As tired as I was, sleep still eluded me. My mind buzzed with thoughts of Donavon. Why was he really here? If this morning was any indication, it appeared that his sole purpose was to torture me. In reality, I suspected that Mac had recruited him to covertly investigate the other Instructors as well. But why hadn’t Mac told me? His omission unnerved me, and I couldn’t let it go, much like a dog with a bone.

  Once I’d exhausted that train of thought, my mind wandered to Erik as it so often did. I replayed the words from his letter, words that I’d committed to memory. It was a good thing that I had since I no longer had the letter. When Mac had finally let me read the entire incident report on my mission, I’d noticed that Erik’s letter had not been listed among my personal belongings. I prayed that it was because the letter hadn’t been found and not because someone had found it and turned it over to Mac. The rational part of my brain knew that the words had likely been torched along with the blood-soaked leaves that had nearly been my burial shroud, but I couldn’t shake the anxiety that I’d failed Erik and unwittingly divulged his secrets. Protocol dictated that if an Operative bled during a mission, anything contaminated had to be burned, and that letter had been smeared with my blood.

  I considered calling Erik. Mac hadn’t explicitly lifted the moratorium on interactions with non-approved people, but I figured that I was now back among the land of the living, the restrictions were no longer applicable. The problem was I had no idea what I would say to him if I did call. Our last encounter had been less-than-friendly. Yet he had sent Henri with that letter, and his desire to confide something that was so personal felt a lot like a peace offering. Still, I couldn’t muster the courage.

  What if he didn’t want to talk to me? Penny said that he was back to being his old self. What if he had a girlfriend? What if he had several girlfriends? The notion tore at my chest like razor blades slicing open old wounds.

  I finally fell asleep before my subconscious could conjure up anymore unpleasant scenarios.

  The next morning, I woke before my alarm. Like yesterday, the tension running through my body made it impossible for me to continue sleeping. I turned my alarm clock off and quickly dressed in running clothes. This time, I added a thick nylon belt with bottle holders to my ensemble. I filled three bottles with water from the tap in my bathroom and secured them to the loops at my waist. I chalked up yesterday’s embarrassing display to dehydration and was determined not to repeat it.

  Setting off at a slow jog, I replayed the events from the previous day in my mind. I analyzed my interactions with each individual in light of Penny’s more in-depth profiles. Next, I mentally scripted the questions that I would ask each teacher. When I exhausted that task, I moved on to recalling the highlights of each profile.

  All of the Instructors, except for Thad, had some family member who was either affiliated directly with the Coalition or who was strongly suspected of supporting their cause. Thad was from a different country, a fact which warranted a little mistrust on its own, but not much. Many other countries didn’t have schools to train Talents, so it wasn’t uncommon for foreign children to come here for education. Part of the deal was that if they were educated here, they stayed here after graduation and worked for TOXIC. Many thought that it was a good alternative to being ostracized for their abilities in their countries. Thad had been a Hunter, which meant he would’ve come in contact with Coalition members and turned spy as a result; but Thad had a good record and hadn’t raised suspicion in all the years that he’d been a Hunter or an Instructor with the Agency.

  Annalise Cleary, at best, seemed like a fake. Her Talent Ranking was listed as ‘Elite’, but I had serious doubts that it was, in fact, true. However, I also doubted that made her a spy, and chalked the inconsistency up to a mistake during her ranking tests. Until I delved further into her psyche, or questioned her extensively about contact with her ex-husband, I wouldn’t know for sure whether she was one of the good guys.

  Cadence Choi stunk of desperation to prove that she was better than her ranking. Penny’s report indicated that Cadence had taken the Hunter’s Placement Exam. She’d been rejected because her Talent ranking was too low since the Hunters only accept Talents with a ranking of Extremely High or Elite. She’d requested several transfers to the Hunters in the six years that she had been teaching at the School, and each had been denied. Personally, I thought that she was lucky to have been granted an Instructor position at graduation as opposed to an assistant one; new graduates were seldom awarded such a noteworthy post. Despite our instant mutual dislike for one another, I had to admit that she was really a very good fighter, and not a bad teacher.

  Ursula was a surprisingly hard read. Aside from her extreme arrogance where her Talents were concerned, I’d been unable to get much of a feel for her. Luckily, she was her own favorite topic of conversation, so I doubted that it would be difficult to get her talking about more intimate matters. Thinking about Ursula made me realize that I’d forgotten to ask Penny about getting the recordings of her visits with her parents at Affelwood. I really needed to start writing this stuff down.

  Even as I repeated the Instructors’ records in my head, thoughts of Donavon crept to the surface. Penny’s more extensive background reports gave a detailed history of past relationships and known acquaintances at each posting. If casual friendships and known hook-ups had been immortalized in their files, I was confident that my own high-profile relationship with Donavon had been carefully documented. The realization made me incredibly uncomfortable, and slightly desperate to read our files.

  TOXIC did not prohibit Operatives from marrying and having children with one another, even encouraging the idea in some cases. Though scientists hadn’t conclusively proven that Talented parents begot Talented children, it was more common if at least one of the parents was. Donavon was an Extremely-High-level Morpher, and I was an Elite-level Mind Manipulator; it was almost a certainty one of our children would have strong powers. Mac had encouraged our relationship for this reason, and he wasn’t the only one. Many believed that a pairing such as ours would prove extremely beneficial to the furtherance of TOXIC’s objectives.

  As the Director’s son, Donavon was slated to follow the same course as his father. After his stint here, as an undercover spy hunter or whatever his actual assignment was, I assumed that he would return to Elite Headquarters and the Hunters. In a few years, he would be promoted to team captain. Like Mac, he’d become Headmaster by the time he was forty. Donavon would likely be appointed Captain of the Hunters, or the Liaison to the United Nations International Talent Education Division after leaving his mark at his namesake, the McDonough School. Finally, he would become Director; every McDonough had followed the same path since the inception of TOXIC.

  This wasn’t Donavon’s life plan so much as it was his fate. Not that Donavon didn’t want to do all those things, too, he just didn’t really care about receiving accolades. What Donavon did care about was making his father proud. So if Mac wanted him to follow in his footsteps, Donavon would.

  The more my thoughts clouded with Donavon, the madder I got at myself. My life had come full circle. It had been just a year ago that Donavon and Erik interfered with my ability to concentrate on more important issues. I was here to do a job. Not just any job. I was supposed to find out who’d leaked my identity to Ian Crane.

  Had it been about money? Was the Coalition paying for information on Operatives? Or worse, was this personal? Operatives’ deaths weren’t infrequent, but an Operative being targeted specifically had to be rare.

  Just as I was beginning to think that my brain couldn’t process one more coherent thought, the Instructor dorm came into view. Every inch of my body was slick with sweat. I briefly wondered if it was possible for every part of your body to sweat, or if you sweat only in certain portions of your body and it just dripped to the rest of it.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Coming to a halt in front of the entrance, I leaned against the cool stones. I hoped that the coolness would seep into my exposed skin, but instead, I had a feeling that my body heat warmed the smooth surface. I reached for a water bottle, only to discover it was empty. I looked down. Ugh. All of my water bottles were empty. I took a deep breath.

  My head pounded so loud that it blocked out all the sounds of nature around me. My stomach was queasy and my legs shook slightly, but I was still standing upright and last night’s dinner hadn’t seen the sunlight that was now peeking through the trees. Considering my morning run a success, I grinned as I opened the front door to the dorm and headed up to my room for a shower.

  I arrived at the practice arena in good spirits, still pleased with myself. Since we would have a different set of students today we would be repeating the drills from yesterday. I inwardly groaned as I thought of my bruised leg, but still firmly insisted that I didn’t need a suit when Donavon suggested it. Pride was definitely a sin.

  Donavon gave me a hard look in response. His light blue eyes clouded over and somehow became darker, like when a sunny, cloudless sky begins to fill with thunder clouds. I swore that I could hear his back teeth grinding together as he clenched his jaw. He turned to the class and began taking them through the movements he was about to demonstrate. I stood perfectly still beside him, feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind my back.

  I glanced sidelong, trying in vain to not look at the silky blond hair that fell in his eyes. It was longer than I’d seen it in years, like he hadn’t cut it since leaving Headquarters, and he kept pushing it back with one hand. His skin was a little tan from all the time that he spent outside; usually, the most color he had was pink tinges since he tended to burn easily. The muscles in his arms moved fluidly with each gesture he made. His hands were large and calloused from training, fingers long and slim. I watched his mouth move as he spoke, his lips looking even fuller from the side. I had seen many girls in D.C. who used lip gloss injected with insect venom in an effort to make their lips swell slightly, trying to achieve the look that Donavon had naturally.

  Donavon’s dark eyelashes were so long, they brushed the hollows of his cheeks when he closed his eyes. When we were in school, Donavon and I would sneak out at night to lie on a blanket under the stars. I would lie on my back, my head on Donavon’s arm. He would lie next to me, his head resting on my shoulder close enough so that his lashes would kiss my cheekbone, sending tingles through my whole body and nervous giggles out of my mouth every time he blinked. Butterfly kisses, he’d called them.

  I was so lost in the memory that I didn’t even realize that Donavon had stopped talking and turned to face me expectantly. My throat was dry and I nearly choked when I tried to swallow my unease.

  “You okay?” he sent, concern warring with irritation at my daydreaming.

  “Yes,” my mental voice snapped back at him. I was angry with myself for recalling those memories, so naturally I took it out on him. He cocked one dark-blond eyebrow, and I wondered how loud my thoughts had been projecting. Blood rushed to my face, and my pulse roared in my ears. Of course, this totally physical reaction, that I couldn’t help, angered me even more.

  “Let’s start this,” I growled. I threw all of my concentration into the exercise. Granted, all I was supposed to do was stand there in a defensive stance, and not really try to deflect the blows. Still, I readied myself for the physical contact, and I didn’t even feel Donavon’s first kick make contact with my body. I steeled myself against his second, which I knew would land on my bruised leg, but the pain never came.

  At least, the pain never came to me. As soon as Donavon’s foot hit my thigh, he doubled over holding his own leg. My eyes widened in surprise. It took me several seconds to react while his mental voice screamed expletives in my head. Closing the distance separating us, I knelt down, not sure whether I should touch him. Donavon writhed in agony.

  “Get a Medical,” I yelled to no one in particular. The students all stared, frozen. “Now,” I snapped. The compulsion behind my command was so strong that several kids took off at a run.

  “What happened?” I asked shakily, my hand hovering over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” he replied out loud, his teeth gritted. He let out several long, hissing breaths, and squeezed his eyes shut to ward off the pain.

  We stayed like that, him lying on the ground and me kneeling beside him, for what seemed like an eternity. I wanted to touch him, soothe him, but I was scared he’d reject me. When he opened his eyes, he looked murderous, and I had a bad feeling that his anger was directed at me. I recoiled, sitting back on my haunches in case he decided to release his aggression.

  Finally, a Medic arrived with Janet in tow. As soon as Janet saw me kneeling on the ground, she quickened her pace, fear shining in her eyes. When she glanced at me, she did a double take. Her eyes grew big as saucers. I followed her gaze; my gray pants were darkening to a reddish-black.

  “Oh,” I cried out loud. As soon as I saw the blood, a loud crack resonated in my head. Oh, no, I knew what had happened. Suddenly I was the one writhing in the grass. My leg burned, flames shooting down my thigh to lick my toes. My pants clung to my skin, sticky with my blood. I was vaguely aware that Donavon had stopped panting, his breathing returning to normal. His eyes found mine, the blue irises swirling with accusations and fury. Donavon scrambled back, putting as much distance between us as he could manage with the all the people crowding the area.

  Janet motioned a Medic closer to where I lay paralyzed with fear and agony. He scooped me up in his arms and began running, cradling me to his chest. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe through the pain. I wanted to deflect it or block it, but the last thing I needed was to transfer the pain—I certainly didn’t want the Medic to drop me.

  When we arrived at the Medical building, a team was standing by. The Medic carefully deposited me onto a stretcher waiting at the entrance. I still had my eyes shut, but I felt and heard people cutting my pants away from my thigh. I swore loudly as one peeled the sticky fabric from the wound. Terrified that the sight of my blood would send me into hysterics, I kept my eyes scrunched shut and tightly gripped the handrails of the gurney until the skin over my knuckles turned white. Don’t cry, don’t cry, I chanted silently. You’ve been through worse.

  The stretcher came to a stop, and I felt four simultaneous pricks several inches above my knee. A heavy chemical feeling flowed through my veins, and my leg went numb.

  I chanced a peek. The same Medic who’d carried me from the practice field was sopping up the blood with clean towels while another prepared sterilized pads to disinfect the area. I averted my eyes; watching the needle thread stitches through my skin was the last image that I wanted burned into my mind. Unfortunately, I still felt the pull of the fiber as he threaded the stitches to close the wound. It took every ounce of my willpower not to retch.

  “Good as new,” he pronounced when he was done.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, lying back on the stiff white sheets of the gurney. His footsteps retreated from my bedside.

  “How are you?” Janet’s voice asked.

  “Didn’t you hear him?” I questioned sarcastically. “Good as new.”

  “You only needed ten stitches. Dr. Remy said there was only so much blood because of the bruise,” she explained. “What happened? Why weren’t you wearing pads?”

  “Please don’t lecture me,” I moaned. I felt stupid enough as it was. I had no one to blame for this except myself, my own stubborn nature.

  “I wasn’t going to lecture you,” she replied. I peered up at her through one squinted eye. She looked exasperated; she had definitely been gearing up to lecture me.

  “Did you bring me some new pants?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” her lips were pursed in a disapproving grimace, but she was carrying a pair of loose-fitting navy sweatpants.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, holding out my hand to take the clothing.

  “Dr. Remy says that you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to, but no physical activity for the rest of the day,” she warned.

  “Did Dr. Remy say when I can do physical activity?” I assumed Dr. Remy was the unknown Medic who had stitched me up.

  “Preferably not for a week, but if you promise to be careful and wear a protective suit, tomorrow should be fine.”

  “Tomorrow it is,” I snapped, immediately feeling bad. Janet was just trying to help, and she wasn’t the person I was angry with. I was angry with myself for being stubborn.

  Janet helped me slide off the stretcher and into the sweatpants, then handed me three green pills and a small plastic cup of water.

  “Prevent infection,” she said as she handed them to me. I nodded my understanding and cupped the pills in my palm before throwing them into my mouth.

  If I’d insisted, Janet would’ve let me mull over my stupidity in the solitude of my own room. Somehow, I didn’t think that was a productive use of my time, and I knew that I’d feel even worse if I didn’t have something to distract me. So instead of heading back to my dorm room, I limped to Ms. Cleary’s language class.