face against the food, suck the grease from it, and gnaw the flesh from the tiny bones like I am eating corn on the cob. Nothing has ever tasted so good, and I sigh.

Bowen watches me eat with a fascinated frown. When more than half of the meat is gone, he says, "I heard Fecs will eat rat. I just never believed it." Looking away, he shudders.

Rat. I know the very thought should make my stomach turn, should make me want to vomit. But starvation doesn't discriminate. And besides, it's better than wriggling earthworms or a leather belt. Way better.

"They eat worms, too," I mumble, my mouth full. "The problem is, I'm not a Fec." I might not remember a lot of things, but I know this.

Chapter 11.

By the time the sun sets, my shoulders ache, my neck is cramping, and my head throbs in time with my pulse. I desperately need to move my arms.

"Hey, Bowen," I say, shrugging my shoulders and rolling my neck.

He looks at me and s.h.i.+vers, though the evening is hot. "You seem so normal," he says. "How old did you say you are again?"

My brain swirls, trying to remember when I aged, when I grew into a body that is definitely older than a "Thir a teen?"

"You've got a high voice for a thirteen-year-old boy."

I cringe. Mental note to self: try to sound like a boy. I clear my throat. "I have to a take a dump." Bowen's eyebrows rise and I look away. "The rat. It didn't agree with me," I say in a deep voicea"a lie. My stomach is sluggishly thrilled with the meat inside it. But I've been holding it all day. Pee. Because, well, like I said, I can't pee standing up.

"Dude." Bowen sighs, shaking his head like he's got the worst life in the world. I brace myself for a sound kick, but he doesn't kick me this time. "Can I get an armed guard over here? The Level Ten's got to take another dump," he yells. The whole camp turns and stares at me, and a slow burn creeps up my neck, all the way to my hairline. I hang my head so my hair hides my entire face.

Five brown-uniformed, gun-wielding men come forward, and Bowen pushes the remote. My legs unfuse. I wobble, lose my balance, and fall on my face beside the warm fire ring, my cuffed hands pinned painfully beneath me. Men start laughing and guns dig into my back, jabbing at my ribs hard enough to make me gasp.

"Stupid Fec," Bowen mutters, and wraps his hand in my s.h.i.+rt. He pulls up. The fabric strains in his hand, and I rise off the ground, hovering just above the dirt as I try to maneuver my feet below my body. My s.h.i.+rt pulls against my armpits, and a loud rip grates against my senses. I fall back to the grounda"face-plant, reallya"and dirt goes into my mouth, digs into my cheek, my naked stomach, and my bare shoulders.

Oh, c.r.a.p.

The fabric binding my b.r.e.a.s.t.s is the only thing that hides the truth about me.

A hand grabs my elbow. "Someone get his other elbow," Bowen grumbles.

"You serious, man? You want one of us to touch it?" someone whines.

"Just hurry up," Bowen snaps.

A warm hand clutches my other elbow, and I'm heaved to my feet. I hang my head low and hunch my shoulders forward, too scared to spit the dirt out of my mouth. Too scared to even breathea"I'm practically naked, standing in a camp filled exclusively with armed men. And then I understand Arrin's insistence on my looking like a boy. I hunch forward even more and press my arms against my chest until my shoulders want to pop. I might be able to hide my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but I can't hide the way my hollow stomach curves outward to meet my wide hips.

"You got a broken rib?" Bowen asks, jabbing my back hard with his finger as if he hopes I do. I can't form wordsa"am still gasping for breatha"so I shake my head.

My escort and I walk to the bathroom in silence, with only the evening darkness keeping my secret. I step into the dim bathroom, and the light automatically flickers on. The armed guard wait outside, but Bowen stands in the doorway and glares at me. I hunch even more, straining my shoulders forward, forcing my chest concave, mentally cursing my body for growing b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips.

"Well?" he says, crossing his arms.

I peer at him through my hair, too scared to move.

"What'ya waiting for? Hurry up." Without uncrossing his arms, he pushes the remote and my arms unfuse.

I am at the stall in two steps, slamming the door behind me and sliding the lock into place. And then I look down. The binding is still securely in place over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but without my oversize T-s.h.i.+rt, it is obvious. I am a girl. Nearly a woman. I stare down at my body and marvel at the slide of waist leading to hips, the small bulge of b.r.e.a.s.t.s that makes my skin crease just above the bindings. Because the body I'm looking at? It is not the body I remember belonging to my head and brain.

Where have I been that my body has grown up so fast?

"Kid. You almost done?" Bowen hollers. Men snicker. I drop my pants and sit on the toilet. When I'm done, I pull the pants back up and squeeze the waistband over my hips, barely able to b.u.t.ton it. And that's when the siren blares.

Without warning, electricity hums in my wrist cuffs, and my forearms fuse together. The stall door crashes open, slamming into my face and cutting my mouth, and Bowen is there, dragging me out of the stall by my arm. He curses under his breath, yanking me out of the bathroom, through the dark night, and we merge into groups of running men holding their guns on their shoulders.

The night turns to day as lights built into the wall flood the ground. And then I see the reason for the commotion.

A guy has entered the campa"young, black haired, s.h.i.+rtless, with straining muscles and bulging veins beneath skin the color of coffee. He's growling and throwing men around like they're paper dolls dressed in brown paper uniforms.

"No guns! Taser the beast! Taser to stun!" Bowen roars beside me, pulling me faster. Toward the uproar. Toward the beast. "Tasers! Now!" he shrieks.

Several men release their guns and grab palm-size black devices from their belts, aiming toward the beast. With a zip of electricity I can feel in my cuffs, the Tasers go off, zapping the men surrounding the beast with a quick flash of blue as tiny metal p.r.o.ngs embed into their skin. They crumple to the ground, eyes rolled back in their heads, mouths slack, bodies convulsing. With them down, there is a clear path to the beast. My cuffs tingle with electricity again, and blue sparks light the air, but when they hit the beast, he growls, yanks the small metal Taser plates off his skin, and keeps attacking.

Surely Bowen can see how insane this person is, I tell myself. Yet Bowen still drags me toward it. And all I can think is, Is he crazy?

I dig my feet into the ground, dragging against his hold. He pulls harder. I dig my feet deeper. His eyes meet mine, full of fury, and he smacks me upside the head, knuckles slamming into my temple.

The world swims before my eyes, a blur of brown coats and guns, and my knees buckle. Bowen's arm snakes around my waist, and he drags me the last few steps toward the beast. In one swift move, he throws me down to the ground. And then he sits on me, his legs on either side of my hips.

His eyes flicker to my bound chest and he freezes, as if everything in the world but the two of us has disappeared. Time stops, my eyes grow wide, and his green eyes take in every detail of my body before meeting mine again. When our eyes lock, his brow furrows, his eyes narrow in confusion, and he blinks. But then the cuffs on my arms fall from my skin. Bowen picks them up and stands, taking a slow step away from me.

I roll onto my side, toward the beast, and whimper at what I see. A circle of militia, at least twenty thick, surround the beast and two other people. The militia have their Tasers and automatic weapons trained on the beast, following its every move. The beast's muscles twitch and spasm from the electrical residue of the Tasers, but it doesn't seem to care.

Bowen, his hands raised, speaks soothing words to the beast as he slowly walks toward it. But the beast isn't paying attention to him. It is looking at the third person trapped inside the armed circle of militia.

Me.

Its dark eyes, the irises overwhelmed with pupil, devour me. And there is nothing human about the way it stares. I am looking into the eyes of a wild animal. A very deadly, brawny wild animal. Bowen looks between the beast and me as if debating something. His jaw pulses, his body goes taut, and then, as if it pains him, he steps between the beast and me.

"You move, you die," he says to the beast, his voice no longer calm and soothing.

The beast growls and fakes a lunge forward, but Bowen doesn't budge. A deep, gravelly hum interrupts the silent night, growing slowly louder, like a jet tearing across the sky. And then the sound grates against the night, vibrating in my ears. It is coming from the beast's mouth. It leaps forward and swats Bowen aside, flinging him through the air. And then it is just the beast and me. It stares at me, lips pulled back from its stained teeth, drool coating its skin, eyes starved, as if it is about to devour a feast. Me.

But as Bowen flies through the air his voice rings out clarion clear: "Taser to kill!"

Never taking its animal eyes from me, the beast leaps. Streams of blue lightning flash above my head, disappearing into the creature's dark skin. Its feral eyes stop staring as they roll back in its head, gleaming bloodshot white, and its body convulses as it soars through the air.

It lands on me, crus.h.i.+ng me into the ground, and electrical current enters my body, boils my blood, and jolts my heart.

The beast spasms atop me and my eyes roll back into my head.

Chapter 12.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth like a fly on flypaper. I work it free and part my swollen lips. Pain pulses in my head in time with my heartbeat. I bring shaky fingers up to my temples and the pain intensifies, making me cringe.

I force my eyelids up over my parched eyeb.a.l.l.s and see nothing but darkness. But to the left of me, the darkness is somehow darker, and shaped like shoulders and a head. I reach toward that darkness and feel fabric, and beneath the fabric, warm skin.

"Are you awake?" the shadow whispers.

I jerk my hand away, startled. "I hope not," I croak. Every single bit of my body aches. I groan.

"Definitely awake," he says, voice a deep, quiet rumble. Bowen.

"c.r.a.p. I was afraid of that. Why do I hurt so much?" Even talking hurts. I gingerly lick my swollen lip and taste blood.

"Let's see. You were attacked by a beast filled with electricity. Before that, I hit you upside the head because I had to get your cuffs off. Oh. And the bathroom door split your lip."

Bathroom door? And then I remembera"he tore the s.h.i.+rt from my body. Revealed my secret. I gasp and run my hands over my chest and down to my hips. A s.h.i.+rt covers me, a s.h.i.+rt that smells like a high mountain lake. My eyes slip shut in relief. My secret is still safe.

"So, when were you going to tell me?" he asks.

My eyes pop open, and I gulp down a resurgence of fear. "Tell you what? I don't know what you're talking about."

He chuckles. "Whatever, Fotard."

That name on his lips sends my heart racing. It is the name he made up to torment me when we were in third grade. I push up onto my elbows to get a better look at him and realize that for the first time since I've been in the camp, my cuffs aren't fused together. Bowen scrambles backward and b.u.mps up against the wall of a tent.

"Don't move or I'll activate your cuffs," he says, voice hard.

I lower myself back onto the sleeping bag and lay my arms flat against my sides. "I'm not moving." I look at his silhouette out of the corner of my eye. Slowly, he eases closer to me, juts a bit.

"Can I ask you something, Bowen?" He knows my secret. There's no use in pretending anymore.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Are you Dreyden? Or Duncan?" I already know the answera"I just need to hear him say it.

There's a long pause before he answers, "You spent enough time staring at my brother. Can't you tell the difference?" There is resentment in his voice.

I see the two faces from my past, the two brothers, one with gray eyes, one with green, one my age, one several years older, and know without a doubt which one sits beside me. "But you're too old to be Dreyden," I whisper.

"Too old? We're the same age," he says.

I take a deep breath, grateful for the darkness that hides my face when I ask, or rather squeak, "How old am I?"

"What do you mean? You don't know?" Skepticism taints his voice, as if he thinks I'm lying.

I'm thirteen. One-three. I can remember blowing out thirteen candles on my last birthday cake. Remember my twin brother blowing out the candles on his cake at the same time. I wore a yellow sundress. And mascara on my pale lashesa"my first time wearing mascara. My mom gave me my first bottle of perfume, and my dad gave me a gold treble-clef charm on a gold chain. My hand gropes my empty collarbone, feeling for the necklace even though I already know it isn't there.

"Seventeen." Bowen's voice interrupts my memories.

My breath comes too fast and my hands grip my too-big hip bones. There is no way I'm seventeen. He's got to be wrong, got to be lying to me. I push up on my elbows again to tell him so, and hear the hum of electricity. My arms are yanked out from under me and meld together, pinned awkwardly over my stomach. I fall back and land with a thud, and all the air jolts from my lungs. Pain shoots through my throbbing head, and my stomach roils with nausea. I whimper and squeeze my eyes shut.

"I told you not to move," Bowen says, his words laced with anger. He opens the tent flap and leaves.

After a moment of lying perfectly still and taking deep, even breaths, the nausea subsides and I can think despite the pounding of my head. Seventeen. That's how old my body looks. But I don't remember turning fourteen or fifteen. Or sixteen. And I definitely don't remember seventeen. I remember a Lavender and forget-me-nots blowing in the wind.

Being forbidden to go outside.

Jonah staring out the music-room window while I practiced piano.

Wearing clothes to school that covered me from my neck to my fingertips to my toes, with a hat that draped bee stinga"resistant netting over my head like a veil.

I remember a yard with gra.s.s that hadn't been mown in so long it died and was replaced by dandelions even though my dad was a.n.a.l about paying someone to keep the lawn mowed and edged.

And Mom and Lis coming home from the grocery store wearing their netting veils, and all they'd purchased was bags and bags and bags full of canned fruit and dehydrated meat subst.i.tute.

I remember the sharp p.r.i.c.k of a needle, hardly bigger than the tip of a pencil, and a deep voice that didn't belong to my father: You have to relax your muscles, Fiona.

And every month when Jonah and I went to the health clinic to get another shot, I cried, so Jonah held my hand.

"Bowen," someone outside my tent whispers, scattering my memories. "Can we talk?"

"Yeah. What?" Bowen says, his voice still tinged with anger.