Entanglement (YA Dystopian Romance) - By Dan Rix Page 0,47

before the guards came. Reluctantly, Buff peeled his gaze away from Aaron. Feeling dizzy, Aaron fell to his knees in a patch of silver light.

Next to him, Dominic groaned and rolled onto his back. Aaron’s eyes felt heavy as he watched his own blood drain into the dirt from the gaping slash above his wrist.

***

“Number eleven—” Dominic climbed to his feet and staggered over to him. “What the hell was that?”

Aaron ignored him, but a second later Dominic’s wheezing face leered in front of him.

“You’re about to go down a very painful road.” He grabbed Aaron’s sleeve and wiped the blood off his switchblade.

The outlines of Dominic’s face blurred and started spinning, and Aaron had to shut his eyes.

“And you—” Dominic advanced on Clive next. “Couldn’t even lift your pinky finger, could you?”

“I was unarmed,” said Clive. “You had a knife.”

“Oh yeah? Did Normandy have a knife? Did number eleven have a knife?” Dominic gurgled phlegm in his throat and spat. “I’m beginning to doubt your loyalty, Selavio.”

“It’s my wedding tomorrow,” said Clive.

“Don’t kid yourself,” said Dominic. “A black eye would be an improvement.”

“It’s going to be televised.”

“So? You’re not the one we’ll be watching.”

Clive’s eyes shrank to slits. “You better get a real good look then,” he said. “Because it’s the last time you’ll see her.”

Dominic shook his head and slid the nose guard off his face. His curly hair bounced back into place. “Clive, I’m talking about your father. I don’t give a damn about your half.”

Aaron was still on the ground. Through the fog in his brain, he could barely hear Clive’s tense voice.

“And what exactly about my father?”

“It’s that machine he has in my basement that bothers me. I can’t sleep with that God-awful racket.”

“Then wear earplugs,” said Clive. “Your parents agreed to let him test it.”

“Don’t even start,” said Dominic, spitting again. “With all the rap they’ve taken for you guys, lying to the police and everything—”

“I’d stay out of it,” Clive warned.

Dominic flipped the switchblade closed and leaned forward. “Selavio, I know that thing doesn’t cure half death. If it did, Justin Gorski would still be alive.” With that, he spun and hobbled back to the field. Before he was gone though, he yelled over his shoulder. “And if I was you, number eleven, I wouldn’t fall asleep tonight.”

Aaron was only half-aware of him. Later, once Clive left too, he ripped off a section of his T-shirt. With one hand, he wrapped the material around his arm, pulled it tight, and tied it off in a knot. Then he hunched forward and cradled his forehead in his palms. As the pain ebbed from his sliced forearm, he became aware of the slow smolder in his lips, leftover from Amber’s last kiss. And he knew then.

He was in love with her.

EIGHT

0 Days, 12 hours, 18 minutes

Dominic didn’t play in the second half, and with Buff now on the field, Pueblo won the first league game of the season twenty-six to twenty-five.

Back at home, Aaron scrubbed his arm over the bathroom sink. The wound had scabbed over, but the tension in his flesh threatened to rip it back open. He wrapped his wrist tight with gauze.

In twelve hours, he was due at the Chamber of Halves. In twelve hours, Amber and Clive would join as halves, and their souls would intertwine forever. Aaron forced himself to breathe, to exhale—and a nerve-racking moment followed when he wasn’t sure he could fill himself back up again.

They had known since childhood.

His mom appeared in the doorway. “Phone call,” she said, tossing him the cordless.

Nobody called him on their home phone.

“Hello?” said Aaron.

“Walter Wu speaking.”

“Who?”

“Dreadfully sorry for the late call,” he said. “I’m your authorized correspondent from the Chamber of Halves.”

Aaron’s stomach gave an odd shudder. “What’s this for?”

The man cleared his throat. “Mr. Harper, how are you feeling?”

“Just dandy.”

“Sick?”

“Yes.”

“Stomachache?”

“Absolutely.”

“Any pain at the back of your head?”

Aaron’s mouth was already open to give an answer when he froze, and felt the hairs on his forearms slowly stand on end. “Mr. Wu, what’s this for?” he asked again.

The man cleared his throat one more time then spoke in an high, oddly strained voice. “I think that just about does it. Tomorrow at eleven then, Aaron.” And he hung up.

For several seconds, Aaron held the phone to his ear, listening to his heart’s echo over the dial tone, before he set it down.

“You should get to bed soon,” said his mom from the doorway, his dad behind her. “You want to feel