Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,50
the smooth-voiced shadow cradles his object to his chest.
“Careful! It’s glass,” the big shadow warns. “You break it, I can’t bleed my beast for you again. He’s new. And he’s a Ten. We all took a lot of blood from him, and it has made him weak. And I still wanna know why you can’t get yours from the lab anymore.”
“That is none of your business,” the smooth voice snaps.
The bigger shadow shrugs. “Suit yourself. Why don’t you tell your boys to lower their guns before we turn our backs on you.”
A throat is cleared. “There is one other thing,” the smooth voice says. A paper rustles. Beside me, Bowen’s body grows more taut and his breath hisses between his teeth. “This girl,” the man says, and Bowen looks at me.
A rectangle of shadow is passed from the small man to the big man, and the paper rustles again. A grating, stone-crushing laugh vibrates from the bigger shadow. “I haven’t seen one like this in years. Look at this girl, boys!” He holds the rectangle overhead.
It starts with whistling, then growling and howling. Soon, the street is filled with the sounds of wild animals snarling, teeth snapping, and panting. And I wonder, who are the real beasts in this land of desolation? Is there a difference between these scarmarked, grown men and the tattoo-marked beasts? The men can choose how they act—they still have a semblance of humanity to them. But the beasts have nothing human left in them. Do they have a choice in how they act?
“Her name,” the smooth voice calls out over the din, and the noise dies down. “Her name is Fiona Tarsis! And I want you to catch her!”
My heart jolts in my chest, and fear condenses in a damp sheen over every inch of my body.
“Fiona is young, fresh, and not hardened by the streets like the other women you catch! She bears the mark, but that won’t make her a hard target for men like you. And …” He stops talking, but no one makes a sound. “She’s on your side of the wall!”
The raging starts again, shadows dancing, fighting with each other, men screaming, howling, tearing their clothes, pounding their chests.
And then the big shadow raises both his hands, dampening the noise from forte to mezzo forte. “What do we do with her when we find her?” he grates out over the sound of his men. “If you think we’ll turn her over to you, you’d better have an outrageous reward waiting for us, and I can’t guarantee she’ll be impeccable on delivery.” The roaring dies at the word delivery, as if cut off by the sharp blade of a knife.
“You misunderstand me. She is the reward. But if you find her—when you find her, because I know you will—do not let her get inside the wall!” the smooth voice replies, though the smooth tone is accompanied by a fevered need. “When you find her, kill her. I don’t care how. But make all evidence that she existed disappear. Burn her remains.”
The roaring starts again, throbbing painfully loud. Torchlights flicker. Men howl, their shadow faces aimed at the dark sky. I try to force myself to blend into blue metal. Become the box.
“Bowen!”
Bowen jumps beside me, his shoe scraping on the cement, a sound way too loud even with the men screaming around us. Someone has to have heard.
I stop breathing, stop moving—even my eyeballs—as I stare straight ahead at the shadows on the building. One of them noticed the sound of Bowen’s scraping shoe. I see the figure uncurl from the ground, see the shadow chains restraining it. Biting my tongue, I peer to my left, around the postbox, and look right into the beast’s eyes—eyes that are twin to my own.
“Jonah,” I whisper, as sorrow and fear thunder through me. His head tilts to the side and he lunges. Taken off guard, the men holding the chains fall forward with Jonah’s momentum and he clangs free, dragging his chains behind him and running straight at me. My eyes grow round, and I shake my head a fervent no—I cannot imagine what will happen if I am caught, if he gives my presence away. And, as if he’s the old, gentle Jonah, he pauses, the briefest release of his sculpted muscle. He blinks, looks away, and changes course, veering toward the opposite side of the street, sprinting away on one good ankle, and one ankle that is twisted painfully to the