False Hearts (False Hearts #1)(68)

The images go on for what feels like a long time. I clutch the sides of the chair. My stomach roils, but I clamp down tight on my tongue. I won’t throw up. Soon, someone else pukes, but still I don’t look away. I think it might be the red-haired girl.

The images cease. All returns to pure whiteness. I sag against my chair in relief. The room smells of acidic vomit and new sweat tinged with old fear.

“Now,” says the distorted voice in our minds. “Stand.”

We stand. I allow myself to look at the others. The other girl has vomit smudged in her red hair. The blond man’s hair is in disarray. The green-haired man seems relatively unruffled. I wonder what I look like to them.

“Now, face each other. Tila, look at the man with green hair.”

I almost start at being addressed by this stranger. This is the oddest test I’ve ever taken. I don’t understand the rules. I don’t know the score. I haven’t studied, as Tila’s notes stopped right before I needed the cheat sheet most.

The voice changes slightly. Still modulated, but more familiar. “Study your opponent’s face, Tila. Memorize every line.”

I look at him, and he looks at me. I see a man, but only barely. He can’t be much older than twenty. I think he’s half-Chinese and half-Mexican, or something along those lines. I wonder what awful things he’s done to get this far.

“Good. Now look at the man with blond hair.”

I look, and as I turn my head, I see the red woman and the green man have done the same. As soon as we’re all looking, the blond man crumples. Blood pours from his nose, his ears, his eyes. He’s dead.

“He failed,” the voice whispers in our minds.

Fuck, I think. I should think more. Feel more. I can’t—all I can concentrate on is making sure that it’s not me next.

“Look forward.”

We stare at the screens again. More images flash, even quicker this time, so that I couldn’t explain them even if I wanted to. I hear retching beside me. Why do they affect them more than me? My stomach hurts, my head hurts, and I feel pressure behind my eyes, but I’m still looking.

Don’t look away.

The voice starts asking me questions. I’m to blink once for yes and twice for no. The man doesn’t ask me about what I—Tila—have done for the Ratel. Instead they’re hypothetical questions. Some are difficult: Would you kill your childhood pet for X sum of money? Would you risk your life to save a drowning child? What about a drowning person who wronged you? Some are beyond asinine: If there were ice cream and sprinkles on that white coffee table right now, would you add the sprinkles?

I answer them all without thinking too hard. There are hidden layers and messages in this, impacting us all in ways we can’t anticipate. Feints and jabs before hooks and crosses. I don’t even try to outsmart them. There’s no way to.

The scarlet-haired girl goes next. Falls right out of her chair. Her red hair perfectly matches the blood.

This is insane, I think distantly. This is absolutely insane. I wonder if I’ll be the next person to die.

Maybe this is all a trap. These are people hopeful of moving up in the Ratel, and maybe the King already knows that we’re not worthy. He’s here to catch us in lies, pick us off one by one. Perhaps it’s his idea of sport.

Maybe he wants to discover whether we’ve betrayed him before he kills us.

The green man is nervous, sweat dripping down his temples. I’m surprisingly calm. I must look unafraid to him, and that makes me feel braver. I stand, staring at him. His pupils behind the darkened glasses dilate as he listens to his own instruction. Then he rushes me.

He grabs my arm, hard enough to stop the blood flow. I try to jerk out of his grip but he only holds on tighter. The man’s face is red, twisted with rage.

He means to kill me.

“Kill him,” the voice whispers in my mind. “Or be killed.”

I stomp on his insole, the way Nazarin taught me. The sharp stiletto of my heel presses on his foot and I’m sure I hear something snap. He cries out and I twist my arm, breaking free.

He rushes me again, but this time I see it coming. Nazarin’s training serves me well enough, but I won’t be able to avoid him forever. He’s much bigger than me, and much, much angrier. I look for a weapon and grab the nearest chair, stepping over the body of the blond man. I bring up the chair and swing it at him, trying to frighten him off, and then I hold it close to me like a lion-tamer against a rabid man with a mane of green hair. The signal to my implants is blocked—the voice and images are silent in my head, including the self-defense programs for the implants. I’m left to fend for myself.

He attacks me and I smash him with the chair, grunting with the effort. He barely staggers, and then reaches out and grabs the chair so hard that I have to release it.

“Stop it!” I bellow at him, even though I’m not supposed to speak. He gives a shout, more of a roar, and hits me hard on my shoulder and I drop. I cry out and roll out of the way just before he brings the chair down again, and it shatters into splinters. I grab a broken leg, sharpened to a point. Snarling, enraged as I was in Mia’s Vervescape, I thrust up.

Blood spurts from the wound, drenching my hands. The green-haired man sputters. He no longer looks angry. He looks scared, and hurt.

“Oh God,” I say, over and over again. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.”