Inquest (10 page)

Banging on my
door snaps me up from my bed in a jerking, terrifying jolt.
Somebody found out, and Jen’s uncle is going to kick me out. I
panic. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, but I don’t want
to leave. I like it here for reasons I can’t even comprehend in my
hazy state. I roll over and blink at the glowing green numbers of
the alarm clock. Six o’clock. Morning or evening? The much too
bright light spilling around the drawn curtains clue me in. Too
bright to be morning. I must have fallen asleep watching TV. The
banging comes again. I groan and bury my face in the pillow. Part
of me considers not opening the door, but my body isn’t cooperating
and I find myself pulling the door open before I can remember why I
shouldn’t. It’s not Jen’s uncle.

“Milo?” I ask.
“What are you doing here?”

Milo. He’s
standing at my door. My numb brain sends a shot of relief through
me, eliciting a smile. Which I instantly suppress. And then I wake
up and consider the fact that I’ve been sleeping and probably look
horrible. My hands fly across my clothes and hair, trying to
de-wrinkle my general appearance. Milo just watches me with one
eyebrow cocked.

“What are you
doing here?” I repeat.

“You aren’t
actually a vegetarian, are you?” he asks.

Am I still
asleep? “What?”

“Are you a
vegetarian?”

“What does
that have to do with anything?”

“It has to do
with the fact that I’ve been in hotels like this enough times to
know that they don’t have kitchens or room service,” Milo
snaps.

My arms cross
my chest protectively. “What do you mean you’ve been in hotels like
this a lot? Why do you spend time in seedy motels? Whatever you’re
thinking…”

Milo’s
expression goes completely blank, even less emotion than I usually
see him display. His hands come out from behind his back and he
shoves a paper bag at me. “Do you want your burger, or not?”

“Burger?” Then
the tantalizing scent of greasy French fries and salty hamburger
patties hit me. My stomach growls in elation. I snatch the bag from
his grip eagerly. “Absolutely! I’m starving. I’ve barely eaten all
day. I didn’t have any food here for breakfast and the only thing I
could grab from the lunch lady was an apple because my mom emptied
my lunch account. You have no idea how happy this makes me,
Milo.”

Milo shrugs,
but I swear I can see the hint of a smile on his lips. “Well, stop
talking about eating and actually do it, then.”

Grinning so
much over a burger seems mildly stupid to me, but I don’t care. I
practically jump onto the bed and start dragging my meal out of the
bag. Milo’s awkward shuffling draws my attention. He’s still
standing by the door with his own takeout bag in his hand.

“Oh, sorry,
Milo, come on in.”

He hesitates
for a half second before stepping over the threshold and gently
pushing the door closed. My heart leaps in fear at the sight of the
door closing. In that brief moment, images speed through my mind of
what a guy Milo’s size could do to me with no one around to stop
him. Then reality nudges its way back into my mind. Despite my
performance in the gym today, it’s pretty unlikely Milo could ever
actually get his hands on me, and even if he did, my own Strength
could beat him off in a heartbeat. Plus, his snarly, mildly curious
interest in me is leaps and bounds away from physical attraction.
Or at least it seems to be. You can never really tell with guys.
But the veritable wave of anxiety rolling off him convinces me the
most that I am in little danger. He is more nervous than I am. So
much for not caring who I am.

Milo scans the
room before he seems to realize there is nowhere for him to sit
except the bed. He plops down on the edge and glances over at me. I
offer him a quick smile to let him know he’s fine sitting there,
and take an enormous bite out of my burger. It is heavenly. Months
spent trying to convince the people closest to me that I was going
to be a Naturalist forced me to give up processed food in all its
forms. It was almost worse than just telling everyone the truth. I
sigh in peaceful pleasure, a feeling I haven’t felt in a very long
time. It’s kind of weird that a burger would be the thing to bring
it back.

A quick shake
of Milo’s head distracts me from my bliss. I look over to see him
watching me as he takes a sip from his soda. “What?” I demand,
although the pleasure in my own voice steals most of the sting.

“Nothing, I’ve
just never seen anyone so happy about a little hamburger. You’re
practically making out with it.”

“Shut up. I’m
hungry, okay?”

“Okay, okay.
Just let me know if you need a moment alone with your dinner. I’d
be happy to step outside,” Milo says.

“Shut up, you
jerk,” I laugh. If he’s going to tease me… “You never answered my
question, you know.”

He quirks an
eyebrow at me, and asks, “What question?”

“About the
hotels.”

He shrugs
again. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, I bet.
You must bring girls to places like this all the time if you’re so
familiar with them.”

Milo ducks his
head but I can see the way his jaw tightens. He looks angry at my
suggestion, which is startling, but the idea of him having girls
around him actually doesn’t feel that alien to me. His less than
stellar grooming habits might make people think he was the last
person in the world to entice a woman. It was certainly my first
impression, but there is something else lurking beneath his
surface. Something that could definitely pull people to him if he
put forth the effort. I can feel it pulsing under the anger. Strong
and solid, it’s impossible to identify with all the distraction.
Something is there, though.

Suddenly, I
don’t want to tease him anymore.

“I’m just
kidding, Milo,” I say seriously. “Why do you come to motels? I
don’t believe it’s for girls.”

“Why not? You
don’t think I can get girls?” He’s gone back to his usual lazy,
unconcerned way of talking, but I can hear the slight edge of
irritation still lingering in his voice even without
Perception.

“No,” I say,
“it’s not that. You just don’t seem like that kind of guy. You must
have another reason for hanging out in places like this.”

He harrumphs
in answer. Not very enlightening. But maybe I’m prying too much
into his personal life for having only met him this afternoon.
Giving him some space, I quietly watch him gather up all our food
wrappers and empty cups. He stuffs everything back into one bag and
drops it into the trashcan next to the bed. At least he cleans up
after himself. That’s one skill Lance never seemed to learn.

Milo settles
back onto the bed and breaks the silence. “Sometimes, when living
with my parents gets too…unbearable and I need a break from them, I
crash in some out of the way motel for a few days until I cool off.
Until they cool off. I escape at least every two or three
weeks.”

“And your
parents don’t care that you leave? Don’t they try to find you?” I
ask.

He shrugs.
“No. They’re as happy as I am to see me go.”

“I could lie
and say I can’t believe they’d treat you that way,” I say, “but
given my current situation, I can totally believe it. Parents
aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they?”

“Not in my
experience.”

Milo folds a
pillow in half behind him and leans back on it. I feel like we’re
simply hanging out in his room, shooting our mouths off about our
parents while they putter around in another part of the house. It
almost feels normal.

“Your dad must
have been okay, though,” Milo says. “At least you had one good
parent.”

“Why do you
say that?”

“I don’t know,
just the way you reacted when I asked you about him earlier. You
said he was dead, and nothing else. I guess I figured you either
hated his guts, or you still miss him.” Milo turns to glance at me.
“Maybe it’s just because I’m generally a pretty optimistic guy, but
I chose to go with you missed him rather you hated him. Kids should
at least get one parent who cares about them.”

“Optimistic,
huh? I never would have guessed,” I say.

The corner of
his mouth turns up. “If I weren’t optimistic, and believed I’d get
out of this hell-hole one day, I would have gone nuts a while
ago.”

“Good
point.”

“So which is
it?” Milo asks. “Was he a good dad, or not?”

My chest
constricts like it always does when I think about my dad. I force
it down to a dull ache and make myself answer. “He was the best. I
miss him a lot.”

“When did he
die?”

I look over at
Milo and crinkle my nose. “You’re not from Albuquerque originally,
are you?”

He shakes his
head. “Moved here in May from Ohio. Why?”

“Because if
you grew up here you wouldn’t have to ask about my dad. He was
training to be our next Inquisitor. He died when I was eleven. On
my birthday, actually.”

Letting out a
low breath, Milo shakes his head. “Sorry, that sucks. How’d he
die?”

“Nobody
knows.” Nobody but me. “It was very sudden. His heart stopped, and
he was gone.”

“Sorry,” Milo
says.

I shake myself
visibly, willing the dark cloud settling over me to disperse. “It’s
okay.”

For a moment
Milo closes his eyes and I’m afraid he’s going to fall asleep on my
bed. He opens them again a few seconds later and turns to look at
me, his eyes earnest. “Do you really think your Inquest was a
mistake like you told the reporters?”

More than
anything I hope the people who heard me say that, reporters and
viewers alike, believe me. Their belief might be the only thing
that keeps me alive for the next two years. But I don’t believe it.
I know better. I recognized, early in life, that I had the seven
talents that would mark me. There was no mistaking it. There’s no
way I can delude myself into believing what I said to them.

Milo’s
question makes it pretty obvious that he doesn’t really believe it
either, and I find myself rather reluctant to lie to him. He knew
who I was before we even met. He didn’t glare or ignore me.
Whatever his reasons are, he seems to accept who I am. I have no
idea what his motivations behind his attitude are, which scares me
just a little, but I need that acceptance right now. I need one
person in this world to look at me like I’m not a monster.

Taking a deep
breath, I say, “No. My Inquest wasn’t a mistake.”

“But you’re
planning on making everybody think it was,” Milo says.

“Pretty
much.”

“You think it
will work?”

Now it’s my
turn to shrug. “Probably not, but I don’t have a lot of options
right now.”

“No, I guess
not,” he says.

“President
Howe told me to lay low or he’d kill me. That’s exactly what I plan
on doing.”

“President
Howe?”

“Yeah, he
showed up at the Inquisitor’s house after my Inquest and laid out
his whole plan.” When Milo raises a questioning eyebrow, I relive
the whole conversation, complete with Lazaro’s threat.

“So you’re
just going to hang out until your eighteenth birthday when Howe is
going to kill you?”

“No. I’m
hopefully
going to figure out a plan before then.”

“How’s that
coming so far?” he asks.

“Pretty
sucky.”

Shaking his
head, Milo lets the topic die away. He seems content to sit with
his thoughts now. I quickly get antsy. I’m not sure whether it’s
more of an awkward silence kind of discomfort or my worrying about
being alone with Milo, but I feel strange just sitting here with
him all the same.

“Do you want
to watch something?” I ask. Milo sits up, surprised, and I
backpedal immediately. “Unless you needed to go home. You, uh,
don’t have to babysit me, or anything.”

Milo’s
expression morphs into a snarky smile, and he says, “Somehow, I
doubt you need anyone to babysit you, Cassia the Destroyer. You’d
probably be saving my butt if anything did happen.”

I can’t
explain why, but Milo calling me Cassia doesn’t make my skin crawl
like it has every other time someone has called me that today. I
actually kind of like it. Minus the “Destroyer” part, at least.

Smiling, I
say, “Yeah, you wouldn’t be saying that if you saw me in the gym
today. I’m pretty sure the Guardians-in-training all thought I was
mentally handicapped the way I kept tripping and bumping into
things.”

“As long as
you can throw punches like you did this afternoon, I don’t think it
will matter too much.” Having said that, Milo grabs the remote
control off the nightstand and starts flipping through channels. He
makes a quick tour of the twenty-something channels and holds the
remote out to me. The motion pulls his sleeve back, revealing his
diktats again.

Without being
too obvious about it, hopefully, I look down at his wrist as I
reach for the remote. There are only three, the least amount a
person can have. One talent, a common name, and named to the
Mediator class. The wrongness I had glimpsed so quickly earlier
today is plain, now. They aren’t identical little vertical stripes
laid out in a perfect row. The spaces between each diktat are
fractionally different. The raised flesh is slightly uneven, as if
they had bubbled up rather than appeared instantly. And the left
one has a sharp divot that lashes out and nearly touches the diktat
next to it. I wrap my fingers around the remote in an effort to
keep myself from running them over his skin.

What happened
to him?

Never before
have I seen someone with diktats like his. They’re always perfect,
a reminder of how our society is meant to be. You can’t even screw
them up later. Whatever makes the diktats appear in the first place
changes the skin around them, too. It’s impenetrable. You can no
more mar your diktats to lie about your talents, class, or name,
than sprout wings and fly to the moon. But something screwed up
Milo’s diktats. And it had to have happened during the Inquest.
Whatever happened, the Inquisitor who performed his Inquest caused
it.