Hunted (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

I chew on my lip. I don’t know if I want to know who it is, or if I can bear the betrayal. But why should it matter, when they’re just Normals? Normals who almost became friends.

“Caitlyn!”
John sends, more insistent this time.

I sigh and open up to him.
“Did you find the rat?”

“Not yet. But—”

“You’ll tell me as soon as you know?”

“Of course,”
John sends, impatiently.

It’s so familiar, the way he says that to me. We found each other in the Underground years ago. I helped him through some bad times, and he’s helped me. We’ve never met face-to-face, but I consider him one of my closest friends. My family. We have a closeness that Normals can’t even dream of. I know bits of his soul, and he knows mine.

But as close as we are, it’s not the same thing as seeing someone face-to-face. I long to be able to see him, to hug him, to smile and laugh with him, though I know we might never be able to—not in person. He’s on the run almost as much as I am.

32

HUNTED

“Caitlyn,”
John sends again, pulling me back.
“I’ve
found a temporary hideout for you—”

“No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?”
John sounds surprised, worried.

“I mean no. We’ve been relying on the Underground
too much.”

“That’s true, but I’m not just the Underground; I’m
your friend. I didn’t mean you should disconnect from me!

Besides, I personally vetted the safe house workers, and I
haven’t let anyone know who will be staying there—”

“No,”
I send, more firmly this time.
“I trust you more
than anyone else; you know that. But someone still managed to find out where we’ve been staying. I think you’re
right—I need to sever ties for a while. At least until I know
it’s safe.”

“And how will you know that?”

Mentally, I shrug. I can probe every contact I have, see who told who what, as far beneath the surface as I can reach. But it’s hard to trust myself; I didn’t sense the rat.

And neither did John. It has to be someone we know.

“At least tell me where you are,”
John sends.
“Let me
bring you money and supplies.”

“Thanks, but the fewer people who know where we are,
the better. We’re going to lay low for now. Blend in with the
Normals.”

“I don’t like it. But I understand your wanting to fall
off the radar.”
Fury builds in him, twisting and howling like a tornado.
“I can’t believe Normals think they can treat us
like this—hunting us down like animals just because we’re
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Cheryl Rainfield

special. Different from them.”
Pain thrusts through him, sharp as a sword, the metallic smell of fear and blood rising up from his memories. He shoves them away, and I let him. Every Para has horror stories from their past, about Normals who hunted them or hurt their families.
“Maybe
they
should
be afraid that we’re the next evolutionary step,”
he sends passionately.

My dad didn’t believe that. He thought we were all equals. But look where that got him—murdered by the ones he advocated for. Murdered by Normals.

“Then why do you keep blogging for them?”
John sends.
“Why do you keep trying to change their minds?”
I startle—but of course he heard me. I didn’t disconnect.
“Maybe I haven’t completely given up on Normals
like you have. Maybe I believe they can change.”
But I’m not so sure anymore.

“Hey—I work with the ones in the Underground, don’t
I?”

But I know that if he didn’t have to, he wouldn’t. None of us would.

I sigh.
“Listen—I don’t want anyone zeroing in on us,
so I’m going to go.”

I can feel his reluctance. But all he sends is
“Just . . .

promise you’ll connect if you need me?”

“I will. And John . . . if anyone hears from a Daniel—

a Daniel with talent . . .”

“I know.”
John pushes down his impatience, trying not to let me see.
“I’ll tell you immediately.”
I disconnect.

34

HUNTED

I can’t believe I just did that—rejected John’s help. But someone’s been finding out somehow. Maybe there’s a Para who’s been listening in on us. But no. A Para would never betray one of their own. Though a Government Para would.

They do every day.

“Anything I should know about?” Mom asks, setting a bag of granola on the counter.

I raise my eyebrows.

“You got that listening look you get,” she says.

“Nothing important.” How do I tell her that I refused money and a place to stay when we need it so bad?

It was better before Mom shut down her talent. We could never lie to each other before. Never hold anything important back. I wonder how Normals ever trust each other, when they can’t hear each other’s deep truths.

“You going to be okay, not connecting with anyone?” Mom asks.

“Sure.” I shrug.

She looks at me sideways, then gives me a tight, fast hug, not saying anything. She knows me too well. If she had, I might have cried.

Mom clears her throat. “We should look into getting you enrolled in a school.”

“I know, I know.” I sigh. “Blend in with Normals as fast as you can. Never forget they’re watching.” Underground Survival 101.

Mom nods. “And I will look for a job.” 35

CHAPTER 5

I take a long swim before heading off to the school, hoping the peace-bliss will linger with me, but people’s thoughts still slither into my own:

. . . did Michael? . . . run in my stocking . . . damn coffee is cold . . .

I crank up the volume on my MP3 player, letting the white noise fill my brain. It doesn’t help that I haven’t slept, but I never can, not the first few nights in a new place.

The morning sun is hazy, veiled in gauzy clouds, though still warm on my skin. I pass a grimy tattoo parlor, a dollar store, a pawn shop with metal bars across its windows. I tune in and out of people’s thoughts, getting fragments as I pass them, building a sense of the city.

There’s a lot more fear here—more Para-haters than I’m used to—but there are also a lot more Para-supporters.

A blond boy runs past me, his sneakers shuck-shuck-ing against the pavement, shoelaces untied. His glasses bob against his button nose, the way Daniel’s always did when he ran. I grab his arm. “Daniel?”

. . .
get off me!
. . . The boy spins around. “Let go!” 36

HUNTED

It’s not him. Of course it’s not. Daniel wouldn’t be eight anymore. He’d be seventeen, two years older than me.

I let the boy go and back away. “Sorry! So sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Huh!” the boy says, screwing up his lips and arching his neck back like he wants to spit in my face—but his eyes hold pain. He knows, too, what it means to lose someone you love. I turn away, trying not to think of Daniel.

e

I see it again—the mob with their torches and bats, their guns and knives, their faces twisted in hate. Mom pulls us both into the cellar—“Stay here, no matter what happens.” The house shakes—Daniel and I huddle together, our minds locked on each other, trying to block it all out. I scream as Dad’s unchecked cry of pain cuts through me. I run up the stairs and out the door, Daniel running after me, crying at me to come back. I can feel Mom sending calm into the mob, but it’s not enough, just her alone by Dad’s side.

The mob sweeps us up and pushes us along like a river, away from Dad, away from the horrible beating. Daniel clutches my hand. And then a woman with a deep thrum running through her, the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen, her eyes so large they make her look innocent, plucks me out of the crowd, and Daniel with me. She bends down to my level. “You have a gift, don’t you, sweetheart? Something that makes you special.” She holds out her hand. “This is no time to be out. Come with me, and I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

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Cheryl Rainfield

I look up into her face, trusting the kindness she projects. I take her hand. Daniel glares at us. “We don’t know her. And Mom told us not to!”

He clenches my hand, tries to draw me back.

“Your mom told me to come get you both,” the woman says. Daniel looks up at her, and she touches his cheek gently. “I wouldn’t forget you.”

Something about the way she looks at him feels wrong, as if he’s a donut she wants to eat up. I shake myself uneasily.
“Come on!”
I send.
“Let’s go back.”
Daniel ignores me and takes her hand as the mob descends on us, hitting us like a giant wave, pulling me away from them. I lose sight of Daniel. And then suddenly our connection cuts off, like a moth snuffed out by an electric flare.
“Daniel!”
I shriek. No matter how hard I send to him, or how often, he never answers; there’s just this empty void where he is, a void that widens to a chasm when I feel Dad’s last cry.

I shake my head, trying to focus on the present. Daniel is gone.

But I can’t help hoping that somehow, someday, I’ll find him again—through the Underground. For now, it’s just not safe. I push myself farther away from the others until it’s like I’ve got cotton in my brain, or I’ve gone deaf.

I cross my arms protectively over my chest as I walk.

I can’t believe how alone I feel. How lonely, without that constant hum of conversation and connection. I feel so disconnected, like I could die and no one would know or care.

Is this how Normals feel all the time? Is this how Mom feels now I shudder.

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HUNTED

e

The glossy red-and-black ParaWatch poster jeers at me from a pillar, the words as familiar as a playground chant.

PARAS ARE A NATIONAL THREAT! REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR

TO OUR HOTLINE.

I look around casually, feeling outward. No one’s focused on me. I grab a silver marker from my backpack, scrawl two words, then drop the marker back in. The poster now reads, PARAS ARE NOT A NATIONAL THREAT! DON’T

REPORT SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR TO OUR HOTLINE. I walk on, a bounce in my step. Let ParaWatch find
that
.

I shouldn’t take such risks, but someone has to fight back. And it feels good. Man, does it ever feel good.

It’s different from the fighting back I do on my blog.

That feels more educational, more thought out—and safer, at least as long as my anonymizers and firewalls hold, and no one can trace it back to me. This—defacing a poster in daylight—could get me imprisoned, even killed. But still, I can’t stop doing it.

I’m almost at the school; I can feel it in the bright, swirling energy, the chatter, the emotion emanating from the place. It’s like teens amplify their thoughts, with all the feelings and hormones raging inside them. I have to fight extra hard to strain it out.

I’m thankful for the weight of my backpack on my shoulder, for my most precious things tucked inside—my tattered copy of
The Lorax
that Dad used to read me; my dog-eared copy of
Homecoming
that I read with my mom; 39

Cheryl Rainfield

and a photo of Dad, Mom, Daniel, and me, just before everything went bad. Wherever I go, they’re always with me—my turtle shell of a home, portable and heavy with memories.

“Books are your friends,” Dad used to tell me. “They allow you to hope and to dream, but they also help to strengthen your talent. Never forget that.” I read because I love to. Never thought I’d need to strengthen my talents.

Never needed to. Now I wish I’d read more. Maybe it would have given me an edge.

I shift my backpack. I downloaded the local school’s blueprints and studied them after my swim; I know exactly where all the exits are. I doubt they’ll find us so soon, but it’s better to be prepared. Especially if one of the Para-hunters has inside help. And from the blueprints, I know the school has a pool! I’ve got my suit on beneath my clothes, just waiting until I can use it.

The high school is a five-story building made of dark red brick, the color of dried blood. A group of kids cluster on the wide cement steps, laughing with one another, their strutting body language making it clear that they’re the ruling power here. Others surge past them and are swallowed into the dark mouth of the school.

A man in a black suit stands at the top of the stairs, legs splayed in an army stance, hands held behind his stiff back. His balding head glistens in the sun as his marble-hard eyes scrutinize each student. Our gazes lock.

I shiver, goose pimples skittering along my arms. He’s a Para-hater, for sure. I hope he’s not one of my teachers.

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HUNTED

Rich, deep laughter, easy and smooth, rises above the hubbub of noise. It reminds me of Dad—happy and secure.

I turn and eagerly search out the laugher.

He’s standing, head thrown back, full lips curved in a wide-open smile. His skin contrasts with his crisp white shirt. Narrow copper bracelets glint along one of his arms.

He’s so gorgeous, he must already be taken. But it’s his laughter that’s the best. It feels clean and pure, with no hidden malice or cruelty—just joy. I haven’t heard laughter like that in such a long time. It makes me want to laugh with him, to find the world beautiful.

His head comes back up, his eyes snapping open, like he can sense me looking at him, and his brown eyes find mine, right through my dark glasses. Beneath his laughter is a kind of sadness, something wounded, even though it’s held at bay by his cheerfulness. And there’s a goodness in him that I can feel right to his core. He befriends outsiders, people who don’t fit in anywhere else. That’s who he’s laughing with and I can tell they love him for it. He could be part of the in-crowd, but he’s his own person.

His eyes draw me in. The mind-noise around me dampens, peace flooding through me. I’ve never felt so safe in a crowd before. I stare at him. I can’t believe this is happening. I know it’s because of this boy, but I don’t understand it. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.

He smiles at me, a warm smile, and it’s like he’s put his hand over my belly. I reach toward him, hoping he’s one of us—but there’s nothing. No vibration, not even a tingle.

But if he’s not one of us . . .

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Cheryl Rainfield

I look away. The mind-noise comes crashing back like a thunderclap. I don’t know how I could have been drawn to a Normal, or how I could let myself believe there was something special about him. It’s not like we have anything in common.

A girl moves in front of me, blocking my view, her mouth moving, her hands gesturing as she talks.

. . . cute new girl . . . of course she likes Alex . . . everyone does . . . too bad she’s straight . . .

I pull the buds out of my ears, the thoughts around me rising in volume. “Sorry, what?”

“I noticed you’ve got your eye on Alex.”

“Alex?” My cheeks heat up like a sunburn.

“Yeah,” the girl says, nodding toward the boy I was staring at. He’s half turned now, to talk to his friends, but I can see from the way his shoulders are set that he’s as aware of me as I am of him.

What is
wrong
with me? I force my attention back to the girl.

“You’d better be forewarned—he doesn’t date. I mean
never
. You’re better off not even thinking about him.” As if I would. I can’t ever trust a Normal with my secret. So why do I want to? All because of some stupid laugh? I don’t understand why I feel so connected to him, as if he can understand what it’s like being hated. Being hunted for his life.

I look at the girl standing in front of me, watching me so closely. She’s pretty in a tomboy way, with bright green eyes in a slim oval face, her long brown hair held back with an elastic band. Her thoughts are as loud as any Normal’s.

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HUNTED

My fingers itch to pop the buds back into my ears, but I know I can’t get away with it much longer.

“What’re you listening to?” the girl asks, and puts one of the buds to her ears before I can stop her.

She scrunches up her nose. “Static?” I’m tempted to tell her that my MP3 player is broken, but I go for the truth. “It’s white noise,” I say. “Some people use it to relax.” Others use it to drown out noise. Or at least I do. Without it, the city is a twenty-four-hour radio station inside my head.

The girl hands me back my earbud.

Be polite. Gain acceptance. Blend in.
I mentally sigh, then pull the crumpled schedule out of my pocket. “You know where room 311 is? I’ve got English first period.”

“Ohhh, Mr. Arnold. He’s a real jerk.” She purses her lips like she tastes something sour. “I’ve got him first period, too. I’m Rachel.”

“Caitlyn.”

“Come on,” Rachel says, “I’ll show you around.” I glance over my shoulder, but Alex is already gone.

I’m surprised that I feel disappointed.
‘Get a hold of yourself,’
I tell myself firmly. I follow Rachel up the wide cement steps.

The huddle of girls at the top watches us with disdain.

We’re clearly not good enough for them. One girl in particular—a girl with bleached-blond hair who the others keep glancing at, clearly the leader of their pack—radiates with ill will. I commit her face to memory; I need to stay away from her.

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Cheryl Rainfield

“Hey! Whatcha staring at?” the girl says, detaching herself from the group to block my way.

Up close, she smells of expensive perfume and bubble gum. Jealousy, anger, and fear all roil through her.

“I wasn’t—”

“Leave her alone, Becca,” Rachel says.

Becca doesn’t even turn her head, like Rachel doesn’t exist. She glares at me through mosquito-slit eyes. “In this school, there’s us ParaWatch peeps, then there’s the losers too scared to make a stand, and then there’s Para-lovers.

Where do you fit?”

I know what I should answer. I know what I have to do to fit in. But I just can’t do it, not with this bigot. The rage in her is like a disease. “What you call losers, I call free thinkers.”

Becca snorts. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. You’ve got the look.”

Well, she’s got the look of a bully. I tighten my mouth to keep myself from telling her so.

“Listen, I saw you scoping out Alex,” Becca says.

“Lemme give you some friendly advice. You don’t have a chance with him. You’re just new trash, that’s all. Worse than a Para.”
. . . He’s mine! Not yours, girlie . . . Just as
soon as I make him notice me . . .

I break eye contact and step aside to show I don’t want a fight, though I actually want to shove her lips past her teeth. If anyone’s trash, she is.

She blocks me again, sneering. There’s a few like her in every school.

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HUNTED

“Becca, come on. Leave her alone,” Rachel says louder.

“Why do
you
care?” Becca snaps. “Unless you want to get into her pants?” The other girls cackle.

Rachel looks at her feet
. . . . oh god . . . not now . . .
The shame emanating from her is so strong it almost pushes me to the ground.

“Maybe someone would want to get into yours if you were a little nicer,” I say.

Becca smiles, baring her teeth like a wolf about to attack. “You’re new here, bitch, so I’ll let you off this once.

But nobody talks to me like that.”
. . . gonna find some dirt
on you and worse . . . major payback . . .

What happened to my blend-in-with-the-Normals pol-icy? I can’t believe I’m messing it up already.