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Emma things.
I had to sip water to wash down my bread.
“It’s called a Primitive Skills Intensive,” he said, but his voice had been taut. Too taut.
I let my gaze rise, finally daring to meet his, uncertain what I’d find. Would there be amusement? A scold? But what I saw instead surprised me. There was unmistakable tenderness in those fores
t-green eyes.
Scorn, discipline, mockery…those I could deal with. But tenderness? I was so not equipped to deal with tenderness right now. I had a plan. That plan didn’t involve friends or kindness or vulnerability of any sort. I had to stay focused. Resistance and revenge.
I turned my full attention to my dinner, using my fork to push around a pile of cold, limp green beans, desperately racking my brain to come up with some random topic to chat about.
Emma wasn’t the only thing bothering me. My eyes wandered back to Toby Engel. He sat at a table full of Trainees but was in his own world, busily shoveling food down his gullet like he might win a prize for it.
What was his story? Did he have a family who loved him? A mom who’d baked pies and cooked him breakfasts of eggs and bacon and biscuits and a dad who greeted every dawn from the back of an old tractor? Had they posted Missing signs? Was Toby’s face at some post office, pinned up with thumbtacks, or on utility poles, shining from beneath layers of clear packing tape?
Then I realized the person to ask was sitting right next to me. Ronan would know Toby’s story—hell, Ronan might even have been the Tracer who’d brought him in. “Is that Toby?” I asked, hoping against hope he’d divulge that the kid was actually a closet serial killer.
Ronan followed my line of sight, then looked back at me. I could see the cogs turning. Did he wonder why I was asking about some random new Trainee? Or maybe he already knew. Maybe Alcántara’s “secret project” was actually part of the general curriculum.
Finally, he nodded. “Yes. ” The sudden stoicism in that single word said he understood a little something about my assignment.
I frowned, studying Toby, watching in awe as he polished off a dinner roll in two bites.
Alcántara wanted me to kill that boy poetically.
Poetic—what did that even mean? Like, was I supposed to go ironic with it? Maybe find some farm tool and get him good? Farm Boy Trainee Slain! Rototiller-Wielding Initiate Reaped What He Sowed.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Anything to keep myself from losing it. “He looks out of place. ”
“True. ”
I swung my gaze back to Ronan. “Then why is he even here?”
The question had been rhetorical. I hadn’t expected him to answer. But he surprised me, offering, “Perhaps the vampires believe he will be tractable. ”
Tractable. They’d bend this poor, dim boy to their will. And then they’d use his outsized physical strength against the rest of us.
Either I could do as I was assigned and kill Toby Engel now, while he was still an innocent, or I could kill him later, after he’d invariably gone bad, joining the other guys on this island who’d discovered just how fun it was to torment the girls.
My vision wavered. I had to flee. That Ronan could see how upset I was made my urge to escape all the more intense. I needed to bus my dishes and get the hell out of there. “Gotta go,” I blurted, scooping up my tray and standing.
But Ronan wasn’t going to let me go that easily. He snarfed down a last bite of his apple and hopped up to follow me to the dish cart, the majority of his dinner left untouched. “See you at wilderness workshop,” he said, mimicking my earlier words.
Damned if it didn’t bring a smile to my face.
In my time on the island, I’d known varying degrees of trust for him, but I guessed he really was a friend. I guessed I needed that.
The prospect of making my way through the sea of bodies back to the main entrance was too nightmarish to consider, so I headed to the service exit near the kitchens instead. I shoved open the metal door, leaving the cocoon of warmth and noise that was the dining hall, and was plunged into the cold, quiet air of the back hallway.
Alone again.
Until I heard the clip of shoes behind me.
I sped up a little, fighting the urge to turn around. If my follower were friendly, they’d call ahead to me. But they didn’t speak. I told myself the person just happened to be using this same back exit at the same time as me, which meant I could speed up and their pace wouldn’t change at all. To test the theory, I walked just the teensiest bit faster.
Their pace increased to match mine.
