The Culling (The Torch Keeper)

  “Lucian Spark, Sir!” I volunteer, figuring I’ll save her the trouble and speed up the ritual.

  The frost in her eyes tells me I might have exercised a severe lapse in judgment.

  Her brows stretch toward each other. “It surely has been a grueling day. I must be tired. There’s no other explanation for why I imagined this Recruit speaking to me without first being addressed.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir!”

  She palm-slaps her forehead. “It just happened again! I need to get myself checked out by Medical as soon as possible to ascertain whether or not I’m having some kind of breakdown.”

  I’m about to respond, but my teeth decide to prevent my tongue from making the situation worse. Just relax, stare straight ahead but avoid eye contact. Breathe deeper, slower … imagine Cole’s face, not the visage of this scaly reptile in front of me ready to sink its fangs into my self-respect and spit it out.

  “Actually, Recruit,” she drones on, “now that the voices in my head seem to have cleared, I see you aren’t really in need of an introduction after all, considering your memorable performance during the Induction Ceremony.”

  Again my teeth come to my tongue’s rescue. I didn’t hear a question or a direct address, so I continue to stare past this moment to some imagined, undetermined future time when Cole and Mrs. Bledsoe are miraculously waiting for me at home.

  “What’s the matter, Lucian Spark? Does being involved in a plot to overthrow our government render one incapable of forming a complex and cohesive sentence?”

  “Don’t know, Sir.”

  “You don’t know how to form a complex and cohesive sentence?”

  “No, Sir. I was referring to your insinuation that I’m involved in any type of treasonous actions against the Establishment. On this topic, I possess no knowledge whatsoever and can say nothing to help further your assertions except that they are completely invalid.”

  The only rebel around appears to be my tongue. I can’t help myself. It’s worth whatever degradation she plans on inflicting on me if it’ll wipe that smug look off her face, even for just one moment.

  But instead, my little rant just seems to have dangled a slab of meat to her starving sadism. Her lips peel back even further from her glistening teeth, and for a second it looks like her jaw’s about to unhinge to swallow me whole.

  “How arrogant, for someone who barely dodged execution but for the rank sentimentality of our new Prefect. It appears he believes that the scum of society should be given the chance to reform.” She leans in, close to my ear. “I assure you, we Imposers are not quite as gullible.”

  My gut explodes in a burst of anguish generated by her powerful fist. I double over in agony and drop to my knees, waves of nausea and pain alternately slamming into my body. Clutching my burning stomach, I open my mouth, convulsing but only retching up air.

  When I open my flooded eyes, it takes a moment to focus. Why are there two Slades glowering down at me? I shift my gaze to the six Recruits besides her. A few blinks and six become three. But only one isn’t staring straight ahead. Only one is looking directly at me.

  Digory.

  Slade has her back to him and she misses the flash of tenderness on his face—the same look I remember when he nursed me back in that alley, a lifetime ago it seems. Then Digory’s eyes dart to Slade, transforming into angry orbs. I catch a glimpse of a curling fist. He’s about to make another monumental mistake with grave consequences for his life, second only to meeting and befriending me. If he attempts to strike her, the Imp sentries will cut him down before he can get within a few feet of her.

  I force a palm up. “Please … ”

  Though the words are meant for Digory, the satisfied sneer on Slade’s face indicate she thinks they’re a gift to her. Let her relish her false victory, as long as it keeps Digory breathing.

  He stares back at me. I try to channel the power of my words into that soothing blueness, willing him to understand just how much I need him to listen to me right now.

  I’m rewarded with a barely perceptible nod and an un-furling hand.

  My head slumps down in relief this time.

  “So, the traitor has learned a little humility,” Slade croaks. “The first of many lessons to be learned during the Trials. Though I confess, Spark, I’m rooting for your early elimination. The rest of these incompetent Recruits may be an embarrassment to the Establishment, but your ascension and assimilation into the ranks would be nothing short of a travesty.”

  Then Digory starts to move, and I cringe when I think of him throttling her and paying the price. But he moves past her in a flash, instead stooping beside me.

  “What are you doing, Recruit Tycho? No one gave you permission—”

  “He’s hurt, Sir!”

  And without waiting for her to continue, he takes me in his arms and lifts me to my feet, making sure I can stand on my own before he lets go.

  The loud clicks of the sentries’ weapons being locked and loaded shatters the tense quiet. In a flash, their guns are trained on us, ready to fire .

  Twelve

  The longest seconds of my life pass, without any blinks or breaths …

  Despite my lingering nausea, I shift my stance and lock my feet firmly in place. My whole body is tense, waiting for the impact of the bullets to rip me apart. I wonder if it’ll be over quick, or if I’ll feel the burning in my guts as I’m torn inside out?

  Digory moves from behind to stand beside me, one of his shoulders shielding half my body.

  Finally, Slade gestures to the sentinels. “Stand down.”

  The Imps lower their weapons but hold their position. Digory gives my shoulders a final squeeze, then resumes his place in the formation.

  I set the breath I’ve been holding free.

  Slade stares Digory down. “Thank you, Recruit Tycho. Your generous assistance has provided me and the other Recruits with much valuable insight.”

  A test. It was all a test designed to expose any attachments among the Recruits, affecting everyone’s strategies and alliances in the upcoming Trials. Digory and I might as well have paraded naked for everyone to see.

  Gideon shoots me a suspicious what was that all about look and turns away. Perhaps he’s already rethinking our deal. From what I can see of Cypress, her cocky expression would suggest she’s already emerged first at the Trials and is preparing her acceptance speech. As for Slade, you can see the wheels and gears turning on her face, measuring just how long it’s going to take to twist this rare glimpse of compassion to her own ends.

  That settles it. I’m going to have to work doubly hard to convince everyone that Digory and I mean nothing to each other. We can’t. Not if either of us stands a chance of making it through this thing with as little scathing as possible.

  Slade resumes her place front and center. “Five Recruits selected for the Trials, but only four present.” She pulls a printed form out of her jacket pocket and eyes it eagerly. “That would make our deserter—”

  “Ophelia Juniper here! I mean, present!” calls a voice that seems more suited to a squealing child. She practically skips, then trots, to the spot next to Cypress. Cypress doesn’t bother to conceal a snort.

  Thinking better of her decision, Ophelia dashes past Cypress to my end of the line, her hair bouncing all the way, her eyes wide. One look at Slade and I can’t help but think that Ophelia reminds me of the prospective mate of a black widow spider, trembling from excitement over the empty promise of married life.

  “Ophelia Juniper reporting for duty!” she proclaims. “Oh, you already know that. I mean that my name’s Ophelia.” She giggles, her hand pressed to her chest. “I’m sooo sorry I’m late. I have this habit of getting lost all the time. I must have taken a couple of wrong turns and ended up in the mess hall. Terrible sense of direction, ever since I was five. Mother thinks it’s that bout of … ” H
er hand twists one of her curls over her ear. “Well, I was ill, you see, and my inner ear … my balance was very much affected … but here I am. I made it!”

  Slade lets the quiet linger like a no-longer-welcomed guest. She wants us to squirm at the oblivious Ophelia’s expense. Despite my resolve to stay strong, I can’t help but feel sorry for this innocent girl and fear for what penalty the sergeant will inflict on her.

  Slade approaches Ophelia with a smile. “You did make it. How fortunate for all of us here. We were so worried about you.” She reaches out and caresses Ophelia’s curls. “You have such pretty hair. I trust the accommodations have been to your liking?”

  Ophelia’s laugh is coated in nerves. “Well, my cabin on the boat we came on was a lot bigger than my room back home.”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her hold still. Her eyes go vacant for a moment, as if she’s searching for a memory to warm the emptiness, a look that’s reflected on the faces of the rest of the Recruits. If anyone ever told me I’d long for the rat-infested hovel I share with Cole, I’d have thought they’d inhaled too many toxic fumes … I guess a home isn’t really measured by the flaking plaster or invading rodents, but rather if there’s someone there who actually gives a damn if you return each day in spite of those things.

  Slade’s tongues slithers across her lips. “Recruit Juniper?”

  I lean toward Ophelia. “You okay?” I whisper, which has got to be the most inept question ever.

  Ophelia returns from whatever refuge beckoned beyond her eyes. It’s like someone has switched on an automaton. She blinks a few times, her lips forming into a smile. “Too bad I didn’t have one of those porthole things in my cabin to see where we were going, though.” She cocks her head toward me and a conspiring hand cups the side of her mouth. “Not that I’d have any idea anyway.” Another anxious giggle. “But it was nice having some stew. I can’t remember the last time I ate something other than a ration bar. Thank you so much!”

  The grin on Slade’s face stretches so wide I’m expecting her lips to tear apart. “Actually, I wanted to thank you!”

  My stomach muscles clench.

  Ophelia presses the tips of her fingers to her chest. “Thank me? For what?”

  An invisible hand wipes away the grin on Slade’s face. “For providing a lesson on the importance of punctuality.”

  The hand caressing Ophelia’s curls balls into a fist.

  “Owwww!!” Ophelia’s hands reach up to grasp Slade’s, but the Imp is too strong for her. “Please, stop! You’re hurting me! Ah!”

  “Am I, dear? I’ve got just the remedy to ease your pain.” Slade’s free hand digs into her tunic pocket, producing a flash of silver.

  The sight of the blade glues me in place. This can’t be happening. This pathetic girl hasn’t done a thing except get lost.

  Slade holds the knife directly in front of Ophelia’s horrified face, allowing her to memorize every single notch on its cutting edge. Then, dragging Ophelia by the hair, Slade dumps her at Cypress’s feet. “Will you try to prevent me from teaching this slacker a lesson, Recruit Goslin?”

  Ophelia reaches out and wraps a hand around Cypress’s ankle. “Please! Don’t let her … please … help … !”

  Cypress never looks at her. Instead, she just kicks Ophelia’s hand away as if she’s a pesky rat. “I will not try and help her, Sir!” Her reply is almost drowned out by Ophelia’s shrieks.

  Slade smiles. “Very good, Goslin!” Then she grips Ophelia’s hair once again, yanks her to her feet, and pulls her in front of Digory. “What about you, Tycho? Are you going to try and help her?”

  Digory stares straight ahead, but unlike Cypress, his face is twitching. His forehead looks slick, his eyes squeezing shut with each piercing shriek.

  “I … I … ” He bows his head.

  “Help … me … ” Ophelia is squealing now.

  “Speak up, Tycho!” Slade hisses. “Are you going to try to stop me from meting out justice, or not?”

  His looks up, taking her in.

  Ophelia reaches out to him. “Please … ”

  “I … I … can’t.” He turns away.

  “I’ll take that as a no, Recruit.” Slade grins. “Interesting that you had no qualms about coming to Spark’s assistance.” Ignoring the bloody claw marks on her hand, Slade heaves Ophelia to Gideon’s feet.

  “I won’t help her, Sir!” Gideon practically screams before Slade can even pose the question. He’s obviously trying to get this torment over with as soon as possible, not that I blame him. Except now it shifts the terrible burden onto me.

  Slade hauls Ophelia right in front of me. Her feet drop out from under her, but Slade still holds her aloft by the hair. “No! Please … no!” Her legs flail, her body racked by sobs. Her eyes meet mine, pleading. “Help me. Please don’t let her kill me!”

  Then it’s not her face but the guy in that alley, screaming as he was being torn apart while I did nothing. Nothing except turn away and flee.

  My foot inches forward.

  “Are you going to help her, Recruit Spark?” Slade bellows at the top of her lungs.

  Ophelia reaches out a bloodied hand. “I know you won’t let me die. You’re not like the others. You’re good … ”

  “Please. Don’t say that,” I whisper, more to myself.

  Slade presses the glistening blade to the girl’s throat. “Answer, Recruit Spark! Help or not?”

  My eyes trace the tears streaming down Ophelia’s face. “Don’t make me do this … ”

  The point of the blade pricks the girl’s skin, drawing a drop of blood that knits like a poisoned thread across her throat.

  “I beg you!” Ophelia’s voice quivers.

  Spasms wrack my body. Could I be quick enough to knock the knife out of Slade’s hand before it finds its mark?

  The blade digs in deeper …

  “I don’t want to die,” Ophelia blubbers. “I want to see my mama … ”

  And now it’s Cole’s face I see, reaching out to me, crying, begging me to save his life …

  There’s only one thing I can do.

  “No!” I shriek, drowning out Ophelia’s screams. “I won’t help you! I won’t help you!” I scream the words over and over again, my hands over my ears, my eyes closed, snuffing out any trace of this girl before she tempts me into sending my brother to his doom.

  My throat starts to burn, and I think Slade’s blade has turned on me until I realize it’s just the strain I’ve inflicted on my vocal cords. I stop yelling, clearing my throat. Before I can stop myself, my eyes flicker open.

  Just in time to see Slade’s hand slicing the blade—across Ophelia’s hair. She saws into the curls, pulling, ripping the hair away, hacking away at the girl’s scalp until there’s nothing left but ragged patches clumped unevenly around the skull. When she’s done with the last cluster, she throws Ophelia to the ground.

  The girl’s cheek smacks the floor, her face buried in a cushion of her former curls that barely deadened the sound of the impact. She reaches out a blood-smeared hand, groping the deforestation of hair surrounding her. Grabbing a cluster, she examines it with her one visible eye, as if trying to make sense of why it’s no longer on her head. Then that eye turns to me. But it might as well be an index finger pointing right at me, rigid, unforgiving.

  I try to look away but I can’t, held captive by the unspoken questions that Ophelia stares at me. There’s one that hammers into my brain, over and over again, as if her lips are pressed to my ear and she’s screaming it at the top of her lungs.

  Why?

  “Cole,” I whisper. I can’t tell if she hears me, but if she does, it’s an answer that doesn’t satisfy that unblinking eye. Stop staring at me. There was nothing I could do, I think at her desperately. My fists curl, but I still can’t break contact with that loathsome eye. All I want
to do is gouge it out of its socket and grind it to pulp beneath my boot, anything to make it stop. Anything to smother the evidence of my cowardice.

  I breathe in deep. I have to keep myself together. If this is how unraveled I’m feeling now, before the Trials have even begun, I can’t imagine what it’ll be like when we’re forced—when we have to choose which one of the people we love—

  Slade stoops and pulls Ophelia to her feet, breaking the eye’s hold on me. She’s not as brutal as she was a few minutes ago, brushing some strands from Ophelia’s face and shoulders. Does the monster have an ounce of compassion? No. This must be just another one of her sick games, designed to keep us off balance.

  “A valuable lesson has been learned here,” Slade says smoothly. She prods Ophelia toward the center of the line so she can get a better look at all of us. “Take a good look at these four faces, Recruit Juniper. Not one chose to come to your aid. During the Trials, remember that when the time comes—these four are all prepared to let you and your kin die.”

  After how I fared under the scrutiny of the one eye, I know I’ll be completely defenseless against two. My gaze drops to the floor.

  “And you four Recruits,” Slade continues. “Take a good look at Recruit Juniper. Remember that she could be any one of you.”

  My eyes dart to Gideon, who meets mine for a second before he shifts his stance and looks at the dark monitor. Cypress is staring at Slade, her gaze unflinching, not caring about the rest of us. I can’t bring myself to look Digory’s way, not sure if I’m more concerned about whether or not he’s looking my way than what I’ll see there if he is.

  Slade lets go of Ophelia. “Rejoin your fellow Recruits.”

  Ophelia obeys without a word, moving back to her position beside me. As she passes in front of me, I no longer see fear reflected in that eye, but something even more unsettling.

  Hatred.

  “Now that you know what brand of loyalty you can expect of the others,” Slade continues, “I suggest you get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow morning you begin Initial Entry Training. First Call is at oh five hundred hours, followed by Physical Training at oh five hundred thirty, Breakfast at oh six hundred thirty, and your first day of Basic Pre-Trial Prep Exercises at oh eight hundred thirty.” She walks down the line again, glaring at each one of us. “You have been selected to become Imposers, the best of the best. I don’t tolerate failure. For the next ten weeks until the Trials begin, all of you belong to me. Dismissed!”