But who else’d be stupid enough to Hunt in Killer territory? The Icers? Not a chance. They never leave the safety of the mountains. The Glassies? It’s possible. After we held them off a few full moons back they might be looking to try again. The Wild Ones. The words pop into my head and my eyes widen.

I look at Circ, who’s watching me, letting me think. “Do you think it’s the Wild Ones?” I ask.

Circ shakes his head, but he’s not saying no. “I really don’t know. Honestly, until Teacher Mas mentioned the Wild Ones I didn’t believe they existed.”

“Well, who else could it be?”

“A few guys are saying the Marked are behind it.”

The Marked. Another fictional group who might just turn out to be real. Growing up, we’ve always talked about them as if they’re real, the same way you talk about the sandmonster as if he’s real. You know, just to scare each other. The thing is, I’ve heard some of the adults talk about the Marked, too, not that that necessarily means anything either. If the stories are right, the Marked is a tribe of all men, covered from head to toe with strange painted markings. Like the Wilds, they’re a feral group, eating raw flesh and washing it down with fire juice.

This whole conversation is becoming too confusing.

“I need to think,” I say. “I’m going to see Veeva before my father sends me away to prison.”

Circ looks at me oddly. “I thought you said it was only a day in Confinement.”

“It is. But it’s more fun if I’m dramatic about it. Plus, I wanna talk to someone normal for a while.”

“What? I’m not normal?” Circ says, his hands out and open.

“You’re some kind of freak of nature,” I say. “I mean that in the nicest way,” I add.

Circ laughs. “I’d say Veeva is anything but normal.”

“To me, she’s the most normal,” I say.

~~~

Sometimes a madhouse is the calmest place of all.

When I enter Veeva’s tent, it’s chaos, but I feel perfectly at home and more relaxed’n I have all day. You’d think she has a dozen kids, all of them between the ages of zero and three. I know that’s physically impossible, not to mention illegal, but still, with the number of bundles strewn about, I wonder if she’s not hiding them all somewhere, behind the bed maybe. Her tent is so unlike our hut, where everything hasta be in its place, that it’s laughable. Besides the bundles, there are clothes and blankets everywhere, unwashed pots and pans piling up in the center of the tent, and lines of wet laundry drying across most of the small space. I can barely see my friend through the clutter.

When Veeva looks around the edge of one of Grunt’s giant shirts and sees me, she says, “Thank the sun goddess yer ’ere, Sie. Grab a bundle and git over ’ere.”

I screw up my face. Not the welcome I was hoping for. I’ve had enough blaze for a lifetime, and although baby blaze is much smaller, it’s just as stinky. But Veeva’s always been a good friend to me, so, obediently, I grab the first unbundled white cloth I see, and I take it over to her, who’s got naked little Polk flat on his back on his tiny bed, his six-full-moon-old arms and legs waving about, grabbing at the air, like he’s trying to get his hands on something invisible that only he can see.

Veeva’s wearing a shapeless brown frock and a look that could kill. “I tell you, Sie, if there’s any way you can avoid the burnin’ Call, do it. I swear to you this searin’ baby is the spawn of the lord of the underworld, if you believe in that sorta thing.”

“Hi to you, too, Veevs,” I say, grinning. “What’s the little tug-face done now?”

She takes the cloth from me, lies it flat on the bed. Picks up Polk and places his butt in the center. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Sie.” She looks around, notices how many used bundles there are. “Or maybe you would. He’s been lettin’ it fly from both ends. Projectile vomit from his mouth, and spewin’ blaze from the other end. He’s relentless. I think he’s tryin’ to break me.”

With expertness that a year ago woulda seemed impossible, Veeva bundles the cloth around Polk’s torso, tying it off perfectly. I guess a little practice goes a long way.

“There’s no way to avoid the Call,” I say, moving around the tent, grabbing used bundles. I’m careful to keep whatever’s inside, well, inside.

“What you sayin’?” Veeva says, Polk now in her arms. She’s got her frock pulled way down, her big breasts hanging out as if she’s alone and not having a conversation with a friend. Polk knows what to do—he goes right for her teat.

I look away, grab a few more bundles. “You said if there’s any way I can avoid the Call, to do it. I’m saying there’s no way.”

“I wasn’t bein’ serious, Sie. I know as well as anyone that it can’t be skipped. By the sun goddess, you can be so serious sometimes.”

I realize then that I was saying it more to convince myself’n Veeva. Lara’s words are haunting me even more’n I thought. I need to talk to her once and for all, tell her to quit asking me ’bout what she said, tell her I’ve thought ’bout it and I don’t believe her and I’m going to obey the law from here on out, even if that means breeding. No more getting in trouble for me.

But how can I get her to believe me when I don’t even believe myself?

I leave without telling her about Confinement.

Chapter Ten

I don’t know what to expect from Confinement, ’cause I’ve never been there ’fore. And most people who have don’t really talk ’bout it.

Father doesn’t even bother to take me himself, he’s too busy snoring away. One of the younger Greynotes draws the short straw and hasta get up ’fore even the butt crack of dawn to make the trek with me. I don’t complain, don’t say anything, just get on with it. Complaining’s never gotten me anywhere so I don’t see the point.

The Greynote’s name is Luger and he’s a real baggard. With dark, slitted eyes so narrow I can hardly tell if they’re open or closed, he almost seems excited to drag me into seclusion. He’s far too jittery for this early in the morning, always twitching, like every part of his body is moving in unison all the time, every moment of every day. I feel bad for his Calls, the ones that hafta sleep in the same bed with him as he jerks and twitches all night long, even while sleeping.

When he speaks, his mouth reminds me of a burrow mouse, pulled tight in the center, only able to open to a tiny gap, just wide enough to shove a bit of food in it. And his nose is like a vulture’s beak, long, narrow, and pointy. He’s not an attractive man. But, hey, I’m not one to judge someone based on appearance. It’s his attitude that really grizzes me off.

“You’re lucky to get just a day,” he whines. “I would’ve given you a quarter full moon for what you did. If your father wasn’t the Head Greynote…”

“He’s not the Head Greynote,” I say, staring forward as we trudge across the desert in the dark.

“Two, maybe three days,” he says. “The Fire’s got Shiva by the balls.”

I wince and go silent. Three days and my father’ll be the Head Greynote? He’s already so full of himself I’d hate to see the power trip he’ll go on when he’s at the top of the food chain.

Time passes, the sky lightening with each step. My fists are squeezed tight.

The calm of the desert can be eerie sometimes. When the Cotees are howling and the wind is whipping through the dunes, at least you know the world is alive. But now, it’s so quiet, with only the sound of our soft treads to break the silence—it’s almost like we’re walking in a dead land. Which makes us the walking dead, I s’pose.

As we continue on, however, the wastelands gradually begin to awake. First I see a ’zard emerge from a hole. He’s a biggin, too, with prickly burs all down his back, starting at his head and going to the tip of his long tail. He’s one of those bag-throated ones, with a big ol’ sac on his neck that fills with air each time he breathes. It’s kinda knocky, if you ask me. He scurries into our path, watches us approach for a few moments, and then wriggles away. He’s lucky we’re not hungry, or he’d end up in the stew.