Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,20

His voice is full of bitter sarcasm. “They don’t get to see all the violence on this side of the wall, so they make their own.”

“Don’t sell me to the black market,” I whisper.

“I have until Sunday to decide.” He gives the meat a little shake, letting grease splatter off it.

“Sunday?”

“The only day of the week they open the wall. So if you can manage to keep yourself alive for five days …”

He whips his head to the side, swinging his brown bangs from his forehead, and makes eye contact. Years melt from his face, and I see him how he used to be, fuller cheeks, no scruff on his chin, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. His eyes narrow, dark lashes framing bright green irises, and I realize my mistake. He’s not Duncan, the guy I watched make out with his girlfriend on the porch swing. It’s Duncan’s younger brother, Dreyden. Dreyden Bowen.

We were the same grade in school. He was the boy who always teased me about playing the piano and threw snowballs at me when we walked home from school. But something’s so wrong with how he looks now that I almost don’t believe my own memory. Because … He’s a …

Man.

Which means that I should be a—

Panic overwhelms my better judgment, and my entire body starts to tremble. “How old are you, Dr—” I snap my mouth shut, cringing at the near mistake of saying his first name.

He tilts his head to the side and studies me with his vibrant eyes, looking at me like I’m a freak, like my skin has turned green and is covered with scales.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, my heart hammering my ribs. Does he recognize me?

“You’re so normal,” he says, brow furrowed. “I keep waiting for you to start drooling and bite me, or tear my head from my shoulders with one sound twist, or yank my beating heart out of my chest and eat it. I mean … you’re a Level Ten! I don’t get it!” His gaze lowers. “What happened to your arms?”

I look at my bound arms. “You locked them up?”

“No. Right in the creases above your elbows,” he says. I look at the creases. On both arms, the skin is clouded purple and green.

“I don’t know,” I answer, thinking I should remember how the bruises got there. Bruises form from blood pooling beneath the skin. Getting them must have hurt. I close my eyes and think. And am met by a gray wall of nothing.

“Your neck, too. You have bruises in the shape of hands circling your throat.”

Those I remember. Vividly. “I was attacked in the tunnels.” I open my eyes and swallow. My throat still hurts. “Someone tried to strangle me. Yesterday. I got away. Arrin was attacked too, but she killed the man.”

“Arrin?” he asks, still studying me like I’m liable to explode at any moment.

“The girl who tried to save her brother. You killed her brother. He was only eleven.”

“I didn’t pull the trigger, kid,” he grumbles, picking up the spit. He holds it out to me, an animal the size of my forearm, with a long scaly-looking tail that has been blackened by the fire.

I take it from him and, with my fused arms, attempt to eat. I shove my face against the food, suck the grease from it, and gnaw the flesh from the tiny bones like I am eating corn on the cob. Nothing has ever tasted so good, and I sigh.

Bowen watches me eat with a fascinated frown. When more than half of the meat is gone, he says, “I heard Fecs will eat rat. I just never believed it.” Looking away, he shudders.

Rat. I know the very thought should make my stomach turn, should make me want to vomit. But starvation doesn’t discriminate. And besides, it’s better than wriggling earthworms or a leather belt. Way better.

“They eat worms, too,” I mumble, my mouth full. “The problem is, I’m not a Fec.” I might not remember a lot of things, but I know this.

Chapter 11

By the time the sun sets, my shoulders ache, my neck is cramping, and my head throbs in time with my pulse. I desperately need to move my arms.

“Hey, Bowen,” I say, shrugging my shoulders and rolling my neck.

He looks at me and shivers, though the evening is hot. “You seem so normal,” he says. “How old did you say you are again?”

My brain swirls, trying to remember when