Reactive: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance (The Elite Trials Book 1) Page 5

  Bren cleared his throat, the noise almost nervous. “I suppose you should know I’ve signed contracts with all three Trials.”

  Everything in me froze.

  Then heated words, hot enough to match my internal rage, exploded from my mouth. “What? Are you crazy? That’s suicide! You don’t even know how to ride a charger, you stupid fool! It takes years of intense training to contend in a Trial without dying. Do you even know what the other two Trials are? They’re more dangerous than this one, I can tell you that!” I briefly came up for air, then dove in again. “Have you even had training or have you just been skulking around in the woods for the past decade?”

  My throat burned as I took great gulps of air, trying to calm myself. Bren stared at me, still as stone. Did I scare some sense into him? Then he burst out laughing, the sound rich and full. Argh! I was going to punch him in the face. With my fist!

  “First off—” He paused to wipe at his eyes. The nerve of this guy! “I’m flattered that you care so much. I was beginning to worry. Second, I know the odds are against me, but I’ve actually had some training. I haven’t been—what did you call it?—skulking in the woods for the last decade. Why would you think I’d be doing that anyway?”

  Uh oh.

  And just like that, the heat in my veins extinguished.

  I’d suspected he didn’t remember me and now I was fairly certain of it. But there was no way I was going to walk down memory lane with him right now. That confrontation would come when I was good and ready. If I ever was.

  Instead, I shrugged off-handedly. “Renold said you were from the Recruiter Clan. I assumed you all skulked, doing whatever you pleased, kind of like pirates. Pillaging, plundering, that sort of thing.” Kidnapping, I ached to add.

  “Pirates? That’s an interesting description. But no, I didn’t do whatever I pleased. Far from it. Sometimes you don’t have a choice in what you do.” I watched curiously as his hands clenched and unclenched, the knuckles bleeding white.

  I pushed off the fence and untied Stalin’s reins. “You always have a choice.” But did I really believe that? To myself, I muttered, “You just have to be willing to fight for it.”

  I fidgeted with the reins, nerves twisting my stomach into tense knots when it finally dawned on me that we were completely alone at an empty track. Brendan-the-boy was a kidnapper, but who was Brendan-the-man? Would he . . . try anything? My grip tightened. Let him try. He’d regret it after losing an important body part or two.

  Bren broke the silence. “It’s quiet out here. It almost feels like we’re on the outside.”

  “No. It’s not the same. Not even close.”

  “Have you always lived in Tatum City?”

  I should have kept my big mouth shut. Should I lie?

  “No,” was all I said. Let him wonder. That’s all he was going to get.

  Before I could mount, Bren was already astride Stalin, waiting for me. I gaped. “He let you mount him? And he didn’t go tearing off into the woods with you clinging to him like an unlucky flea?”

  Bren snickered. “Maybe I’m a lucky flea.” He offered me a hand up.

  “So not fair.” I glared at Stalin and dismissed Bren’s hand. “Hold still,” I ordered them both. Taking a running leap, I planted my hands onto Stalin’s hip bone and swung a leg over his back. My fresh bandages tugged at raw, sensitive skin and I gasped. Then lost my balance. I started slipping but Bren twisted in the saddle, wrapping an arm around my lower back, the only spot not injured.

  My face burned. I was used to feeling heat in my face, but now I was feeling heat creep up my side where his arm held me up. And it wasn’t the usual painful kind. Traitor, I internally fumed at my body. I righted myself and mumbled a quick, “Thanks.” I doubted he could hear it.

  “No problem,” he said. Guess he could hear my pathetic gratitude after all. My embarrassment knew no end. “Where to next?”

  I pointed over his shoulder. “Take this road due west. Are you sure you can handle this big beast?”

  “Oh, I think I can manage him. Just like riding a horse, right?” I wanted to smack him for his arrogance. He looked back and caught me mid eye-roll. His face lit up with mischief. “Better hold onto something, little bird.”

  My mouth opened, a retort heavy on my tongue at his audacity. Bird? But the words never came, my objection pushed aside as Stalin shot forward on Bren’s command. My fingers dug into the sides of his jacket and I leaned in close, not used to riding without my feet in stirrups.

  Bren’s laughter floated on the wind as we raced down the dusty road.

  I knew in that moment my life would be changing yet again because of this insufferable boy. He knew how to play my games. Maybe even better than me.

  My lips curled. Game on, pretty boy. Game on.

  He was a natural, I admitted to myself begrudgingly.

  Bren handled Stalin as if they’d been riding together for years. It would make my job easier, as his trainer. But, as my competition, he might prove a challenge. Fifteen minutes later, we reached the French Broad River. Cutting through the heart of the city, the wide river had survived the test of time and kept us alive. Without this resource, Tatum City would cease to exist.

  The bubbling noise, as water eddied up and over flat rocks, calmed my mind. I closed my eyes, letting the sound sweep me away. A memory floated behind my closed lids—the first time Bren and I had met as children. The picture was serene and peaceful, surrounded by water, until . . .

  Exhaling through my nose, I opened my eyes, dispelling the vision. I wouldn’t let Bren ruin water for me. Water had been my last moment of peace as a free human being and it would remain a source of comfort to me as a prisoner. Not pain. I wouldn’t let it become that.

  It was then I noticed we had stopped at the bank’s edge. “There’s a bridge farther upstream,” I offered, “but that will take us out of our way. We can cross here. The water is fairly shallow this time of year.”

  I tightened my knees against Stalin’s sides in anticipation of the slight drop into the river, but nothing happened. I chewed on my lip and felt my brows lowering in confusion. I couldn’t see Bren’s face. Was he sightseeing? We didn’t have time for that.

  Impatience had me asking, “What are you doing?”

  He cleared his throat nervously. I didn’t like him sounding nervous. It made me nervous. “Uh, how about we take the bridge?”

  “What? No, we don’t have time to waste. We have maybe two hours of sunlight left and still have a lot of ground to cover before I’m done showing you the last of the Trials. Come on, I’m pretty sure Stalin’s crossed the river before.”

  His voice rose a notch or two. “You’re pretty sure? What are you not telling me?”

  I shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see me. “I’ve never ridden him before today.”

  He laughed, but it was strained. “Of course you haven’t. This place is crazy.” I listened to air expand and contract his chest, like the task was an effort. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Lune. Let’s take the bridge.”

  He turned Stalin’s head, nudging him upstream, and that’s when I lost my patience. I reached around him and snagged the reins, ordering Stalin into the water. My heels into his sides sealed the deal. In we plunged, the freezing river soaking our shoes and pants within seconds.

  Bren hissed a stream of words I couldn’t decipher, tightening his hands on the reins. They squeezed until Stalin had no choice but to back up. “Stop!” I yelled while wrestling for control of the beast. The conflicting actions confused the poor animal and he lost his footing. His rump disappeared beneath the water as he sat like a dog.

  I had an irrational thought that I was going to get my hair wet again, and then I was sliding backward, unable to stop gravity’s pull. Before I could think better of it, I grabbed onto Bren’s jacket, but that only made him come along for the ride.

  One second we were high-and-dry, the next low and utterly soaked. A zip of shock lit my body as I ful
ly submerged into the chilly water. The fall sent river water rushing up my nose and, when I rose to the surface, I coughed and sputtered. The hacking burned my throat and I groaned. And then I was choking on laughter. I laughed until my side and back ached.

  An invisible knot in my chest loosened. When was the last time I had laughed like this? It felt . . . good. Really good.

  I remembered Bren, feeling a tiny bit guilty for pulling him in with me, but it was soon replaced with satisfaction. He deserved this little piece of revenge. Maybe this would be the first of many. I wanted to bask in his reaction, so I sought him out. My laughter died. He stood in the waist-high water, rigid as stone. His expression was blank. Did he get hurt?

  “Bren? Are you okay?” I waved my hand in front of his face, but he gave no indication that he could see me.

  Moving nearer, I touched his shoulder. He exploded into motion. Catching my wrist, he barreled into my stomach and flipped my body up and over his. I landed on my back with a splash, water cushioning the impact, and yet my aching wounds screamed their protest. Shocked, I let myself sink to the river bed.

  Still holding my wrist, Bren pulled me out of the water and I coughed anew. I didn’t feel like laughing this time. As I bent over, my stomach cramping from the blow it had received, I felt a hand rest on my sore back. I inhaled sharply, not quite hiding a flinch. “You all right?” he asked. How many times was he going to ask me that? I jerked away from his touch and the intrusive weight lifted.

  Ignoring his question, I instead blurted, “What the crap was that?” I carefully straightened, trying not to wince from the pain.

  “Sorry. Natural reaction.” His face was a mix of distraction and annoyance. He avoided my incredulous gaze, raking wet hair off his brow. Without another word, he peeled off his sopping jacket while wading to the far bank.

  Watching him was like seeing myself in a mirror. Action and reaction. Survival instincts kicking in when fear rendered the mind useless.

  And then I knew.

  “You’re afraid of water.” It wasn’t a question. I gaped in disbelief. The thing that gave me peace caused him fear?

  After pulling himself onto dry land, he turned and stared me down.

  I held up my hands, palms facing outward. “Hey, we all have weaknesses. Some are just better at hiding them than others.” Water, though? Of all things. I kept a tight leash on the grin that wanted loose. I could use this to my advantage.

  I joined him on dry land, my boots making squishy noises as I led Stalin to a tree. After looping the reins around a branch, I sat on a nearby rock and untied my boots. A few grunts and tugs later, I managed to wrestle the clingy leather into submission. Tipping them, I watched a steady stream of river gush out. Ugh. Nothing was worse than wet leather. At least my bandages were waterproof and hidden beneath my vest.

  All was quiet, and I felt a moment of panic. Now that I knew Bren’s secret, was he thinking of a way to stage an accidental death? Maybe drown me? My hand crept to a hidden pocket in my pants as I glanced up at him. He hadn’t moved. He stood by the river bank, watching every little thing I did. The hairs on my neck rose.

  He looked away and exhaled, releasing the tension in his shoulders. My fingers slid into the pocket and felt for the small knife I carried with me always, for moments such as these. If it came down to me or him, it would be me. Suddenly, his legs ate up the distance between us and my muscles coiled, prepared to strike. My fingertips brushed cold steel.

  And then he knelt in the grass before me so we were eye level.

  I froze.

  His next move surprised me the most. Calmly, he said, “Fear is not weakness. It reminds us that we are human—with limitations. We are not gods. But, instead of hiding our fear, what if we faced it? For in facing what makes us afraid, we become stronger.”

  My fingers slackened, as did my jaw.

  Bren gently placed two fingers beneath my chin and nudged my mouth closed. I was in too much shock to stop him. He looked amused. “I take it no one has told you that before?”

  A strange noise came from my throat before I could choke it back. I swallowed, looking at the hands clenched in my lap. “No. No one has.” I couldn’t bear his attention a second longer. Jumping to my feet, I wiggled my half-numb toes, then quickly sat down again and picked up a boot. “Uh, let me put these on and we’ll head out.” He gave me space and a quiet sigh fled my lips.

  As we mounted up, I couldn’t help but mull over the strange words he had spoken with such conviction.

  Every step we took toward the Arcus Point Trial site heightened my senses. And my nerves.

  No one ventured this side of the river, except for the handlers. It was isolated from the rest of the city and eerily quiet. Even the forest animals steered clear of the area. And for good reason.

  Demons lived here.

  I squirmed in the saddle until Stalin picked up on my unease. He pranced and bobbed his head, nickering. The sound set me on edge and all I could think about was standing on my own two feet. I slid to the ground, a carpet of pine needles silencing my fall. Bren reined Stalin to a halt and joined me.

  I tugged my five-inch blade from its hidden pocket, relief hitting me as I held its reassuring weight. It might not puncture a thick hide, but it would penetrate an eye just fine. Bren was staring at the knife, then at me, then the knife, his eyebrows lost in the hair that had fallen over his forehead.

  “What?” I arched a brow in return. “You can never be too careful. This place is isolated from the populace for a reason.”

  His eyebrows completely disappeared at that.

  After tying Stalin to a tree, we left the road and took off on foot. The forest swallowed us whole. It was wild and untended out here, but the trees provided sanctuary if the need arose. I would climb one if I had to. My goal was to remain invisible. For the next several minutes, we walked in silence, avoiding dead leaves and twigs.

  No undue noise.

  Thank the stars, Bren knew how to be stealthy. But that posed a new problem: he was good on his feet, not just in the saddle. Maybe he wouldn’t be hard to train, but he would be hard to beat when the time came.

  Abruptly, the trees ended and we stood facing a twenty-four-foot-high metal monstrosity. Thick supports burrowed deep into the earth, giving the fence ultimate strength and durability. It wasn’t live now, I knew that much, which gave me no comfort. Electrified or not, the last place I wanted to be was locked inside that cage.

  “So, what’s with this city’s cages and walls?” Bren asked.

  He didn’t know? “To protect the people from mutated beasts and any other outside threats.” I slid a glance his way, wondering what his reaction would be to Renold’s explanation.

  He chuckled. “Or maybe they’re to keep the citizens in?”

  My jaw dropped and I quickly snapped it shut. This was not a conversation I should be having with him of all people. I steered the topic to safer ground. “The Arcus Point Trial cage surrounds four square miles of rough terrain—much larger than the training cage. During the Trials, this fence is live to keep the beasts from climbing out, as I mentioned. Both cages house a variety of obstacles, like old buildings and cars, plus many trees. These obstacles can be helpful . . . but not always. They can just as easily play a part in your death.”

  Bren watched me curiously, but I didn’t elaborate. Past Trials gone wrong were not something I liked to discuss.

  “Where do they keep the animals?” he asked.

  I pointed north. “In a concrete bunker on the far side of the cage. They have handlers on site at all times, feeding them, keeping them contained.” Not a job that I would want. On occasion, a mutated beast would get out of hand or even escape. They had no qualms about biting the hand that fed them, or eating said hand.

  “Can we see them?”

  “No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. Breathe in, breathe out. More calmly, I explained. “No, we can’t. It’s against the rules. That’s why this Trial is the hardest. No contend
er is to know or prepare for the breed of beast they will fight in their Trial. But contenders don’t fight in the cage alone. In each Trial segment, five contenders and ten beasts face each other in the cage. The contender who kills the most beasts wins the Trial.” As I stepped into the safety of the trees once again, I muttered, “If they don’t die first.”

  “And how do you kill the beasts?”

  “Bow and arrows.”

  Bren snorted. “Bow and—”

  An animal scream, its eerie wail growing louder and louder, frightened a bird directly above my head. The bird’s reaction triggered mine and I whirled into a fighting stance, my knife at the ready. Blood pounded a frantic beat in my ears as I searched for the danger. My throat tightened. Darkness edged my peripheral.

  I can’t hear. I can’t see. I can’t breathe!

  When something brushed against my hand, threatening to steal my knife, I lost it.

  I grabbed onto flesh and bone, twisting my body underneath. But before I could pop the limb out of socket, an arm snaked around my waist, tightly pressing my back against a hard wall. No. A body. The friction rubbed against my wounds and I bit back a cry.

  I went limp. My dead weight dropped like a stone, but so did the living thing behind me. We twisted as we fell, my captor cushioning the impact. The grip around my waist loosened as we crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  Now was my chance.

  My sharp elbow struck what felt like solid cement and a jolt of pain zipped up my arm. But it had the desired effect. I was now free of captivity. Rising to a crouch, I lunged on top of my attacker and slipped my knife beneath their chin.

  And I hesitated, my instincts sputtering. Could I kill? Should I kill? My moment of indecision cost me everything, and yet . . . it saved me.

  I was flipped onto my back, wrists pinned in vice-like grips as a heavy weight pressed me down into the ground. Trapped. Helpless.

  Panic and pain took hold. A scream burst from my mouth before I could stop it.