The Glass Arrow Page 6

  I rise up onto my elbows and listen intently for what has spooked Brax. A moment later, the office’s automatic glass door slides open.

  “Home, Brax,” I command. Brax tilts his head at me, and there is a sharp edge of resentment in his blue eyes, almost as though he’s angry because I won’t let him be a hero.

  But he already is my hero. He is my only real friend.

  “Home,” I say again, just as the Watcher’s boots scuff against the dirt outside the office.

  This time he listens. I barely catch the silver of Brax’s tail as he scrams into the sewer. My heart relaxes when he completely disappears from view.

  The Watcher rounds the corner of the office and stares at me for long enough to make me fidgety. Not as though he’s interested, but as though this time he will fulfill what the Governess has asked of him. As far as Watcher positions go, guarding a girl in solitary probably rates up there with shining boots or scrubbing latrines.

  I glance at the key on his chest strap and feel the frown pull at my lips. I’d have gone for it today if I hadn’t blown it yesterday. Now he’s more wary than before. His gaze flickers down to where I was looking, and immediately I turn away.

  The morning is cool and has left a glossy layer of dew on my skin. Without the warmth of my Brax pillow, I’m beginning to feel the cold. When I rub my now shivering arm, a glimmering black streak remains. The tiny bits of coal floating in the morning smog will continue to paint me until a breeze clears it from the valley, which might be weeks.

  I rise, and rotate my sore wrist as much as I can within the metal bracelet. With the moisture, the skin is already beginning to chafe, but I can’t focus on that. There are things I have to do today.

  I begin by jogging around my horseshoe-shaped pen, the chain tossed over my shoulder. At the end of my run I do sprints, hiking my slinky dress up around my thighs and racing around the office like a caged animal. I do push-ups, sit-ups. The things the Pips beat me for in the rec yard because the men who come from the street don’t need to think the Garden is for loons.

  If they think I’m a loon, so be it. When I break out of here, I’m going to run so fast they’ll never catch me.

  The Watcher tracks me every time I cross in front of his view, but he doesn’t get up to stop me. There are plants here in the solitary yard he probably thinks are weeds. A fat purslane bush with its purple forking stems. Ivy and hotrod. Near the brook I find the flat lobed leaves of the bloodroot, and I pull it up from the roots and lay it on a large rock to dry. In small doses bloodroot can aid a cough. In heavier doses, the red, bleeding stems can be used as a sedative, so strong it will knock you flat. A little more and you won’t wake up again.

  I’ve made it that strong one time. I hope I never have to again.

  Finally, when the sun is swallowed by the evening haze, I make a big show of gulping down my dinner pill in front of the glass office wall and stare across the open area to the rec yard, where the girls are milling about near the building, fifty paces away. I can see them strutting around like that actress—Solace. Repeating her words that are played on the media booths downtown like she’s some icon, not the property of some man, like most everyone else.

  Several of them are taunting the men who stand on the street gawking. It’s a smaller crowd than usual, but rowdier. I can tell by their bold invitations that they’ve been drinking. I remind myself with a sigh of relief that it’s market day and I’ve avoided the auction yet again.

  I can’t see Daphne and wonder if she’s inside meeting with a potential buyer. Probably not. She’s been here longer than me and nobody’s wanted her yet.

  Some of the girls see me, and though I can’t hear what they’re saying, I know it ends in laughter. I fight back the bitterness that bites into my stomach and remind myself that I’m better off alone than stuck with them.

  A moment later, the new girl with the straw hair breaks away from a group standing by the pond and runs to the high fence. I strain my eyes, watching her curiously. What is she doing? She must know that it’s electric.

  She halts a few feet in front of the barrier, and even from the distance I can see her shoulders heave. She’s bawling now, and a strange sadness cracks my hardened heart. She didn’t want to come to the Garden, and if I understand nothing more about her, I get that.

  I wonder if she’s been to auction. The Governess usually holds back the new girls for at least a month of conditioning, but if she already had a prospective buyer she could have gone today. I’m too far away to see if she’s still wearing her Unpromised earrings. One would have been removed if she’s progressed to the paperwork stages.

  And then I see a figure break from the crowd on the street and approach the fence.

  One of his hands stretches towards her, and for a moment I think he’ll touch the metal, but he backs away suddenly and kicks the ground. She’s still crying, and has wrapped her arms around her midsection. In his other hand is a bottle, and I see it only moments before he heaves it at the ground near the fence. Pieces of glass clang against the metal, and sparks fly as the liquid spurts out.

  Straw Hair is wailing now, chasing him down the fence line as he strides away, head down.

  He’s right to make a quick escape. He’ll be fined for throwing that bottle. If he’s a Merchant, he might even lose his business license. If he ever wanted to buy her, he won’t be able to now.

  She’s lucky he didn’t throw a knife at her chest.

  I keep staring at her like she’s putting on some kind of show.

  It’s dark now, and the Watcher is rising from his chair. I think he’ll come out and watch me for a while, but instead the door slides open, and he throws a thin bedroll on the ground outside. It rolls through a patch of dust until it’s coated on all sides by dirt. I sneer at him, but he simply turns around and lays down on his mattress inside the office.

  Though the bedroll would make a nice mattress atop the rocks, I refuse to take it, and march back behind the office to the little privacy I have. I keep my eyes on the barn, just in case the Driver boy wants to break the Watcher’s command and come at me, but only the horses are moving within.

  Tam and Nina love horses. Tam especially. He’d probably have chewed through the chain by now, just to get to that barn. The thought makes me smile.

  At last Brax arrives. He’s happy again to see me, though probably not as happy as I am to see him. We play for a while, and soon I’ve forgotten all about the straw-haired girl and her visitor. About the Watcher and his stupid bedroll. About everything ugly in my life.

  Brax has laid down, and I am just about to rest on his fluffy neck when he jumps back up and snarls, so quietly I can barely hear him. He’s facing the barn, and I strain my eyes to see what he’s looking at. Maybe a horse out in its paddock has startled him.

  A moment later, the Driver boy appears, and this time I can see that he’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and dirty, tie-on linen pants, and he’s barefoot.

  An ice-cold fist closes around my heart. He’s walking straight towards me.

  CHAPTER 5

  I REMEMBER HOW FAST he flung the knife. How I would be dead if I hadn’t reacted quick enough. He wants to finish the job. He’s going to come in here and try to kill me, since he didn’t succeed before. Or if not, at least try to hurt me—the Watcher didn’t seem to have a problem with that.

  If I scream, my guard will come out, but after the way things went before, I doubt he’ll do anything. He’ll probably think I baited the horseman and punish me for it. Strong as I am, I’m not ready for another choke out.

  I should flee around the side of the office. The Driver won’t follow; he has to be afraid of the Watcher. Everyone is afraid of the Watchers. My pulse is pounding in my ears. A freezing line of sweat rolls down my spine.

  Just as I’m about to take off to where my guard can see me, the boy stops, three paces away from his side of the barrier. He lifts his hands to show they’re empty, like this is supposed to mean he’s safe or
something. He’s trying to tempt me to drop my guard. Well, I’m not going to do it. He must think I’m ten kinds of stupid if he thinks I’ll fall for that.

  My toes claw at the dirt, but my feet stay planted. I don’t know why I’m not running. Some unseen hand is holding me in place. Fine. If my body won’t run, it can still fight.

  I wrap the chain around my right hand and drop down and pick up a fist-sized rock with my other. I stand behind Brax, waiting for him to strike. We’ll take this boy together.

  The Driver climbs down to the edge of the stream and lowers himself to the water. For a moment I think he’s about to drink it—this time I’m not objecting. His hands plant in the mud and he sniffs at it. There’s a subtle sour scent to the water, the only clue that it’s poisoned, and he must smell this because he jerks back and stands. His face is shadowed, and this makes me even more nervous. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  Brax is lowering himself to the ground, a low growl rumbling in his chest, but the Driver seems oblivious to the wolf’s killer instincts. Maybe he’s insane. Or maybe the city people are right and Drivers really are thick.

  But I remember that look on his face right before the Watcher knocked me out. He didn’t look thick. He knew exactly what he’d done.

  The Driver wipes his hands on his thighs. Shifts from side to side. Then, very slowly, he reaches his foot forward over the water.

  Without another thought I wheel back and hurl the rock right at his head. I’ve got a strong arm; I’ve killed squirrels and rabbits at this range before.

  The Driver reaches up and snags the rock out of the air with one hand.

  He bounces it to the other, as though it’s too hot to hold. He’s wincing; I’ve hurt him with my throw. This should please me, but it doesn’t. I don’t know how he caught it. He wasn’t paying enough attention to have seen my attack coming.

  I bury my fingers in Brax’s coat, gripping the chain even harder in my other fist.

  The Driver looks down at the rock, and then, to my complete surprise, tosses it back to me. I catch it. His brows raise as if he’s impressed, and I fight the urge to smirk. He thinks I’m like any other Pip-groomed, doe-eyed house slave in this place. Like I’ve never caught a ball before.

  I’ve got news for him: I wasn’t always locked up.

  He’s trying to distract me, play games so I won’t be ready for whatever he’s got coming, but I still can’t figure out what that might be. While I’m trying to, he again stretches his bare foot forward, just over the waterline, and dips his toes in. Nothing happens—what did he expect? His toes to burn off? In the reflection of the city lights off the cloud cover, I see him smile.

  His white teeth gleam. Like the teeth of a bear, I tell myself, right before it eats you. Still, he’s not smiling at me. He’s not looking me at all. He’s smiling at himself, as though he’s outwitted a runoff stream. It’s the same dumb look I probably had on my face the first time I went through a sliding door.

  A warning tears through me and without thinking, I throw the rock again.

  He catches it again. And tosses it back to me.

  This is infuriating. He doesn’t make a sound—probably because he can’t. His people are born mute, according to Daphne. Still, if he’s smart enough to be here, he’s got to be smart enough to know I’m trying to hurt him, to send him back to his barn and his horses. Doesn’t he get that I don’t want him here?

  I feel like I can run now—the freeze is gone—and I will. Just as soon as I figure out what he’s doing.

  He paces awhile on the bank, glancing back at the barn and then around the edge of the solitary office. Each time he passes in front of me he takes a deep breath. Brax has fallen back on his haunches and is panting. Great. He no longer sees the Driver as a threat.

  Finally, the Driver moves upstream towards the sewer, where the stream is at its thinnest. Then he climbs back up the bank. My shoulders relax because I think he’s going home, but the next thing I know, I hear his sharp intake of breath and he’s running down the slope. He catapults over the stream, which is almost twice as wide as I am tall, in a single bound.

  Now I’m in trouble.

  I stumble back, slamming my shoulders against the wall with a yelp. The rock is still in my hand. I can run. I can still run. It’s only thirty steps around the side of the office. Or I can scream. And maybe the Watcher will come. Despite what he’s done, he knows I’m more valuable alive than I am dead.

  But I don’t scream. And I don’t run. My body is betraying me.

  The boy takes a few steps towards me, and I grip the rock in my hand so hard my fingers go numb. The chain weighs me down. I feel more trapped out here than I did in the net when the Magnate and his hired Tracker thugs captured me.

  Brax jumps back up. The Driver’s gotten too close to us, and Brax is still my protector. He growls a low, menacing sound from his throat, and though I can’t see his face, I know his ice-blue eyes are slits and his teeth are bared.

  My mind flashes to the Watcher, only an arm’s length away, but it could be miles thanks to the thick plaster wall that separates us.

  The Driver stops short and frowns, eyes on Brax. He falls back a step, hands outstretched cautiously. I swing the slack of the chain in a circle, and hurriedly shove the sweat-dampened hair away from my brow so that I can see.

  If he wants a fight, he’s got one.

  Brax holds his position. He seems to relax the longer the boy remains still. But I don’t. It just makes me more nervous.

  I stare at the Driver’s face and watch for any sudden moves. Very slowly, he reaches into his pocket. Something silver flashes in his hand—it’s another knife, I know it—and that’s all I need to fling the rock and take off running.

  I get all of ten steps before I realize he’s not following. A quick glimpse over my shoulder reveals that he’s on his knees. For a moment, I think I’ve hit him, so I stop and turn, but he’s still conscious. In his hands is the broken knife handle. He places it on the ground before me, and shoves it my way. Then he stands, and turns out his pockets.

  They’re empty.

  My fist, still holding the chain, drops an inch. Brax repositions himself between us, the hair on the back of his neck still raised.

  My mind runs through any other weapons he might have on him, and like he’s reading my mind, the boy lifts his pant legs one at a time, showing off his bare ankles. He opens his sleeves and shows his wrists. Then he lifts his shirt, and I see the pale skin of his stomach and the lines of his hips that cut down beneath his waistband.

  “That’s enough,” I say. But either he doesn’t get the meaning of my words or he’s ignoring me. He turns around slowly and shows me his back too.

  “You don’t have a weapon, I get it.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is completely dry.

  The incinerator is grinding, a consistent hum that makes me jump as it switches to a higher gear. I chance a quick glance towards the end of the wall for the Watcher, but there is no movement. I’ll have to get all the way around the corner if he’s going to hear me yelling over the noise, and I don’t want to risk turning my back on this Driver boy again.

  Keeping my eyes on him, I creep closer, sink down, and snatch the broken blade from the dirt. There’s still a jagged piece of metal sticking out of the handle. Enough to cut him if I wanted. I don’t know why he’s giving it to me. It’s either a trick or a peace offering.

  His face is clean; I can see that up close. I’ve never seen a Driver with a clean face. Maybe they bathe at night. I think of the makeup we wear to auction and wonder if they wear dirt the same way. There are tons of ways I’ve tried to make myself appear horrible and disgusting to avoid being Promised.

  In the gray shadows, the boy’s golden hair looks silver and it waves around his face. His mouth is closed, but his eyes are glimmering like Tam’s do when he’s lying about something. I don’t trust him.

  “What do you want?” I hear myself whisper. My voice is trembling.
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br />   A look of pity slashes across his face, but quickly disappears. He continues to wait silently.

  “Don’t get any closer,” I warn him. “I’ll scream for the Watcher. Or I’ll … I’ll hit you.” These are the only threats I can think of. I raise the chain looped in my hand, hoping he understands that at least.

  Then he does something very odd. He sits down on the ground, long legs splayed out in front of him, and leans back on straight arms. Brax follows his cue, and lays out on the weedy grass at my feet.

  “Brax!” I hiss. So much for being my hero.

  The Driver and I stare at each other for a long time before I finally back into the plaster wall and sink down to a crouching position. I’ve made sure that he’s not blocking my exit; I can still dart around the corner, and I’m ready to spring should he rise.

  I keep my eyes trained on him. He’s staring up now at the starless sky, and for some reason I wonder if he’s ever seen the moon away from these city lights, from the mountains.

  “I knew a Driver once,” I say, surprising even myself that I have spoken. He turns towards me at the sound of my voice.

  “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”

  He continues to stare at me. Brax has more language than he does. It seems odd. He must deal with city people. Maybe there’s something wrong with him. Or maybe he’s new here and hasn’t learned much yet.

  “Driver,” I say again.

  He nods, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Horse.”

  He points to the barn. All right, he’s got at least a couple words under his belt, but just in case …

  “You’re uglier than a rotting deer carcass. You probably grow another head at the full moon, don’t you?” I test. He tilts his head to the side, brows lifted, as though I’ve just told him a very interesting story. He’s bolder than most Drivers in the city. None are brave enough to look an Unpromised girl in the face.

  “Anyone who touches the stream dies,” I continue. “Poison. They only live for about three hours unless they get the antidote from a city doctor.” This of course isn’t true. If it were, I’d be dead from all the times I’ve stuck my foot in the pond just to feel a little bit of home.