I sit in the mess hall, staring at a mound of mashed potatoes. They’re cold, topped with chives—not much different in appearance to what they used to have in the school cafeteria, though a lot tastier.
My eyes burn from another sleepless night. As if I didn’t have enough worries to occupy my mind, now I’m trying to figure out a way I can sneak home to find a picture of Dad. I’m even wondering if there is anything at home that might contain some of his DNA: an old army uniform, a lock of baby hair saved by his mother. Anything to provide concrete proof to back what my heart already knows. For the nth time, I push the thought away.
Eying the Eklyptors sitting at the next table, I wonder when they’ll start serving raw steak or live bugs. They certainly look as if that type of menu would agree with them better. The guy with a nose as shiny and black as a bloodhound’s sniffs his food and seems disappointed.
I smirk at the thought of a roach leg sticking out of Gecko Man’s mouth. He has emerald green bug eyes that stick out of each side of his face and, instead of lashes, he has these weird little spikes that travel over his nonexistent eyebrows and continue over to his forehead, temples and thinning hairline. A long, fleshy tongue flicks out of his wide mouth and practically licks his eyeball. My stomach churns and the smirk dies on my face.
“Where’s Redbone?” Gecko Man asks his table companion.
Bloodhound’s nose twitches and dips to an inch of his plate. “Dead.”
Gecko Man grunts. “That bad?”
“Those fuckin’ Igniters are going to pay,” Bloodhound says.
I seethe. Bloodhound loves nothing more than to discuss their hunting expeditions and to recount his favorite ways of dispatching humans. When he does that, I have to leave, which isn’t easy—not when I want to undo him with a butter knife.
“I’m more worried about Hailstone,” Gecko Man says. “It’s all so counterproductive.”
Good! This is the third conversation I overhear that carries news of the state of things out there. IgNiTe keeps fighting and defeating Eklyptors more often than expected. What is more surprising, though, is the fact that territorial disputes between factions are also taking a toll. Eklyptors thought the city was in their pocket right after the initial Takeover. They were so sure of it that the different factions started fighting each other before they had a true foothold on the population. The idiots.
“Something the matter?” Lyra asks, taking the chair across from mine.
I look down at my dinner. “Hate mash potatoes,” I say. “The human liked them, ate them like candy, so I hate them. Really, really hate them.”
“I thought you might be malade, sick,” she says, taking a bite of roast in a manner too dainty for someone with such huge canine teeth. She sounds as if she wishes I was malade. Back at you, bitch.
I bite down my anger. “Sick of potatoes, yes!”
The sound of silverware against plates fills our silence. I’m surprised these creatures actually use utensils rather than lick their plates in circles, except everyone in Elliot’s private army has all the right parts to handle a fork. Maybe he grew up too posh and can’t handle slurpy eaters. Perhaps the better question is: why don’t we have a pastry fork and a caviar spoon?
“Where were you last night?” Lyra asks, pushing the carrots to the edge of her plate.
I stick my fork in the mash potatoes and swirl it around, avoiding eye contact. “Last night?”
“Oui, I woke up and you were not in your bed.” Lyra takes a sip of milk, then licks her lips. Her left ear twitches.
“Bathroom, I guess. Had to pee like thirty times. Pee and pee and pee, couldn’t hardly sleep.” I figure exaggerating is my best bet.
“Mmm,” a sound in the back of her throat that seems neither approving nor disapproving.
To make a point, I pick up my can of Mountain Dew and guzzle it all down.
“Maybe you should not drink so much soda before bedtime.” Lyra offers this advice in a neutral tone that makes me think she believes my excuse.
Last night, sneaking back in was surprisingly easy. I parked the van—my bike stuffed in the back—where I found it, then hurried back to the delivery entrance. To my immense relief, the door was still open and the guards drunk and passed out on a crate. Nothing else seems to go my way, so I am grateful for small favors. By the time I got back to my bed, it was 3 A.M. I lay down just for pretense. I knew I wouldn’t sleep, not with all the questions about Luke and Mom—Karen—making endless circles inside my head.
This afternoon, however, more than its fair share has worked to my advantage. It took me over two hours, but I gained access to the building’s security system, so there will be no more sneaking out for me. I can waltz out of here whenever I want to. Now, all I need to do is make a few adaptations to the smartphone I just swiped, then Elliot’s small world will be mine.
“Azrael.” Lyra sets down her fork and cleans her furry black hand on a napkin. I examine the orange stripes on her arms and notice they haven’t made it past her elbows. I wonder how far she intends to go with them. “Are you good at anything?” she asks.
“Good? Good?” I say, knowing where this conversation is going. Lyra is meant to find me a job around here, but she hasn’t had time. I wonder why, all of a sudden, she’s decided to find out if I’m good at something.
“Oui, do you have useful skills?” Her green eyes are hard and unreadable.
I think for a moment, unsure of what to say. I don’t want to be assigned any tasks that will take time away from my plans, but, if I don’t pull my weight, they might get rid of me. Mind racing, I try to think of things that wouldn’t bind me to one spot and would, instead, allow me to roam the building unmolested and unsuspected.
“I—I can clean,” I say, making circles in the air with one hand. “Deliver things. envelopes, tools, food, drinks, Mountain Dew.” I sound eager to do these things and work myself into a sort of frenzy, listing random things that pop into my mind as if I’m thought-jumping. “Organize, I can organize. Sharpen pencils. I can do that, too. Yeah, yeah!”
“Ça suffit!” Lyra snaps.
I think she means that’s enough or something equally biting.
“I will see what I can do. If you want to stay, you have to contribute.” She holds my gaze to make sure I get the message.
“Stay, yes. I want that.” I let my eyes wander toward the exit and try to look afraid of leaving, even as every fiber in my body wants nothing more than to bolt out the door, plans be damned. “Stay with you and go out and kill more Igniters. I’d love to do that.” I can’t forget to mention that. Not with a name that means angel of death.
“I hate to burst your bubble, but I doubt you will get a chance to do that.” Lyra resumes her dinner.
“Why?!” I whine so loud that several heads turn my way.
“There is no point in lying, so I will tell you straight. You are not squad material, Azrael. Most around here cannot decide whether to trust you or hate you. As for the ones who have decided, it is a toss. I think,” she says, think sounding more like zeenk , “you’d do much better here.” She puts a special sort of emphasis on the last word that makes my skin prickle. She sounds as if she knows what I’m up to.
I pull back, observing her body language, trying to understand her meaning.
What do you know, Lyra?
Yeah, Azrael isn’t squad material. I agree with that. She is insane, but so are the majority of Eklyptors from what I can tell. So why does she think I should stay here? Maybe she wants to keep an eye on me, wants to catch me doing something that will undoubtedly involve my fingers deep inside the cyber jar, just where Elliot seems to be hiding some very tasty morsels.
I throw my hands up in the air and make a sound of disgust. “Bunch of selfish bastards. Wanna get all the glory to themselves. All of it. But they don’t know those Igniters like I do. They know nothing.”
“Do not take it personally,” Lyra says, jamming a large piece of meat in her mouth. “It is a hard situation,” she mumbles, waving a hand to let me know this conversation is over.
I stand in a huff, snatch my tray and march to the conveyor belt. Looking over my shoulder, I give Lyra a dirty look. She lifts her cup of milk in a toast, her eyes smiling as if to say “you’re welcome,” like she’s doing me a favor. I turn and frown at the dirty dishes as they glide away on their way to being washed.
What’s with the look?
She definitely suspects something and is trying to make me nervous. I take a deep breath and crack my neck. If she thinks she can intimidate me, she’s wasting her time. After what I’ve been through, only a few things scare me. They scare me shitless, sure, but I plan to do something about one of them. And I hope Aydan will agree to help me.
I head toward the exit, stomping my feet. As I push the door open an angry voice echoes through the mess hall. “Where the hell is my phone? Did anyone see my phone?”
I pat my front pocket and smile.
Yep, thank God for small favors.