Page 58 of Broken Ties
The professor pauses dramatically, staring around at each of the hundred students as though he’s trying to speak to us all individually before he continues. “These thugs are the Tactical Response Personnel, given license by the West Coast Council to terrorize any Gifted who doesn’t fall into line with their narrow views.”
I’m too busy watching Walker and Kyle mutter to each other at first to notice, but when the murmurs turn into gasps and shrill tones, my attention snaps back to the screen.
Nox Draven walks onto the screen, the distortion like a halo around him and not enough to obscure the gut-wrenching horror of his void eyes.
He looks every inch the monster they all say he is.
Rage blinds me instantly, the heat of its depths lighting my blood on fire, and my hands curl into fists so quickly that I forget to hold back my Gift. A dozen sets of eyes hit me at once, the crunching of my desk snapping under my strength echoing through the room.
“Holy shit, man, get it together before you demolish the room!”
Blinking, I let out a breath and fix an unaffected smirk over my face that I’m sure is fooling no one, but they all turn away from me regardless. I probably look like some cocky asshole trying to cover a fear-induced power slip, which is fine by me. My last name is enough to stop anyone from gossiping or getting in my face about it, and so long as they never find out the real trigger, I’d put up with that crap anyway.
The professor clears his throat and clicks his laptop again, the image of my Bond’s antagonizer disappearing and a grainy photo of a carved up field replacing it.
“That’s probably a better segue than I could’ve hoped for. Can anyone tell me how the riots in the seventies began?”
Some asshole got drunk and attacked a non-Gifted woman at a party. Their community rose up and began to campaign for the ‘tagging’ of Gifted, a database to catalog our abilities and keep track of us for their protection. While the Gifted community agreed this was out of the question, how to negotiate a resolution divided the population into two camps. The West Coast council believed we needed to strengthen our relationship with the non-Gifted and to live peacefully alongside them. The East Coast council wanted segregation; the Gifted set wholly apart from the non-Gifted, untouchable by their laws or concerns.
Zariah calls out with a smirk, “A power slip. A simple mistake.”
When she shoots me a flirty grin, like I should be impressed by the company line spewing out of her on command, I give hera scathing look in return. I barely remember to fix my face before I turn back to the professor, but Kyle jeers at Zariah’s pissy attitude and starts talking crap about our ‘little spat’ all over again. That helps to cover my ass more than anything I could ever say, and when I finally get a smirk over my lips, I’m sure to the other students it looks as though I’m gloating over the lies and propaganda being dished out like I’m in on the joke. The professor nods at me with a satisfied look of his own, bought and paid for by the worst Gifted in the world.
Walker glances over and chuckles under his breath with me at the spectacle, only his amusement is genuine. All of the chuckling and jokes being murmured around the room is at the expense of everyone ‘below’ us—whatever the fuck that means. It’s not just non-Gifted who die at the Resistance’s hands, or the Lower Tiers, or even just Draven’s armed forces. I doubt even half of the students in this room will make it to thirty, not if Davies’ plan for war goes ahead.
I wonder how funny they’d all find that?
My phone begins to flash in my bag again, and irritation works its way down my spine at my mom because with this persistence, it has to be her calling. I’m about to pack my shit up and fake a family emergency just to get out of here when the sound of heavy footsteps interrupts the lecture. The professor stops mid-sentence, glancing over at the door just in time to see it burst open and half a dozen men dressed in militia fatigues march in. I shoot a look at Walker by habit, but he’s scowling at the sight as well.
Then, after a beat of shocked silence, three Gifted practically stroll into the lecture hall. I recognize them immediately.
All three men are Testers, the sniffer-dog subset of Neuros who have lucked into capitalizing on a Gift that outside of war is completely fucking useless. Thanks to Davies, they’re practically bounty hunters now, and each of them has his own crew ofunderlings who go out on scouting trips to find rare Gifts that might impress Davies or my father enough to gain favor.
It’s a witch hunt, only the traitor to the cause is very real. I’m not interested in being hauled out of here and questioned by these assholes.
Ducking down, I finally grab my phone to find a dozen messages and missed calls. All of them are from my mom just like I suspected, only she’s not trying to convince me of a thing. Instead, there’s a desperate stream of messages trying to warn me of what’s coming my way so I cover my ass.
Leave class and come home now. Your father’s scouting teams are purging the school to find out where the leak is. If you get caught up in that mess, you’ll be late for dinner.
There’s no way my mom gives a shit about when we eat, but Davies knows how fussy my father and the rest of the blue-blooded families are, so the excuse is crafted perfectly. Fuck, my mom could do some serious damage to their plans if she could only grow a conscience and realize she’s a piece of shit for staying here and supporting what they do.
I shove my laptop in my bag and ignore the looks I’m getting from the other students. The professor doesn’t acknowledge the interruption of me suddenly standing and making my way steadily toward the door, not even after Kyle calls out to me to figure out why I’m leaving. The scouting thugs only tip their heads to me in acknowledgment as I pass them, and the shame I feel over carrying my father’s name finally has a silver lining.
I try callingmy Bond twice on the way home. The first call is a little earlier than I would usually get my daily dose of her bravado and wit, so I can push down the instant fear that swellsin my gut, but the second try is right on schedule. When she doesn’t answer that one, the fear runs rampant until my panic overrides my good sense. Well, not completely, I know better than to wait until I’m under my father’s roof, so as I turn into the gated community my parents’ mansion is in, I hit dial on North Draven’s number.
The dismissive way he informs me she was injured during the boot camp they give sports credits for has my bond keening for his blood. While he’s quick to clarify that she’s seen a Healer and is now safely sleeping the aftereffects off, he has no interest in giving up any details or taking responsibility for the fact that my Bond was harmed on his watch.
I’m almost blind with rage by the time he delivers his parting words before hanging up on me like I’m some fucking chump.
In a voice that somehow manages to be emotionlessandsmug, he drawls at me, “You’ll have to take a rain check on your long distance gossiping and showboating, Bassinger, because I can’t help you. Some of us are dealing with more pressing issues.”
The hold I have over my Gift is once again stretched to its limits, but this time, I manage to rein it in before I rip my steering wheel off of its column. Good thing, too. Explaining that to my father is out of the question, and my mom would only use the cover-up as leverage to keep me here longer.
Once I get my car parked in the palatial garage at my parent’s house and kill the engine, I sit in silence for a full minute as I stare at the staff currently polishing one of my mom’s Rolls Royces. None of them look my way, even as the time stretches on, and Draven’s scathing assessment of me settles like a rash over my skin. I hate the asshole, but I hate that he’s reminded me once again of the fucked-up bubble I’ve grown up in more.
The rest of my class is still sitting in that lecture hall having their minds put through a grinder by Davies’ goon spelunkers.My Bond is lying in recovery because she has to learn how to protect herself from those same men, something I can’t argue with or protect her from, even when I finally make it to her side.
It feels pathetic and paltry, but I want to give something to my Bond. She’s cagey as hell about accepting shit from her Bonds though, so I mess around on my phone until I find something small enough for her to accept that can also be delivered onto the campus without Draven pitching a fit, then I message them both.