Out

Chapter 1

Quarantine, 324 Era Vulgaris, Centennial 14th

Crack! I rub a goose-egg welt on my forehead and my head throbs so hard, my eyes pulsate. A feral boy sits hunched, the whites of his eyes glowing around his glassy green corneas. He watches me over one shoulder. The lights from Quarantine in the distance streak towards me like searching lasers. Gradually, the trails of light recede from flares to flickers as the throbbing in my head decreases, and my eyes tune to the dark. The wild desert is vast and rocky, but also soft, as if the rain and winds have smoothed its edges.

I exhale. The wild boy turns toward me fully, appraising me. His hair is a mussed nest of black twigs. The sunken hollows of his face make him appear savage, but I cannot tell if it is thanks to the sharp angles or the subtle twitches of those muscles. He'd be good-looking if his expression was not so severe.

"You are foolish, little thing," he says, crouching down to my level.

"You did hit me," I say. I lean away from his enquiring face, but he persists.

"A mistake." He steps back from me and holds up his hands.

"I will thank you not to touch me again."

"To be fair, you were flirting with me," he says pointing to my hand. I glance down. My fingers are curled around the handle of a small gun. I drop the firearm and step back.

"I do not think I was flirting," I breathe.

His mouth turns up and he grasps the hem of his tunic, revealing a circular welt on his stomach. "Rubber bullets," he says. "It tickled. You were flirting."

I have a startling urge to approach him, to observe the welt, but I hold my ground. This boy knows he is captivating. He demands to be heard.

"I am not flirting with you! Speak nice to me, or do not speak—"

"I speak very nice," he says.

"I mean with respect." I open one eye and scowl at him.

The boy threads his fingers into my hair and yanks. I yelp; tears well in my eyes and I squeeze them shut. He twists his hand. Prickles of pain rush to the top of my head.

"Do not talk down to me," he whispers. The boy pries one of my eyes open and forces me to look at him. "Do you think that I am afraid of you?" His fingers spread around my gullet. He squeezes. My throat constricts and I gasp.

"You shot me. I defended myself. No customs out here, just instinct. 'Yes, sir, Aron,' you say." He presses his cracked lips against my cheek. "Say it."

"Yes," I gasp.

"Yes, who?" He tightens his grip.

"Aron."

He releases my hair and throat, but his hands linger on my face. He takes me in with those glowing eyes, and his hands frame my face. Aron cradles my head against his own and hums into my ear.

"That is my heart song," he says. "She is coaxing you, sweetling."

"I am not your sweetling," I growl.

Aron shoves me away from him. He pulls a crude knife from a sheath lashed around his thigh. "If you are not my sweetling, you got a boy in Arcis?" he demands. "You promised to a city boy?"

"I am not promised to anyone," I say, scrambling to my feet. "We are paired with a compatible mate; we do not trifle with affection the way you all do—"

"You all?' You mean, the Ferals?" he says. "You do not yearn for a mate? What kind of girl are you?" Aron asks. He passes the knife between his fingers.