Betrayals in Spring (34 page)

My ankle feels better after applying the gift, and with my mind clear to focus on something other than possibly dying in this horrible place, it turns again to Deshi. I wonder if someone sent him down here to save me, or if he came on his own. If he did, perhaps he feels the smallest bit of loyalty to the boys and me; perhaps he senses deep inside that we are the only people who understand him, not the Others. Not Zakej or Kendaja or the Prime.

They aren’t half-breeds. They’re pure, and they don’t understand what it’s like to have grown up the way we did. There has to be a way to change Deshi’s mind about whose side he belongs on, to somehow show him what’s true. The Prime and his family have been brainwashing Deshi the last three seasons, while Pax and Lucas and I have been struggling to figure out how to find him. They’re telling him we’re the enemy, that we abandoned him.

If the Prime is on his way back from the Harvest Site to deal with us once and for all, I don’t expect him to demand anything except our deaths. So why did Deshi bother bringing me the acid neutralizer, if the Prime plans to kill me anyway?

The question isn’t much, but it does give me the smallest bit of hope as I lie on the cold floor, letting the day’s exhaustion wash over me.

Althea
?
Can you hear me
?

I’m so close to falling asleep, at first I think the voice must be a dream. But it isn’t. It’s my mother, her voice faint now that I’ve locked her out of my sinum. I’m too tired to block her or to be angry that she’s talking to me again.

Except they’re probably listening in. Though our alcoves are protected, they’re not impermeable. Even so, I answer her. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.

Yes
.

She sighs, a whispered breath through my mind, one imbued with relief.
You’re okay.

Oh, yeah. I’ve got acid eating my bones, I’m all alone with a busted face, and Deshi betrayed us. I’m super.

You’re alive. And you’re never alone.

Is that supposed to make me feel better
?

She sighs again, and this time it’s with halfhearted amusement and impatience.
You aren’t going to die. Not today. Be thankful
.

Truthfully, my leg feels better already, but that’s hardly a reason to celebrate.

Althea, don’t give up. You can convince Deshi to join you.

How
?
He hates us.

The same way you were convinced to fight for Earth. Show him the things he hasn’t seen. Let him view the world through your eyes, instead of the ones he’s been given
.

Her choice of words brings to mind the black veins in his eyes, and works a shudder from shoulder to shoulder.

She’s gone before I can ask her how exactly I’m supposed to do such a thing when Deshi won’t even really talk to me. Plus, we’re stuck in this Underground Core—how can I show him the Wilds the way I see them, or let Wolf nuzzle his hand, show him the way Brittany makes me laugh, or put a book in his hands?

Even if I don’t know how, the fact that she believes he could come back to us tosses a frayed rope of possibility into this dark pit of despair. I grab on to it. If there’s a way to convince Deshi which side is right, I’ll find it. There are forty kids, two Sidhe, one banged-up Warden, and a dog out there depending on our survival—not to mention the rest of the planet.

Not for the first time, my mother’s voice slides strength under my skin until it flows through my veins, latching on to my blood cells and coursing through me.

As long as Deshi keeps coming to see me, as long as Lucas, Pax, and I are alive, there’s a chance to turn the tables. If that chance is all we have, I’ll take it.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As ever, a book is not something that gets made by the author alone. In fact, anything I tried to publish alone would be decidedly less pretty and more riddled with inconsistency and errors, especially in the area of proper comma usage.

To Danielle Poiesz, the sweet, encouraging, and ruthless lady who does my developmental and line edits in addition to holding my hand and sending me chipper emails when I’m going through a particularly bad bout of writerly insecurity. My copy editor, Lauren Hougen, who edits with just the right amount of snark to make me snort aloud while slogging through copy edits at one in the morning. I can’t give enough credit to my brilliant, adorable cover designer, Nathalia Suellen, whose beautiful covers have gotten my books far more attention than I could have on my own. I owe her a great debt.

I have some of the best beta readers and critique partners in the world, and each of them make me laugh, are there when I’m having a meltdown, and know just how to tell me what stinks about my manuscript without make me want to chuck the entire thing out the window. So Denise, Leigh Ann, and Diana—I couldn’t have done this without you. Julia, you’re the only teen beta reader who has stuck with me from the beginning, and your text messages and tweets make my life.

Once again, I’d like to take this opportunity to say again how thankful I am to be part of such an opinionated, loud, unique, loving family. I adore each and every one of you and am thankful every day for being born who I am. Especially to my parents and sister, who put up with my many issues on a regular basis.

And to my readers, because without you there would be no point to any of this.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Raised by a family of ex-farmers and/or almost rocks stars from Southeastern Iowa, Trisha Leigh has a film degree from Texas Christian University. She currently lives in Kansas City, MO, where she’s hard at work on the remainder of the series. Her spare time is spent reviewing television and movies, relaxing with her loud, loving family, reading, and being dragged into the fresh air by her dogs Yoda and Jilly.

To learn more about Trisha Leigh, please visit her at
trishaleigh.com
.

Turn the page for a sneak peek at another great Young Adult science fiction novel –
Here
(by Denise Grover Swank).

Chapter One

The second hand of the clock jerks with each tick in an odd,
click-spaz
movement.

“...and this is the closest the world has come to a full-scale nuclear war. If it weren’t for the cool heads of President Kennedy and the Soviet Union Premier Khrushchev, the United States, and the rest of the world for that matter, would surely have been bombed with nuclear weapons.” Mr. Archer drones on about the Cuban Missile Crisis.

My pen hovers over the open notebook on my desk, but the only marks filling the page are elaborate scrolls and doodles.

I started doing that after my accident.

My seat in the back corner of the room gives me perfect vantage of the windows that overlook the student parking lot. Storm clouds gather in the distance, but the dull ache in my thigh has predicted rain all day. If I hurry, I can probably make it home before the sky breaks loose. Otherwise I’ll be forced to take the bus.

My gaze drifts to the clock again. Twenty-eight seconds later than the last time I checked. With a slow sigh, I lower my head and freeze as a boy’s eyes lock with mine. My breath sticks in my throat.

I snap my eyes down to my desk. Why is Evan Whittaker looking at me?

My heart kick-starts into a gallop. My fingers reach up to my cheek to rub off some unseen smudge. The only reason one of the most popular guys in school would be staring at me is if something is wrong.

My shoulders tense as I lift my head to peer in his direction. He slumps over his desk, his pencil moving over his paper. I take a deep breath and allow my muscles to unknot just before his head raises. His neck twists to look back, his eyes holding mine again. Black hair, as dark as ink, falls over his ears and brushes the top of his collar. Heat rises to my cheeks, but I refuse to look away. I’m waiting for a look of contempt, instead finding curiosity and a hint of desperation.

The bell rings and shakes me from my stupor. The low murmur of voices fills the room as people rise from their seats with the same relief I feel. I reach down and grab my backpack, stuffing my notebook and pen inside. The room clears out as I stand and I’m relieved to see that Evan has left.

“Julia, can I speak with you a moment?” Mr. Archer calls as I make my way to the door.

I stop, hitching the backpack strap over my shoulder, and turn to face him. He stands behind his chair and taps a pencil on top of the desk. His button-down plaid shirt stretches across his protruding belly. Matched with his silver hair and usual smile, he bears a slight resemblance to Santa Claus.

“It’s about your grade.” His gray eyebrows raise as his smile falls away.

I shift my weight while casting a glance out the window. Students scatter along the sidewalk, hurrying to the buses and their cars. The clouds are darker, and lightning flashes in the distance.

“Julia, you’re getting a D in this class. I know AP U.S. History can be difficult for a junior, but I checked your record. Up until this year, you were a straight-A student.”

I lift my chin and sigh. I know what’s coming.

“I’ve talked to some of your teachers. I know you’re not doing well in your other classes. I want you to speak to Mrs. Hernandez.”

I nod, avoiding his gaze. “Thanks, Mr. Archer. I’ll check with her tomorrow.” I have no intention of talking with the school counselor but know it will appease him for a week or so. I turn to leave.

“Julia, I know it must be hard…” Mr. Archer’s voice softens. “But they say time heals all wounds.”

I glance over my shoulder with a half smile. “Yeah, thanks.”

Bodies fill the hallway as I weave through the crowd to my locker. At the beginning of the school year, I learned if I pretended to be invisible, eventually I became invisible. No one sees me. No one notices me. At least they hadn’t until Evan. I still can’t understand why Evan would be looking at me.

Especially me.

Shoulders hunched, I grab my jacket out of my locker, ignoring the books piled on the bottom, as usual.

I slam the door shut, drawing momentary glances from the people around me. Shoving my arms in the sleeves of my fleece hoodie, I walk to the exit, eager to escape.

In spite of the increasing ache in my leg, I still consider walking, but the clouds have begun to churn. I barely make it to the bus, climbing the steps moments before the driver closes the doors.

I’m an anomaly, a junior riding a bus filled with mostly freshmen and half as many sophomores. Good thing I no longer care about my social status.

Nearly every seat is packed with hyper teenagers, but I find an empty spot in the second row. The redheaded freshman in the seat looks startled, her eyes widening when she realizes who I am. She scoots toward the window, plastering her body to the side of the bus. I perch on the seat edge, my feet in the aisle, protecting the girl’s personal space.

I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to sit by me either.

The bus is half-empty by the time it reaches my stop. It’s sprinkling now, splattering the sidewalk with polka dots. I pause on my front porch and close my eyes. The cold rain coats my face.

A car horn blares down the street. My eyes snap open and I search for the source. I find it three lots down, next to Monica’s house. I suck in my breath at the thought of her and dig my key out of my backpack to let myself in. My little sister’s still at school and my parents are at work.

I enter the quiet house, bypassing the kitchen and head straight to my bedroom. My backpack hits the floor where I toss it. I throw myself on the bed and grab a pillow to curl around. A picture frame on my nightstand catches my attention.

The frame is a curse. I hide it in my drawer, but after a few days it’s back on the nightstand. My mother sets it out, calling it a precious memory. I call it a reminder of my guilt.

Against my better judgment, I reach for it, my fingers curling around the edges of the cold, silver frame. I pull it closer, studying the photo, and a lump forms in my throat. An image of Monica and I last spring at the annual school picnic fills the space. Our heads are bent together, her long blonde hair a sharp contrast to my thick, brunette waves. She smiles for the camera, a cheesy grin that most people found infectious. My heart aches and despair clouds my head.