Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(69)

My fingers graze the strings, letting the final chord reverberate through the room long after the last words die on my lips.

I flatten my fingers against the strings, killing that final, haunting echo. I’m aware of the warm slide of tears on my cheeks. I lift my face, letting the air dry them.

“Davy.”

My eyes fly open and I spin on my stool, the back of my hand wiping furiously at my face.

Sean stands just inside the room, his back to the closed door.

I push to my feet, my fingers squeezing tightly about the guitar’s neck. “Sean? What are you doing here?” His shirt clings damply to his chest. He must have come from working out.

“That was beautiful.”

My face heats. “How long were you standing there?”

He pushes off the door. “I had no idea you could sing like that . . . and play the guitar. . . .” He shakes his head as though marveling. All my life people have reacted this way. Awed. Impressed. But it’s different coming from him. Somehow, it feels special. For the first time in a long time, in his eyes, I feel important. I feel like I’m someone again.

“No wonder you’re here. You’re amazing.”

The heat in my cheeks intensifies. My ears burn. I inhale deeply, fighting back the emotion swelling inside me. “What are you doing here?” I repeat.

“I needed to see you.”

“You saw me at breakfast,” I remind him. “You’ll see me at lunch.”

“But we can’t really talk. We’re never alone.”

I nod. “We never are.” We’re always with other carriers, guards, and instructors watching our every move.

“You shouldn’t be here. Where are you supposed to be? The guard outside—”

“I’m supposed to be in Spanish, but don’t worry. The guard stepped out.”

“But he’ll be back.” Anxiety rides my voice.

“Yesterday—”

I set my guitar on its stand. I don’t want to talk about yesterday. About how Tully got the best of me. How Sean stepped in to rescue me. My feelings about that are all a-jumble. Relief. Humiliation. Fear. How am I ever going to make it in here? Or even out there? “You have to go.”

He moves across the room and grasps my shoulders in both hands, forcing my gaze back up. I flinch at his touch, his nearness. I haven’t been touched . . . or touched anyone since arriving here. Discounting getting my ribs punched, of course. It’s amazing how, in so short a time, it could become such an alien thing for me. How I want to melt into his hands.

He raises an arm, and I jerk reflexively. I guess I’ve learned that here . . . how to be on guard. He frowns but doesn’t back off. Instead, his hand lifts to my face. I tense, forcing myself to stand still, resisting the urge to bolt as his fingers lightly land on my cheek. He gently brushes the bandage there. I know from my reflection this morning that a bruise discolors the flesh beneath my eye. He winces as if it hurts him.

“Why are you here? Are you going to tell me I need to watch my back again? That’s kind of hard to do when I’m sparring with someone, you know?” I laugh hoarsely.

His fingers slide around my neck until he’s cupping the back of my skull in his hand, and any hint of laughter flees. “I just want you to be safe.”

“Look where we are . . . this world. How can that ever happen?”

He drops his forehead to mine. Noses almost touching, he whispers, “You just need to make it out of here, okay?”

Me. He makes no mention of himself. It’s almost like he doesn’t care what happens to him and this saddens me. He should care. Someone should care. He deserves that.

His smoky eyes mesmerize me, pull me in. “What about you?”

“Me? I’ll be fine.”

And I realize, of course, he has someone who cares. I care.

I step back. His fingers drop from my face and I can breathe a bit easier again. “You need to go. We’ll both be in trouble if you’re caught in here.”

He nods slowly and moves for the door. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

I nod and bite my lip to stop from asking him to stay. As if he could. As if there’s a choice in the matter. Every once in a while the girl I used to be rouses her head and wants all those things she had before. Friends. Freedom. A boy who looks at her and touches her with lingering hands.

It’s a hard battle. The life I had is a dim dream that haunts me still. Somehow, Sean makes me forget. And remember.

A dangerous combination when I’m only supposed to be looking ahead to the future.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Carriers are like a cancer to this once great nation. And like any disease, sometimes the only way to battle it is with poison. . . .


—Dr. Wainwright in a hearing before Congress





TWENTY-SIX




THE FOLLOWING EVENING, THE SIREN PEALS OUT across the air an hour before lights-out. We all step into the dusk wearing similar expressions of confusion. We never deviate from the schedule. Several kids are wet from the showers. A few others join us, looking sweaty and red faced. Evidently, they were getting in an extra workout. Sabine materializes by my side, her long brown hair damp from a recent shower.