us, thick with muscle. The girl circle-stars are toned and lean—they look like they could probably beat O’Malley or Aramovsky in a fistfight.
Without the knife, I wouldn’t stand a chance against any of them.
If the circle-stars ignore the vote and follow Bishop, it’s going to be a problem.
I realize that I didn’t vote, but it doesn’t matter.
Gaston nods. “Sixteen votes for Savage, seven for Bishop.” His mouth twists into something that is half smile, half sneer. “Savage won. She’s the leader. Bishop, give her the spear.”
Bishop’s eyes narrow. His cracked lips flatten, his nostrils flare. At that moment, he is even more frightening than when he ran at me, screaming. Violence bubbles under the surface. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to stab the spear into Gaston’s belly.
“It’s mine,” Bishop says. “The spear is mine.”
O’Malley points at it. “You said the leader carries the spear. Em is the leader, so give it to her.”
O’Malley’s words sound far different from Gaston’s. There is no malice or arrogance in O’Malley’s voice, just an infuriatingly calm delivery of what everyone already knows.
The spear shaft starts to shake: Bishop is squeezing it so hard his arm trembles. He likes being the leader.
And, I realize, so do I.
For a long moment, I am sure this will erupt in a battle that ends with our bones scattered across the hallway. Then Bishop closes his eyes. He tilts the spear toward me.
I take it. I can do this. I can lead us.
I hand my knife to O’Malley. O’Malley hands the scepter to Spingate. Gaston seems to see the scepter for the first time; his eyes go wide with recognition.
Bishop shakes his head, then nods. He lets out a big, cheek-puffing breath. The pending violence inside him evaporates. He’s already over it. His face shows whatever he is feeling as plainly as if he’s speaking it out loud.
“Okay, Savage, you won,” he says. “Fair is fair. You’re the leader. So, what now?”
I heft the spear in one hand, feeling the weight. Maybe I should make the scepter the symbol of leadership again: a tool rather than a weapon. But no, Spingate knows how to use the scepter better than I do, and a part of me realizes that there has to be
something
to signify who is in charge.
I was the leader of four other people. Now I am the leader of twenty-three. Everyone seems to want to follow me, and I don’t know why. Whatever the reason, I will not let them down.
Not sure of what I’m supposed to do, I mimic what Bishop did; I raise the spear.
“We go straight,” I say.
I walk.
They follow.
FIFTEEN
W e walk uphill.
And we walk, and we walk, and we walk.
It doesn’t make sense—even if our coffin room was far below ground, shouldn’t we have made it to the surface by now? And we still haven’t seen any windows, any hint of the outside.
My feet hurt. They were numb from the constant walking, but when we met Bishop’s group we stopped for a bit: it was like blood flowed into them again. My feet thought they were getting a rest. Now that I’ve put them back into action, they are not happy. It feels like my bones will soon wear right through muscle and skin.
I hear the others talking behind me, my group and Bishop’s marchers alike, saying out loud the same things that run through my head. They know they have families, but can’t remember any faces. They know they went to school, but can’t recall what classes they took, their teachers, their classmates…no specifics of any kind.
They want to know what their symbols mean.
They want to know their first names.
As we walk, I try to meet some of the new people. There is K. Smith, the only circle-cross, a girl so thin she looks like she’s on the edge of starvation. She has stunning gray eyes, olive skin and short brown hair. She’s the tallest girl among us, almost as tall as O’Malley.
G. Beckett has tan skin and strawberry-blond hair. His symbol is a jagged circle, like
Without the knife, I wouldn’t stand a chance against any of them.
If the circle-stars ignore the vote and follow Bishop, it’s going to be a problem.
I realize that I didn’t vote, but it doesn’t matter.
Gaston nods. “Sixteen votes for Savage, seven for Bishop.” His mouth twists into something that is half smile, half sneer. “Savage won. She’s the leader. Bishop, give her the spear.”
Bishop’s eyes narrow. His cracked lips flatten, his nostrils flare. At that moment, he is even more frightening than when he ran at me, screaming. Violence bubbles under the surface. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to stab the spear into Gaston’s belly.
“It’s mine,” Bishop says. “The spear is mine.”
O’Malley points at it. “You said the leader carries the spear. Em is the leader, so give it to her.”
O’Malley’s words sound far different from Gaston’s. There is no malice or arrogance in O’Malley’s voice, just an infuriatingly calm delivery of what everyone already knows.
The spear shaft starts to shake: Bishop is squeezing it so hard his arm trembles. He likes being the leader.
And, I realize, so do I.
For a long moment, I am sure this will erupt in a battle that ends with our bones scattered across the hallway. Then Bishop closes his eyes. He tilts the spear toward me.
I take it. I can do this. I can lead us.
I hand my knife to O’Malley. O’Malley hands the scepter to Spingate. Gaston seems to see the scepter for the first time; his eyes go wide with recognition.
Bishop shakes his head, then nods. He lets out a big, cheek-puffing breath. The pending violence inside him evaporates. He’s already over it. His face shows whatever he is feeling as plainly as if he’s speaking it out loud.
“Okay, Savage, you won,” he says. “Fair is fair. You’re the leader. So, what now?”
I heft the spear in one hand, feeling the weight. Maybe I should make the scepter the symbol of leadership again: a tool rather than a weapon. But no, Spingate knows how to use the scepter better than I do, and a part of me realizes that there has to be
something
to signify who is in charge.
I was the leader of four other people. Now I am the leader of twenty-three. Everyone seems to want to follow me, and I don’t know why. Whatever the reason, I will not let them down.
Not sure of what I’m supposed to do, I mimic what Bishop did; I raise the spear.
“We go straight,” I say.
I walk.
They follow.
FIFTEEN
W e walk uphill.
And we walk, and we walk, and we walk.
It doesn’t make sense—even if our coffin room was far below ground, shouldn’t we have made it to the surface by now? And we still haven’t seen any windows, any hint of the outside.
My feet hurt. They were numb from the constant walking, but when we met Bishop’s group we stopped for a bit: it was like blood flowed into them again. My feet thought they were getting a rest. Now that I’ve put them back into action, they are not happy. It feels like my bones will soon wear right through muscle and skin.
I hear the others talking behind me, my group and Bishop’s marchers alike, saying out loud the same things that run through my head. They know they have families, but can’t remember any faces. They know they went to school, but can’t recall what classes they took, their teachers, their classmates…no specifics of any kind.
They want to know what their symbols mean.
They want to know their first names.
As we walk, I try to meet some of the new people. There is K. Smith, the only circle-cross, a girl so thin she looks like she’s on the edge of starvation. She has stunning gray eyes, olive skin and short brown hair. She’s the tallest girl among us, almost as tall as O’Malley.
G. Beckett has tan skin and strawberry-blond hair. His symbol is a jagged circle, like
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