Larkstorm (3 page)

3

Snow whips over the long, clear barricade, sending flakes drifting down on us as we walk.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget
they’re
on the other side. But not today.

Before the Long Winter, magnificent trees covered this area. Now, instead of towering eucalyptus and acacia, only work crews dot the frozen landscape. Dozens of them
—
all wearing the bright red wristlets of Sensitives
—
labor just on the other side of the barricade, clearing city sidewalks and roads.

With my eyes, I follow the line of the barricade across the wide, open expanse of the Presidio to the Bay. Other than the three guarded checkpoints, the barricade encircles us, keeping
them
out. Or, as Beck jokes, us in.

I touch my wristlet, comforting myself. If one of them broke through the barricade, an alarm would sound. My wristlet would tell me. I have nothing to worry about.

Ahead of me, my housemates trudge along
our
sidewalk, bracing themselves against the cold. I always linger at the back of the group, usually with Beck or Kyra. Sometimes Maz and Ryker join us, but not the other students. Kyra says that we intimidate them with our wit and stunning good looks, but I think they resent Beck and me. Or at least me. No one could dislike Beck if they tried.

But today I’m alone. Kyra stomps ahead with Maz, probably plotting her next indiscretion, and Beck jogs alongside Lina and Ryker. I have no desire to join either of them.

“I can’t wait until I’m out there, hunting down those evil monsters.” The words float back to me on the wind. That must be Emory. He tells anyone who will listen about his desired career choice: Sensitive Enforcer.

It would be a good job for him. He’s strong and smart. And you need to be clever to outwit Sensitives.

Icy wind brushes over my face and I pull my scarf up to my chin. With my teeth, I yank off a glove and fumble with numb fingers to turn up the sound on my wristlet. The music matches the swirling snow pattern
—
swaying and floating in rhythm as if conducting it. With each beat, the flakes skip to the side instead of falling downward. And when I turn, the snow follows my movements.

At least, I think it moved with me.

I swish my hand back and forth. The snow glides from side to side softly, as if being rocked. How...strange.

The rational side of my brain says I should be concerned. We had a delay request because of Sensitive activity in the area and dancing snow isn’t normal. But the pretend feeling of control over something so powerful delights me. Besides, I’m inside the barricade, and I have my wristlet. And I’ve never heard “dancing snow” being in the realm of Sensitive abilities
—
it must be the wind.

 
For fun, I open and close my fist quickly, and once again the floating snow changes. This time
it’s
a small pulsing, whirling cyclone.

The rhythmic drumming of one song segues into the haunting melody of another. The cyclone sputters out and a familiar melancholy descends. I look up and watch my group pull further and further away from me. I wish everything could stay like this forever
—
the stillness, my school, the predictability. Lately, talk of graduation and our upcoming bindings consumes everyone.

I’m excited about the future, but things are changing. I’ll never be able to get back this moment. Almost as if in response to my mood, the snow stops dancing and falls listlessly from the sky.

“Heya, Birdie, you wanna hurry up a bit? If you haven’t noticed, it’s cold.” Beck waves his gloveless hands in front of me. “Daydreaming again?”

I shake my head. “Did you see that? The snow?”

“What? The snow devil?” His dimple deepens when he grins. “Yeah, it seemed like it was following you.”

“It did, didn’t it?”

He winks. “That’s my Birdie, master of the elements.” He scoops up a handful of snow with his bare hand and tosses it at me. I step to the side and the snow narrowly misses me.

Beck blows on his cold, wet hand and makes puppy eyes at me. I consider giving him grief for throwing the snow at me, but instead, I reach for him. “Give me your hand, Mr. I-Crave-Heat.” I push our joined hands into my pocket. Despite his claim of being cold, his warmth radiates through my glove.

He gives my hand a small squeeze and motions to my wristlet. “Can I share?”

I hit a button, beaming the sound into his feed, and turn up the music. He sings a few lines of the refrain while performing some weird dance move. Beck drags me along after him. I laugh and shove him with my free hand. We stumble, tripping over each other’s feet, but Beck catches me before I fall.

“Nutter,” I gasp between laughs.

“You mean that wasn’t an elaborate excuse to get me to wrap my arms around you?” I know he’s joking, but heat flares across my face. Thank God I’m probably already rosy from the cold.

“You are so bizarre sometimes,” I say as I right myself.

He bows and then shoves his hand back into my pocket.

Around us, the snow dances and sways again. We walk on a few more minutes, Beck leaning into me so that his hand stays connected to mine.

When we were younger, I was taller, stronger and faster than him. I protected Beck from the older kids, the ones who picked on anyone smaller than them and, in exchange, he made me laugh. Now, standing here next to him, it’s hard to believe. He’s a good foot taller than me and no longer a scrawny kid
—
he’s all muscle.

 
Beck may not need my protection anymore, but I still need him to make me laugh.

The school appears in the distance when we round the next turn. It’s a stately old brick building with sweeping views of the barren hills and the sparkling bay. According to our history texts, a large bridge used to span the gap where the bay meets the ocean. But it’s been gone for at least fifty years after having fallen into disuse maybe seventy-five years prior, when private cars were outlawed by the State in an attempt to restore our society’s fragile ecosystem.

“You know, Be
–
,”

My wristlet chirps.

My wristlet chirped.

Beck’s eyes meet mine and I know he heard it too. His head whips around, surveying the empty landscape around us. In the distance, our classmates appear as nothing more than dots bouncing through the snow. They’re too far away. Too far. Why didn’t Beck and I keep up?

A woman’s voice breaks over the music feed. “Lark, take shelter immediately.”

This is not a drill. A Sensitive is near.

Beck, having heard the same message, pulls me after him. I move my head wildly, trying to find a place, somewhere to conceal ourselves, but we’re surrounded by miles of white.

And possibly Sensitives.

We bolt toward the school, my feet slipping as we go, slowing us down. Why did I wear such impractical shoes?

The woman’s voice repeats her message. “Take shelter immediately.”

Somehow, over my heartbeat, I hear a faint rustling sound behind us.

My feet no longer touch the ground. I’m laying face down in the snow, Beck’s body completely over mine. I can’t breathe.

I struggle under him, fighting my way up. He pushes me down and whispers, “Do not move. They’re coming this way.”

The crunch of snow. Steady walking toward Beck and I. His arm tightens around me and his tense body coils, prepared to fight if necessary.

He can’t fight them. We’re not trained. Our best chance is hiding and praying they don’t see us.

“Come out, come out wherever you are. We know you’re here,” a man’s voice sing-songs.

I fumble with my wristlet, trying to find the alarm feature with my frozen fingers.

Why aren’t the school security alarms sounding?

Beck’s fingers wrap around my wristlet. At first, I think he’s going to sound the alarm button, but he does nothing. His rapid breathing fills my ears.

“Come now. This is no way to play.” The man’s voice is so clear, he must be on the other side of the small hill Beck and I have hidden behind.

“Our footprints,” Beck mumbles. “He sees our footprints.”

My body shakes, not from cold, but fear. If he catches us…I press my eyes shut and swallow my scream. Around us, the snow whirls, frantic like the beat of my heart.

Suddenly, I no longer feel the pressure of Beck against my back. He stands on top of the hill, fully exposed.

“What are you doing?” I cry.

Beck keeps his attention focused on what he sees before him.

“Looking for me?” he asks. He sounds calm
—
not like he’s facing down our greatest threat.

Why would they be looking for him?

My feet slip as I climb the slight incline and I use my hands to steady myself. When I reach the top, Beck positions himself between me and the dozen Sensitives standing below us. My eyes instinctively flit to their wrists
—
all bare. The State hasn’t caught them yet.

Beck reaches behind himself to hold my hand tightly, as if trying to absorb my trembling.

To my surprise, the ragged group doesn’t attack. They watch Beck and I with confusion, their eyes darting between the two of us and our enjoined hands.

From the back of the group, a disheveled woman steps forward. She lifts her arm, points at us
—
me. She’s pointing at me.

“I know who you are.” Her crazy eyes gleam. “I know.”

A silent scream lodges in my throat. Of course she does. I’m Malin Greene’s daughter; the direct female descendant of Caitlyn Greene, one of the Founders of the State and the reason Sensitives are hunted.

Everyone knows who I am.

And Sens
it
i
ves hate me and my family more than any other.

My heart whirls as my fear gives way to anger.

Beck’s fingers release mine and travel to my wristlet. He pushes the alarm button, the one I couldn’t find earlier with my numb fingers.

A loud wail fills the air. Sirens. The barricade hums to life, lighting up. In the near-distance, security guards rush toward us.

“We will be free!” the crazed woman shouts. “You can’t stop us!”

I angrily raise my hand to tell them to leave us alone, that there’s no hope for them. They’re caught.

An impossibly blinding white light flashes. Beck screams, “No!” and throws me to the ground again, forcing my gaze away from the Sensitives, toward the distant bay.

“No. No. No. Please,” Beck whispers.

There’s no sound from the bottom of the hill.

4

Two hours later, as I sit in the Headmaster’s office with Beck, my heart still pounds loudly. Waiting isn’t helping my nerves.

When Security reached us, Beck scooped me up like rag doll
—
not like the girl who out wrestled him earlier in the morning
—
and carried me, against my protests, to the school.

“No, Birdie,” he said when I struggled. “Don’t look.”

But I did. I saw the broken bodies littering the snow. Dead. Every one of them.

Relief welled in my heart. Because it was them and not us. Not Beck. Not me. Just vile Sensitives.

In Beck’s arms, I muttered words of thanks
.
Security did their job so efficiently.

We marched across the snow, a guard on each side, and entered the silent school. Every student, except us, had taken shelter in a secure room until the all-clear signal sounded.

Now everyone’s back in class, and Beck and I are still waiting to be excused. I check my wristlet. If they don’t hurry up, we’re going to miss our assessment.

“We’re fine. Why can’t we go?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” Beck squeezes my hand, the one he hasn’t let go of since we stood on the hill together.

Silence surrounds us. We’ve used up all our words giving statements to the security detail. Next to me, Beck’s body goes rigid and he crushes my fingers.

“Ow!”

He swivels in his chair so that he’s facing the door. His eyes narrow and his hand no longer grasps mine. He tilts his head to the side as if listening to something. Curious, I follow his gaze.

The door swings open and a woman sweeps in, followed by a tall man with a hat pulled low, concealing his face.

She’s beautiful. Her raven hair falls in soft waves and contrasts with her long, cream coat. Her naturally red lips draw into a warm, welcoming smile, and it’s then that I recognize her. Annalise, my sister-in-law.

“Callum,” Beck whispers with a hint of disdain when my brother removes his hat. He and Callum have never gotten along. When we were little, Callum searched us out during our few home visits and harassed Beck.

My brother wears his blond hair longer than I remember, more in style for a Statesman than a schoolboy.

I stand to greet my family, but Beck bristles and hesitates. A million anxious pressure points build in my chest, pushing outward until they crawl over my skin like little spiders. Something’s wrong.

“Lark. Sister. How are you, my dear?” Tension rolls through my body as Callum clutches me to his chest, hard. His embrace is more like a strangling.

Annalise touches Callum’s arm. “That’s enough, darling. Poor Lark can barely breathe. You surely don’t want to hurt a future Stateswoman, do you?”

He releases me with a gentle peck on the cheek and steps back. The pressure in my chest subsides and my heart slows.

“Lark, darling, you look well considering what you went through.” Annalise’s

voice is soft and musical. She kisses me once on each cheek, in the manner of the State. When she extends the customary greeting to Beck
—
who now stands at my side
—
he recoils, refusing to let her touch him.

I glare at Beck, my hands on my hips. I know he and Callum haven’t always gotten along, but his behavior is ridiculous. I slide next to him and nudge him forward, but he plants his feet and refuses to move.

“Are you okay?” I ask. Maybe the shock of the attack has confused him. “Should I call the healer?”

He continues to stand tense with his head tilted as if trying to hear a far off sound. “I’m fine.”

Then what is he doing? This isn’t the time or place for old childhood rivalries. I’m going to have to make a good impression for the both of us. My words take on the formal State tone. “Did Mother send you?”

A slight forward shift from Callum causes Beck to grip my arm. He subtly repositions his body so he’s between Callum and me. Callum responds to Beck’s oddly protective posture by softening his stance.

Annalise flashes a pretty smile at me, as if she doesn’t notice Beck and Callum’s odd body language. “She sent Callum, of course, to make sure you were unharmed. But my State job is safety. Specifically ensuring the safety of top officials
—
like Malin
—
and our Society’s schools.” She unbuttons her coat and sets it on a nearby coat rack. “I’ve been tasked with discovering how this breach happened and ensuring it doesn’t reoccur.”

“Really?” I ask. With her perfectly manicured nails and silky black hair, Annalise looks more like a painting than a security guard.

“Really.”

“You didn’t do a very good job, did you?” Beck clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Lark could have been killed.”

Not ‘we,’ but ‘Lark’.

Annalise removes a small tablet from her satchel and taps on it. “Let’s see. According to my report, you exposed your position to the Sensitives. Is that correct?”

Beck glares at her and wraps his arm around my waist protectively. Tension ripples off his body. Even through my layers of clothing, I’m positive I feel waves of heat radiating from him.

“The security system failed. I was trying to distract them from Lark. She
was hidden
until
she
decided to climb the hill.” My heart races inexplicably, as if afraid. I fold myself into Beck’s side. This is my brother and sister-in-law
—
I know we haven’t always gotten along, but what’s there to be frightened of?

Annalise’s lips form a hard frown. But it’s the movement of her hands I find strange
—
they appear to quiver. “You have no training in Sensitive enforcement and your first thought wasn’t to stay hidden. It was stand on a hill and show yourself. I find that very interesting.”

Her deep blue eyes dart back and forth between Beck and I as if waiting for an attack. Beck wraps his other arm around me, so he’s more or less hugging me now. Annalise clenches her teeth briefly before disguising it with a bright smile.

Are you looking for me?
Isn’t that what he said when he faced them? My mind whirls, sorting through what I saw, heard and know. Something isn’t right.

“My first, my only thought, is always to protect Lark.”

Protect me? What is he talking about? He needs protecting as much as I do. Like Callum, we’re all direct descendants of Founders
—
and under constant threat.

Without any attempt at subtlety, Beck moves his body so that I’m now standing behind him.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I jockey to get around him, but he holds me back. I’ve never doubted Beck before, but this is ridiculous.

In response, Annalise throws her head back like those girls in the movies and lets out a melodic laugh. It’s eerily out of place with the tone of our conversation. “Protect Lark? That’s what you call what you did? You lead them right to her.”

I don’t understand what’s happening. Is she accusing Beck of something? Of helping Sensitives attack me?

I peer around Beck, suddenly feeling small. Callum fidgets with his wrap, clearly agitated, but it’s Annalise who looks furious. Lethal even.

Anger boils inside me.

“Annalise, what exactly are you trying to say?” I clip my words and step around Beck.

Shock flits across her face. “I’m sorry, Lark. Have I offended you? I’d think you, of all people, would want to get to the bottom of this. Especially since it appears they were looking for you.”

“No, of course not.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want her, or whomever she reports to, to think I’m argumentative.

Looking for me?
Beck had asked. I shake my head and ball my fists into my thighs. No. They wanted me. The daughter of Malin Greene
—
the Sensitive hunter
—
the one responsible for increased labor groups and a crack-down on their freedoms. And Beck offered himself instead.

Annalise slips the screen back into her satchel with a swift movement. “I have everything I need.”

Callum offers his arm to his wife. “Annalise, shall we?”

She removes her coat from its hook and places her hand lightly on his arm. Her hard eyes drill into me, but she smiles sweetly. “Goodbye, Lark. We’ll see you again soon, I’m sure of it.”

Callum tips his hat before placing it back on his head and then they’re gone, gliding out into the hallway, leaving behind a mess of confusion and suspicion. Do Annalise and Callum think Beck
wanted
the Sens
iti
ves to find me? That’s impossible.

I spin on Beck. “
What
was that?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he stares out into the hallway, head tilted toward the spot where Callum and Annalise disappeared.

“Beck,” I huff. “Are you listening to me?”

Fear flashes through his olive eyes. He searches my face for a moment as if trying to register what I said.

“C’mon, Birdie. We have assessments to take.” He bends down, picks up my bag and hands it to me.

“The
H
eadmaster hasn’t excused us. We can’t go yet.”

“I don’t think it matters anymore.”