Feuds Read online

“What are you talking about?” Parson’s voice was low, guttural.

  “I’m talking about the bodies. About this … disease that’s killing Priors. About the fact that this girl you have me following…” Cole’s voice nearly cracked at this, but he continued on. “She’s not a bad person and she doesn’t deserve whatever you are planning. I have a bad feeling about this. I feel like it’s gonna get me in trouble, whatever it is you’re angling for. I didn’t get a picture and I’m not going to. I don’t want any part of it.”

  Parson laughed in Cole’s face. “That’s what this is all about?” he said, sneering openly. “‘She’s not a bad person,’” he mimicked, and Cole flushed from embarrassment. “Let me tell you something,” Parson said, taking a step toward Cole. “You threaten me again, I’ll rip your head off. I’ll do it when you least expect it. You better believe I’ll destroy you, and your family. You want to see your mother get fired, Cole? This is how to do it. You breathe one more word about this disease, and your mother’s job is gone. Any job, anywhere. Don’t even think about it, Cole. Don’t go up against me. You need me more than I need you.” He stopped, breathing hard, faint spittle building up at the corners of his mouth.

  Cole stared at him. He didn’t know exactly why Parson Abel had hired him, but it was for a reason that was very, very important to the politician; that much was clear.

  “The disease,” he tried again. “You can do something about it—”

  “The disease is bullshit,” Parson hissed, leaning in toward him. His eyes were wide, and he was speaking so animatedly that flecks of spit sprayed from his mouth. Cole could sense fear and anxiety radiating from him, and he realized Parson was lying. Cole grew cold with fear—if Parson was hiding the disease, then it must be real. It wasn’t just Caitlyn. Worsley was right—all the Priors could die. Still, he had the upper hand. “This better be the last I hear of it,” Parson said, lowering his voice. “Or all of it: the money, your mom’s job, your house—it’s gone. All of it.”

  Cole was quiet. Every nerve in his body was firing, but he had nowhere to go. He so badly wanted to put Parson Abel in his place … but he couldn’t. Parson was right; he was powerless. He had no alternatives—and Parson, he sensed, though nervous, meant every word of it. He could lift a finger and destroy Cole’s life, and he would.

  “I didn’t get the picture,” Cole said in a dull voice.

  “So go after it again,” Parson snapped. “Get me what I need, Cole. And be grateful that you’re getting any of the FEUDS winnings at all. If you win.”

  Cole snapped to attention, and Parson smirked, taking obvious pleasure in his confusion. “You didn’t hear?” Parson asked, his eyes widening in faux concern. “Oh, poor Cole. Your old friend Noah Gibson’s rejoined the fight. Bets are split. Actually,” he corrected himself. “Bets are against you. Noah’s back from South Gulf, Cole. All he’s done for months is train. You better pull yourself together, boy, or you’re going to get the beating of your life. So get the photo of you with the girl, and get training.”

  “It’ll take me a little while,” Cole replied. “I’ll do it,” he said, stalling. He’d agree for now, but only to buy himself some time. “I’m just going to need a few days at least.”

  “Fine,” Parson agreed, running one hand over the stubble on his chin. “Fine. I don’t care. Just get me the damn photo.” Then he swiveled on his heel and strode away, through the fence that bordered the Swings, back toward the motie that would take him to the city center. Cole stood by the weight bench for several minutes, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. He’d figure this thing out. He just needed time. One thing Parson was right about: winning FEUDS was his only shot at freedom. He needed that prize money. He needed to get out of this mess.

  7

  DAVIS

  On Tuesday, Davis set out for the studio at five in the morning, eager to fit in a good workout before school. The letters announcing PA results would be mailed out the following Monday, along with a list of the athletes who had qualified for the Olympiad trials. Davis had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach every time she thought about that letter and the news it would bring. She couldn’t help replaying her misstep in front of the judges in her mind, her mortification over it sweeping back in. When she’d voiced her concerns to Vera over DirecTalk, Vera had assumed she was being overly anxious. But she’d offered to take her out for froyo anyway, and when Davis refused, she’d ordered her a subscription to her favorite tablet tabloid. Davis was too anxious to finish even one article, though. Ballet training was the only thing keeping her sane as she waited.

  But when she arrived at the monorail, she saw it wasn’t working. She stood for a minute, staring at it stupidly. Never in her life had the monorail been shut down. She knew the strikes had been escalating, after halfheartedly listening to her dad and Frank, his campaign manager, bicker about it for days. But she’d definitely had no idea what it would be like or how far-reaching the consequences would be.

  She set off to walk the mile and a half to the studio, which would leave her only about twenty minutes to practice, but she didn’t feel like asking for a ride and then waiting around for the car to be brought out of the garage. Her father wouldn’t approve, but Davis relished the chance. It was so seldom she went anywhere alone.

  The city was quieter than usual, and bits of paper and other trash swirled in the wind over the empty sidewalks, settling in little piles like debris after a hurricane. Davis had never seen the city so unpolished; the streets were typically sparkling and pristine, though there was only so much you could do about the million footprints left behind on their sleek surfaces every day. Now dusty footprints and litter crowded the limestone sidewalks.

  She passed a dozen shuttered storefronts, looking ghostly in the dawn light, their entrances blocked by glaring metal teeth. A train sat stalled on the metro track, as if waiting. One door was wedged open, and Davis could make out the figure of an old man curled up in its interior. She quickened her pace.

  When she reached the studio, the doors were closed and bolted. PLEASE EXCUSE THE INCONVENIENCE, read the sign that was tacked to the door. MEYER STUDIO WILL BE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE DUE TO THE LABOR DISPUTES.

  “Excuse me,” Davis said to a woman who was walking by. The woman kept pace, didn’t even bother to answer her. But Davis was determined. “Excuse me!” she said louder, jogging to catch up. She placed a hand on the woman’s arm and the woman spun, nervous.

  “What?” she said.

  “Do you know how long everything’s going to be shut down?” Davis asked.

  The woman peered at Davis in disbelief. “Haven’t you been keeping up with the news?” she asked her. “Half the city buildings are shut down because there’s no staff. I have no idea how long it’s going to last. It’ll last ’til they get hungry enough to work again.” Then she hurried on, as though she couldn’t be bothered to say more.

  The city was eerie without the Imps. Cold. Deserted.

  Plastic bags and scraps of receipts and other trash floated across the street, carried by a light but not unpleasant breeze. It seemed like a thin coating of dust had already settled over the sidewalks and building surfaces. Windows that had once been immaculate—glossy enough to double as mirrors—were now smudged and flecked with bits of sediment.

  Davis walked home with her arms hugged tightly across her chest. It was becoming more and more obvious how much the Imps were a part of things, how they kept everything running. She didn’t like being dependent on the same people she was supposed to pity. It was one thing to screw up the PAs; it was another not to have access to the place she considered a refuge. Her heart sped up, and she fought to control the ever-encroaching sense of dread that had threatened her since the night of Emilie’s party—and even more so since the PAs. Without dance … she didn’t know what she’d do. She’d probably fall apart. She needed it, the same way other people needed sleep. It was such a part of her that the thought of ripping it away felt like a ve
rsion of death.

  The only comfort was the thought of Cole. Their kiss still wrapped around her like a warm blanket every time she thought of it. Somehow, it hadn’t decreased in intensity; it held her as tightly in its grip as it had the night it happened. But even if she were brave enough, she had no way of contacting him. Even Vera didn’t know how to get in touch with him, and she knew everybody. She had promised to ask around, and that had been days ago. Everything about him was a mystery.

  Davis’s unease only worsened when she got to school an hour later and saw that Emilie was absent. Davis’s own attendance record was near-perfect, marred only by that one time when her father gave a major campaign speech and had required her to be there. Ninety percent of the other students at Excelsior could say the same. But in Advanced World History, no one even glanced at the empty seat, third from the back in aisle two.

  Mrs. Marrick’s voice droned on about the dark period after the last of the ice caps melted, when floods and hurricanes devastated the United States economy; Kensington’s alliance with India; the eventual treaties between Old Canada and the Old United States; the forming of the New Americas and its division into territories, including New Atlantic; blah blah, stuff that felt so irrelevant. Davis glanced at Emilie’s empty chair.

  Emilie’s absence gave Davis a notch up on the victory scale—assuming Emilie missed a few days of practice, Davis would be at a huge advantage—yet she couldn’t muster the excitement she knew she ought to feel. She just kept picturing how pale Emilie had looked on the bathroom floor, passed out … It had been so eerily similar to how Caitlyn had looked. And even though her parents had said Caitlyn was fine, she hadn’t come back to school, either.

  Could it have been a coincidence? And why did no one else seem to think there was anything wrong? Was she overreacting? It was possible. Davis knew she was more sensitive than she should be.

  And somewhere mixed in with the huge whorl of stress was the image of Cole smirking slightly on the school steps yesterday. He had to have asked around to find out she went to Excelsior. Did that mean he was into her? She’d had the distinct impression he’d been about to open up to her, tell her something important, but then her dad had arrived and ruined the moment. But then … if he was into her, why hadn’t he gotten her number or made plans to see her again? Was popping in and out of her life his MO? It was so frustrating, the way he seemed totally fine with leaving things up to chance. It was so hot and cold … maybe he wasn’t that into her. Maybe it was just the same game he played on everyone. Davis hated the thought of it, but couldn’t help wondering if it might be true—if Cole was just a player who was toying with her, seeing if she’d take the bait.

  When the bell rang, she shot to her feet and folded her tablet, shoving it into her school tote, a rare leather number she’d found wedged in the back of the storage closet at home. It was probably worth a ton of money. She liked to imagine that her mom had once used it for the same purpose when she was in school, though there weren’t any pictures left to confirm it. Not since Terri had taken over. Davis gathered her things and caught up with Vera near the front of the room. They always walked to lunch together, but today Davis wanted to check in with Chloe, Emilie’s cousin.

  “Can I catch up with you in there?” she asked Vera, who furrowed her brow in response. “I just need to call my dad really quick,” Davis clarified, feeling a pang of guilt over the lie.

  “Yeah, totally,” Vera said. “But did you catch the way Reagan cut me off a minute ago? I swear,” she whispered, pulling Davis close, “she’s still holding out for Oscar. It’s driving me insane.” Davis nodded distractedly; Chloe was making her way out of the room, and she was in the later lunch period. It was now or never.

  “She’s the worst,” Davis agreed. “The living worst. Catch up with you in a second?” Vera nodded, frowning a little, but she perked up when Davis tugged her hair and smiled. “I’ll spit on her vegan muffin for you,” she teased, giving her friend a wink. “I’ll be right there.” Vera picked her way toward the cafeteria and Davis dashed down the hall in the opposite direction, barely catching up with Chloe. Chloe was wearing enormous wedge heels and yet somehow speed-walking in the direction of the swimming pool, shouldering unsuspecting victims out of her way as she went.

  “Hey,” Davis said, breathless. “Chloe. Wait up.” Chloe stopped but didn’t turn right away, instead cocking her head in a gesture of impatience as she waited for Davis to talk.

  “Hey,” Davis said again.

  “Yes?” She sighed and turned to face Davis. Chloe was nasty to everyone, but she was generally civil to Davis because of who Davis’s dad was.

  “How’s Emilie?” Davis asked.

  “What do you mean?” Chloe snapped, but Davis thought she saw a flicker of something—discomfort?—cross her face before it again turned impassive.

  “Have you heard from her? At the PAs yesterday…” Davis trailed off, confused. She’d thought the news would have at least made its rounds, even if Chloe hadn’t heard it straight from Emilie.

  “We had a call from her mom,” Chloe said. “She said Emilie has been exhausted from practicing extra and that I should pass on her homework today. But she didn’t mention anything else. Why? Did something happen?”

  “She was just … sick.” Davis hesitated, stumbling over the word. It was completely unfamiliar on her tongue—but how else to put it? “At the PAs, I mean,” she clarified, shrugging off the squeamish sensation the word sick had produced.

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “Listen,” she told her. “I know you and Emilie have your thing. Your dance rivalry and all. But if you’re trying some weird mental tactic to freak her out, you’re wasting your time. She’s probably at home saving up her energy to kick your ass.”

  Davis knew she should back off—it really wasn’t her problem. If Chloe wasn’t worried, then she didn’t have reason to be, either. But then …

  Davis thought back again to when Sofia was sick as a toddler. It was a fluke, a rare infection that had temporarily paralyzed Sofia’s immune responses. Fia had always been small—they called her the runt of the litter because she was the youngest, but also because of her slight frame—and it had the effect of making them fawn over her all the more. Terri had brought her cold cloths and she’d even stayed one night in a hospital, one of only two that existed in Columbus, alone in the cavernous facility but for one other little girl who’d suffered a terrible burn. Their father’s face had been creased with concern for three days straight, his eyebrows wrinkled and his expression set. The whole time, he never took his blue-gray eyes off Fia’s own—but Fia’s were bright and glassy with fever. Davis remembered Fia asking for Terri, and Davis wanting more than anything for her own mother to be there. She remembered feeling a pang of jealousy at the sight of Terri’s thin frame cradling Fia’s, their identical curly, dark hair blending into one enormous mass of waves. And she remembered being afraid her little sister was going to die—because that’s what the sweat, the flush across her face, and the tears had implied. She’d never seen those things before.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Priors.

  * * *

  The TV was droning on when Davis walked into their flat later that day, its picture splayed across their living room wall. Parson Abel’s unmistakable face filled up the screen: the broad grin that never seemed to reach his eyes, and the dimple that sank half an inch into his chin. Her stomach rolled at the sight of him. She was sure her father would win the election, but it would be a relief once it was over, that was for sure.

  “Oh hi, honey!” Terri greeted her, looking up from the aquarium tank where she was feeding her fish. “How are you? How was school? Can I make you a snack?”

  Behind her the face of a newscaster on the TV droned. “… was the daughter of Glen and Tatiana Brooks, esteemed professors at Columbus University. Both parents have declined to comment on the grim tragedy of their daughter’s death, but neighbors have speculated that the young Ms. Brooks c
onsorted freely with Gens…”

  Davis inhaled sharply. Terri gave her a concerned look, and her brown eyes widened even more dramatically than usual. “Are you okay, honey?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” Davis choked out. The pictures that flashed across the news screen were of a couple walking briskly to the metro, the woman covering her face with her handbag, her husband’s arm wrapped around her waist. And then they flashed a picture of the daughter. A beautiful redhead with a glowing smile.

  It was the girl from the party. Caitlyn.

  “The cause of death is as yet undetermined. According to a neighbor, the young Ms. Brooks may have been involved in illicit dealings in the Gen community.” Davis felt nauseous. So Caitlyn wasn’t fine. Her parents had lied. Cole had lied. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d been fine and then worsened. Or maybe … The thought caused her stomach to turn … Did Cole have something to do with it?

  She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe he’d had something to do with it. He’d seemed so concerned, so gentle when he was taking care of her outside the party. Maybe Caitlyn had been on drugs, after all.

  And then images of the Slants began to flash across the screen. There were mangy dogs with dust-flecked fur. There were children playing barefoot outside in filthy puddles. Their housing structures were flimsy and apparently made of tin—little shingled buildings on wheels with maybe one or two bedrooms. Some were so small that the entire house could fit inside Davis’s bedroom, and they all looked like they could blow away if the wind picked up. These structures could house anywhere from two to six Imps, according to the newscaster.

  She turned from the TV. Her stomach turned, giving way to something deeper and hot and intense. Davis gripped her hands into fists, feeling her nails digging half-moons in her palms.

  Terri abruptly shut off the TV. “Disgusting,” she said with a sigh, her long eyelashes fluttering as she blinked. “Isn’t it?” She wrapped an arm around Davis, pulling her close. “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said. “When your dad’s elected, he’s going to make sure Priors never have exposure to any of that. We both love you and your sister so much. You’ll never have to worry about anything like that.”