Thornhill

I frowned and bit my lip. How could we be in a camp that wasn’t supposed to open for another six months?

Before I could give it any real thought, we were rushed through dressing, and then herded back through the admission building.

Outside, Langley and her partner took the lead while the guard took the rear. There was no sign of Serena as they marched us across the pavement and past the old three-story building at the other end of the courtyard. Nor was there any sign of Kyle or the rest of the boys from the raid.

We reached a path and made our way through the camp, passing what had to be at least two dozen one- story structures, a few of them still under construction. All of the buildings had signs painted on the outside indicating their purpose. Dorms. Classrooms. A dining hall.

I’d been expecting overcrowding and riots and death—all the rumors I’d grown up hearing—but this place looked more military school than concentration camp.

“Orientation is in three hours,” said Langley’s partner as we stopped between two dormitories. “I suggest you all get some sleep.” She pointed at Eve and me. “You two are in dorm seven. Head straight through the common room to the sleeping quarters. Just claim an empty bunk for tonight.”

Orientation? I wanted to ask, but one glance at the impatience on Langley’s face and I mutely followed Eve into the building on our right.

We wove through a moonlit room crowded with armchairs and sofas, and then stepped into a long, narrow space filled with two rows of metal bed frames. Jane Eyre would have felt right at home. A few girls stirred as we passed, but no one spoke.

I counted the beds as I walked. Thirty, if you included the two empty ones at the far end of the room.

It was easy to see why no one else had claimed them. They were practically right on top of the bathroom and neither had sheets or blankets.

With a sigh, I chose the first bed and stretched out on my side. The mattress was almost as comfortable as a blanket laid over cracked asphalt; it made the beds back at the motel look luxurious.

I squeezed my eyes shut and thought of Jason.

I remembered the way his eyes had locked onto mine just before the truck door slammed shut. Stomach knotting, I pictured him going back to our room. I imagined him flicking on the light and staring at the empty beds as he tried to figure out what to do.

It was probably too much to hope he had gone back to Hemlock. He’ll be okay as long as he doesn’t do anything crazy, I thought, and then wondered who the hell I was kidding. Jason was recklessness personified.

Eve’s low voice pierced my thoughts. “Back in that room . . . when we all hit the floor . . .”

I opened my eyes and watched as she stretched out on the other bed and searched for a way to ask if I’d been affected without any of the wolves in the room picking up on it. “No,” I said.

She nodded as though I was just confirming what she already suspected. “That could be useful.”

“Maybe.” I shrugged halfheartedly. She might be right, but I sure as hell hadn’t been very useful earlier.

“Curtis will think of something,” she said suddenly. “The Trackers and the LSRB have never snatched more than four Eumon at a time. Last night, they nabbed thirty-one of us and burned down Curtis’s club. He’ll retaliate. He’ll find a way to get us out.”

It was the same conviction she’d shown in the truck.

“What’s the deal with you two?” Hank would never chase a teenage girl—one of the few standards he did have—and I couldn’t figure out their connection. For some reason, not knowing bothered me.

Eve hesitated. “A year and a half ago, Curtis found me on the streets and took me in. I was . . .” She bit her lip. Discomfort and uncertainty crossed her face and she looked suddenly young in the semidark. “I was in a bad spot. He got me out. Curtis let me stay with him and brought me into the pack. He looked out for me when I didn’t have anyone.”

I shook my head. “Hank doesn’t help people. Not unless he’s getting something out of it.”

All trace of emotion and vulnerability left Eve’s face. “He told me what he was like before. He’s different now. He lost you when he became infected. Losing a kid—it changes people.”

Abandoned, I wanted to say, not lost. But it was like a shard of glass had lodged itself in my throat. Why? Why would Hank ditch me and then take care of some other girl? I felt a pinprick at the corner of my eyes but forced it back. It had been a long time since I had cried over my father and I wasn’t going to start now.

Finally, I managed to speak. “If Hank had really told you what he was like before, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d know that anyone who counts on him always gets hurt.” I turned over onto my other side before she could respond. I didn’t need to be told who my father was or fed some fairy tale about how losing me had been the low point that made him turn his life around.

I’d spent my childhood watching Hank lie, cheat, and steal. He could be anything to anyone—as long as it suited him.

The man Eve thought she knew was as fake as the name he was using.

We were on our own.

“Remember that ghost story? The one Grandpa John told us the week we spent at the cabin?”

My eyes sprang open as Amy leaned over me and whispered in my ear. Her breath left a thin layer of frost on my cheek and I cringed away.

Hurt flashed across her face. She pulled back and I tried not to feel guilty. In life, I had never been scared of Amy. In death, I didn’t want her touching me.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of my bunk. It was daylight and we were in the dorm room. Each of the other twenty-nine beds had been neatly made, but there was no one in sight. The faint smell of smoke hung in the air.

“He told us dozens,” I said, wondering where this was going.

Amy’s family owned a cabin about five hours from Hemlock. The summer Amy turned fifteen—the last summer she was still more tomboy than heiress—she, her brother, Stephen, and I had spent a week hiking and fishing with her grandfather. In the evenings, John—because “Sir” and “Mr.” made him feel old—played chess against Amy while telling us ghost stories. The trip had been her father’s idea, but we barely saw him; he’d spent most of the time glued to a satellite phone.

“The story with the dolls?” A red splatter appeared on Amy’s white T-shirt, but she brushed her hand over the fabric and the stain faded to nothing.

I shook my head and a sad smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. For a second, she looked small and disappointed and desperately unhappy—the real Amy she’d kept hidden behind too-bright grins and her Stepford life. “Isn’t it funny? I used to love ghost stories. Couldn’t get enough of them—even though they scared me.” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “I never thought I’d be one.”

“You’re not a ghost.” I was sure of that. Wherever the dreams came from, they weren’t really her.

“Of course I am.” Amy shook her head. “That’s all memories are. Ghosts and demons kicking around upstairs.”

Sharp pain erupted at the base of my skull and radiated down my neck. For a brief, dizzy second, another room was superimposed over this one. The same size, only the paint on the walls had blistered and turned gray with ash. The same number of beds, only they weren’t empty. Twenty-nine charred bodies fused to blackened mattress springs with crows picking at the bones.

I retched and scrambled off my bed.

“Easy, Toto,” whispered Amy. “You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

9

A SHRILL WHISTLE DROVE INTO MY EARDRUMS LIKE A spike. My eyes flew open as I half scrambled, half fell out of bed.