Feuds

by Avery Hastings

  There was something eerie in the memory of the party, in the way she could practically picture everyone milling about. The night of the party, she realized, was the last time she felt oblivious, safe, and comfortable. She couldn’t believe the worries that had occupied her thoughts that night—her outfit, her jealousy, her insecurity. It all seemed so trivial now.

  It was too quiet in the courtyard. Frighteningly quiet.

  Emilie’s parents were involved in film and finance, and they were one of the most prominent families in Columbus. Davis had never been to their home without encountering a bustle of staff: cinematographers, personal assistants, trainers, chefs, maids. But now, as she rang the doorbell, the ringing sound wasn’t covered by the din of chatter and business like usual. It was eerily silent. So silent that Davis thought maybe they’d gone on vacation, and she was flooded with relief for a brief second. That would explain everything. She felt her heart lifting and turned to leave, angling back toward the elevator through the courtyard rather than the marble path.

  “Hey,” a tiny voice said just as she was passing the tree house. Davis looked around without seeing anyone; then a little girl dropped down from the tree house, bypassing the ladder altogether.

  “Hi,” Davis said. “You must be Kira.” She’d heard Emilie talk about her little sister, but she’d never met her before now. Kira nodded in response, a solemn expression crossing her pretty features.

  “Who are you? Are you my mom’s new assistant?”

  “No,” Davis said. “I’m a friend of Emilie’s. Is she here?” Davis was confused—clearly the family wasn’t on vacation, because they’d never have left Kira. So where was everyone?

  “No,” Kira told her, looking at the ground. She looked like she was about to say more, but then she clamped her mouth shut.

  “Well … what about your parents? Are they here? Do you know when Emilie will be back?” Davis could sense from the little girl’s reluctance to talk that she knew something, and she was determined to figure out exactly what that something was.

  “My dad’s at work,” Kira said. “Mommy’s resting. We’re supposed to be quiet.”

  “And Emilie?”

  “She’s … gone,” Kira said, then turned back toward the tree, putting one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. A jolt of familiar panic clawed its way up Davis’s chest. Gone where?

  “Wait!” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. The little girl turned back toward her, her braids flopping from her shoulders to her back. Her face read both sadness and fear, two emotions Davis had never seen combined in a kid so young. Davis took a step toward Kira and knelt next to her, smiling. The girl reminded her a little bit of Fia, and Davis found herself tugging on one of her braids the way she might have with her sister. Kira smiled a little, but it wasn’t enough to cover up her worried expression.

  “Can you tell me where she went?” she asked. “Is she okay?”

  “Mommy says I’m not supposed to talk about it,” the girl replied. She shook her head hard. “I’ve got to go. I’m not allowed to talk to you.” Then she clambered back up the ladder.

  “Kira!” Davis called out again, but the little girl disappeared into the wooden structure. The front door to the penthouse cracked open at the same time.

  “Kira, who’s there?” a female voice called out, sounding strained. Davis didn’t wait to hear Kira’s answer. She strode toward the elevator bank and jabbed at the down button with her index finger. The doors slid open immediately and she stepped in, fighting a wave of dizziness as the elevator descended. She had to go to Nadya’s next. She had to know that Nadya was okay.

  The Benedicts lived about two and a half miles from Temple Street, and Davis ran the whole way there. When she arrived, she was sweaty and out of breath. It was the second time that day she’d felt out of breath, and it wasn’t fun. She wasn’t used to feeling that way—she was in perfect cardiovascular condition. She berated herself for not doing regular workouts that week. She’d obviously fallen out of shape. She’d just have to work harder. She was fine. She’d be perfect after a few extra workouts … at least she hoped. She wasn’t certain of anything anymore. Nothing about her life resembled the way it had been just a few weeks ago … and everyone seemed to be ignoring that. The disappearances were happening, things were falling apart. If only she could dance, maybe she could hold everything together. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve and retrieved a lip gloss from her ballet bag. She wanted to look presentable when approaching the house—not like some straggler from the streets. She slicked on some gloss and squared her shoulders, making her way toward the small gatehouse that was positioned at the end of the driveway of the modest, three-story house.

  The Benedicts, both lawyers, lived in one of the historic neighborhoods in Columbus—on an actual tree-lined street with houses that were considered quaint but generally not highly sought after because they lacked staff and some of the more modern comforts of the luxury towers.

  The house was small but pretty, fashioned in a British bungalow style, with a front balcony running across the perimeter of the second story. Davis knew where the security gate was from all the times she’d ridden home with Nadya when they were kids—playing in the backyard after ballet and eating snacks that her mom made for them. The guard on duty was an Imp. She stopped in her tracks, an automatic wave of fear rushing through her. Then she took a breath and kept going; he hadn’t noticed.

  “Hi,” Davis said to him in an even tone through the speaker unit on the side of the guardhouse. “I’m here to see Nadya Benedict, please. I’m Davis Morrow.”

  “Ms. Benedict isn’t available,” the guard said without looking up.

  “Is she ill?” Davis asked. “I’d really like to see her.” Thinking fast, she added, “Her mother asked me to drop off the ballet slippers she left at the studio.” She gestured toward her ballet bag with what she hoped was a convincing manner.

  “Ms. Benedict is not accepting visitors,” the guard said, his voice terser this time. “And I highly doubt she’ll need whatever’s in that bag,” he muttered to himself.

  “Why is that?” Davis asked, challenging him. The guard looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time since they’d begun speaking. His eyes were blank, expressionless.

  “Because she won’t be coming back to ballet,” he said. Then he reached up and flipped a switch that turned off the microphone system. The tinted glass window turned a murky black, cutting off Davis entirely.

  She walked back to the monorail in a daze. She won’t be coming back, he’d told her. I’m not supposed to talk about it, Kira had said. Davis pictured the bodies she’d seen only a couple of days before. She pictured those bodies with Nadya’s and Emilie’s faces. She felt nausea roll through her, but she swallowed a few times and willed it to pass.

  The monorail was bustling. The usual checkpoints were still being monitored by Prior volunteers, since most of the Imps were on strike. It hadn’t been a problem that morning, when the crowds were thin—Davis had barely noticed—but now the Priors’ lack of expertise was obvious, and people were getting impatient. Cars were coming in and out of the station half-full and the lines were mounting, since the volunteers were slower and less adept than the usual employees.

  As the monorail wended its way past the river toward her neighborhood, she couldn’t shake the feeling that a lot of gazes were directed at her. Some were curious, some derisive. A couple looked flat-out disgusted. Davis gripped the pole tighter, eager to get off. Maybe it was because she was sweating through her clothes? When she finally reached her stop at Columbus Avenue, Davis stepped from the monorail and started toward her apartment. It was a little chilly, and although she usually didn’t feel affected by the chill, this time she had goose bumps. She also felt a bit weak and realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. As she passed a newsstand kiosk, she noticed that a crowd had gathered around it. One person looked back and, noticing her, nudged his companion. The other guy turned an
d openly sneered. A mother walking by with her little boy quickened her pace. Everyone suddenly looked hostile, like an enemy. Like she was the only one on the outside of a secret. She felt herself giving in to the grips of terror, her palms cold and sweaty and her body lighter somehow, less grounded. Had Cole been right about the Priors? What were they hiding? How bad was it?

  She was overcome by a mounting sense of dread. She edged closer to the newsstand in an effort to scan the digital images that were projected across the front of the counter. Something had to be going on. Was it something with her dad? Had something gone wrong with the campaign? She squinted, craning her neck around a few people in front of her. Then she saw it: her face and Cole’s, in profile, as they were locked in an obvious embrace.

  Half a dozen images of the same scene were plastered across every single one of the tabloid screens. Some of the images were of them hugging, some worse.

  CPM Candidate’s Daughter and the Imp, read one headline.

  Lady and the Tramp, read another.

  CPM’s “Family Values”?, Prime Minister Candidate a Sham, CPM Candidate’s Daughter Rocks Community. Each of the headlines was more salacious and inflammatory than the last. Davis felt her cheeks heating up and she took a step back, edging out of the crowd. The whispers around her were growing louder and more intense, and several people were pointing at her. One woman spit at her, and flecks of her saliva sprayed Davis’s arm.

  Davis turned and ran.

  She flew past the monorail checkpoint in the opposite direction of the house, her heart pounding and her breath ragged. She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t face her dad. He would be devastated and furious. Everywhere she looked, there were evil faces. Grimacing, leering, judging. But how had they gotten those pictures? Had Cole been setting her up? No, he couldn’t have—this was suicide for him. What if he’d already been arrested? What if he was facing imprisonment or worse?

  Davis felt sweat trickle down her forehead and along her breastbone. She felt her back dampen and her breathing grow shallower with every step. She felt sick now, truly sick, as though she could throw up even while running. What was wrong with her?

  Davis didn’t even think about where her feet were taking her until she reached the bank of the river. She’d been heading toward Cole all along, without even thinking about it—but, of course, it wasn’t surprising. She needed answers. The urgency with which she felt she had to see him was overwhelming. All she wanted in the world was to let him know that she had forgiven him. It was time to stop fighting it—it wasn’t even within her power. She’d forgiven him because somewhere inside, she knew none of this was his fault. She knew he was her only ally in all of this. She had to warn him; she couldn’t not. If she didn’t, she was as bad as they were, with their secrets and lies.

  She looked behind her, but no one had followed. Maybe not everyone had seen the tabloids yet—it was still early in the day. Eventually, the very same motie she’d seen the other day idled up to her spot on the bank.

  “You back for more, pretty girl?” he asked. Another sharp wave of nausea rolled through Davis’s stomach, and this time she didn’t fight it off—she gagged into the weeds at the bank, but nothing came out. There was nothing in her to expel. She righted herself, wiping tears from her eyes. She made an effort to straighten her shoulders, and she zipped her jacket, pulling the hood up to conceal her face for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Then she faced the motie, nodding back at his toothless grin. She stepped inside the rickety vessel and steeled herself for another passage to the Slants.

  14

  COLE

  The banging on the front door was frantic. Cole moved the curtains aside and, when he saw who it was, yanked the door open without a second’s hesitation.

  “Get in here!” he whispered harshly, pulling Davis in by a trembling forearm. She winced and he pulled back—he hadn’t meant to be rough with her. But if anyone had seen her, he couldn’t guarantee he’d be able to protect her a second time—she’d be torn to shreds. Her very act of coming to him could result in her murder.

  Her temples bore beads of sweat, and she looked exhausted. Her normally porcelain complexion was almost translucent, her eyes were watering, and she had bits of leaves stuck in her hair. Still, Cole’s heart lifted at the sight of her. She looked pretty even now, even in the apparent height of her despair. “You can’t be here,” Cole told her after he helped her inside and she’d settled herself on the low wooden bench that bordered the dining table. Cole checked out the curtains that bordered either side of the trailer, just to make sure no one had seen her arrive. “You could get yourself killed!”

  “I know,” she said, resting her head in her hands. “But I didn’t know where else to go! If I go home, I’m dead. Have you seen them yet, Cole?”

  “Seen what?”

  “You and me. All over the tabloids.” Cole’s jaw dropped. He felt his cheeks begin to flame, and fear penetrated every part of his body. Everyone knew. He’d be executed, or at the very least thrown in prison. It was only a matter of time; it had to be. He thought fast; he had to pretend to be as shocked as she was. He struggled to maintain an expression of surprise, which wasn’t so difficult, given that he was surprised it had happened like this, so fast.

  Above all, Davis couldn’t know that he knew it was a setup. “Oh, God,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.” He paused, gauging her reaction. He was struggling to sound surprised, but his voice sounded false and had even shaken a little. Still, she seemed oblivious. Her eyes were trained on his. He looked for hints of suspicion but found none. “We have to get you out of here,” he told her, his voice tense. It was all his fault. He’d been responsible for dragging her into this mess—he’d get her out of it or die trying. He racked his brain for places to take her. If someone found her—if anything happened to her—he’d never forgive himself. “I have no idea who could walk through here—Hamilton’s friends are always in and out—and if people recognize you like they did at the riot, I’m pretty sure they’re not letting you get away this time. At least not without a million questions. Come with me.” He put a hand on her shoulder, attempting to urge her from the bench, and her back felt as brittle as a bird’s under his touch.

  “Can I just … can I have some water first?”

  “Sure.” Cole filled a glass from his tap and handed it to Davis, waiting. She stared into its rippling surface but made no attempt to bring it to her lips. “Davis,” he said gently, “I know you’re freaked out, but we have to go. I know somewhere where we can talk.” She looked up from the glass, guilt creasing her features, and all at once he understood: she was afraid of the water. Afraid of the Gens’ filtration system, that it might not be clean, that it might give her something contagious. The irony almost made Cole laugh, but her fear was too palpable for him to make light of it.

  “I think I have bottled water here somewhere,” he told her. “Here,” he said, grabbing a bottle from the minifridge in the corner. “You can take it with you.” Bottled water was expensive, but Cole’s mom had been coughing so much lately that he’d used some FEUDS money to invest in a case. Davis had been right to be a little concerned—the filtration system hadn’t been updated in who knew how long.

  After she took a couple of sips, she looked slightly better, and some of the color began to return to her face. Cole helped her stand, and then he gave her one of his hoodies, which hung all the way down to her knees—but it was the best he could do for a disguise. They left the trailer together and made a sharp left, heading away from the center of the Slants. Cole didn’t want to go too far from the riverbank—it was important that Davis be able to return home quickly—so he headed for the decrepit, abandoned carousel on the outskirts of the trailer clusters.

  They were just twenty or thirty feet from the carousel when he heard voices headed in their direction. Davis’s eyes, wide with panic, moved to his. He grabbed her arm and pulled her underneath a s
mall, makeshift deck that stretched from the back of a trailer. It was really just a few boards of plywood supported by cement blocks, and they struggled to fit their bodies under it, squirming against the dirt. Cole made sure Davis was concealed first; then he wiggled in after her, pulling himself against the ground using his forearms. They lay there, their breathing louder than he’d have liked, as the footsteps drew nearer. He heard laughter; there were maybe two or three men, their voices unfamiliar.

  As they lay there, Cole became aware of Davis’s body pressed against his: her shoulders and hips and waist and thighs filling the negative space between them. He couldn’t see her in the dark, but Cole had the sense that her face was only inches from his. That if he moved just slightly—

  “I think they’re gone,” she whispered, breaking the silence. Her breath was hot on his cheek, but he forced himself to move. They had to keep going. Her safety was most important right then.

  “I think you’re right,” he said. “Let me check first.” He scooted from under the deck and took inventory of the area before coming all the way out and motioning for her to follow. She emerged from under the building, her clothes and face covered in dirt. A smudge of dirt crossed her cheek near her mouth, and he reached out to brush it away. She took his hand as if to stop him, but then to his surprise, she held it in her own, squeezing it tight.