Chapter Four

I turn right. Ten paces, left. Seven paces, right. Fifteen paces, left. There is no need to count it out. I know this route like the back of my hand; it will be the thirty-fifth time. This is the corridor where the fluorescent light shudders overhead; it always does. Turn right. This corridor has doors leading off it, important ones, ones I must be mindful of. Everything is important up here on the fifth floor. The Preme floor. Turn right. Another right. I stand before a brushed metal door and enter the code. 11000535. I turn the handle, but there’s no give. It’s locked; it didn’t work. But I already knew that. I have tried that code before.

Now my eyes are awash with light. Sunlight. It is the first time I have seen it, and it squeezes out everything else in my field of vision. It is blinding. I must have found a way into the Oracle after all.

“Why are you smiling?” comes a voice many miles away. It sounds vaguely familiar, though I can’t place it. But I have heard it before, I am sure of it.

Slowly my eyes pull open, but I see nothing. No light, no darkness. Nothing. I close them again. Where am I? I am not trying to break into the Oracle on the fifth floor, I realize that now. And I am certainly not inside the Oracle. I have been sleeping. Dreaming. I open my eyes again and lift my head, but it is too painful. It thumps with blood, and my neck screams.

Moving my hand, my fingers—it’s no better. Pounding throbs, sharp aches. All over, in every joint and tendon.

So I am still, except for my eyes that blink and blink, again and again, until slowly vision returns. A lone lightbulb hangs from the ceiling, and a wire dangles from it. So I am on the second floor. That is good. That is my floor. My Lower Mean floor.

But I am not in my cell. The air is different. Thinner. The smell of cleaner lingers.

“How are you feeling?” comes that voice again. I frown. I can’t place it no matter how hard I try. I will have to lift my head to see who the speaker is. I take a deep breath and squeeze my stomach muscles, pull my neck. The pain makes me grit my teeth, but right now I don’t care who sees.

Until I realize who it is.

The Preme. He sits on a chair beside me, his arm resting easily on his knee. A black T-shirt stretches over his chest.

I draw in a breath and force myself to sit the rest of the way up. Every muscle, ligament, and tendon rallies against my movement, but I am determined. And this time I don’t let the pain show on my face. Because I don’t know why he is here, with me, and I don’t know where here is. Two things that put me at a disadvantage.

Straightaway I ask, “Where am I?”

“You should probably lie down.”

My eyes slide to his. There is no malice there, not from him. But I can feel it froth in my stomach. Not for putting me in so much pain. He had to. And by the looks of his bruised face, I put him through some pain of his own. A sharp purple line rides under his eye where the skin has split. And a yellow bruise runs alongside his nose and under the chin.

Not bad work, Eve.

In truth, I don’t know why I feel so much malice, aside from the fact that he is wearing jeans and looks clean and relaxed, and I am still in the clothes I wore during the fight—blood-splattered and coated in sweat—and in a foreign place with this foreign boy who until now has been watching me sleep.

“Where am I?” I ask, louder this time.

“Nurse’s station.” He shrugs. “I’m guessing by the way you fight, you’ve been here before. Am I wrong?”

“And let me guess, you came to gloat. Typical Preme.”

His eyes narrow. “You know…” His voice trails off, and he shakes his head.

With some effort, I lie back down on the well-worn mattress. I stare at the ceiling. I don’t care what he was going to say; I’m not interested. He is a Preme. I am a Lower Mean. It is ingrained in us not to like each other; it has been ingrained in us since civilization first moved down here all those years ago. Since the wealthiest and most powerful families aboveground established themselves on the fifth floor, and those less fortunate were slotted down here in our own slice of hell. So instead of thinking about him for another second, I think about what I am going to do.

The last place I want to be is the nurse’s station. Only losers wind up in the nurse’s station after a fight. If word gets around… I need to go. It’s bad enough I lost, but to lose to a Preme? I need to go now. Except my insides scream in agony every time I move, and it will be a far walk back to my cell unassisted. My head pounds so hard I can barely keep my eyes open, the lighting too much for my warped brain, though it is dim. Lower Mean dim.

Time to ignore the pain.

I shove one foot off the mattress, then the other. I pull myself to sitting, breathing through my teeth as my feet dangle to the floor. Bare toes skim its cool surface, and I focus on this sensation alone.

“Are you kidding?” His back is straight now, and his arms are folded over his chest. “You need to lie down. You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “And I certainly don’t need you telling me what to do. Just get out of here, okay?” I let my head fall forward until it rests in my palm and dry scales of blood curl under my fingers. My long blond hair hangs over my shoulder, and it is twisted with burgundy.

He stands abruptly and then sits again. He is strange for a Preme. I can’t put my finger on it.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, and I can hear his low voice tense up like a coil. “When I threw my name in to fight, I didn’t know.” He stares at the floor, eyes flashing darkly.

“Didn’t know what?”

“Nobody mentioned that I’d be paired up against…”

I watch him closely as he runs a hand through his hair. His discomfort is thick between us. It feels good to watch him sweat.

“A girl?” I finally offer.

He looks at me and shrugs. “I had no idea,” he says plainly.

I frown. I don’t know how to feel. Offended that he thinks I am weak just because of my gender? Touched by his chivalry? I decide on the former. “Don’t do me any favors, all right? I fight guys all the time. Usually I beat them. Today I didn’t. No big deal.”

His voice darkens. “I tried to get you to stop. I kept telling you to stop fighting. But you just wouldn’t give up. I had no choice…” His voice fades away, and his gaze licks at my wounds, trickles down the bloodstains.

So this is what it’s about. He feels guilty because he beat up a girl. Something they don’t do on the fifth floor, evidently. Where they are civilized. And now he needs me to tell him it’s okay. That I’m fine. No hard feelings.

Only I don’t want to appease him. But I also don’t want him to think I am weak. “I hope I get the chance to fight you again,” is all I can think to say. My voice is calm, earnest, my face once again disinterested. “Now that I know what kind of cheap shots you Premes take.”

Quickly his eyes narrow into a scowl. “You punched me before the ref was even in the ring.”

I have the sudden urge to burst into laughter. But I hold it in. “Just watch your back, okay? Us Lower Means fight for the fun of it, in the Bowl and out. Preeminates like you are delicate.”

He leans forward, and I see anger dart across his eyes. “We’re alone right now. Want me to finish you off?”

A hot rush of anger spreads through my chest, but before I can raise a fist, he laughs.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” he says. “Because I live on the fifth floor and you live down here.” His eyes are cold again. They are expressive. Except I haven’t seen anything resembling warmth in them. Maybe it is in there, behind a cloud; maybe not. “But here’s the thing: Life isn’t that simple. You think since I’m a Preme my life is gold, but you have no clue. You think I look down on you, see you as filth, but you’re the one doing it to me. You’re more preoccupied with being a Lower Mean than anyone else is. Did you ever think about that?”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t exactly venture out of Lower Mean territory if I can help it.”

“That’s a lie.” The words escape him quickly, and then he pauses. Like he didn’t plan to say them.

“What are you talking about?”

He looks uncomfortable again. The anger in his eyes has faded. “I’ve seen you before, that’s all. In the library.” He stares at me. “Or at least I think it’s you. It’s hard to tell when your face is covered in blood.” His lips curl into a smirk.

“Cheap shots tend to do that.”

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

I’m about to tell him there is always a choice, but I hear something from around the corner: the shuffling of feet, low chatter. A moment later, Hunter, Maggie, and Emerald push into the small room.

They freeze when they see who sits in front of me. Or maybe it is my condition that does it.

“What’s he doing here?” Hunter demands, his gaze shifting slowly from my bloodstained face to the Preme.

Emerald stirs and makes her stance wider. “Get away from her.”

The Preme’s eyebrows lift. “Why, you think I’m going to hurt her?” His gaze flicks to mine. “Again?”

It stings; he meant for it to. My stupid pride. But he is accepting the fact that he has hurt me—relishing it, even. No longer does he feel riddled with guilt; I can see that. That is good. I don’t want his sympathy.

“You just about killed her,” Emerald continues. “You know that, don’t you? Smashing her face in like that…we have a word for that down here: dirty. Don’t think we’ll forget.”

He raises a hand. “If I wanted to kill her,” he says as he stares at me, “don’t you think I would have by now?” Strangely enough, there is no anger in his eyes, not now. Instead they look thoughtful. Maybe he is thinking about killing me. Maybe he is enjoying it.

The room is silent, and all of us are still.

Finally Hunter raises the white paper bag that he holds. “Lemon squares, Eve. Your favorite,” he mutters. His eyes linger a little longer on the Preme. Maybe he’d rather not look at me at all. I don’t blame him.

“Thanks, Hunter.” If there was any fight left in my voice, now it is gone. I just want to sleep. To lie back peacefully and shut my eyes and forget all of this. I want to dream about the Oracle. Dream about being anywhere but here, in Compound Eleven.

The scraping of the Preme’s chair wakes me from my daze. He is standing. But before he goes, he bends his face down so it is inches from mine. “Bye, Eve. Hope it doesn’t hurt too much to chew.”

I watch his back as he moves past my friends, glaring at them as he goes. His eyes flash to mine one last time, the slightest grin curling his lips, and then he is gone.

The others rush to my side and fill his place. Whatever spell made things so uncomfortable is broken. It is me and my friends, and everything is okay again. The worst of the pain is over, and from here on out, it will get better.

It can only get better.

“Are you all right?” Maggie asks. She sits next to me and places my hand in hers. There is a bruise on the top of her hand, a strange spot for one, especially for someone who doesn’t fight. I don’t have the energy to ask her about it.

“I’m fine, or at least I will be. I just need to lie down.” I sigh, and weariness wraps itself around my shoulders. “Is he gone?”

Emerald ducks her head around the corner. “All clear,” she reports a second later. “What was he doing here, anyway? Dare I ask?”

I shrug, then Maggie and Hunter grab me under the arms and slowly lower me onto the bed. That feels better. A few more minutes here, just to rest my head. And then I’ll go back to my cell, where I can heal.

“He probably wanted to rub in the fact that he won,” Emerald continues. She shakes her head. “So, how big of an asshole was he?”

I mean to say that he wasn’t that bad. Instead I say: “Huge one.”

“Figured. Big dude, though, right? You really held your own out there, Eve. Bruno says that even he’d have a tough time beating a guy like that. And he’s pro.”

“Really? He actually said that?” She nods, and I smile. Bruno is seventeen; he picked fighting as his job a year ago. And he’s good—one of the best in the League.

“He said that guy can fight. Like, legit, you know? And he’s quick.” She grins, and dimples pinch in her cheeks. Normally she looks fierce—she is fierce. But she’s got a sweet smile, something guys are starting to notice. “Not that I need to tell you that,” she adds with a wink.

Hunter sits beside me on the bed, pushes my hair from my face, and sets a neatly cut square with powdered sugar dusting the top into my hand. “Eat,” he orders. “It’ll make you feel better. And since it was no small feat getting it out of the kitchen, savor every bite.”

“Damn, that’s legit. How’d you even get it?” Emerald asks. “Because Houdini you are not. I’ve seen you run before, and you’re sure as hell not fast enough to make a dash for it.”

He shoves her. “I’m faster than you. And my girlfriend works there, that’s how.” He drums long fingers against his knee, then adjusts his glasses. “I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned her. Anita.”

Maggie leans forward. “Wait, she’s your girlfriend now? I thought you two were just hanging out!”

A shy smile flickers across Hunter’s face. He is all shy smiles. “Well, yeah.”

“Is it official? Like Kyle-and-me official?”

He rolls his eyes, and as Maggie makes kissing noises, I focus my attention on the lemon square. The last thing I want to do right now is put food in my mouth; my stomach churns with too much blood. But holding the square in my hand is no better. The bones in my knuckles scream—they must be cracked—yet I know how difficult it is to bend the rules in Compound Eleven, and so I swallow the pain and the nausea and force my hand to my mouth. Hunter is a good friend.

“How’d you know I was here?” I ask once I’m sure I won’t vomit.

“Saw the ref outside the Bowl talking to your dad. He told us. Not that it was exactly hard to piece together ourselves. I mean, they had to carry you out of the ring.”

I place the remainder of the square on my chest and do my best to ignore the heat lashing at my face. “Was he—was he angry?”

Maggie gazes at me. She has an inquisitive look to her. All eyes. Today they look puffy, like she’s been crying. “Was who angry?” she asks slowly. “Your dad?”

I nod.

“Angry that you lost?” She rolls her eyes. “It was a good fight, Eve. Tell me you know that. Emerald’s right: he was a big guy. And older than you, don’t forget.”

I am silent. He had looked older than sixteen. Definitely. It strikes me suddenly that I don’t even know his name, let alone anything else about him, other than the fact that he is a Preeminate. And a good fighter.

Maggie is still talking. “If anything, your dad was worried about you. Obviously,” she adds when she sees the look on my face.

Right. So then why hasn’t he stopped by? my brain yells. He knows I’m here, laid up in the nurse’s station.

Hunter takes the remainder of the lemon square and passes it to the others. When he turns back to me, he sighs. “At the risk of stating the obvious, that was a shocking match. When you didn’t get up at the end, the entire Bowl went quiet. I think everyone sort of thought, you know, that was it. You wouldn’t be waking up from that one.” He runs a hand through his hair a little unsteadily. He was scared for me. They all were.

“Yeah, everyone went quiet…except for Daniel, Landry, and Zaar,” adds Emerald as she rolls her eyes. “They weren’t exactly what I’d call worried.”

“They wouldn’t be,” I say. Daniel and his friends hate most people, but they have long held a particular hatred for me. The feeling is mutual.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Emerald continues, “I think they were the only ones in the entire Bowl actually cheering for the Preme. And that’s saying something, right? I mean, the stands were killer full. And man, when you sucker punched him at the start of the match, they…went…wild.”

I try to smile, but I can feel a wave of disappointment riding in instead. I lost, in a big way. I couldn’t even walk out of the Bowl with dignity. They had to carry me. People thought I was dead.

Deep breath, in and out. Time to package up my disappointment and set it aside. So I got beat—badly—by a Preme, landed in the nurse’s station. He was strong. Dangerous. And I put up a good fight before things slid sideways. I did.

And—this is the most important part—it doesn’t matter. Let Daniel laugh. Let my father be disappointed; let him think that maybe, just maybe, if Jack had been born first, he would have beaten the Preme. That he would have made him proud. It doesn’t matter, none of it. Because in six weeks—by the end of what civilization used to call summer, by the time adulthood begins in earnest with the selection of a job—I will be gone.

I don’t know how, not yet. But I know that my time in Compound Eleven is nearly over.