Slip (The Slip Trilogy Book 1) (35 page)

“Want me to do it?” Luce asks.

Benson sighs. “I’m his best friend—I should do it. And anyway, I think it would be much worse coming from you.”

“Why?”

“Because he’ll need someone to hit, and he can’t hit you.”

“Maybe you should wear a helmet,” Luce says. Although it sounds like she is, he knows she’s not joking.

~~~

Article from the Saint Louis Times:

Is Refuge Real?

With the disappearance of the Saint Louis Slip, talk has escalated about a place known simply as Refuge. If you believe the rumors, Refuge is a harbor for Slips who manage to escape from the authorities. But is it real or modern-day fiction, the equivalent of Oz or Wonderland? And if it is real, what is Pop Con doing to locate it?

We posed those very questions to Mayor Strombaugh, of Saint Louis, and this was his response: “There is no evidence that suggests this ‘Refuge’ is a real place. The very idea that there are more than a handful of at-large Slips is ludicrous. However, there may be a few Slips out there, hiding together. It’s possible they aided Benson Kelly, and are even now protecting him. If so, we will take every measure possible to find them and terminate them. We’re in the process of appointing a new Head of Population Control, whose first task will be to complete an ongoing mission to follow a current lead.”

When questioned about who might be appointed as Head of Pop Con, the mayor had no comment. He also had no comment about the specific nature of the current investigation.

Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now.
NOTE: All comments are subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.

Comments:

CherryRipe4: Does anyone remember that young cyborg that was hunting the Slip? What ever happened to him? He was gorgeous.

JohnBardo9: Oh yeah, I remember. His name was Domino I think. He was fired from Pop Con the same day Corrigan Mars was. It was all over the news.

CherryRipe4: Domino…ooh, even his name is sexy. Are there any cyborgs out there that want to get a drink tonight?

Chapter Three

F
ifteen percent human.

At first it made Domino Destovan feel sick. At first he thought about how in school they learned how rounding works. Anything fifty percent and higher gets rounded up. Everything else is rounded down. Even as a cyborg, he considered himself human. Because of rounding.

But now rounding would make him a robot. More machine than human. More metal than flesh and blood and organic tissue. When he smashes either of his metal fists into the wall, he doesn’t feel pain. When he walks he can’t feel his own feet on the ground. Because they’re not his feet, are they? They’re spare parts pieced together and wired to his brain.

Ah, his brain! Although apparently they had to reconstruct parts of it using some kind of polymer tubing, it’s still “mostly human.” Those are the doctor’s words, not his. And he can still feel his heart knocking around in his metal chest. That makes him human, right?

More than anything, he knows he’s part human because of the anger. Like a dragon made of fire it roils inside him, bursting through his veins and scorching his heart and pounding against his temples, which are still skin and bone. It’s the kind of complete anger that only a human could have. With each passing day his wrath seems to build—and he knows why.

(The itch is there.)

(To kill.)

(To destroy.)

Yes, the Destroyer knows he must destroy to satisfy his anger. It’s the only way. Killing is the only thing that’s given him any kind of satisfaction since he came back from the war, broken and helpless. But now he’s stronger. Invincible.

And stifled.

He smashes a hole in the rock wall, sending stones crumbling to the floor. “I’m ready!” he shouts. He’s been shouting a lot lately. After the extensive surgeries that made him more machine than man, he can’t seem to control the volume of his voice.

The doctor and nurse back away until they hit the opposite wall. Corrigan Mars doesn’t even flinch. “I know,” Corr says. Compared to the Destroyer, his boss looks old and weak. But he knows he’s not. After all, he’s the one who took down Michael Kelly. And the command in his voice is enough to freeze even the cyborg’s boiling hot blood.

“Then let me find the punks who did this to me!”

“Patience,” Corr says evenly, as if demonstrating the word with the calmness in his voice.

The Destroyer is tired of being patient. The itch is becoming painful and he has to scratch it, one way or another. Corrigan Mars may want to kill the Slip, but the Destroyer doesn’t think his boss would understand his need to kill
anything
. The doctor or nurse would do just fine. He just needs to feel the power again—that fine line between life and death coursing through his fingertips.

Corr’s holo-screen blares to life and he says, “Yes?”

His boss distracted, the Destroyer inches toward the nurse, who eyes him warily. He can almost smell the fear wafting off of her.

“Mr. Mayor, what a pleasure,” Corr says. “The
Times
article? Yes, I read it. Sounds like you’re in need of someone with real Sliphunting experience.”

The Destroyer’s human lips curl into a smile as he fantasizes about what kind of noise the nurse’s neck would make when snapped in half. When he takes another step forward, she glances at the door.

Corr is still talking to the mayor, but the Destroyer can barely hear him now, his attention fully focused on his prey. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor, I’d be honored to do my duty for the city,” Corr says.

Somewhere in the back of Dom’s mind, he registers the beep when Corr ends the call, but nothing can stop him now. He takes a quick step, then another, and the nurse’s eyes widen. She starts to run for the door, but he cuts her off with two long strides. The cowardly doctor shrinks further into the room, abandoning her nurse. She tries to squirm away but his fingers are like a vice on her skin. She screams.

“Stop,” Corr commands.

Dom’s heart is racing, a thrill rushing through every single one of his remaining human parts, but he stops. He stops, not because he wants to, but because he still feels a certain loyalty toward the man who believed in him from the start.

“We don’t need her anymore,” the Destroyer says, hoping against hope that he’ll be able to finish her. She’s sobbing now, and he realizes he’s holding her off the floor, her feet dangling, desperately scrabbling to find purchase.

Corr says, “She helped save
your
life, and now you’re just going to
kill
her?” Twisting his neck to look back, the Destroyer tries to read his boss’s expression. It’s not disgust exactly—more like interest. Morbid curiosity, like a scientist who’s fascinated by a rat that eats its young.

“I have to,” the Destroyer says, trying to explain the need that’s like breathing for him.

“You don’t
have to
do anything,” Corr says. “You are my soldier and you’ll kill who I tell you to kill. Now drop her.”

The rage rushes through him like a flood, tightening his human muscles against his machine parts, and he slings the nurse to the floor, her body thudding viciously on the cement. She cries out, loudly at first, and then whimpering, like a child, clutching an arm that isn’t hanging quite right.

But the Destroyer’s not done. It’s not enough to satiate his need. For the first time in his life, he disobeys a direct order from a superior, leaping on the nurse and raising his fist, ready smash her pretty little features to insignificant hunks of bloodied meat.

The pain hits him like a shockwave, jolting him from head to toe and throwing him away from the nurse. His entire body goes rigid, bolts of lightning stabbing him in the brain, in the heart, in the eyes…

As the horrendous sensation dies out, his vision dims and he’s vaguely aware of the nurse scrambling to her feet and rushing from the room. Corrigan Mars stands over him. He knows it was Mars that caused the pain. Somehow.

“Listen to me, Domino,” Corr says, his words sheathed with ice. “You’re
my
psychopath and you’ll only kill those that
I
tell you to. And if you don’t, I’ll
destroy
you. Do you understand?”

He tries to say
yes
, but his lips won’t move. Instead, he manages a nod.

“Good. Because I’ve just been appointed the new Head of Population Control. And I want you to be my second-in-command. We’ve got a Slip to kill.”

GRIP by David Estes, available NOW!

PART ONE: SALEM’S REVENGE

In the black of night,

’Midst shattered dreams,

Come darkest terrors, once unseen.

Hidden amongst us,

Wielding ancient power,

’Til the wraiths step forward, for the witching hour.

Salem’s Revenge
, Rhett Carter

Chapter One

T
he witches don’t deserve to die.

As I chuck my football cleats in my duffel and zip it shut, my foster mom’s words ring in my head. For months she’s been focused on the whole Salem’s Return debacle. The new laws, the hunt for real, live witches, the executions. And, after the news today, she’s up in arms all over again.

Number of Witches May Stretch into the Thousands
, the headline read.

It almost made me laugh, but I held it in because of the grave expression on my mom’s face. Witches? Come on. There’s no such thing, not in real life anyway. Between the pages of the books I love to read, however, that’s a different story. And that’s where they should stay. All the rest is nothing more than fear, just like it was during the original Salem Witch Trials.

“Bye, Mom!” I shout as I push through the front door, shouldering my backpack and football gear.

“Have a good day, Rhett!” Trudy Smith calls back, but her head never turns, her eyes glued to the continued Salem’s Return news coverage.

The world is a scary place. One big hot mess. While we should be focused on our real problems, like the thousands of homeless living—and starving—on the streets, the ever-rising cost of healthcare, and the ticking time bomb that is the social security system, the lawmakers are focused on…drumroll please…witches. Really?

I weave my way along the familiar path through the Atlanta suburbs, making my way to meet my friends, Beth and Xavier. Well, Xave’s a friend, and Beth—she’s more than a friend. The thought brings a smile to my face, instantly erasing the negative energy from this morning’s news.

On the opposite side of the street, I see a couple of my teammates getting into their car. They glance in my direction, pausing to smirk at me. I’d wave, but I don’t really like them very much—like, at all. Unfortunately, the “mates” part of “teammates” is used loosely in my case. Maybe if I partied more and read fewer books I’d be more popular on the team. But alas, the star quarterback, Todd Logue, has decided to make me the target of ninety-nine percent of his jokes. And these two punks are two of his besties.

So I look away from them and just keep walking, breathing a sigh of relief when they don’t do more than honk obnoxiously at me as they roar past, filling the air with a foul-smelling cloud of fumes.

“This week I decided the school newspaper should discuss Salem’s Return,” Beth says when I meet her and Xavier in front of their neighboring houses.

“Good morning to you, too,” I say, leaning down to sneak in a quick kiss. To my delight, Beth returns it, her lips lingering on mine for three awesome beats of my heart.

“They should outlaw kissing in front of friends,” Xave says, turning away from us and shielding his eyes. My best friend, as usual, looks like he’s heading to some private prep school. Wearing a red and blue sweater vest that perfectly matches his brightly colored belt, he could be the son of a politician or a CEO. Beneath the vest is a spotless white button-down shirt.

“You might not be saying that if you had a boyfriend,” I say, pulling away from Beth.

“Yes, I would,” Xave says, starting down the sidewalk. A carpool full of students zooms past, radio blasting.

“I guess you saw this morning’s news then,” I say, returning to Beth’s initial topic of choice. “So you’re going to write about the revival of the Salem Witch Trials?”

Her big, brown eyes light up the way they always do when she talks about her latest project as editor of the school paper. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve been doing some initial research, and something about it all just doesn’t add up. I don’t think the government is telling us everything.”

“Do they ever?” I say.

“You mean, like a conspiracy?” Xave says, leaning in. He’s always liked a good conspiracy to start the day. I smile, because why not? The sun is shining, I’m with my two best friends, and no one has tried to pick a fight with me today. All in all, it’s a good start to a Wednesday.

“Exactly,” Beth says. “It’s still early on, but I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Correction. You’ll let the whole school know what you find out,” I say.

“No. The whole world!” Xave says, laughing. I try to disguise my own laugh as a cough, but Beth hits me anyway. Although Beth’s articles are only published in print in the school newspaper, she also shares them with the respectable following she’s managed to amass on her collection of favorite social networking sites.

“Laugh all you want, boys, but when I’m running a real paper you’ll learn the true power of the press.” I don’t doubt her words, not for one second.

I rub my shoulder even though her whack was the equivalent of getting hit by a raindrop. “So what do you think they’re holding back?” I ask. “Everyone already knows the witches aren’t really witches.”

“How do you know?” Beth says, firing me a frown. “You read books about witches all the time, and yet you don’t even think they could be real?”

“That’s fiction,” I say.

“Seems like half of what’s in old science fiction books has been coming true for years.”

“Yeah, but that’s grounded in reality. In science. Now we’re talking fantasy. Magic. Not. Real.” We make another turn, which seems to prove my point. More nondescript cookie-cutter houses line another cookie-cutter street in suburbia. One of a million such neighborhoods across the country that have many things in common—including no real witches.

“Anyway,” Beth says, “it doesn’t matter whether they’re real witches or not, they’re being murdered for nothing other than existing. It’s not right.”

“Now that I agree with,” I say. “I can’t wait to read everything you find out.”

My comment draws a smile from my girlfriend, which I much prefer to the glares she’s been giving me for the last few minutes. She wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into her side.

“Well, I know one thing,” Xave says, “if I ever come across a male witch, I won’t turn him in—I’ll ask for his number. Witches are hot.”

“There’s no such thing as male witches,” I say.

“Always gotta be a know-it-all,” Xave says. “I meant warlocks, or wizards, or whatever Harry Potter is.”

“You’ve got a crush on Harry Potter?” Beth says, raising her eyebrows.

“Not Harry specifically, although when he fires a curse it definitely gets my heart pumping. More like Draco Malfoy. Now he’s a stud.”

“You always preferred the bad boys,” I note.

Beth chuckles, and Xave says, “True. At least I’d know what to do if I came face to face with a witch. You two would be hopeless. Beth would probably ask for an interview, and Rhett here would either freeze up or run away screaming.”

Ever since I met Xavier in the foster system when we were five, he’s been like a brother to me. And, like a brother, he knows me all too well. He’s fought for me at least a dozen times, while it’s always been my preference to use words—rather than fists—as my weapon of choice. I owe him more than I can ever repay.

So I don’t even mind the insult, not when I can feel the warmth of Beth’s body seeping through our clothes. The school comes into view and I let out a silent groan. I squeeze Beth one more time and then head toward the opposite end of campus, to the athletic locker rooms. I have to stow my football gear before I make my way to class.

“See you guys later,” I say, still thinking about what Beth said about witches being real.

~~~

Football practice. Although I don’t mind sports, I’d rather be hanging with Xave and Beth than smashing into sweaty guys. However, according to my foster father, my height, build, and athletic abilities make football my best shot at a college scholarship. I’m taller than most guys on the team, and when I wear contacts Beth says I
almost
look like a football player. But I know she prefers me with glasses—we’re two nerds in a pod. Xave says we’re a cute couple because we’re opposites in so many ways. Her brown eyes are light; mine are dark. She’s petite; I’m, well, not. Her nose is small, like a button; according to Xave, mine is too big, although Beth says it’s cute.

So here I am, on the sidelines, waiting for Coach to arrive, thankful that my dark skin isn’t particularly sensitive to the hot Georgia sun.

“
Jacob’s search for true love is something every teenage boy can relate to
,” a voice says from behind. I sigh, hating the way my own written words sound so pathetic and stupid when spoken by the human gorilla.

I finish tying my cleats and turn around to find Todd Logue and three of his football buddies laughing at me. “Do you need something?” I say, unwilling to rise to the bait.

“Me?” Todd says, feigning surprise. “All I need are more of your blog posts. They touch me in ways I never knew were possible.” He makes a vigorous and exceptionally lewd gesture with his hand. His goons laugh louder.

Knowing that people like him are able to read my posts almost make me want to give up book blogging. Almost.

“I’m so glad,” I say, offering the fakest, broadest smile I can muster. I grab my helmet and head left toward the field.

The foursome move in tandem, blocking my path. Determined to avoid them, I turn toward the right. Again, they block my escape.

“We’ll let you by if you recite something from your last blog post,” Todd says. “You know, the one I printed two hundred copies of and posted around the school.”

He didn’t. I want to believe myself, but I know it’s exactly the kind of thing he would do. A crowd starts to gather as some of the students who were there to watch the football practice realize something’s about to go down.

“Screw you,” I say, moving back to the left to try to get past. I refuse to let him goad me into a fight. One of his goons pushes me back.

Someone in the crowd yells, “Fight!”

“Leave him the hell alone,” a familiar voice says. Crap. I glance over where Xavier has just emerged to stand beside me. His pudgy face is pulled into a frown.

“Xave, I’m fine,” I hiss. “Get out of here.” When he looks up at me with those fiercely loyal brown eyes of his, I know he’s not going anywhere. When did he get so much smaller than me? While I’ve grown up, he’s grown out, his plump belly making him as big a target of bullies as me.

“Oooh, has your fat boyfriend come to save you?” Todd taunts.

Although a few chuckles dance through the crowd, I see plenty of kids shaking their heads, not amused by Todd in the least. And yet none of them step forward to help. I don’t blame them. Why make yourself a target when staying under the radar is so much easier?

Xave doesn’t understand the meaning of “flying under the radar.”

“At least Rhett’s ancestors didn’t swing from trees,” Xave says, not backing down. He rummages through his bag and finds a banana, which he tosses over Todd’s head. “Fetch!”

There are a lot of laughs from the crowd, which only seems to infuriate Todd, his eyebrows pinching together. “You’ll pay for that, homo,” he says, stepping forward.

He swings at Xave’s head, but I step in front of him, taking the punch in the chest. It hurts like hell, but I stand my ground, ushering Xave, who’s trying to get around me, further back. The next punch catches me in the face and twists my head around, blood exploding from my nose.

The four huge guys surround us, all smiles and wisecracks.

“Bring it, losers,” Xave says as they close in. Sometimes I wish my best friend was a little more scared of pain.

I tense up, ready to take the worst beating I’ve had since my second foster father, Big Hank, used to regularly use Xave and me as punching bags, when a flat, hard voice says, “I’d stop while you’re ahead, Todd.”

Todd stops mid-punch, whirling to glare at the girl who would dare threaten him. Soft brown skin. Intriguing brown eyes, flashing with anger. Glasses that give her a trendy, intelligent look. Her hands are on her hips, a look of utter contempt screwing up her otherwise pretty features.

Not again, I think. Beth. She wasn’t supposed to make it to watch practice today, her duties as editor of the school newspaper consuming her afternoon.

“I won’t hit a girl,” Todd says.

“How chivalrous,” Beth says.

“But you’re awfully tempting,” Todd says.

“Like a guppy to a shark.”

“So why don’t you get out of here so we can finish with these two?” Todd says.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Beth says, a somewhat vicious smile forming on her pink lips. “Why don’t you go back to what you do best—throwing a ball—and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

Silence. I can tell Todd’s confused, his face switching between laughing and frowning. Evidently he doesn’t know what to make of the spitfire standing before him. I’m equally dumbfounded, wondering how the hell Beth is planning to get Todd to back down. But there’s one thing I know about Beth: She always has a plan.

“And why should I do that?” Todd asks.

Beth motions for him to come closer. He stands stock-still, then shrugs and saunters over to her. The kids in the crowd are whispering to each other, their hands over their mouths. Our little scene is better entertainment than reality TV.

When Todd gets close to her, she motions him even closer, toward her mouth. The tall quarterback has to bend to get to her level. She whispers something in his ear and he stiffens, pulling back. His eyes are wide and white for a moment, and then he sneers, “C’mon, boys. These losers aren’t even worth our time.”