Stepping inside, it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust. I was standing in a long hallway with dark wood paneling and a tall ceiling with rafters. It was old and warm and smelled like home: cinnamon, oranges, coffee, and firewood.
The light streaming in through a window in the front room illuminated what looked like a sitting room that had been converted into an office. Magnus followed us inside and jumped up on a long oak table that was covered with stacks of newspapers. With a sagging teal armchair and an old cup of coffee resting on the mantel, the room looked untidy but cheerful.
Nervous perspiration prickled on the back of my neck, and my head continued to throb dully. I followed Amory down the hallway lined with an eclectic collection of mementos: black-and-white photos, framed newspaper clippings, and old presidential campaign posters. The wooden floor creaked in a friendly way, but if the place were less homey, it might have been spooky.
As we went, I could hear the sound of laughter up ahead. To the left was a study — shelves bursting with dusty books — and across from that was a living room with a blazing fire. The laughter stopped as we reached the oak-paneled archway, and three heads turned up to look at me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What’ve you got there?”
The voice belonged to a guy with expertly tousled dark brown hair lounging on the couch with his head in the lap of a pretty blond girl. He looked as though he was in his early twenties, and I could tell he was devilishly handsome. He had playful bright-blue eyes that looked uncharacteristically menacing.
“Stray cat,” said Amory with a casual shrug, tightening his grip on my arm as he spoke. “Stray cat with a bit of a right hook, actually.” He rubbed his jaw where I’d hit him. “She’s documented.”
“Why did you bring her here?” asked a much deeper voice. This voice belonged to a big hulking guy sitting in a corner away from the other two. “You should have finished her off out there. They can track her CID from any satellite rover that gets within a mile. As long as she’s here, she puts all of us in danger.”
The girl lounging on the couch sat up with a start, flinging her curtain of golden-blond hair across her shoulder and looking stricken.
“You’ll bring them down on us all!” she hissed, and I couldn’t tell if she was addressing me or Amory.
“They can’t track her on the grounds,” said Amory. “Ida’s got that signal jammer —”
The girl tossed her hair again, clearly agitated. “Ida said herself she doesn’t know how effective it is! Is that a risk you’re willing to take? Because it isn’t for me.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do with her?” Amory asked.
I was surprised by the anger in his voice. Was he on my side?
“Get rid of her,” the bigger guy said.
“You really want me to march her out to the field and shoot her like a rabid dog?”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” The girl let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll kill her myself.”
“What are you going to do with the CID?” Amory asked.
“Smash it. Short it out. I’ll cut it out of her cold dead arm. Whatever it takes.”
The shaggy-haired guy sitting next to her looked doubtful, but my stomach churned. I became aware of a distant ringing in my ears and felt unsteady.
“She’s a defector,” Amory said, his voice low and deadly. “Last time I checked, we don’t have a no-defector policy.”
The light of the fire caught the jagged scar on his arm, and my heart fluttered a little.
“Maybe we should,” growled the bigger guy.
Amory looked venomous. “You got a problem, Roman?”
“I have a problem with you putting all of us at risk!” he yelled.
My head felt strangely disconnected from the rest of my body, and Amory, the angry one called Roman, and the other two seemed very, very far away. I wasn’t aware of closing my eyes, but suddenly, everything went dark.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I thought she was just a little off from being hungry, but she also has a pretty bad head wound. Could be a concussion.”
“We should move her.”
“Don’t look at me. She’s not going near my room.”
“She’s a defector.”
“She’s documented. That means she’s trouble.”
“She could be a PMC mole.”
“She’s pretty banged up for that. No, she was running from something.”
“You idiot. She could have led them here.”
I could hear the voices, but it was difficult to place them. I felt vaguely aware of strong arms scooping me up and carrying me. There was a soft creaking noise, like old stairs, and I was enveloped by something soft and warm. I tried to focus, but I was so tired. After a while, I stopped fighting and surrendered to the fatigue.
I opened my eyes, and the room around me slowly came into focus. I was lying in a single bed on top of the covers. Somebody had covered me with a soft red blanket. The walls were rough wood panels painted white, and there was a window cut into the sloped alcove ceiling. It was daytime — around noon, judging by the light.
The room was cozy but contained relatively few personal effects. There was a jacket hanging on a hook by the door and dozens of books crowding the shelves over the bed — mostly murder mysteries.
“Good, you’re awake,” said Amory, appearing in the doorway. He looked a little pale. “Sorry. I’m sure it’s weird waking up in someone else’s room, but I’m going to have a hard time getting you one of your own until we get you off the grid.”
“Whose room is this?” I asked.
“Mine.” He looked nervous.
I tried to sit up, but my head pounded in protest.
“Easy.” He crossed the room in two strides and put a hand on my shoulder. “You might have a concussion. I treated your wound a little while you were out, but you really need rest.”
I reached up to my head and felt the soft gauze wrapped around it.
“I’ll take care of your wrists, too, but the others want to see you first.”
“They seem really angry.”
Amory hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It’s dangerous for you to be here.”
“Because I’m documented.”
He nodded. “We need to remove your CID.”
Somehow, I knew it would come to this. My Citizen ID had become a digital leash, and of course it made me a liability to any undocumented people who crossed my path.
Amory helped me up and led me down the stairs to the small kitchen. I could hear the murmur of voices. Roman, the shaggy-haired guy, and the blond girl were already crowded around the tiny wooden table in the center of the room.
They all stopped talking when I appeared at the foot of the stairs. Avoiding making eye contact with any of them, I looked around the kitchen. There was a fire blazing in the hearth and a cozy rag rug on the floor. Shelves running along the walls sagged under the weight of mason jars and polished copper pots. There was an old yellow refrigerator that didn’t seem to be working and an old-fashioned teakettle on the stove.
“Let’s get this over with,” said Amory. He nudged me forward toward the table, and I sank into one of the mismatched chairs.
“Are you seriously going through with this?” snapped the girl. Up close, I could see that her features were beautiful: big eyes, pouty lips, and a delicate nose. But sitting there with that angry expression and the firelight illuminating her long blond hair, she looked absolutely ferocious.
“Haven, this is Logan,” said Amory, feigning politeness. He turned to her. “I don’t see another way.”
“Yeh-heah!” said the shaggy-haired guy, who was sitting at Logan’s elbow and leaning into her arm. “Doctor Amory is making a house call.”
Amory looked embarrassed. “That’s Max.”
“Maxwell,” he said. “But you can call me Lord Maximus. And the sulky, less good-looking one over there is Roman.” He pointed to the bigger, angrier guy.<
br />
Roman did not offer a smile of introduction.
“So how are you taking the CID out?” I asked, turning to Amory.
“I’ll cut it out,” he said. “It won’t be pretty, but —”
“You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t kill her,” Logan hissed.
“I thought we were done discussing this,” Amory snapped, glaring over at her. “There isn’t any other way.”
“We could just slit both of her wrists and cut her CID out,” said Roman. “I thought that plan was better.”
“I can do it,” said Amory. “I’ve done it before.”
“Not well,” Logan muttered.
“You try to make a clean incision with your non-dominant hand.”
“Just do it, then,” said Roman. “The longer that thing is active, the more danger we are in.”
“I’ll get my kit,” said Amory. He shoved himself away from the table and disappeared from the room.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as they all studied me. It was stupid, but I suddenly began to feel self-conscious. I knew I must look like hell: dirty, bleeding, and half-starved. Then there was the bandage wrapped around my head wound.
“He’s not really a doctor, is he?” I asked. “I mean, he’s only . . . what?”
“Twenty-two,” said Max. “He’s a prodigy. Graduated high school at sixteen, started med school when he was nineteen. Top of his class, too. That was before he became a career criminal,” he said, just loud enough for Amory to hear as he came back into the room.
He was carrying a stack of white towels and a black leather medical bag. He set everything on the table and crossed to the sink to wash his hands. When he was finished, he spread one of the towels over the table and opened the medical bag.
“Do you all need to be here?” he asked, eyeing Roman in particular. “I’d do a lot better if I didn’t have an audience.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Roman. “Like I would trust you to deactivate the CID?”
Amory looked venomous but just sighed. “Fine.” His eyes flickered to Logan and Max.
“Hey, I’m out,” said Logan, throwing her chair back away from the table and getting up to leave. “I don’t do blood.”
“I’m staying,” said Max.
Amory sat down beside me and gently extended my arm across the towel. He pulled out a strong-smelling antiseptic wipe and disinfected the skin near where he would make the incision. I flinched when the cold cloth made contact with my skin, but Amory’s warm fingers felt reassuring where they held my wrist. He was left-handed.
I couldn’t help staring at the large scar on his arm as he worked. It wasn’t that I minded having a scar like that; I just couldn’t stop imagining how painful the extraction must have been.
Methodically, Amory set out his tools and the bandages.
“I’m going to apply a little local anesthetic,” he said. “It should help.”
He rubbed a little around the area of my tiny perfect scar with his finger, and I took the chance to study his face. He didn’t look nervous anymore. Professionalism had kicked in, and it was as if I were a real patient and he was performing some routine procedure.
“This will hurt, but you have to stay still,” Amory said, pushing my wrist into the table.
I nodded.
His silver scalpel glinted in the overhead light, and his gray eyes were calm. He lowered the blade to my skin, and I shut my eyes.
A cool, smooth pain cut through my consciousness, and I peeked down at the clean line of red on my arm. It wasn’t as bad as I had imagined, but then Amory grabbed a pair of forceps and carefully pulled apart the skin.
I bit down on my lip — hard — and looked up at the ceiling, fighting back the tears. The pain intensified, and I could feel the metal forceps digging into my arm — searching for the CID.
“You’re okay,” Amory murmured, holding my arm down with gentle pressure. I looked at him. His eyes were fixated on his work in deep concentration, but his brow was smooth and unconcerned.
I felt the blood dripping down my arm. I chanced a look, and my stomach flipped when I saw the amount of blood seeping from the cut.
“Easy. Easy,” said Amory, gripping my arm more tightly. I must have moved in a panic, and I forced myself to tear my eyes away.
“Jesus Christ,” said Max, who was also staring at the bloody mess. He had gone white, even a little green around the edges.
“Max, if you can’t be quiet, you’ll have to leave,” said Amory in short, clipped syllables without looking at him.
Max didn’t say a word.
“Got it,” said Amory.
A wave of pain shot up my arm, but I saw the forceps in my peripheral vision and a tiny chip clutched between the prongs, covered in blood. It was smaller than I had thought — a perfect white square with a glint of gold around the edges.
Amory placed it carefully on the table and grabbed a clean towel to apply pressure to the cut.
Roman jumped to his feet, snatched up the CID, and left the room.
“You did it,” said Max in amazement.
“It was easier this time,” Amory muttered.
“How does it feel?” Max asked me. “You’re officially undocumented!”
A wave of exhaustion crashed over me. I wasn’t thinking about my illegal status or what that would mean. All I could feel was my weak, depleted body and an overwhelming fatigue.
I smiled, and Max grinned back. That felt good. Maybe they didn’t hate me now that I didn’t pose such a threat.
Amory removed the towel and quickly disinfected the wound. It was still bleeding a lot, so he made a few sutures and wrapped my arm in fresh gauze.
“I’ll go tell Logan she can stop emergency protocol,” said Max. “She was convinced we would all have to flee.”
He slapped my good shoulder as he got up. “Welcome to the farm, kitty cat,” he said.
Amory rolled his eyes. “You’ll get used to him.” He finished bandaging the cut and ran his thumb once over the gauze.
“Thanks,” I said. It seemed odd to thank him for cutting my arm open with a scalpel, but I felt as if I owed him for fighting the others to let me stay.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, getting to his feet and washing his hands. “The others should come around now that you’re less likely to bring the PMC down on our heads.”
I tried to grin, but it felt more like a worried grimace.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.”
He surprised me with a crooked grin, and I realized he was extremely good-looking. “All right. One sec.”
With a quiet clicking, a blue flame ignited under a stove burner, and Amory started heating some oil in a pan. He set out bread on the table, which I grabbed and inhaled greedily. It was freshly baked with rosemary and another herb I didn’t recognize. I didn’t think I had ever tasted anything so delicious.
“Farm-fresh eggs,” he said, grabbing some from a bowl on the counter and cracking them into the pan. Amory looked strangely oversized in the small kitchen, but he seemed at home.
It was an odd package, I thought — a guy who read mystery novels and cut out his own CID so he could drop out of med school and run away to join a gang of illegals living on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Now he was making me eggs. But by the time he flipped them onto my plate over easy, I found I didn’t care. Mouth watering, I scarfed down four, and he poured me a glass of water.
“Better slow down. You’ll make yourself sick if you haven’t eaten in a while.”
“I haven’t had enough to eat since I left,” I said between bites, shoveling in food with my good arm. “And I haven’t had eggs in months.”
Amory sat down across from me and watched me eat with a mixture of amusement and wariness.
“What?” I asked. “Are you going to throw me to the carriers now that I’m eating you out of house and home?”
He looked startled and then apologetic. “No. Sorry, I was just wonderi
ng where you were from. What brings you here?”
I set down my fork. He had vouched for me, even when I had posed a threat to him and his friends, and now I was nobody as far as the PMC was concerned. I realized there was no harm in telling him the truth.
“I’m on the run,” I said. “My friend Greyson was captured by the PMC, and I want to find him and free him from prison.”
I carefully left out the part about appearing on the news and the PMC manhunt that ensued after I was identified by the rovers.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It was my fault. We were stealing food from a grocery store. We were planning to make a run for it, and I missed one of the rovers.” I didn’t know why I was spilling out the whole story. Amory hadn’t asked me to. “We were ambushed right outside, and he gave himself up so I wouldn’t be captured.”
I looked up at him, and he was looking at me with understanding, but not pity. His mouth twitched as if he were going to say something, but instead, he reached across the table and brushed his thumb over my arm, where a large bruise was beginning to form. It was where he had twisted and pushed into my arm when he had tackled me.
“Shit. I’m sorry about that.”
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the bruise or not.
I shrugged. It still hurt, but I couldn’t blame him. After all, he fought for me to stay even after I came at him with a knife.
“Are you okay?” I asked, nodding at his jaw. There wasn’t a bruise, but I knew it had to hurt where I’d struck him.
“I’m fine. It was a decent hit, though.”
I grinned sheepishly.
Amory reached in his medical bag for the antiseptic. He held my forearm lightly and began cleaning the cuts on my wrists where the carriers’ zip ties had dug into my skin. It stung, but in a good way that makes you feel as if you’re going to be all right again. His hands were strong but surprisingly gentle.
“What are these from?” he asked quietly.
“A couple of carriers grabbed me and tied me up.”
He stiffened. “Carriers had you? When?”
The Defectors (Defectors Trilogy) Page 7