Catalyst

by Kristin Smith

  When he looks at me then, I think he remembers. For one small instant, our eyes connect, and I pray it’s enough. But then he shakes his head, and my hope shatters.

  I try again. “What about the Compound? Or the Fringe? Or maybe Nash, your cousin? Does anything sound familiar?”

  Trey closes his eyes and grips the sides of his head in frustration. “I don’t understand what’s going on. What are you—?” He opens his eyes and scowls. “What do you want from me? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  Heart aching, I rise and walk slowly to the door. It was painful enough when I thought he was dead, but this…

  This is a million times worse.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” he calls after me.

  “To get a doctor. Someone who can help you,” I say without turning around.

  “But, wait—” The urgency in his tone makes me stop and turn. “Should I know you?”

  My heart skips a beat. I want to shake him. I want to make him remember me—remember us—but instead, I turn away. “No. Apparently not.”

  I stay composed until the door closes behind me.

  And then, I crumble.

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people I want to thank for helping me bring this idea, this book, to fruition, and for supporting me along the way. I’m not sure where to begin, but I’ll try. Great big thanks and awkward hugs go to:

  All of the Clean Teen Publishing Team for believing in Sienna’s story and offering me a chance to hold the book in my hands. This has seriously been a dream come true. Thank you!

  Cynthia Shepp, my brilliant editor, for her keen eye and fantastic editing skills. Thank you for making me dig deeper and think harder, ultimately making the book so much better.

  Whitney Royster, my publicist extraordinaire, for her determination and devotion to getting Catalyst in front of readers. Thank you for all of your help with social media!

  The most wonderful critique partners in the world without whom I might never have made it this far. Leandra Wallace for your spot-on advice, ideas, words of encouragement, and general awesomeness. You are truly one of a kind—my soul sister. Thank you for not only being my close friend, but my cheerleader and my sounding board. You rock. And to Sheri Larsen, my other incredible CP who knows her way around this business better than I ever will. Thank you for all your insight and knowledge. You will always be top notch in my book!

  Mark Noce for critiquing my manuscript even with a newborn baby at home and while experiencing a significant amount of sleep loss. If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is! Thank you, Mark.

  Jen Holl for being so excited about this story when it was only the roughest first draft imaginable. You will always be my favorite reader!

  My fellow Charlotte writers, Monica Hoffman and Holly Hughes, for your endless support and encouragement in navigating these publishing waters. I love our Amelie’s chats!

  Charity Bradford, for being a wonderful mentor when I triumphantly finished my first novel several years ago. Little did I know then…

  My dear friends, Adria Macdonald and Sandy Abbott, for rooting for me throughout this journey. Love you, girls.

  My parents who helped foster my love of reading and writing at an early age. Thank you for feeding my addiction of Nancy Drew, Sweet Vally Twins, and Babysitter’s Club books.

  My sister, Laura Anne Moxley, who was as excited to hear about this book being published as I was. Thanks for being the best big sis.

  My sons: Corbin, Hayden, Ethan, Liam, and Declan, for only mildly complaining when you had to eat another frozen pizza or bean burrito because Mom was too busy writing to cook dinner. I hope I made you proud.

  My husband and best friend, Adam, for always being my very first reader and giving me your honest opinion. Thank you for letting me roll ideas off of you, especially during long road trips. And thank you for believing in me, even when I almost stopped believing in myself. I love you.

  God. While I’d love to believe that this story stems from my own creativity, I have to give credit where credit is due. Thank you for always giving me the inspiration I need.

  All my readers. You seriously rock. Thank you for reading my story!

  About the Author

  Kristin Smith writes young adult contemporary and science fiction novels. When she's not writing, you can find her dreaming about the beach, beating her boys at Just Dance, or belting out karaoke (from the comfort of her own home). Kristin currently resides in the middle-of-nowhere North Carolina with her husband and five incredibly loud but extremely cute boys. To read more about her obsession with YA novels or her addiction to chocolate, you can visit her at kristinsmithbooks.com.

  Discussion Questions for Catalyst

  Why do you think Sienna turns to a life of crime after the death of her father?

  Why does Sienna agree to kill Harlow Ryder? Does she have any other options?

  Do you think Sienna is a good person? Why or why not?

  What do you think about Sienna’s decision to join the Fringe? Was it a good one?

  Why does Sienna decide to get an internal butterfly tattoo? What is the symbolism behind the butterfly for her?

  What do you think of the idea of genetic matchmaking? Would you want to be matched to the “perfect” person for you?

  Are you Team Trey or Team Zane? Why?

  Sienna had a chance to kill Radcliffe, but she didn’t do it. What do you think about her decision? What would you have done?

  When Trey wakes up, he doesn’t remember Sienna. Do you think this is short-term memory loss or something else?

  What do you think of the idea of genetic modification? Would you have wanted your parents to choose your characteristics or do you prefer it happening by chance? If you’re a parent, would you want to hand-pick the characteristics of your children so you can determine the type of person they’ll become?

  What do you think of the idea that genetic modification can get rid of certain diseases that plague our society? Would it be worth it?

  Sienna learns throughout the story that her father, Ben Preston, had a former name and former life. Why do you think Ben Preston faked his death and changed his name? If you were Sienna, how would it make you feel to learn that about your father?

  What is one common theme throughout the story? What are some examples of this theme?

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  If you've enjoyed CATALYST by Kristin Smith, we think you will also enjoy BAD BLOODS: NOVEMBER RAIN by Shannon Thompson. The first novel is currently FREE! Turn the page for an exclusive excerpt.

  Fans of Red Queen and The Hunger Games Trilogy will love this new series by Shannon A. Thompson.

  Seventeen-year-old Serena isn't human. She is a bad blood, and in the city of Vendona, bad bloods are executed. In the last moments before she faces imminent death, a prison guard aids her escape and sparks a revolt. Back on the streets determined to destroy her kind, Serena is spared by a fellow bad blood named Daniel. His past tragedies are as equally mysterious as her connection to them. Unbeknownst to the two, this connection is the key to winning the election for bad bloods' rights to be seen as human again. But Serena is the only one who can secure Vendona's vote. Now, Daniel must unite with her before all hope is lost and bad bloods are eradicated, even if it means exposing secrets worse than death itself. United or not, a city will fight, rain will fall, and all will be threatened by star-crossed love and political corruption.

  ***

  Execution day was the best day.

  While most fought, screamed, and cried, I welcomed our only escape. Death would be the easiest part of my life. The eight children I shared my expiration date with might understand that soon, but I was different from the beginning. A bad blood didn’t live to be seventeen by pure luck.

  The police
suspected I was in a flock, and they were right, not one of those fake ones made up of four kids who were inevitably caught either. A real one. The Southern Flock. But I didn’t break no matter what. Now, I would die for it. It was for the better. Robert already believed I was dead anyway.

  I tried not to think of the others, but their faces crept through my memory when I stared at the kids around me. Catelyn. Melody. Steven. Ami. Huey. Briauna. Justan. Timmy. Jake. Even Niki. The fact that my flock would continue brought me the peace I needed today. Or tonight.

  By the murky blue flooding through the jail cells, my best guess said it was seven—AM or PM—but I couldn’t be sure without a clock. I wouldn’t even know what hour I would die. The government didn’t think we were deserving of time.

  “Alan. Frank. Jesse. Marcus.”

  The boys went first. The girls were next.

  “Anne. Harriet. Linda. Rosa. Serena.”

  My sigh felt like my last breath, but I stood up. The tapping is what forced me to raise my eyes. Through the metal bars, a woman stared at me. Her black hair poked out beneath her hat. She would probably be the last person I ever saw alive. When she asked me if I was Serena, I nodded.

  I didn’t try to run when she cranked open the gate. I was done running. When she latched onto the chain holding my hands together, the metal cut into my wrists. I bled, but it didn’t matter. The woman would escort me to the electric chair and it would all be over. There were no drugs involved. Only pain. Only suffering.

  The woman yanked me forward, slow but sturdy. The rest of the girls were ahead of us, and the way my cop wobbled, I could see why. I only worried about seeing the others ahead of me die first. I envied Alan, the bad blood scheduled first for execution, and I wondered if he was already dead.

  “You need to listen to me.” The woman’s whisper was harsh. “You listen to me good, yah hear?”

  “Wha—”

  Her glare silenced me. “Don’t talk.” She rattled my chain to bury her drawl, but she had touched me. It wasn’t a mistake. I understood now. My powers forced me to. I could sense bad bloods whenever we touched, and she was one.

  “Those kids are dying today, but you’re not.” When she spoke, her decaying teeth jutted out. “You’re getting out of here, and you’re going to live.”

  Before I could ask how, the woman’s feet glued to the floor. In the depths of her russet stare, determination flickered. It was the look someone had when she knew she would die.

  Everything changed in that moment. The officer ahead of us turned around, and he called out, “Charlotte.” Other than her name, the only sound I heard was the snap of my chain and the single word spilling out of her mouth.

  “Run.”

  And I did.

  Old Man Gregory scanned my items without studying my arrangement of over-the-counter medicines and bandages. The owner didn’t care who I was. He only cared about two things—money and booze—and that’s why I returned to his convenience store.

  Acquaintances weren’t necessary. Medicine was.

  When the door opened, the entrance bell rang. “How yah doing, Gregory?” The newcomer wobbled until he found an equally wobbly seat at the countertop, a.k.a. the bar. I could smell the whiskey on him. Definitely a regular. “I’d sure appreciate it if you turned the news on.”

  Gregory swung around, and the television lit up at his touch. Two faces appeared—a woman and a man—with a solid line separating them. Another political debate was on.

  “What could Henderson be thinking?” the male anchor shouted into his clipped-on microphone.

  My stomach twisted. The upcoming election had Vendona on the verge of a revolt—a violent revolt—and my kind was the center of it all. Alec Henderson was the first government official to be pro-blood, and he had a real chance at becoming president. Joshua Logan II was his opponent. He wanted to establish required identification testing to expose bad bloods for earlier execution. At this point, Vendona was torn. Even I couldn’t tell who would win, but the election would be over within the month. For bad bloods, it was life or death. It was merely politics for everyone else.

  “This isn’t the Civil Rights Movement,” the man continued. “This isn’t even the Separation Movement.” The war demonizing bad bloods—something Vendona called a movement—happened twenty years before I was born.

  “But that is exactly what Henderson is trying to do,” the woman argued. “He’s beginning a movement. He’s creating a movement.”

  “He’s abolishing the Separation Movement, something elected by the people and for the people,” the man corrected. “No one asked him to change it.”

  “His voters are asking for change.”

  “These are bad bloods we’re talking about,” the man interrupted. “Violent, incompetent creatures—”

  “These are children we’re talking about,” she returned his interruption with one of her own.

  “Children that contribute to over half of our growing crime rate, including the murder of innocent civilians,” he retorted. “Do you think the government can change that?” His biased beliefs never changed. “Even if we save them, the two remaining flocks will kill each other.” The Northern Flock and the Southern Flock were notorious for hating one another. “How can we trust a species that hates itself?”

  “Maybe they wouldn’t have to kill if they weren’t forced onto our streets.”

  “And maybe you can write that on all of our graves.”

  “Money.”

  I forced myself to turn away from the debate to meet eyes with Gregory. His palm stuck out, nearly touching my chest. “Money,” he repeated.

  I laid the cash in his hand before I shoved the items into my backpack. When I slung the bag over my shoulder, I ignored the heated ramblings. Other than being disgusted, I didn’t have the luxury to listen. Vi was waiting at Calhoun’s house, and being late wasn’t an option.

  I pushed open the exit door, and humid air slammed into me. It was later than I thought. The sun was gone, but a murky glow stretched over the crowded buildings, evidence of the Highlands. The early evening was the only time the outskirts could see the murky light from ground level, but that didn’t mean we forgot its existence. The richest part of Vendona was iridescent, separated from the outskirts by one large gate, but tonight, it was brighter than ever. It pulsated against the purple sky. Even then, the sight didn’t hold my attention for long.

  The warning lights lining our streets were flashing. We had three settings: yellow, orange, and red. Ever since the pre-election votes had been polled, the lights had been yellow, a minor warning, but they were orange tonight.

  I leaned back into Gregory’s store. “Why’s the light orange?”

  The owner glanced over, but the customer was the one to point at the television. The debate was replaced by a reporter’s ramblings, “All are advised to find immediate shelter.” Behind her, Western Vendona’s largest blood camp loomed. “Escaping from here only moments ago, the bad blood is believed to have fled through the western part of town.”

  “Escaped?” Gregory cursed. “That’s a first.”

  The reporter continued to rant out scripted directions, “I repeat, all are advised to find shelter and report any suspicious activity immediately.” A phone number scrolled below her. “This is considered a high-risk situation. Red lights have been turned on, and curfew is in effect.”

  Blake. The youngest in my flock flashed in front of me. Michele. Vi. Adam. Tessa. Peyton. Floyd. It could be any of them.

  I had to go.

  “The light’s red,” Gregory shouted at my back, but it was too late.

  I ran.

  The muscles in my legs burned, and I weaved through the panicking crowd with ease. Voices flew by, and faces blurred together, but no one paid any attention to me. They were too busy fleeing. Rushing through the splitting crowd was almost too easy. I didn’t have superhuman speed—that would be Adam’s specialty—but I felt like I did. I would get to the bad blood before the polic
e if it killed me. That was the duty of a leader.

  I was only a block away from the depths of the western part of town, but a block was enough time to figure out where they would be. Any bad blood would head straight for Shadow Alley, the only street Vendona’s government avoided. It was a thin road, cut in half by an old fence, and remarkable shadows masked the worst crimes. It connected the condensed northern part of town with the southern countryside, and it blocked out where the Western Flock’s house once stood. It was notorious for crime and even more notorious for being a bad blood itinerant. No human would go near it, not even a cop, and that hesitation would be what the escapee would rely on.

  I had to be right.

  When I saw Mulberry Street, I prepared to turn. It led to Shadow Alley, and I was all too familiar with the paved walkway. I grabbed the side of the brick building to help me spin around the corner, but my dexterity failed. I crashed straight into a body—a person smaller than me—and I bounced back to stay on my feet. The other person fell. As their body smacked against the concrete, a high-pitched yelp escaped their lips. I would’ve kept running if they hadn’t leapt back up and attempted to hit me.

  My adrenaline froze.

  Only a bad blood would hit someone, but this person wasn’t Blake. This person wasn’t Michele or Tessa, but she was a girl, a teenage girl with wild eyes. Blood dripped down the side of her face, and her hair was browned with soot. Because of her sunken cheekbones, she resembled a dirty skeleton more than a living being. She wasn’t a member of my flock, but she was definitely blooded, and she was in trouble.