The Hunt - Megan Shepherd Page 0,60

“No way.”

“Do you know what those are.”

“They look like enormous contact lenses.”

She grabbed him, swinging the light so that it shone right in her face, but she didn’t blink. “What are contact lenses.”

“We can’t just magically improve everyone’s eyesight on Earth. People wear them to see better. And the tube is some kind of chemical paint. Don’t you get it, kid? It’s a disguise. The uniform. The weights, to keep his muscles huge. Roshian is only posing as a Kindred.”

Mali found a small square of plastic in the bottom of the bag. She held it up to the light. The words on it were scratched and difficult to read. John Keller, it said. Medical Student, Epidemiology, Boston University. There was a two-dimensional reproduction of a face in the upper corner; it was Roshian’s face, only the skin was pink. His hair was longer. He was smiling and wearing glasses.

“He’s human,” Leon said.

Human. Mali glanced back at the animal heads on the walls. That explained his odd predilections. The way he kept to himself in the Hunt. Why he only seemed to have the cloaked side of his personality.

It also meant that he was not bound by the Kindred moral code.

She dropped the identification card. “We must find Cassian. Now.”

“No way,” Leon said. “If he sees you outside of the menagerie, he’ll know we can sneak out. He’ll put a stop to it. And he’ll turn me in to the guards.”

“This is more important. There will be no more sneaking around if Cora is dead.”

“Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”

“I do not exaggerate.” She climbed one leg back into the service passageway. “The Kindred do not kill humans. But humans kill humans. And I do not think that Roshian—John Keller—only wants Cora for her hair. Now take me to Cassian’s quarters.”

She climbed in the drecktube, and they scrambled through the tunnels, dodging packages and cleaner traps, and this time Leon didn’t make a single comment about staring at her backside.

25

Cora

CORA SHIELDED HER EYES against the bright savanna sun. It glinted off the hood of the nearest safari truck, blinding her so that all she could make out of Roshian was a dark outline.

She took a shaky step backward, nearly tripping over the uneven ground. “Dane, what’s going on?”

He stood at the base of the veranda steps, blocking her. “You heard him,” he said quietly, tossing the yo-yo. “Run. You might have a chance.”

“You brought me here to die?”

His eyes snapped to her. “That’s up to how fast you are. I can’t say I’m optimistic.” He shoved the toy in his pocket, and when he spoke again, his tone was more resigned. “I’ll tell Lucky that you died in an accident. I’ll watch out for him. He could go far here.”

She contemplated hurling herself at him, clawing his face, ripping out clumps of his hair, but it wouldn’t change anything—he wasn’t in charge.

“You!” She spun on Roshian. “If this is just about some trophy, take it! I’ll give you my hair, no favors in return, no questions asked.”

“It is the trophy I want,” Roshian said calmly. “But the trophy means nothing without the hunt.”

He picked up the old rifle, an enormous dark-gray monster that had to weigh twenty pounds, nothing Kindred about it in the slightest.

“Just run already!” Dane hurled his yo-yo at her feet.

She let out a hoarse cry. Her mind kept spinning, trying to find a rational explanation, as Roshian stroked the length of the rifle barrel. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t kill a human. And then he rested a finger on the trigger, and her spinning mind stopped.

Apparently, somehow, he could.

“Only one way to escape the Big Bad Wolf,” said Anya’s voiceless whisper, and for a second, Cora was glad at least she wasn’t alone. “That’s to run.”

Cora’s heart throbbed harder. Anya might think in riddles, but this one wasn’t hard to decipher.

Cora turned and ran.

Heat rose from the ground, turning the artificial savanna into hazy waves. Tall grass. The watering hole. Rolling hills. Not many places to hide, which was exactly how it had been designed.

Behind her came the metallic clicks of a rifle preparing to fire. Back in DC, her father had once dragged her to a shooting range for a political photo op and made her put on ear protection and fire at a person-shaped target. She had hated everything about that dank cement room of sweaty men, but she remembered one thing: it was a lot harder to shoot a moving target.

Her long dress tangled