Still nothing.
He’s trying to do exactly what I do with the Watcher: get me used to him hanging around so that I never see the attack coming.
“How do you talk to your people?” I ask. The Drivers I saw in the city the last time I was there for the auction kept to themselves. I never saw them communicate with anyone. Daphne said that’s because they’ve got brains the size of sparrow eggs. I know better, though. The Driver I knew in the mountains may not have spoken a word, but he seemed to understand us just fine.
He looks back up at the sky, and I’m reminded again of the moon and my home. I don’t like him for bringing those things up, even if he hasn’t said them out loud.
I groan, frustrated. “If you’re going to try to kill me you should just get on with it, so that I don’t have to wait to kill you back.”
He’s got me rattled. I never talk this much. But he’s just sitting there acting plain-as-day normal, and I can’t seem to stop.
“You should know that I’m not like any other girl you’ve ever met. I’ve killed animals twice your size in the mountains. And they’ve had teeth and claws, and … I’m not afraid of you,” I finish.
He crosses one straightened leg over the other and lays back on the grass.
“Hey!” I say sharply. He rolls his head lazily to the side to look over at me. As intimidating as I possibly can, I stretch the chain across my neck and gag, showing him I could choke him dead if I wanted. “I am not afraid of you,” I repeat slowly.
He only cocks his eyebrow and then looks back up at the sky.
My face begins to feel very hot, despite the cooling temperatures. This crazy Driver boy is making me feel like an idiot.
The time passes slowly. I’ve remained wide awake, and he hasn’t moved. Brax, on the other hand, has sprawled out on the grass and fallen asleep with his tongue lolling out.
My legs are cramped, and out of exhaustion, I finally sit down. My toes slide under Brax’s body for warmth, and I wrap the long slinky skirt around my ankles.
“There’s a Driver I know named Lorcan,” I say almost in a whisper, breaking our silence. “Well, knew. Before they brought me here.”
The second the words leave my lips, the Driver turns his head, and I pop back up to my feet. Then I relax. He’s recognized the word Driver again.
Warily, I sit back down.
I can picture Lorcan as clearly as if he is standing right in front of me. He’s a wiry man with long silver hair and a pointy nose. Not a handsome face, but a peaceful one. Eyes that beckon trust like a moth to the flame. His skin is the color of oiled leather, but for the thin white scar running from his chin down to the notch in his collarbone. My ma told me once that a Watcher did that to him, and if Mother Hawk had not loved Lorcan, he surely would have died.
I clear my throat. “We called him Silent Lorcan because he never talked. I didn’t realize until I got here that none of you can. He bartered with me when I lived in the mountains. Not with Salma or Metea or even Bian. Just me. He brought us clothes or wheat or yeast in exchange for the jewelry I made. He sold it at Trader’s Day—the market they hold in the city every other week.” I glance at the Driver’s calloused hands, thinking how my own used to look like that. “One time, when I was little, he brought me back a blueberry pie.”
The Driver is still watching me curiously, with no sign to indicate that he’s understood a bit of what I’ve said. For some strange reason, I continue.
“He had a yellow horse with white socks and a star between her eyes. She was crankier than Salma in the morning and liked to bite. I tried to ride her.” I grin, the memory coming back to me in vivid colors. “Bian helped me up on her back while Lorcan was down by the river. I didn’t last long—I ended up on the ground with a broken arm. Lorcan was furious when he found us.”
Furious, and something else as well. I’d thought Lorcan was mad because I hadn’t asked permission to ride his horse, but he seemed angrier that I’d been hurt doing it. The way my mother would get angry when I disappeared in the woods for too long.
My ma had died before his next visit. After Lorcan found out, he never came again. That’s when I realized Drivers weren’t to be trusted.
For a moment, I fiddle with the scar on my earlobe from the earring I pulled out, then realize I’ve become so consumed with the memory, I’ve completely forgotten the Driver boy is still sitting less than ten paces away. I jolt up, feeling a flood of heat rush through me.
“I know all about your tricks,” I say. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his brows. “You can’t fool me. I know…”
He rises quickly, and I brace myself to attack. But he’s already turned around and is walking back towards the stream and the barn. He has a smooth, confident stride, so contrary to every other skittish Driver I’ve seen in the city. He leaps over the stream without hesitation and doesn’t even glance back before disappearing into the darkened entrance of his quarters.
I remain standing, shocked. He didn’t try to hurt me. He didn’t even come close enough to touch me. He just sat there, letting me ramble on about things he doesn’t understand.
When I’m convinced he’s not coming back, I slide back down to the ground and lay my head on Brax’s shoulder. But it takes me a long time to go to sleep. I’m thinking about the Driver and his golden hair. About how much I miss home.
And about how long it has been since I’ve talked that much to anyone.
* * *
THE WATCHER DOESN’T EVEN come outside for three days. He sits behind the glass, tossing meal pills out into the dirt from behind the slider door, infuriating me, because now it’s me that’s watching him, not him that’s watching me, and I’m starting to think I really missed my chance.
During this time the Driver stays away. I see him sometimes, leaning against the paddock fence on the left side of the barn or leading a horse around to the other side, where a Magnate is probably waiting for his rental. I see him mucking stalls or tossing hay into the long wooden troughs. He’s dirty again during the daytime. He seems to wake up dirty, as though he slept in a mud puddle. His clothes are soiled with white lines from sweat and horse slobber he doesn’t bother to wipe away. On top of that, he walks differently during the day than he did that night when he visited me. His pace is short and clipped. His gaze stays aimed at the ground. He looks jumpy. So unlike the curious boy who stared and smiled.
Although I don’t completely understand why he does this, it makes me think of all my attempts to sabotage a sale. My torn earlobe. Broken nose. Last auction I even lay down on the stage and pretended to be dead during my individual exhibition.
My days are spent exercising, eating my meal pills, bathing as modestly as I can with a sponge and a pail of water, and watching that girl with the straw-colored hair wait by the fence. The boy has not returned to visit her, and I can’t help but think he’s been paid a visit by the Watchers. Daphne’s back outside during rec time. I can see her across the yard, lazing about with her friends. I guess she didn’t get Promised at the auction after all.
Sometimes what’s left of Sweetpea’s pack—Lily and Lotus and a few new ones—head towards the back of the rec yard, towards where I sit. Not that I’m scared of them or anything—they’re the ones behind a fence—but when I see them coming, I head behind the Watcher office, pulling my chain as far as I can. It’s not far enough that I can’t hear them singing prayers to make fun of me.
At night, I wait for the Driver, the broken knife and chain ready in my hands. But he doesn’t come.
* * *
MY FIFTH DAY IN solitary, I wake alone, a damp meal supplement in the dirt beside my head. I wipe it off and swallow it down. Then I dig up my bottle and retrieve the broken end of the Pip’s beater and hide it just under the cuff of the bracelet.
Today I’m getting that key.
Thoughts about the Driver boy keep bouncing around in my head. I peer over at the barn, wondering where he sleeps inside. If he is already awake.
I shake my head, irritated with myself. The boy tried to kill me. He’s trying to fool me into relaxing so that he can do something to me. What, I don’t know, but it can’t be good. No man spends time with a woman just to lay ten paces away in the grass and listen to her babble.
Then I think about Lorcan. We didn’t make enough jewelry to truly make the trade worthwhile—Bian told me that once, after he’d been living in the city for a few years. But Lorcan still came up to the mountains. Sometimes, it seemed, just to walk with my ma.
If he just wanted to walk, maybe this Driver just wants to listen.
I kick the ground with my bare foot. That’s the bad thing about solitary—you think too much. I’ve got more important things to do.
In my third month here, as part of our lessons, the Governess let us watch one of Solace’s movies. In it, she plays a singer, the property of a big, fat man who owns a club. Somehow she loses her voice, and poisons herself. Daphne said it was because she was so sad to disappoint her owner, but I thought she was just stupid. Either way, he carried her to the doctor, who gave her medicine so she could sing again. Probably because she was bringing in a lot of credits. The Governess told us we should learn from Solace’s dedication.
I guess the Governess isn’t always wrong.
I lie on the grass behind the office and curl into a ball. Then I begin to whimper as loudly as I can, just like Solace did in the movie. If the Watcher thinks I’m sick enough, he’ll have to take me to the medical wing.
It’s not long after I’ve started that the Watcher’s boots approach and halt beside me.
My eyes flutter open, and with a groan, I grasp my stomach. The white dot of sun is directly behind his hairless head, leaving his face shadowed.
“I’m sick,” I groan quietly. “The pill…” I begin to writhe.
He doesn’t move.
“Please!” I beg him. “I’m sick!”
The Watcher tries to haul me up, but I collapse again into the grass. There is a scuffle outside, and both of us turn to see the Driver. He’s just outside the back entrance of the barn, holding two large plastic buckets. He’s pretending not to look at us, but I can tell he is.
I push him from my mind and pull the broken tip of the beater to the edge of the bracelet with my middle finger. I’m close now, almost close enough to grab the key and put the little metal piece in its place.
The Watcher lifts me again, trying to make me stand. I stumble forward, one hand on his chest, the beater pin in my palm. I lift my other hand to snatch the key.
More commotion from the barn makes the Watcher jerk, and his chest strap is too far now to grasp. I’m going to miss my opportunity because of all the noise made by a mute boy.
Once again the Watcher attempts to haul me up, but I refuse to use my legs, and this time he hauls back and slaps me. The metal pin in my hand, which I was going to use to replace the key, goes flying. We both watch it skid across the dirt.
My knees lock as I catch myself. My face feels like fire, and there are bright patches in the left side of my vision. My eyeball is about to explode. When I can, I suck in a breath.
The Watcher says nothing, but his eyes have narrowed. I glance down and see the messagebox on his strap and think of the Governess and the Pip who gave him his orders. They must have told the Watcher to be ready for this kind of thing. And now that I’m standing and glaring at him, I hardly look sick anymore.
Fury surges through me. I grab at the only thing I can: the messagebox. Without a thought of the consequences, my fingers snatch it off his chest. There is a word typed in block letters on the screen and I recognize it from the bodybook in the Governess’s office. It’s my name. Or the name they call me here anyway: Clover. The weed.
The Watcher reaches for the messagebox, but I scramble away and with all my might, hurl the box into the electric brook. There is a loud hiss and a crackle, and the messagebox is carried away into the sewer.
I turn back to the Watcher, who looks mildly bothered, but won’t get angry on account of his treatments. He’s lifted his hand again and reaching for my shoulder, to hold me in place while he beats me.
I kick him in the shins as hard as I can and try to wriggle away, but it’s too late, he’s got the back of my dress. All I can do now is curl into a ball, arms up to protect the delicate bones of my face.
Bang!
The Watcher pauses, one hand still gripping my shoulder, the other stretched up above my head.
Bang!
I turn to see the Driver slapping together the two large plastic buckets with great force. He’s not looking directly at us. Several horses are startled by the noise, and race out to their paddocks, bucking and whinnying.
The Watcher, distracted, releases me, and I retreat towards the back wall to hide.
But the Watcher seems to have lost interest. He turns, picks up the piece of broken beater, and stalks around the office. I hear the automatic doors open, then shut, and through the wall comes the loud suctioned release of the internal office door that connects with the hallway. The Watcher is going to get another messagebox. He’s gone.
I look across the brook towards the barn, but now the Driver is gone, too.
I could run inside. The automatic door may let me in, but I still can’t get through the main exit because of the code box with its acid keys. I’ve failed. Yet again. Because of the Driver. And what’s worse than the failure is knowing that every time I screw up, it makes my next attempt to escape that much harder.
I sink to the ground and press the heel of my hand into my eye socket. The pressure has lessened, but my head is still aching, and my cheek stings. At least my nose was avoided.
Someone is back outside, and I lift my head, expecting to see Brax nosing out to check on me. But it’s not Brax. It’s the Driver. He’s striding towards me, this time with purpose.
He hesitates only momentarily at the brook, then jumps over.
But my mind reverts back to the danger at hand. The tricks are over, now he’s ready to get on with it. I’m still pinned in the corner. Why didn’t I run when I first saw him coming? Why don’t I ever run from him? Now even the Watcher can’t help me.
My pulse begins to climb, and soon I’m breathing hard. I bend to retrieve a rock, but this time when I throw it, he simply ducks out of the way. He moves as fast as a Watcher, I swear.
I guard myself in the only way I know how. I crouch down, ready to spring like a cornered wildcat. The Watcher may be too big to beat, but I will not let this Driver better me.
He’s five paces away when I pounce. My muscles quiver, as though I’ve just touched the electric fence and been given the shocks. He’s expected this and ducks low, guarding his gut. I reach with the chain, but he slaps it aside. My nails catch him around the face and scratch at the skin of his neck. I bite, and get nothing but a dry mouthful of fabric.
He shoves me back and I charge him again, but he slips to the side, locking my head beneath his arm. I twist, but he won’t let go. Then, somehow, he’s pinned me against the wall. Both of my wrists are trapped in one of his large, impossibly strong hands. My legs are locked together, squeezed between his. His whole body has smashed mine against the plaster. I can feel his heart beat in my own chest. Feel it as though it is my own.
I’ve never been this close to a man before. Not Silent Lorcan. Not Bian. I’m petrified as to what he’s about to do.
I struggle, but he’s locked me in place so tightly I can barely move. I tilt my chin up to see his face. There’s no hunger in his eyes like I’ve seen in the men at auction. No deadened stare like the Watcher. Instead his expression is angry.
Before I can make sense of it, he jerks back. The lump on his throat bobs. He bites his bottom lip so hard it turns white.
He points at my jaw and I flinch, but plant my feet. I touch my face, already feeling the heat and swelling from the Watcher’s slap.
“Yeah,” I say. “He got me. So what?”
He turns around, paces away, an
d then comes back. My muscles have all flexed, but I don’t move. I don’t know what’s come over me.
I don’t even move when his hand lifts and he touches my cheek with his fingertips, gently, like my skin is made of eggshells. He pushes aside my nest of hair and looks over my jaw. Over what the Watcher’s done to me.
I gape into his Driver eyes, and for the first time I notice how there are flecks of copper in the deep brown.
The anger in his stare is dying, and in its place comes pity.
CHAPTER 6
“STOP THAT,” I SAY.
My heart’s pounding in my ears, harder than it did with the Watcher here.
His fingers brush over my eyebrow and a spark of pain lights me up. When he pulls away there’s blood on the side of his hand.
It brings me back from wherever I went, and I punch him, hard as I can, in the gut.
All the air empties from his chest in one hard grunt; it’s the first sound I’ve ever heard him make. As he staggers back, I scramble for the ground and pick up a sharp, fist-sized rock, and the jagged knife handle I’ve left just under the surface of the dirt against the plaster wall. He makes no attempt to stop me. His hands are resting on his thighs and he’s bent over, still trying to catch his breath.
“You don’t touch me,” I say, my voice wobbly. “Nobody touches me without my say-so, got it?”
I’ve knocked the wind out of him. It’s now that I’ve got my best advantage. But I don’t attack. Just like I didn’t run when he’d come striding across the yard.
“I said, you got it?” I nearly shout. I want him to nod, leave, anything to show he understands.
He glances up at the sound of my voice, a grimace pulling at his mouth.
“You ruined it,” I say quietly. “I was this close to that key. I was almost out of here, and you ruined it.”
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