I Become Shadow Read online

  Don’t picture the countless nights I spend in the fetal position in absolute agony from the fire. Ignore the seven broken bones and over 300 stitches I get over four long years of my training. Don’t squirm in your seat at the various forms of torture I suffer through. Ignore all of that and see me becoming an absolute beast.

  This montage has officially concluded. Now’s the time we test your memory and see how well you’ve paid attention.

  Milkshake.

  CHAPTER 11

  OUR LITTLE GIRL’S ALL GROWN UP

  I splashed warm water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror, the first I’d seen in four years. My own reflection was still a stranger to me. I hardly recognized the hard, emotionless face that stared back from the glass. It wasn’t the same Hollywood hottie from my montage. It was just me, only older now. The short bangs sticking to my forehead were a surprise at first; then I remembered the decision to cut. It came about a month into my time here when they kept dangling in front of my eyes and screwing with my shooting. A pretty funny reason to cut your hair. I fingered the small scar under my left eye. Thanks for that one Cole. But other than that I looked like an older, thinner version of myself. No more baby pudge, but the freckles were still there. Lord, have they gotten worse?

  I scratched against the hard-shell bandage on my chest. Whenever you got badly hurt the hospital smeared this strange gel on the wound. The gel would seal up the skin and then harden into a protective shell. It allowed you to heal faster and let you keep training without worrying about the wound ripping back open. It didn’t hurt, just itched like crazy.

  When the most recent batch of kids had arrived, I was tasked with trying to make a run for it. The kid who had tried to do it in my year had given them the idea. It had worked so well on us that they did it every year now. But instead of giving me a beating, they shot me. It served as part of my final mark of training, and it terrified the kids into obeying without question.

  It was hard not to smile as the guards dragged my “dead” body past the kids in the hallway. I tried to find someone in the hospital to give some advice to like Katie had done for me, but there was no one. No regular like myself to give a good old pep talk to. Besides, I was only in the hospital for a day before I was brought here.

  I still couldn’t quite believe my new digs. To avoid complete culture shock when we were unleashed into the real world, we spent the time here before we got linked to our FIP. It was a regular apartment, complete with a TV and computer. I was surprised at how little I cared about the TV. I used to obsess over shows. What happened on TV just seemed silly and sad now.

  But oh, how I’d missed music.

  I walked over to the stereo and flipped on the radio. I didn’t care what was on. I stopped at the first station I found. Classic rock. I sat on the couch, which was surprisingly comfy, and closed my eyes as the radio let the Led out. I zoned to the music; yeah, zoning out is still one of my top five things I do. It was no longer accompanied by texting, playing the cello, being annoying, and loving horror movies (with an asterisk). No, its top five companions now included: killing, feeling no pain, the ability to drive anything, and being really sneaky.

  Alone in my new apartment, with no schedule to follow, I stretched out on the couch and let the time pass. After four long years it was a little disorienting to know I had nowhere to be and nothing coming up. I could eat what and when I wanted and sleep as long as I wished. I was free until they assigned me my FIP. And that could take months. Of course I would keep up my training, but for now I could recharge my batteries.

  Of the 313 kids who’d started with me, only 29 of us had made it through to the end. Some had died in various accidents that occurred during training. Big Tom was killed for reasons I’ll probably never understand. Mary, the gerbil-like girl, had crashed a motorcycle going about 180 miles per hour. Others had been shot, some stabbed, and a few were blown up from faulty explosives. And sadly, most had lost the battle with their sanity from the fire and were never seen or heard from again. Of course, they were studied and used in other ways. Waste not, want not, right?

  It was never a pretty sight when someone “turned,” as we survivors called it. Something flipped in their heads. Some kind of wild animal aggression took over and they blindly attacked anyone and anything within reach. The younger the kid, the less damage there was, but when someone older and bigger turned, the damage could be awful.

  I once saw a burly seventeen-year-old kill three guards before being killed. After Tom, I’d been inconsolable. But eventually I became immune to it. It was just another part of training. Their deaths served to teach me how to be better, to be constantly in control. They had been foolish, or too risky. They were weak. But I only half-believed all of that to keep myself from falling apart.

  And lying there on the couch, with the guitars blaring, something strange started to happen. I began to cry. I hadn’t cried in years. Where had this blubbering girl come from? I was a hard-edged killing machine now. Tears were a waste of hydration.

  Not here. Not anymore had been my mantra, carrying me through those endless days and nights. But why not here? I had made it, right? I’d defied the odds and done it, so why not give the armor a true break? So here, finally at the end, I allowed myself to grieve properly. All right, tears. Have at it. And no, the classic rock didn’t help.

  My watery eyes found the large sliding door to the balcony. I could see buildings and a park outside. It had been four years since I’d seen the real world. Watching the trees, real ones, sway in the wind calmed me.

  I got up, walked across the living room, but paused when I reached the sliding glass door. What if the air isn’t as sweet as I remembered it? What if the cool breeze doesn’t feel right? I’d lived on memories for four years, depended on them. What if the real thing couldn’t compare?

  Summoning my courage, I slid the door open. The wind hit my face and I took a deep, intoxicating breath. It tasted like a mixture of dirt and rain. It was better than I had remembered. They should bottle this stuff and sell it. I plopped down into one of the patio chairs. The wind played with my hair, gently tossing it around. I closed my eyes. I could get used to this.

  After a couple hours of being a complete veg, I watched my first sunset in years. Then I got up and headed back inside. I still had goosebumps from the cold that had whipped across the patio as night had fallen.

  Hungry, I went to the kitchen and made a big bowl of scrambled eggs for dinner. I didn’t really have a craving for them, but when I looked in the fully stocked fridge, I realized that eggs were all I knew how to cook. Along with some toast it did the job, but I would definitely be picking up a cookbook when I got out of here.

  I cleaned my plate and put it away. No maid service here. I poked around in the bedroom but found nothing of note. Inside the closet was an assortment of clothes and, no way, JEANS! And T-SHIRTS!!! I stripped off the blacks I was wearing—gone were the yellows; fourth years wore black tracksuits—and slid on the jeans and T-shirt. They were perfectly worn and felt like heaven.

  I found a small library of books in the living room. I almost laughed when I spotted Harry Potter, comfort food for the head. I grabbed the first book in the series, curled up in my bed, and read the familiar words until I fell asleep.

  I HAD PLANNED ON sleeping in, finally, but no dice. Training us to need only four hours of sleep a night was intentional. It was a logical solution when your life revolved around the protection of another. You could fall asleep after they did and wake up before them. Because, aside from us, who in their right mind sleeps less than four hours a night? Crazy people and us, that’s who. To be honest though, there’s only a razor thin line between those two groups when I think about it.

  It was before dawn, but I might as well have breakfast. Whoever had stocked my place knew me well. I found a giant box of Golden Grahams in a cupboard and went to town. As I drank my sugary milk it sent me back to my childhood. Delicious.

  After yesterday’s
complete veg-a-thon, my body was itching for exercise. I hadn’t punched anything, flipped anyone, or fired a weapon in way too long.

  I went to my closet and, I know it sounds silly, got really excited again that I got to choose my own outfit. I began to grab stuff. The options were overwhelming. Keeping it simple, I pulled out a blue tank top and black jogging pants. Oh-so-much comfier than those damn tracksuits. I hurried to the elevator. In the briefing packet, I was told the gyms were on the third floor of the basement. I punched B3 a little too aggressively and slighty cracked the button.

  “Sorry,” I said toward the little camera in the top corner and gave a shrug. “I’m antsy.”

  As I expected, the gym had every kind of weight lifting and fitness machine imaginable. There were also boxing rings, MMA cages, bamboo-floored dojos, weapons training areas, anything and everything you could want. I was a kid in a candy store.

  There were maybe twenty or so people going about their business. Some guy was absolutely demolishing a set of dummies with a wooden samurai sword. He was good, too good. His long brown hair swirled around his face as he moved, obscuring me from a clean look at him, but he looked strangely familiar. If he was still there later I would try to work with him for a bit, but first I felt a good run would warm me up nicely.

  The elevated track that wrapped around the gym was empty and calling my name. And then I saw him. Okay, I heard him first. I would know his laugh anywhere, so when I heard his deep giggle my stomach gave a little jump. Junie! I turned to see him picking himself up after being thrown down by a tiny woman I didn’t recognize.

  Interestingly, he was wearing a blue shirt and black pants like me. Fully upright he brushed his messy blond hair out of his eyes and bowed to the little lady. He towered over her and his wide shoulders blocked her from my view entirely. He had the body of an elite athlete, perfectly chiseled.

  The tiny lady saw me heading toward him, so I quickly raised my finger to my lips and mouthed a silent shhh. Playing along, she pretended to show Junie a throw.

  When I was directly behind him, I wrapped my arm around his neck and flipped him over my hip. I rolled with him onto the ground, landing on top of him, pinning his arms to the ground.

  Our faces ended up inches from each other. He burst into a wide smile he tried to hide.

  “Damnit, Ren.” He struggled, but I kept him pinned easily. “Let me up,” he said, doing his best to sound annoyed.

  “Say it,” I demanded, smiling.

  He smirked and clenched his mouth shut. He struggled harder, but I kept him down easily. To add insult to injury, I lightly slapped his cheek and said again, “Say it.”

  He fought it for a bit more and then burst out laughing. “Please, go.” He looked at me and added, “Happy?”

  “That’s it. That’s your one time.”

  I relaxed—only slightly. It was enough, and with lightning quickness he flipped me over and pinned me to ground. Frustrated by my momentary lapse, I struggled to get away but knew it was hopeless.

  “Say it,” he commanded with a grin.

  Now it was my turn to shake my head and clench my mouth shut.

  He grabbed my arm and slowly torqued it until we both knew it was dangerously close to breaking. It didn’t hurt, of course; I’d been pain-free for months. But mentally we both knew how long a break would take to heal and that they wouldn’t assign you a FIP with a broken bone. It was a pretty serious threat since no one wanted to spend any more time here than necessary.

  “Say it,” he said again and twisted a fraction more threateningly. I shook my head.

  With a sigh he let my arm go and said, “You suck.”

  He helped me up. We shared a brief hug. As always, I fought the feelings that always appeared when that happened. He was warm and safe. Being with him felt right, but it was never to be. We both knew this. We were each other’s family now, our only family. Neither of us wanted anything to change that. So all feelings were locked deep inside and any that escaped were hunted down and forced back in.

  I hadn’t seen him since the day before I was “shot.”

  He pointed at the bandage that was plainly obvious under my tank top and asked, “You okay?”

  I nodded and said, “Yup. They put the gel on it so it’s fine. Itches like crazy though. You?”

  He turned around and pulled up his shirt, showing me a huge two-foot long bandage across his muscled back.

  “What the …” I said as I instinctively reached out. He put his shirt back down and turned back to me.

  “I got to fight him,” he said and pointed to the guy still destroying things with the wooden samurai sword. “He’s even better with a real one. Sliced me across my back then stabbed me through. Didn’t hit any major organs. Dude’s a pro. Isn’t he that Hunter who caught you in the woods on … wait, don’t tell me, you reference that day all the time … day … thirty-fo—?”

  Realizing we were watching him, the samurai guy paused and looked at us. It was him.

  “Twenty-two,” I muttered.

  “Twenty-two! Was just about say that,” he lied.

  I hadn’t really heard him, though. Luka. I’d relived the memory of him and Tom in the woods so many times I was numb to it. But I was no longer that scared little girl. All that memory did now was motivate my anger.

  Completely unaware, Junie waved at Luka goofily. All he got in return was a slight nod of his head. Luka’s eyes flickered back on me for a full three seconds before he went back to his training.

  “Not much of a talker though,” Junie whispered.

  With the moment over, I asked, “Up for a run?”

  Junie hated running and I knew it. Running for running’s sake was way too boring to him. I agreed, but it was the easiest form of exercise.

  He must have missed me as much as I missed him because he said, “Sure.”

  We ended up doing a little more than ten miles. It was a great warm-up. We followed that up with some grappling and fighting. I would miss this the most, this sparring with Junie. It was always an even fight, no matter what we did. Whatever edge Junie gained with his reach and superior power, I was able to cancel out with my quickness and speed. I picked him apart while he tossed me around like a doll. It was, as always, tons of fun.

  Junie was itching to shoot something and wanted to go to the range, so we agreed to split up for an hour and meet in the building’s deli for some lunch. I watched him leave and for the briefest moment wondered if I’d see him again. What if he was called for his link before lunch? What if I was?

  I turned toward the far corner and the wall of knives. I understood Junie’s itch. The blades were calling to me. Their high polish reflected rainbows of light across the training area. About six months into our training I fell in love with the things. They were so much more personal and frightening than guns. Don’t get me wrong, I could hit you square between the eyes, dead to rights, from 500 yards with any gun on the planet, but I didn’t enjoy it. If I was going to kill someone, I wanted them to know I had done it; Ren Sharpe had killed them. It was more than a formality thing in my eyes. It was courtesy. A matter of honor.

  I grabbed a curved eight-inch knife from the wall and began to wield it. Playing with it in my hand, doing tricks to learn the weight of it. When you fought with a knife it was more dancing than fighting, and maybe that’s why I enjoyed it so much.

  I spun, flipped, and rolled around the mat imagining the villains as they attacked me. After five straight minutes of practice I stopped to grab a second knife from the wall to practice my double attacks. Then I froze.

  Luka was standing there, watching me.

  “Hello, old friend. You’ve improved since we last met.” For reasons I can’t really explain, his soft, strange voice comforted me. I was glad that he remembered me. “Simple and impressive movement. Do you have a secret?”

  He still spoke with that stiff politeness. I figured why lie and smiled shyly as I said, “I imagine I’m dancing to music.”

&nb
sp; He glanced around, as if to see if anyone were listening, and added, “Me too.”

  I nodded, unsure of what to say.

  “Care to spar?” he asked.

  I gulped. I definitely wanted to spar, if only to show him I wasn’t that skinny little girl with a stick he’d found in the woods. More than that, I wanted to see how I stacked up against a Hunter—correction, the best Hunter. But I didn’t want to get hurt and have my assignment delayed. I had to get out of this place.

  Reading me like a book he smiled and said, “I won’t hurt you, I promise. And if by some chance I do, I’ll make sure they know it was my fault. Your departure won’t be delayed by me.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Your weapon?” he asked, looking at the wall.

  I held up the knives. “Got ’em.”

  “Excellent. Now, I want you to try as hard as you can. You will not hold back. Do you swear to this?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “Good.” He put down the wooden sword he’d been using earlier and drew a metal sword from his belt. He held it beside him at the ready. We bowed to each other. I twirled the knives in my hands as I waited for him to make the first move.

  In a flash he charged me. I rolled out of the way and sliced at his legs. He slid effortlessly out of the way, and I felt the razors edge of his sword stop at the base of my neck. Holy hell.

  He allowed me to get up before attacking again. This time I lasted all of five seconds, which was still a good three seconds longer than the first time.

  “You are not keeping your promise to me, Ren Sharpe. If you do not keep yours I will not keep mine not to hurt you.” He said this so matter-of-factly I had to believe him. “Try your best, or else.”

  Fine. If he wanted my best shot he’d get it. He charged, and I dodged. I took a swipe at him and barely missed. I ducked, jumped, and blocked countless swings. He was unrelenting. After I blocked one aggressive swing, I took the offensive and began to weave and spin at him. He backpedaled, avoiding my swipes. I lunged with my right hand, knowing he’d dodge it, and used my momentum to do a spin kick that hit him square in the jaw. I kept spinning, cutting him across his chest with my left knife and swinging my right at his neck.