The Glass Arrow(52)

“Didn’t turn out too bad, did it?” asks Tattoos.

Purple Hair shakes her head, then narrows her eyes at me. “What town did they haul you in from? Somewhere up north, am I right?” She laughs again, like this should be funny.

“No town,” I say.

Tattoos’s brows rise. “Born and raised city? I hadn’t heard the mayor was pulling stock from the locals. The census must be low.”

“Free,” I tell them both clearly. “And wild.” I smile as fiercely as I can.

I kneel on a flat blue pillow and snag one of the little treats on a silver platter in the center of the room. It’s sweet and warm, creamy too. I sort of hate that it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. But the memory of the young girl walking out of the room hand in hand with the mayor makes the food curdle in my stomach. Just a few more years and that could be Nina.

The guilt is thick on my skin, weighing me down. I should have tried to stop them, but what good would it do? It wouldn’t change anything.

The girls stare at each other, then at me. There’s no mistaking the jealousy there.

“Lucky you,” says Tattoos. “You’ve got it made.”

I don’t ask what she means.

“I have to get out of here,” I say, more to myself. This place is a palace of nightmares. I know they’ll probably tell on me, but I don’t care. I’m already sold. Things can’t get much worse.

“Sure, all right,” says the girl with the purple streak. One bony shoulder sticks out from the neck of her shirt. When she sees I’m serious, her eyebrows hike up beneath side-swept bangs. “Why would you want to?”

“That’s not your problem,” I say.

“There are walls,” says Tattoos. “Walls ten stories high. And Watchers manning the gates. And sensors all over.”

“You don’t know,” says Purple Hair. “You haven’t been off this level since you were brought here.”

“Neither have you,” the other argues.

“But I heard the mayor talking about it. In bed.” Purple Hair smirks.

The blush rises in Tattoos’s face. “Funny,” she says. “The mayor never has the energy to speak after I’m done with him.”

A groan rises in my throat. These girls have no idea how pathetic they sound, each fighting for a position as the most valuable slave. They’ve forgotten, or maybe they never learned, that their worth is not determined by how much a man wants them. If I weren’t so preoccupied with getting out of there, I’d feel sorry for them.

A house Pip enters and begins to trade out the trays for something new. Before he can take ours, I cram another two of the cream treats in my mouth and rise. Obviously I’m not getting anywhere with these two. They continue tossing insults as I exit the room.

*

THE SCANNERS ON THE ceiling track me as I emerge the way I came. It’s quiet here, but for the buzzing as they shift positions. I’m surprised I was allowed to leave at all, but none of the serving Pips raised a finger to stop me. I keep checking over my shoulder to make sure they’re not following.

The doors on either side of the hallway are all locked. Finally I come across one that’s already cracked.

The room is small, making the round bed in the center seem overly large. A centerpiece, with its cushy red blanket and mountain of pillows. On the opposite wall is a window, and I race to it. Outside the sun is beginning to set, reflecting off the gleaming green buildings. We’re high. Too high to climb down. I place my hand on the glass lightly, hating this thin barrier separating me from my freedom.

And then the alarm sounds.

The high ringing stabs into my temples, and I jump back. Behind me, the heavy wooden door slams shut, as if moved by a ghost. Fear grips me, and I do the only thing I can think of: I dive under the bed.

My breaths are heavy and too loud. Footsteps patter outside the room and come to a stop outside my door. As it pushes inward I see the small black slippers of a house Pip.

And then his shiny, made-up face as he lowers.

“Nice try,” he says in a high voice with a little pip. “If you think you’re the first to have tried to go out the window, you’d be a fool.”

“I was just admiring the view,” I say.

“The last one to admire the view got a nice close look at the ground below,” he says, snatching my hair and pulling me forward. He’s surprisingly strong for how delicate he looks. “That’s when we installed the alarms.”

There’s not much to say to that.

*

I’M THROWN BACK INTO the room I woke up in. For a moment I just stare at the door, willing it to reopen, but it does not. There aren’t any windows here. Just four walls adorned with strange rotating pictures of shapes: triangles and squares and circles. They make me dizzy. I wonder who thought this was art. Looks like a three-year-old drew them.

Frustrated, I turn, but my eyes stop on the bed.

A man is stretched out on the covers.

“Mr. Greer.” The blood inside me has turned to ice.

He sits up fast, and I fall back into the door, surprised. He’s not wearing his head wrapping today, and the red scars across his cheek are bold and angry. Most of the Virulent marks are fairly neat, but his is jagged, as if someone carved it with a sharp fork.

With a groan, he rubs his temples with his thumbs.