The Glass Arrow(49)

*

I WAKE TO THE slam of a door. Draped overhead are sheer linens, hanging from the four posts that support the cushy bed I’ve been laid out on. I don’t remember being brought here, or where I am, and a sudden dose of panic shakes through me because if I don’t remember how I got in, I don’t know how to get out.

I concentrate, but only fragments of memories return: a house Pip dressed in gray lifting me from the car, holding his head back as he carries me as if I am a dead body.

He arranges me on a bed and turns out the lights. And with nothing else to do but blink, I close my eyes.

Someone else is in my room. I can hear the shuffling of feet on the hard floor and I turn my head towards the sound. My muscles are freed from their hold, but they hurt. The pain shoots straight down my spine through my legs as I roll onto my side, and I bite back against it. The bed is so plush it all but swallows me whole; I have to roll to get to the edge.

There is a face staring straight at mine when I get there.

“You sleep forever,” Amir Ryker says.

I cringe. He may be a child, but I can’t help hating him for what he’s done to me, and hating myself ten times more for giving him the candy in the first place and failing each escape attempt, and for even not being pretty enough to seduce Kiran.

“I’m up now,” I say, stretching my tight limbs for the first time in more than a day. The room is bigger than any bedroom I’ve seen. The floors are pressed wood, and the walls are covered with paintings that change views every time I look away. They unnerve me a little, like the room itself is alive.

“Let’s play,” he says.

“I’m tired.”

“You slept all day, you’re not tired.”

I see now that the eyes must run in the family—they’re beady and black, and they narrow into little slits when he’s angry. He reaches for my hand and pulls. I groan, the tight muscles in my arms stretching.

“Where’s your uncle?” I ask. I don’t remember where Mr. Greer went last night.

“Drunk,” he says in a way that makes me think this isn’t unusual.

“Fine, okay,” I say, standing up. I blink back the dizziness and roll my head in one slow circle on my neck.

Maybe being placed with a child isn’t such a bad thing after all. He may be spoiled, but I’ve got years of experience convincing the twins we all have the same goal. Today’s goal: Turn a blind eye on the new girl—me.

“Why don’t we play outside?” I suggest. Mr. Greer’s distraction is the perfect opportunity to escape.

“Ew,” he says. “We’ll play hunting.”

He drags me by the forearm down an empty hallway with more of the creepy pictures, to a simple room with white glass walls. There’s a chest in the corner and he releases me at last to open it. In it is a shiny black bow. My pulse quickens as he removes it.

“Load hunting game,” he says.

“You got arrows?” I ask.

He ignores me.

I jump as all four walls around me burst into color. Green and blue—bright, true color. My breath catches. It looks real. It looks like my mountains.

“What is this?” I whisper.

“Shut up,” he says.

I breathe in and out, knowing it’s a trick, but unable to stop the pang in my chest. The branches rustle in the breeze. I can even hear a nearby stream. Although the room smells sterile, I can almost convince myself I’m home.

Out from behind a tree steps a deer. The dry pine needles crackle beneath his tentative hooves. I hold my breath, watching. Just watching. The way the sun catches every piece of hair, and the fuzz on his new antlers. He is beautiful.

Beside me, the boy lifts his bow, and pretends to draw an arrow. When he releases it, there is a loud “ping!” that seems to come from all around, and the deer falls to the ground, knees first.

“Yes!” Amir cries.

I can’t look away. It’s lying there bleeding, struggling to stand. One front leg straightens, then collapses. It bleats, scrambling to rise.

I have shot animals with my bow before, but only to eat. Only because we needed the meat. Their suffering was always short.

“Kill it,” I tell him, a hitch in my voice. “Do something.”

He gives me a stupid look. “It’s not real, you know.”

I shift my weight. “I know, I just…” His disregard for the pain of that animal, real or not, gives me the chills. I don’t like this game where you pretend to kill for sport. I don’t know anyone who would maim a living thing, and take such satisfaction in its suffering. It’s sick.

“I’m the best at this,” he announces. “I’ve shot boars and panthers too. They’re faster, you know.”

I do know. I try to imagine this boy in the mountains, taking down a boar with a real bow. I wonder if he would treat taking a life as a game—if this was just practice to him—or if he would suffer and pray, as I do, feeling the life of another creature drain away.

“Let’s play a different game,” I say. “How about a hiding game?”

He shrugs and drops the bow on the ground.

“Load hiding game,” he says.

“Hiding game, unknown.” The man’s voice coming through the speakers surprises me. It must be programmed in.