The Prey (The Hunt #2)

The Prey (The Hunt #2) Page 22

And suddenly Sissy is on her feet and walking out. The elder by the exit doors tries to stop her but she brushes his arm aside. I hear doors slamming open, see a surge of light tide in and out. By the time I catch up with her, she’s lifting her head to the sky, taking in deep gulps of breath, eyes squinting against the brilliant light.

But then Epap is pushing past me, rushing to her side.

“Sissy, what’s the matter?” he asks.

She turns from him. “Leave me alone!”

“What’s the matter?” He’s genuinely confused. His eyes dart between Sissy and the Vastnarium. And then at me. “What did you do to her? Did you touch her? In the dark?”

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“No, seriously. Did you touch her?”

“Stop it, Epap!” Her voice is loud but resigned. “Nobody touched me.”

“Sissy?” he says.

She doesn’t answer, starts to walk away, her legs uncharacteristically wobbly. Epap jogs up to her, places his hands uncertainly on her shoulders. She squirms out of his frail hold, swipes his thin arms away.

That sets him off. “What is it, Sissy?”

She spins toward him. “How could you do that to me? Why did you take me in there?”

“What?”

“How could you possibly think that’d be something I’d want to see?”

“No, no, you don’t understand. It was perfectly safe. That glass is like the Dome glass. It’s impenetrable. And the door is securely locked. As for the well, you heard the teacher, it’s full of water; duskers can’t get through that. I’d never put you in harm’s way, Sissy, you know that—”

Rage burns off her face. “That’s not what I’m talking about!”

“Sissy! I don’t understand, Sissy.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought you’d like it. Why wouldn’t you? After all they’ve put us through, it’s like take that you chumps, see how you like being in a glass prison! See how you like being gawked at like animals!” And now he’s almost shouting. “Why wouldn’t you like that?”

With a shake of her head, she walks over to me, and pulls me along by the elbow. “Will you come with me?” she says softly. “We need to get to the bottom of all this.”

Epap is bewildered. He doesn’t know what to do with his dangling arms, or his flopping head, or the bits of himself crashing to the ground. His eyes fall on Sissy’s hand on me, and when his eyes flick up to meet mine they are sharp with a pained clarity.

“What is it about him?” he says, jabbing a thumb in my direction. He strides after us when she doesn’t answer. “What is it about him that has you turned on? He only has to whistle a tune and you’re instantly panting for him.” Epap grabs her elbow, spins her around, tearing her hand away from my arm. Sissy crooks her arm back, is about to launch a fist at his face. Break his nose, black him out.

But she holds back. Her clenched fists tremble at her side.

Epap is undaunted. “Look at who the Mission girls are clamoring after. Look at who they’re shooting eyes at. Look at who they’re blushing over. It’s me, Sissy! Me! Not him! Haven’t you seen them, Sissy? Haven’t you seen the way they follow me, talk about me, look at me? Because maybe you should. Then you’ll stop taking me for granted. Then you’ll start to really see me.”

Sissy glares at him, her jawline hard.

“What must I do, Sissy? All those years—our whole lives—together, do they count for nothing? This new guy comes sauntering in and instantly you’re swooning over him. What does he have that I don’t? I twist and turn and bend over backwards for you, and you burn me in return. You burn me, Sissy.” He takes a step closer, crowding her space. But she doesn’t move, holds her ground. “Don’t you realize what I can give you? They all want me, but it’s you I want—you I’m willing to give everything.”

A short pause, a softening in her expression. She takes a step toward him—his eyes momentarily brighten—then past him.

His face falls.

“I’m sorry, Epap,” she says.

She takes my elbow, gently pulls me along. Together we walk away. She never looks back.

21

“WHERE ARE WE going?” I ask Sissy as we head briskly down the street.

“I’m getting to the bottom of this, Gene.”

“Tell me what you have in mind.”

“I’m going to Krugman. I’m getting answers out of him.”

Ten strides later, I say, “Sissy, we need to tread lightly.”

She stops. Her eyes are on fire. “We both know something is terribly off about this village. The captive dusker. The train tracks.” She shakes her head. “Something about this place led your father to suicide, for crying out loud! The time to tread carefully is over!”

“And I know that, Sissy! But give us a little more time to dig deeper on our own. Disclosing our suspicions to Krugman at this point isn’t the best move.”

She kicks at the ground. “You’re forgetting something. While this is all new to you, I’ve been up and about for five days now. And I’m done snooping, playing detective. No more pussyfooting.” She runs her hand through her hair. “Truth? I’ll go at it alone if I have to. But I’d really prefer having you with me, Gene.”

I see the intensity in her eyes. She may be right. Confrontation might be the only way to get answers. I think about the laundry girls this morning, their tattoos and brandings. Their unwillingness to speak. I nod at her. Gladness wells in her eyes.

“Where’s Krugman?” Sissy asks a group of village girls as we pass them. They shake their heads, faces smiling blankly.

“Where’s Grand Elder Krugman?” I ask another group of girls. They bow, shake their heads, refusing to meet my eyes.

“It’s useless!” Sissy says in frustration.

“Hey you!” I shout at an elder through an open window. He’s leaning back on his chair inside, feet propped up on the table and a mug in hand.

He blinks, his eyes foggy. Frothy ale spills down the side of his mug. “What?”

“Tell me where Krugman is!” I shout, knowing I’m creating a scene. Through the window I see the other patrons—all elders in what looks to be the tavern—staring at me, their eyes watery and amused.

“It’s not for you to ask,” the man replies.

“It’s urgent. I need to speak to him.” I walk up to the window.

“Well, don’t we all.” His words are slurred. Inside, the tavern is crowded with elders in varying stages of inebriation. The beer mugs, wineglasses, whisky tumblers gripped with thick, bloated fingers. Fumes of alcohol mix with the smog of tobacco smoke, adding to the foul odor chuting out their slack mouths.

I pull away from the window. As I disappear from sight, they think I’ve given up and left. A comment is murmured, followed by a rumble of laughter. Sissy and I surprise them when we barge through the swinging front doors seconds later. Their smirks and smiles die on their faces.

“I said I need to see Krugman. Where is he?”

An elder at the bar turns his shoulders square with mine. “What’s the problem? Maybe I can help you.” He says it with a prissy, overeager voice that I realize is in jest. The round of laughter that breaks out confirms my suspicion.

But not before I see an elder with nervous eyes and an overeager laugh glance toward the back of the bar. At a closed door.

“Is he in there?” I say, pointing at the door.

And just like that, the laughter dies. Air is sucked out of the pub, tension rises in its stead. “He is, isn’t he?” And already I’m taking a step toward the door, Sissy right behind me.

Instantly, the men stand as one, their drunkenness cast aside as if it were always a choice, chairs and stools scraped across the floorboards. They dispense with words as they move swiftly to block our way. One of them puts his arm out, sending it thudding into my chest.

“Far enough now, pretty boy,” he says.

“He’s in there. I need to talk to him.”

“Can’t.”

“Then tell him to come out.”

“No. You need to—”

“Krugman!” I yell. “Krugman! I need to speak with you. Right now!”

The other men waste no time. In a blink, they’re enclosing around me, grabbing the back of my neck, my arms, shoulders—

“Is this all really necessary?” Krugman asks, opening the door and walking out. He shuts the door, his fingertips stroking the Artemis wood panels. His voice is soft, casually toned as he buttons his pants, tucks in his shirt. His eyes are clear and mellow, placated. “Really, you’d think an avalanche was headed this way.” He peers at the elders. “There isn’t, is there?”

“No, no,” a man says. “Just a young boy with his lass having a meltdown over nothing.”

“Tell me why you’ve got one of them—a dusker—in this village,” Sissy says next to me.

“Oh, I see you’ve had a chance to visit the Vastnarium,” Krugman says. “I was going to personally take you there myself, but looks like that won’t be necessary anymore. And please, I’d prefer almost any term over village. Makes the Mission sound so … provincial.”

“What’s a dusker doing here?” I say.

Krugman nods to someone at the bar. Moments later, two tumblers of whisky are brought over. Krugman takes one in each hand. “Were you not paying attention during the Vastnarium presentation? The dusker serves an educational purpose. It reminds our children, in as visceral a way as possible, of the dangers that lurk in the Vast past the safety of our walls. Really, you ought to pay more attention.” He extends his arm to me, offering a drink.

I ignore his invitation. “I was paying attention. And now you need to pay attention to me.” Krugman’s eyes widen. “I’ve lived in ‘the world out there,’” I continue. “I know firsthand what they’re capable of. They’ll stop at nothing for human blood. By keeping a dusker here, you’ve only brought the danger home.”