Now she waits in front of me, ready for me to make my next move. To retaliate.
I don’t. I just stand there, cheek throbbing, chest rising and falling, eyes steady on hers.
Her gaze narrows, calculating. Something shifts behind it, so slight I almost miss it. Recognition, like she seesexactlywhat I’m doing. She steps closer until I catch the faintest whiff of perfume, something expensive and floral.
“Stay in your place,” she says, with her chin in the air, “andmaybeI’ll let you keep your teeth.”
She smiles, her lips tight. She looks around the room, holding the gaze of each sister until one by one they drop their eyes. She issues a haughty, “We’re done here.”
The women part like water as she walks out, graceful, with her spine straight. Most of the sisters go with her, but a few linger. I catch them watching me with a hint of curiosity, maybe even admiration, and that’s when I know I’ve won something far more valuable than a fight.
Chapter sixteen
Carrson
I’m dreaming again.
The part of me that knows it screams, claws, and unleashes a long string of cuss words, the kind that would make a sailor weep.
It does no good.
I stay asleep.
Fine. Ugh.
I resign myself to reliving yet another of my past horrors.
Dream me can’t see anything. There’s a burlap sack over my head. Of course The Order would pick the roughest, itchiest,most obnoxiously scratchy fabric in existence to blind me. It scrapes my cheeks raw. My breath is trapped inside, recycled and hot and suffocating.
My hands are tied in front of me. I hold them out, trying not to trip as I walk across uneven ground. I’m outside. There’s birdsong in the distance, and the sun warms the tops of my shoulders. Judging from the angle, it must be around noon.
Other footsteps clomp around me. I’m not alone.
I listen.
My tracking instructor’s voice echoes in my head.Focus on smell. Sound. Texture. Pressure. Heat.He’s been drilling that into me for months now, teaching me to read the world without using my eyes. To survive without seeing.
Someone on my right drags their foot just slightly. That’s Richardson. He broke his leg falling off a bike when we were ten. It healed with the left leg just a bit shorter so now he limps. It’s subtle, but there.
A cough sounds ahead of me, and my shoulders loosen. That’s Thomson. His cough is deliberate, meant to tell me he’s here.
I clear my throat in response, projecting the sound.
Our code. His signal. My answer.
We worked it out years ago. While other kids played video games or practiced kissing on pillows, our sleepovers were war games. Escape drills. Survival scenarios.
“You’re hanging from a noose,” Thomson would fire out. “What do you do?”
“Climb the rope with my feet. Go upside down. Wrap my legs around the rope and pull to get slack. Then wiggle my head free,” I’d answer fast. No hesitation.
Breathless, I’d wait for his verdict.
“Good,” he’d say. “Great job, Carrson.”
It warmed me when he said that. Praise was a rare treat. One to be savored, since it sure as hell never came from my father.
This, however, was no slumber party.
