Chapter Twelve

Later, I lean against the wall in the main corridor, near the elevator bank. The Lower Mean lobby, it is called, although there is nothing different or special about this slice of hallway. Certainly it’s nothing like the Preme atrium. Except it does have a sculpture.

Cast of bronze, I think it is supposed to be a tree. It looks nothing like the trees aboveground, though. It is rendered in jagged lines, has no grace, no movement. And every so often a body hangs from it, a victim of violence whose killers thought to place them on display, perhaps to send a message, or perhaps just for the fun of it…

All I know is that the sculpture is stained with blood and other bodily fluids, and every single time I glance at it, a feeling of nausea starts up in my stomach. How I hate Compound Eleven.

This is where I told him I would wait. Not that I expect him to show. Not really. Feeding the Noms is far from glamorous, far from interesting by any standard. But he wanted to see it, and so I hope he comes. That way we will be even. Square. He showed me how to shoot; I show him this slice of hell. And then we can go our own ways, never to see each other again. Perfect.

I tap my boot against the concrete floor as bodies swarm past, their voices washing over me like water, barely noticed. Some laugh, others bicker, kids shriek. A symphony of unwanted noise. The neon sign hanging opposite blinks quickly, and I look away. Normally it reads Mean 2, just like the one hanging across from my cell. Right now, the A is dead.

I check my watch. He has three minutes, and then I go, with or without him.

“Look who it is,” says a voice in my ear. “Oh, and will you look at that,” it continues as I glance sideways at him. Daniel. He slams a hand on the wall close to my head, and evil glints in his eye. “Landry, take a look, man. Eve is healing up nicely, wouldn’t you say?”

Daniel’s friend Landry shoves into position in front of me, and over his shoulder I see Zaar. I hate all three of them. Landry stands so close, I can smell meat on his breath, and it mixes with Daniel’s acidic soap so that I gag.

“Get away from me.”

Landry smiles, and then his eyes trickle slowly down my face in a way that makes my muscles tense up. Tales of sexual misdeeds follow him closely, not that the authorities care. In fact, Landry and Daniel are both keen on becoming guards—probably Zaar, too—something they all will likely accomplish, given their status as well-connected Upper Means. Perfect. How fair and how just life in Compound Eleven is.

“Don’t know, Dan,” says Landry slowly. He has short blond hair and still gray eyes. “There’s some bruising on her cheek, right there. Too bad. I like them fresh. Pristine.” He leans closer like he might kiss me, so I pull up my hand and smash the back of it against his face. Just a slap. A warning shot.

“Don’t stand so close,” I whisper, “or you’ll have bruising of your own. Understood?”

His face turns red, and I can’t tell if it is from my strike or from boiling anger. Probably both. But he contains himself. He rubs his cheek and exchanges a sly smile with his friend. “She’s got an awful lot of attitude for a Lower Mean, doesn’t she?” He crosses his arms, and I see that those gray eyes are icy. “Perhaps we ought to teach her a lesson. Come on, Eve. A little spanking, that’s all I’m thinking.”

I open my mouth, but Wren appears beside me, and words of rage freeze on my tongue.

Daniel’s spine straightens, and he smiles. “Look, Landry. Maybe we won’t have to teach her a lesson after all. This is the hero who put her in the nurse’s station, remember?”

Landry pulls a sad face as he stares at me. His eyes don’t move from mine. “Shame, though. It would be kind of fun.”

“Next time,” Daniel says to Wren, “do us all a favor and finish her off, okay? I can’t quite express my disappointment when I got word she pulled through.” He winks at me and sticks out a hand in Wren’s direction. “My name’s Daniel, by the way.”

Wren stares at him thoughtfully, eyes flashing. Then he turns to me, disregarding Daniel’s waiting hand. “Ready?”

I lean my body weight forward, off the wall. Probably Daniel is confused as to why the Preme and I are meeting. Probably he is angry about being rebuffed by Wren. But I don’t bother to look—I just elbow him out of the way so I can pass.

He turns around to shove me, but I am already gone.

“Hey, Eve!” he shouts through the crowd. I don’t turn, but I pause in my step. “Watch your back, okay? There’s this giant red X painted on it, and nobody seems to have given you the memo.”

I walk on, leading Wren silently through the crowded main corridor. It is the widest on the second floor but also the busiest. A red stripe lines the concrete walls, an artery, and the Lower Means are the blood cells that infuse it with life.

Only once we turn onto a quieter corridor does Wren speak. “Nice backhand you have. Is there a day that goes by when you’re not fighting or being shot at?”

“Guess not,” I say darkly.

“Who were those guys?”

“Does it matter?” I kick at a piece of garbage on the floor, my mood sour. Daniel’s comment about the giant red X plays again and again in my mind.

“It’s called making conversation,” he replies levelly. “Something you might want to work on.”

I eye him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

I turn down a corridor where most of the lightbulbs overhead are burned out. I hate this corridor. The ceiling is particularly low, dirtier and dingier than the rest of the second floor—and that is saying something, since it is dirty and dingy to begin with. I look at Wren out of the corner of my eye. His head almost touches the ceiling, but otherwise he looks relaxed. Surprisingly so. Most Premes would be unable to hide their disgust.

I stop in front of the steel door that leads to the feeding dock. “It’s right here,” I say. “The guard should be by any minute to unlock it.” Technically what I have said is true. I do have to wait for a guard to unlock it, since to do otherwise would be suspect. But I know the code.

We both lean against the wall—opposite sides—and I turn away from him, staring up the hall instead, waiting for the guard to appear. It is always a young female guard, not much older than myself. The junior guards get the boring jobs like unlocking doors for volunteers. Melissa is her name, and she has bright pink hair and a nose ring crafted from wire. She’s not bad, for a guard.

Never is she late, and so of course today will be the day.

Finally, the sounds of footsteps and whistling draw near, and it crosses my mind that perhaps it will be a different guard today. I stare up the hall and wait. A figure appears and turns in our direction, black clothed and combat ready. His frame looks familiar. And even from down here, I can see he has black beads instead of eyes.

“Shit.” I turn on the spot and swipe the elastic from my hair. Shit. It’s him. Of all the goddamn guards in this godforsaken compound, I get him. Him.

The asshole guard who shot at me. If he recognizes me, I’m dead.

Wren moves quickly toward me and wraps both arms around my head. “Shh,” he whispers in my ear before I can resist. He teases my loose hair with his hands as his forehead rests on mine. Inside my chest, my heart hammers uncontrollably, and every muscle spasms with anticipation. What if, what if, what if?

I don’t know what exactly Wren is doing, but I think he is trying to help me. It isn’t in my nature to accept help, but right now I am desperate.

“Here to feed the Denominators?” the guard asks once he nears. His voice sounds bored. He has two purple lines running under his eyes and a swollen nose. So I did break it—badly, by the looks of it. My eyes are trained on him through gaps in my hair, gaps in Wren’s arms. Him and his baton. Him and his gun.

“Yeah,” Wren replies heavily as he strokes my hair. I get it; we look like lovers. And I am mostly hidden, wrapped in his long arms.

Except I can’t relax enough to make it convincing. Every cell in my body screams to break into a run, to get away from this man who would enjoy killing me. Every instinct is to flee or to fight, but that would be worse. I have to be brave, but the worst part is that the only thing I keep thinking is how good Wren smells. Like soap, but not like the soap I use or that Daniel uses. This is a masculine smell and a safe smell and one that makes my muscles unclench against their will.

The door squeaks open, and my heart leaps. Soon he will be gone.

But as he turns, my eye catches his.

“Do I know you?” he asks. Black beads blink. The lone bulb overhead flickers as if reminding me to think. Think. Don’t just act; don’t punch and run, then figure out how to pick up the pieces.

“No,” I say with as much attitude and angst as I can muster. Then I bury my face into Wren’s chest the way I have seen Maggie do with Kyle.

“Stand up for a second so I can have a look at you.”

“She said no, all right?”

My ear is pressed to Wren’s chest so that when he talks, I feel the vibration inside me.

I tense up at his words. Guards don’t like attitude—not that it tends to stop me from giving it to them. Probably all he has to say is that he is a Preme. Flash him the back of his unmarked hands. That ought to stop the guard from bothering us. When Wren opens his mouth again, this is what I expect him to say. Instead he says, “She’s having a rough week, okay? She’s been sick. Do you mind?”

Part of me cringes. It would be easier if he would just say who he is. What he is. But part of me likes that he isn’t, too.

“Whatever. Shut off the lights when you’re done,” the guard mutters. His footsteps are heavy as they echo into the distance, and with every step, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. My breathing slows. I wait until I can no longer hear the echoes before I push back from Wren. His arms drop quickly.

I stare sideways, decidedly not at him. When I speak, it is barely audible. “Yeah, so…thanks. That was actually pretty decent of you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

I raise my chin an inch. “Well.”

“Well what?”

Now I do look at him, at his square jaw, wide-set eyes, the kind curve of his mouth. “Nothing. Listen, let’s get going, okay? They don’t like it when I’m late. Noms don’t exactly get a lot of food.” I start through the open door, but Wren’s arm shoots in front of me, blocking my path.

“Eve, come on.”

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me what that was about? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move that fast. Nice disguise, by the way.” His gaze lingers on my hair, and then he shoves his hands into his pockets and shakes his head.

A small shudder of laughter bursts from my mouth. I didn’t even feel it well up in my stomach, but now it is all I can do to hold it in. He watches me laugh with his lips curled into a smile, and I feel like a lunatic, but I don’t stop.

When I finally do, I am lighter. “That was the guard who shot at me a couple of days ago,” I explain. “If he recognized me there… I don’t know. I’d probably be dead.”

“So I just saved your life?” A grin flashes across his face.

“Hardly,” I scoff. “If you hadn’t done that, I would have figured something else out.”

“No doubt.”

I look at him. Is he being sarcastic? Or does he really believe I am capable? It doesn’t matter, of course. But I feel something spreading inside my stomach that is warm and uncomfortable. Or rather, it is perfectly comfortable—pleasant, even, and that is what is so unsettling. Perhaps the stress of the situation and the relief I feel now is what is causing it. Or perhaps it is the Preme’s smell still lingering in my senses.

He clears his throat. “What?”

I have been staring. I walk quickly past him and through the door, down a flight of stairs. Get a grip, Eve.

At the foot of the stairs, a yellow bulb illuminates a small cubby—the feeding dock. A long table the width of the room is pushed against the far wall, and over it is a partition slid shut. The rest of the room is concrete and unremarkable. On top of the table sit silver food trays with a stack of brown paper next to them. Several bags of dinner rolls sit on top.

The kitchen staff bring it in before the feeding; it is my job to wrap up what’s inside and pass it out. Usually, the food reserved for the Noms is stale and unpalatable—surplus from the Mean cafeteria, table scraps from whatever is served on the Preme floor. Space in the compound’s artificial greenhouse is limited, and so fresh food is bestowed down here only once or twice per year. But still, what I pass through the partition is food. Still, it is sustenance.

I fumble for my elastic and draw my hair into a ponytail. They shake, my fingers. It must be from the guard. Surely it isn’t from Wren standing behind my shoulder. He is close enough that his chest is only inches from the back of my arm and I can feel his breaths, in and out. I shouldn’t care where he stands. In fact, I don’t.

Suddenly, his fingers run up and down my arm, near the bulge of my biceps. I tense up at his touch, my stomach muscles clenching so tightly that they pull me forward. I force myself to stand straight again. “Yes?” I ask. I try to make my voice sound relaxed and nonchalant. Instead it comes out as a squeak.

“Bruising is still pronounced,” he says quietly. “Will you fight again?”

“I’ve got another match in a couple days.” I glance down at my arm and see that it is stained purple. “Once those are gone, there will be plenty more to take their place, don’t worry.”

“Do you like it?”

“Fighting?”

“Yeah.”

I shrug. “I’m not complaining.”

“That’s different from liking something. Why do you do it, then? I know you said fighting is a way of life down here, but you’re not forced to fight in the Bowl.”

I grab a piece of brown paper and scoop in a half portion of lentils as I think about his question. “I read once that before civilization moved down here, parents used to sign their kids up for music lessons.” I look at him and shrug. “Well, it’s like that. I’ve just always done it.”

“You’ve just always done it,” he repeats.

I nod. “Grab some paper. A small scoop goes in the middle. Fold it like this.”

I demonstrate a couple of times, and he joins me.

“So your parents started you fighting early.”

“My father did. As soon as I was old enough. You have to be at least nine, or the League won’t allow it.”

“How decent of them,” he says drily. “Then what? I suppose you took to it?”

I snort. “Hardly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that whenever I get punched in the stomach, hard enough to bring up vomit, I go back to that first match. Except back then, I vomited from fear.” I pause. “Don’t forget I was only nine years old.”

He is silent, his hands moving slowly over brown paper. His low voice is restrained when he finally speaks. “I punched you in the stomach.”

For a moment, my hands are still, and I stare at the food packet I hold in my palm. He did punch me in the stomach. Hard enough to bring up bile, hard enough to send my memories backward.

“Did you…?” he starts.

“Do you really want to know?”

“No.”

I resume preparing the food packets, and when he speaks again, his voice is harder than before and he has changed the subject. “So you never told me the full story with that guard. Surely they don’t shoot at Lower Means for target practice.”

I stiffen.

He must notice, because he quickly adds, “I was joking, Eve.”

“Yeah, well, easy to joke about when you don’t live down here.” My pile of food packets greatly outnumbers his; he is slow.

“Are you always like that?”

“Like what?”

“So defensive. So quick to evade a question. Talking with you is a bit like pulling teeth—no offense.”

I slam down the packet I am working on and turn to him. My arms cross as anger shoots through my chest. “You want to know why that guard was chasing me? Okay, Preeminate, let me tell you. A little boy—a Denominator who we’re about to give food to—stole some bread, and that guard caught him. He started bashing the kid’s skull in, so I said something, okay? Happy you asked?”

Wren stares at me, then his eyebrows dig together. “That’s it. You said something.”

“I told him to stop. That’s it.”

“And he chased you. He shot at you.”

“Welcome to life as a Lower Mean. Be grateful you were born on the top floor.” With that, I lean forward and slide open the partition. Heat has filled my face and my chest. He is a Preme. He is from an elite society that has never known hardship. He is from a society that handed Jack a death sentence. I want to hate him, I really do.

But when I see the hungry faces pooled in front of me with hands extended, my anger breaks. It isn’t fair that I complain about my station as a Lower Mean. It isn’t, because the people pushing for position in front of me, the ones whose ancestors had no money or assets to leverage into a spot on a Mean floor, have it much, much worse. For with the construction of the compound long complete, these people now serve little purpose to the Premes.

Unlike the Means, whose lifework is spent ensuring that the compound and its hierarchy endure, the Denominators are seen as expendable. They are treated as expendable—the elevator doesn’t even go to their floor. Like the fact that they are living, breathing human beings is completely meaningless. I’ve even heard whisperings from upstairs about how they could all be blown away and nobody would miss them. About how it would actually be a net benefit, with fewer mouths to feed… The total indifference, the inexcusable callousness—it makes me sick.

In front of me, frail arms reach upward, snatching air, waiting for me to place a small packet of lentils and a roll into their palms. There is no sense in giving them larger helpings—the kitchen only prepares so much. Bigger portions for some means mouths go hungry. I have tried it before, and it did not end well. Anger, riots, gunshots.

I shudder.

The Noms at the front of the crowd are never pleasant. These are the aggressive and greedy ones—the ones every floor has, I think. I don’t know any of them by name, and I like it that way. Sometimes they yell if I am late. Sometimes they yell just for the sake of it. But today they are quiet—maybe because Wren is beside me and he is big and so obviously strong. They take their food without thanks and shove off through lighting dimmer than even what I am used to. More Noms move forward to take their place. Wren works quickly now, filling packets at the same pace as I hand them out.

The last ones to collect their lunch are the nicest. These ones I have gotten to know. These ones I feel sorriest for.

“Hi, Monica,” I say when I see her pale, pointed face. “Where’s Mr. Avery today?”

Avery is her young son, and he calls me Miss Eve. He is small and sweet, just like Monica.

“Nothing to worry over,” she says in her lilting way. “Just that he isn’t feeling well, not lately.” Creases scatter around her eyes, and there is a deep line between her eyebrows. Her voice is tight.

It’s no wonder. Too many people who get sick down here on the first floor don’t recover; treatment and aid are almost nonexistent.

“It’s you we ought to be talking about,” she continues. “I heard you took quite a beating in the Bowl—Jules told me. I wish you’d stop with that, a nice girl like you. Feeling better, I hope?”

Beside me, Wren tenses up. I can see his back straighten, and the muscles covering his forearms go rigid. His fingers clench into fists.

“It was no big deal,” I say quickly. “Here. Tuck this under your sleeve for Avery. You can eat it if he doesn’t want it.” I check to make sure nobody is watching and shove an extra packet and roll to her. We aren’t supposed to give out portions to anyone not in line, but I think of Avery’s tiny voice and his dimples and I am happy to break the rules.

She nods. “Thanks, Eve,” she says softly. “You’ve got a good heart to you, you know.”

She turns, and I watch her until she is gone, just in case anyone saw me give her extra. It would make her a target, and she couldn’t defend herself; she is too frail. Wren watches her go, too, his face tight, and I wonder what he is thinking.

“Hey, kiddo. Who’s the hottie? Finally get a boyfriend or something?” I blink and stare at Jules’s round face. She’s a Nom I befriended years ago, a daring one who doesn’t mind breaking the rules. Often, we spar together or hit the bags in the Bowl. I pass along clothes to her when I am through with them; I sneak her into the Mean cafeteria from time to time. She makes me laugh always. And never does she complain about her station.

“Who has time for boyfriends?” I say as I pass her a packet.

She rips it open and tilts half into her mouth. “You should try it sometime,” she says as she chews. “They’re a great distraction—especially the ones who are easy on the eyes.” She winks at Wren. “So, you’re not going to introduce me?”

“She has a habit of avoiding questions, I’ve noticed,” Wren says bluntly. He sticks a hand forward. “My name’s Wren.”

“Jules. Nice to meet you.”

She shifts her gaze back to me and pointedly lifts an eyebrow. I change the subject before she can say anything more, my cheeks burning pink as it is. “Want to sneak upstairs later? Bring your boxing gloves; I need the practice.”

“Can’t. I’ve got a hot date of my own. See you, Eve. Bye, Wren.” With another wink, she is gone.

Thirty more parcels are passed through the partition before I slide it shut. “That’s it. Was it as fun and exciting as you anticipated?”

I am being sarcastic, but he turns to me with a level expression. “It was even better.”

“Even better,” I repeat. My fingers drum on the table. All at once, it dawns on me, and the revelation leaves me cold all over. “You plan to work in government.”

“What makes you think that?”

I shrug. “The fact that you’re here. I suppose having knowledge of the lower levels would be an asset on your job application.”

He laughs, low and rumbly. “That’s not why I’m here, Eve. And you’re wrong, for the record; I don’t want to work in government.”

I tidy up, my mouth pressed into a line. If he doesn’t want to work for the government, why is he here?

“You know, a normal person would ask what it is I do want to do.”

“So what do you want to do, then, Wren?”

“I don’t know, actually.” He scratches his neck. “Something in computers, maybe?”

Computers. Those mighty machines brought underground to ensure goods could still be produced, genetically modified food, too. The ones that keep the compound humming, the ones completely unknowable to those of us on the lower floors. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into it,” I mumble. “I’m glad I asked.”

“Very funny. Dare I bring up your own job aspirations again?”

“You don’t dare, no. Listen, the kitchen staff will come get the trays. We can go now.” I lead him up the stairs and make sure to leave the lights on—just to piss off the guard. I won’t be back until he is reassigned; that much I know.

Then we walk along the corridor where Wren hid me from view. It feels like days ago, even though it was less than an hour prior. I remember his clean, masculine smell and clear my throat. Soon we will part ways, and it is very likely I will never again see this strange Preme.

“Why were you on my floor the other day?” he asks into the silence. “Before we went to the shooting range.”

The question catches me off guard, and I freeze. “I told you,” I say slowly. “I was at the library.”

He turns so he faces me, then says, “You were well past the library.”

“I was lost.”

He crosses his arms and squints at me. “Hmm. Given your track record for finding and causing trouble at every opportunity, you are surprisingly bad at lying.”

I go to protest, but he holds up a hand. “Come on. I’ve never seen anyone look like you did that day. Your eyes…” His gaze finally breaks from mine, and something resembling discomfort passes over his face.

“What about my eyes?”

He shrugs. “They were…on fire. Like you had just done something, I don’t know, big. I know you weren’t in the library.”

A smile catches my lips before I can set them straight. If only he knew. But I just shake my head. “I’m sorry, Wren. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I make to walk again, but he grips my arm. “I know what’s back there,” he says quietly. His eyes burn into mine. “Not many people know, but I do.”

My head shakes back and forth. Instinct. How does he know, how does he know? Maybe he is wrong. Maybe this is a test. I keep shaking my head. No.

He leans forward, and his grip on my arm tightens until it hurts. “It was the Oracle, wasn’t it? That’s where you were.”

Still my head shakes, and though I can feel my mouth hanging open, I don’t have control enough to close it. Finally, I snap to my senses and swallow. It burns my throat.

Think.

I could run. I could punch him. Fear streaks through me so loudly that it clouds my thoughts—he knows, he knows. He could turn me in. He could blackmail me. He could do anything.

How could he know my secret? It is my secret, nobody else’s.

There is no sense in running from him; he’s too fast. There is no sense in attacking him; he will win. I need to remain calm, that is what I need to do. So, as calmly as I can, I wrench my arm free from his grasp, my eyes spewing hatred as I do. “Don’t come near me again,” I hiss, and then I shove past him. Down the hall. Gone.

“Eve. Wait.”

For some reason, I do. I think it’s his voice. Always it is low and smooth. Usually it is cold. Hard. Right now, it is soft.

“I know about the Oracle’s emergency exit because of my mother. Her department oversees the solar panels aboveground. Nobody else knows.”

I turn to him and fold my arms. “Okay. Great, Wren. Great. You know my secret—you figured it out. Congrats, okay? You can turn me in now.”

He laughs, and it sounds cold and hard, like the Wren I know. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d go about it in a much more direct fashion. You can relax, Eve. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Right.”

He scowls. “And what exactly do I have to gain by turning you in?”

“I don’t know. A funny story for you and your Preme friends to laugh about?”

He shakes his head. “You think I’m a monster; I get it. But rest assured, I have better things to do with my time.”

I shrug. I am desperate, and the feeling is unnerving. So I force my spine to straighten, then square my shoulders to his. “Tell anyone, and I’ll kill you, understand? And trust me, it isn’t an empty threat.”

His eyes flash, but he is calm. “Fine. So. How did you get inside?”

“With the code, genius.”

It is a sarcastic response. But instead of reacting to it, he simply nods. “I suppose it wouldn’t be impossible to figure out. No doubt you’ve seen enough guards open the feeding dock to pick up on patterns. Probably some of the digits are constant between doors. Compound Eleven. That would be part of it. The floor number would be in there too, am I right?”

I stare at him. His wide-set eyes make him look fiercely intelligent, but it isn’t just show. He is intelligent. Still, I am not about to give anything away, so I say nothing. My jaw is set.

“When are you planning on going again?” he asks.

“To the Oracle?”

He nods, his eyes not moving from mine. Gold shines from his pupils, outward streaks that glow. They look like the sun. His eyes are the sun.

Don’t stare too long, Eve, or they’ll blind you.

“I don’t know.”

“But you will go back, won’t you.” It isn’t a question. There is no need to answer.

Of course I will.