Our Dark Duet (Monsters of Verity #2)(57)

He went white at the sight of her, then looked to August with all the desperation of a drowning man. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Kate raised a brow. “Am I supposed to know you?”

“Kate,” said August, “this is Colin Stevenson.”

Colin managed a nervous smile that did nothing to hide his discomfort. “We both went to Colton.”

“Sorry,” she said blandly. “It was a brief and tumultuous enrollment.”

Colin shifted from foot to foot. “It’s cool, I don’t expect you to remember me. I tried to stay off your radar.”

“Probably smart.”

August cleared his throat. “You’ll be joining Colin’s squad for the day.” She shot him a mischievous look that said will I? And August narrowed his eyes. Yes.

“Yeah, I’ll be, uh, showing you the ropes.”

Kate kept her gaze on August as she flashed a cool smile. “Lead on.”

He fell in step behind them as Colin gave Kate the tour. Listened to her punctuate the speech with mm-hmms and I sees, even though she clearly wasn’t listening.

“The training rooms are all located on the first and second floors and down that way’s the cafeteria, which is like the cafeteria at Colton except for the fact the food is awful. . . .”

As they moved through the halls, August felt the familiar shift of eyes, the weight of attention, but for once it wasn’t all on him. The soldiers were looking at Kate, murmuring under their breath, and he could hear, too clearly, the tension in their voices, the anger in their words.

He glanced up and realized Colin was looking at him expectantly.

“What?”

“Did I miss anything?”

“Don’t worry,” cut in Kate. “I’m a quick learner.”

Colin’s watch gave a sudden chirp. “Five minutes: we better get to the training hall. Any questions?”

Kate brightened. “Where do they keep the weapons?”

Colin laughed nervously, as if he couldn’t tell whether or not she was serious. August knew she was.

“All tech is stored on Sublevel 1—” started Colin.

“But to take any of the weapons out,” added August, “you have to be approved. Which you won’t be.”

Kate shrugged. “Good to know,” she said, shoving Colin toward the training hall.

“Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

August caught Kate’s shoulder and leaned in, his voice low, close: “There are security cameras everywhere,” he said, “so keep your head down.”

She shot him a dry smile. “Thanks for the tip,” she said.

And then she was gone.





Six months in Prosperity, and Kate had almost forgotten what it felt like to be hated.

To be always on display—that strange imbalance of being recognized, judged by your face, your name.

Six months of being no one, and now, as Colin led her into the training hall—putting space between them with every stride—she felt the news travel like a current, felt the heads turn. They looked at her and saw not a girl but a symbol, an idea, a standin for all their resentment and blame. Her skin prickled under the scrutiny, and she forced herself to focus on the room itself instead of the discomfort or the dark voice in her head.

Hundreds were packed into what looked like it might once have been a ballroom. A narrow running track edged the wall, the space within broken into training stations. The youngest soldiers looked twelve or thirteen. The oldest were white haired. They were a mix of North and South City—they wore their differences on their faces (the difference between shock and anger, curiosity and fear, caution and contempt), but in every single pair of eyes, in every twitch of lip and brow, a single commonality: distrust.

I don’t trust you either, thought Kate.

Six months—and it came back, like riding a bike. Her spine straightened. Her chin went up. It had always been an act of sorts, a part, but it was one she knew how to play.

“You’ll be in Team Twenty-Four with me,” said Colin, leading her toward a group of fifteen or so cadets standing just inside the track.

“Thank you so much for joining us, Mr. Stevenson.” The instructor was a stocky woman with a square jaw and cold blue eyes that landed on Kate for a long moment before returning to the eight crates sitting on the floor.

“This,” said the woman holding up a modified rifle, “is an AL-9. Who can tell me why our Night Squads carry them?”

“They can be modified to hold shatter shells.”

The words were out before Kate realized she’d spoken. Again, those blue eyes found her, as did every other pair. Kate cursed herself—why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

“Continue, Miss . . .”

The instructor was obviously going to make her say it.

“Harker,” offered Kate. And then, pressing ahead, “Shatter shells are designed to break apart on contact. They’d have to be dipped in silver, iron, or some other pure metal to do any real damage, but within say, fifty yards, they might have enough force to penetrate a Malchai’s bone plate. A spike driven up behind the shield would be a better bet, but that method does require close contact.”

The rest of the training hall kept buzzing with noise, but Team Twenty-Four was a pocket of silence. The instructor didn’t need to raise her voice to break it.