The Hunt - Megan Shepherd Page 0,12

again.

“You do not believe it is morally correct to take children,” he concluded. “If you don’t like it, then work with me to change the system. Consider what I’ve told you. This place will”—he looked around at the dirty floor—“give you needed perspective. You will soon realize that I am correct. If you have any hope of bettering your life, the Gauntlet is the only way. I will return when my duties allow to see if you have changed your mind.”

She didn’t answer. He wove among the tables and then disappeared back into the warren of tunnels through the asteroid to his life, to his job, to his responsibilities that weren’t her.

For a moment, the lodge was silent. The spotlights shone in her eyes, and she had to blink to see around them. The boys at the bar and the girl dancing with the Kindred guest were watching her.

She tapped the microphone and coughed at the cloud of dust.

It looked vintage, like the kind radio announcers in old movies spoke into, and yet there were no wires. An artificial reconstruction, just like the spotlights shining in her eyes, and the smell of sticky-sweet drinks being served at the bar. She shifted in the gold dress, unused to how it hugged her body.

Before her, the Kindred audience was cast in shadows. More had arrived, and now the sounds of a dozen guests waiting filled the silence. All were dressed in artificial human clothes. The only exceptions were two Kindred soldiers in black uniforms, heading out toward the savanna. Sweat trickled down her back as she cleared her throat again.

“Wishing on a star, never thought I’d come this far. . . .” Her voice reverberated around the corners of the room louder than she’d expected. The two bartenders stopped what they were doing and turned in surprise, like they hadn’t heard real singing in years.

“Across the night sky, never knowing why . . .”

The sounds of a vehicle roared in the distance; chairs squeaked as the Kindred guests twisted toward the savanna, more interested in the most recent hunt than in her song, and for some crazy reason, this angered her.

“Wanting to stay strong, surrounded by monsters . . .”

She knew she was pushing it, but they ignored her. Apparently, Cassian was right: for all their brilliance, subtext in song was lost on them.

The gong sounded, signaling a returning expedition. But then it sounded again. And again, haphazardly, as though someone was falling against it. Someone shouted, though Cora couldn’t make out the words. A few of the guests jumped up and ran to the French doors to see what had caused the commotion. She stood on her tiptoes at the edge of the stage, trying to see over the guests’ heads.

And then, suddenly, the guests parted. The two uniformed soldiers she’d noticed earlier came striding up the veranda stairs with a human boy between them. He was tall, with medium-brown skin and short hair, and he wore a safari uniform with leather driving gloves and, dangling around his neck, a set of driving goggles.

“It isn’t time yet!” he yelled, as he fought against the guards. “It’s too soon!”

Cora threw a look to the bartenders, who watched apprehensively, not making a move to help the boy. Three other kids came up the savanna stairs, including the same scrawny-limbed boy and girl as before, their safari uniforms caked with even more dust, eyes just as wide as they watched the boy being dragged off.

The boy locked eyes with the blond bartender. “Dane! Tell the others. We’ve all been lied to and—” One of the guards jabbed a device into the boy’s side and he slumped, unconscious. The two guards dragged him to a red door behind the bar. One of the bartenders started to follow, but the other one—Dane—held out a hand to stop him.

For a second, the entire lodge was silent.

Cora looked around in confusion, hoping for an explanation. The guests seemed shaken but not entirely surprised. They whispered among themselves, faces wearing exaggerated masks of pity for the boy.

A dishrag flew at her, and she jumped.

“Sing, songbird,” the bartender named Dane commanded. “Distract them.”

But she could only stand there, lips parted. No sound came from her throat. No lyrics came into her head. It was too much, all of it. To be abandoned here, thrust onstage, witness to whatever awful thing had just happened to that boy. And on top of everything, who was Cassian to say that she was supposed