Reactive: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance (The Elite Trials Book 1)

by Becky Moynihan

  He stopped talking to me after that, exactly what I had been hoping for. Holding a conversation with him was worse than facing off against the Smart Bot while a gaggle of trainees jeered and cat-called. A staccato beat, fast and sharp, drowned out the chattering voices in the high-rise stands. With each passing second, it tripped faster and faster, like a runaway heartbeat. Thousands of bodies stilled as elites of all classes, dressed to impress, slapped their left shoulders with their right hands, and then thrust their right arms straight, palms facing outward.

  The sign of loyalty to the Supreme Elite.

  All of them, except for the elite-born, had stood down here in the lower stands at one point in their lives, fighting for the position they now clutched with viselike fingers. But having risen above, quite literally, they now regarded everyone beneath them with disdain. We were but entertainment, something to mock and wager against. Some cast curious glances my direction, but quickly looked away.

  I smirked. To me they were the entertainment. Too self-important to realize how shallow and desperate they were.

  The drums trilled now, announcing the creator of the Trials. Above the stands, Renold appeared at the open window of his special glass viewing box, Rose and his wife Blanca a little behind and to either side of him. Clasped to his shoulders was a knee-length midnight blue cape he wore but once a year for the Trials, a gold lion’s head stitched between his shoulder blades.

  He raised his hands. The drums ceased. The only noise was the snapping of white Rasa Rowe flags, a black charger head insignia on each one. Sapphire and gold glinted on Renold’s fingers, the rings catching the morning light. Then, with the aid of a voice amplifier, he began his speech, the speech he gave every year. “Citizens of Tatum City, it is my honor to bestow the annual Elite Trials upon you all! Every year, many of our brave citizens train for the Trials, knowing that only through them can they earn a better life. These contenders before you today fight for an esteemed title, one worth dying for. Depending on their personal skills and Trial wins this week, they could become our next guards, trainers, doctors, or advisers.”

  He spread his arms wide. “And let’s not forget: two Trial wins earns you the coveted title of Elite!”

  All around me, a chorus of cheers swelled. I remained tight-lipped, hands squeezing the rail.

  “But this year,” Renold cut off the noise, “is unlike any we’ve had before. We have not one, but two contenders competing in all three Trials for the ultimate prize!” There was a collective gasp as many had not caught wind of the news before this moment. “Since the start of the Trials thirty-one years ago, no one has won all three Trials. Sadly, no one has earned the right to choose their own destiny.”

  He paused—for effect, no doubt. Shifting feet and low murmurs followed his last statement. The fact that no one had beaten the Trials in their entirety was a sore point for this city. But no one spoke above a whisper, waiting in obedience for Renold’s final words like well-trained dogs. His voice thundered as he asked no one in particular, “Do you think one or both of these contenders will earn Title of Choice this year?”

  The explosion of noise rocked my body. But it was his question that weakened my knees. Both? Why did he word it that way? Was it to fuel the flames of hope? It was false and it was cruel. Renold’s gaze flicked to mine, just long enough to send a message. One that sent liquid ice spurting through my veins. He was aware that I knew his words were a setup. And he commanded me to keep my mouth shut.

  His eyes released mine and my shoulders uncoiled their rigid hold. He crossed an arm over his chest, then thrust it out, spurring the Trials into motion. Automatically, the citizens mimicked the action, including myself. Loyalty. He demanded it. “Speed. Strength. Precision,” he shouted. The crowd loudly echoed the Trials motto. “First contender to cross the finish line wins!”

  The roar of the masses was a dull thrum in my ears, as if they were underneath water—or I was.

  From my perch, I watched Bren and Stalin enter the Rasa Rowe Trial track. They were formidable, a dark wall of muscle and tightly-reined energy. Yet out of the three Trials, this one had me most worried—not for myself, but for him. They were fast, and suitably paired, but could they keep up with the others?

  I realized I was rooting for him, an oxymoron if there ever was one. He alone posed the greatest threat to my winning all three Trials. If Renold hadn’t pitted us against each other for the Arcus Point Trial, we might have both been able to win Title of Choice. But that was impossible now. Bren should be my number one enemy, and yet . . . he wasn’t. Far from it.

  A gusty sigh puffed from my mouth, sending plumes of pale white before me. I was in so much trouble.

  With a final clang, all seven chargers were locked into their starting gates. A hush settled over the crowd. I could hear the charger’s impatient snorts. An echoing crack rent the air, and the seven beasts sprung free. Two of them immediately tangled. The unfortunate animals and their riders screeched and yelled, tumbling to the packed dirt in a heap of flailing limbs.

  Instead of gasping, the mob roared excitedly—because when it came to the Trials, most of this city became bloodthirsty and merciless. The Trials brought out the worst in people. I was relieved that Bren hadn’t fallen, then felt pinpricks of shame. Those riders deserved concern; one of them was still a crumpled ball on the track. I didn’t know the extent of his injuries and probably never would.

  But my eyes couldn’t linger on the still form any longer. They swept toward the five remaining contenders just in time to witness a three-foot solid metal wall shoot out of the ground with a grating clang. The lead charger was too close to the obstacle and its body slamming into metal sounded like a thunder clap.

  The other four chargers cleared the jump, and then it was raining. All around me people raised their chosen projectiles and lobbed them onto the track—apples, sticks, rocks. I even caught the flash of steel. A rock struck Stalin’s neck and I leaned forward, squeezing the frozen rail that blocked me from rushing onto the track. But the gigantic beast plowed on as if a mere pebble had pinged off his tough hide.

  Just as the deluge of objects ebbed, a series of spikes dotted the track like needles haphazardly stuck into a pincushion. The chargers threaded their way through the dangerous maze, and I noted with relief that Bren had Stalin tightly reined. One rider recklessly wove his charger into the obstacle course; the brown beast brayed as its shoulder struck a sharp spike. They made it out, but a bright red gouge was the price. Despite the animal’s pain, its rider laid on the whip, spurring the poor beast onward.

  My lips pulled back and I bared clenched teeth. I promised myself then and there that when I was free of this prison, I was going to steal all the whips and burn them to ashes.

  The other three contenders were neck-and-neck on the track. The charger next to Stalin lunged sideways, its teeth narrowly missing Bren’s leg. I hissed as those around me chattered gleefully. After a few more swipes, Stalin whipped his head around and latched those scary big teeth onto a soft muzzle, the most vulnerable spot on a charger’s body. He shook his head and his captive shrieked, kicking out its hind legs, nearly unseating the hapless rider.

  Bren leaned into Stalin’s neck and I saw his lips move. A second later, Stalin released his prey, charging ahead of the insipid beast who’d dared challenge him. A grin tugged at my mouth. Why had I been afraid they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the others? They were formidable.

  And then a black pit opened and swallowed them whole. My heart skipped a beat; my eyes strained to see into the gloom. I heard a scream from the stands, then another, until dozens of screams burst against my eardrums.

  Finally, I caught a glimpse of Bren’s face, pale surrounded by so much darkness. The hole writhed, as if alive, and with a shock I realized that it was alive. Coils of undulating rope slithered over Stalin and Bren. They could barely keep their heads above the constantly moving mass. “Snakes,” I whispered, a chill shooting down my spine. If they were venomous
. . .

  Two more chargers plunged into the pit and the snakes became an angry obsidian sea. The animals neighed their fear; the riders weren’t doing much better—a female contender clung to her mount, her face leached of all color. Bren swung off Stalin’s back and waded through the snakes, the reins firmly in his grasp. With a few words directed at the charger, he led them to the other side where they clambered up a ramp obscured by snakes.

  A shudder shook my shoulders as phantom scales slid over my neck. Ugh. Snakes.

  Pounding down the final stretch, they were now in the lead, followed closely by the charger Stalin had bitten. The other two contenders were still stuck in the snake pit. I felt lightheaded. I was holding my breath, teeth chewing the insides of my cheeks as I fought the urge to cheer Bren on. I couldn’t. But my throat ached with the desire to roar, “Go, Bren! Faster!”

  The other rider whipped his mount with a vengeance and they crept forward, nearly nose-to-nose with Bren and Stalin. The crowd was a wild thing, whistling, yelling, jeering. But the noise was drowned out by a new one, one that I feared most: water. I feared the great whooshing sound because Bren did, and now he was heading straight toward it. Water erupted from a trench, forming a geyser that spanned the width of the track. There was no way around this obstacle. They had to go through it.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I breathed, unable to keep silent. My fingers wrung the metal rail, chipping off flakes of rust.

  Bren slackened the reins, giving Stalin control, and I stifled a gasp. It was reckless, beyond dangerous. But as they moved faster and faster, I couldn’t help but think it was glorious. I braced my body for impact, as if by doing so, I could lend Bren courage. With a final burst of speed, they hit the roaring wall. Time slowed, and I waited for something awful to happen. Waited for Bren to lose his grip and tumble to the packed earth.

  The knot in my chest expanded. Then a dark streak, drenched and beautiful, sprang from that raging white inferno as if fear were a trickling fountain. “Yes!” I was jumping in the air now, oblivious to everything but the sight of Bren still clinging to Stalin’s back.

  They hightailed it to the finish line, spraying dirt and water in their wake, a shadow close on their heels. The shadow inched forward, sneaking up on their rear flank, beast and rider heaving, but it was too late. Stalin’s black hooves touched down on the finish line.

  Metal jangled; leather creaked. A charger pawed; another snorted. Comforting sounds. Familiar. Out of the countless hours spent training for the Trials, racing on Freedom’s back was the one thing I had fallen in love with. Wind snatching at my clothes, raw power beneath me, pure adrenaline pumping through my veins—the knowledge that one misstep could send my fragile human body sailing through the air at break-neck speed.

  I craved it all. And maybe my fixation with danger made me reckless, but it was better than feeling helpless.

  Freedom and I were ushered into the number six starting gate, the thin metal door latching with a clang behind us. This was it. Our last race together. Unless . . . unless I could bargain for her freedom as well. She tossed her head and I shoved the worry aside. I had to think of the here and now, and nothing else. I soothed her agitated state by running a palm down her neck, and she settled.

  “You again?”

  I glanced to my left and there was Ryker. I almost laughed at the irony. Pretty soon he’d think I was running into him on purpose. “What’s his name?” I asked, jerking my chin toward his dark bay charger sporting white socks.

  “Napoleon,” he said, which surprised me. His response almost sounded human. “And don’t get too close to him. He bites.”

  I rolled my eyes. That was more like him. “Oh, that’s okay. I bite back.” I could have sworn his lips twitched into what appeared to be a grin.

  A final gate clicked shut and I forgot about the strange man beside me. I forgot about the high-rise stands holding my many enemies and very few friends. My muscles tightened, and I felt Freedom’s tighten in response, her weight shifting to her slightly bent haunches. She was ready. She craved this just as much as I did. My senses swirled around her, fusing us together, until we were one and the same.

  I inhaled; she inhaled.

  Crack.

  Bang!

  Freedom exploded out of the gate. She quickly found her stride and I nudged her left, closer to the inner rail. A wall of deep brown blocked our progress and I hissed as Ryker slammed his charger into mine. My leg took the brunt of the impact. Before I could retaliate, a spiked fence blasted out of the ground and my focus zeroed in on the obstacle. I tightened the reins and Freedom bunched her muscles for the jump. My stomach bottomed out as we took to the air.

  With a thud, we landed on the other side, and a grin tore at my face, the thrill of racing a staccato beat in my chest. I gave Freedom her head, long enough to cut in front of Ryker and Napoleon. Vengeance had never tasted so sweet. Something whizzed toward me and I flattened against Freedom’s neck. But I was still pelted by flying debris. A fist-sized projectile—probably a rock—struck my lower spine. I bit back a curse. Stupid, bloodthirsty crowd.

  Another burst of pain slashed my outer thigh. I tore my eyes from the track to peer down at a three-inch slice in my leather pants, now leaking blood. I didn’t have time to growl at the idiots in the stands because a terrible screech announced the next hurdle. Several steel planks shot across the track from one wall to the other, level with a charger’s head. Oh stars. My brain calculated the odds and came up short.

  I almost whimpered as realization dawned. There was only one way past this horizontal ladder: I had to dismount.

  As much as I dared, I asked Freedom to decrease her speed. The soles of my boots balanced on her saddle while I rose to an unsteady crouch. Hesitation would get me killed. I blanketed my thoughts and let my instincts roar to the surface. I dropped the reins and leaped. This time the rush of falling didn’t bring a smile to my face. I was scared out of my mind—my aching bladder told me so.

  Thick steel rang beneath my leather boots. Then my feet sprouted wings as I flew along the remaining rungs, eyes doggedly tracking Freedom’s progress below. The speed was swifter than I could normally sprint, an out-of-control dash for an unknown ending. The last plank came up fast. With a grunt, I pushed off its tip and blindly pinwheeled through the air, hoping that Freedom was somewhere down below. Her saddle greeted me sooner than expected. The impact jolted up my bones and knocked the breath from my lungs.

  I wheezed in, grateful to still be alive, right as a heavy force barreled into Freedom’s left side and threw me off balance. My leg was once again pinned between several tons of charger muscle. A pained cry tore from my throat. Teeth bared, I threw a glare at Ryker, only it wasn’t him. A man I didn’t recognize glared back with equal fervor, his eyes morphing into twin pools of hate. Without knowing why, I understood that he had a personal vendetta against me, and he was going to show me just how deep that feeling went.

  It must have been shock that kept me glued in place. Shock that a stranger could direct so much rage my way without a moment’s hesitation. His whip snapped my head back, the strike to my cheek burning like hellfire. My balance tipped sideways and then I was falling, falling, falling . . .

  I choked on a gasp, fighting my gag reflex. Eyes wild with fright, I blinked at the angry man still racing beside me. How . . . how was I still in the saddle? I’d fallen.

  Air left my lungs as I came to the only conclusion. A vision had happened again. A warning.

  Movement in the man’s hand caught my attention and I noticed his knuckles whiten on the leather whip. I didn’t further question my luck, only reacted. I punched his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils, the droplets whisked away by the wind. After a split second of utter shock, he roared in fury, bringing his whip up. But I knew what would happen next.

  I ducked.

  The leather tail brushed against escaped strands of my hair. He let loose a string of curses as I spurred Freedom into the lead. On impu
lse, I jerked the reins sharp to the left and moved into his path. His charger bumped Freedom’s rear. There was only one thing that could flip my sweet charger into epic witch mode and that was being pushed from behind. Her ears flattened as she snorted, and then she did what she always did in situations like this. She bucked.

  Freedom’s hooves punched into her pursuer’s chest, but I didn’t anticipate the damage it would do. I heard the animal stumble, then a clap as it nose-dived into the dirt. And gravity wasn’t finished yet. I craned my neck around in time to witness two more chargers go down as their riders vaulted over their heads. The contenders looked so graceful while effortlessly soaring through the air right before they slammed to the ground. My stomach churned miserably at the mess of limbs and screams.

  Stars.

  I faced forward again, but the track was watery. No, my eyes were drowning in tears. The price of freedom was steep. Maybe too steep. I hadn’t realized how it would feel until this very moment. Furiously, I blinked away the tears—they wouldn’t help the poor souls I had doomed. But, no matter how many times I blinked, the track wouldn’t sharpen.

  When I finally realized why, it was too late.

  Without me to guide her, Freedom attempted to leap over the abyss. Not even halfway across, we were sucked downward. Down, down, down, until deep brown sludge reached out and enveloped us in a slimy embrace. I first felt relieved, glad that we weren’t surrounded by snakes, but then my body began to itch. Everywhere, in and out of every crevice, tiny pricks moved. My skin begged me to scratch and my fingers burned with the need to oblige.

  But I pushed past the discomfort and slid from Freedom’s back. I sunk and lifted a foot, the thick ooze bubbling up to my chest. It was like wading through mashed potatoes. By now, the other contenders—at least two of them—were also in the dank, smelly pit astride their floundering chargers. There was much shouting and cursing, but I blocked out the noise, too busy trying not to lose my boots. I loved these boots.