The Glass Arrow(19)

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.