Shatter Me Complete Collection (98 page)

“I am going to kill you.”

“He wasn’t like that when I went to visit,” Kenji says to me. “I swear. He was fine. He was
sad
.”

“Yeah, well, obviously seeing my face isn’t bringing back happy memories for him.”

Kenji sighs. Looks away. “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I swear. But he wasn’t lying, J. They were down to practically nothing the last time I went back there. Kent said half their supplies went bad because he didn’t realize the blast had broken some of the shelves in their storage room. Some of the jars had cracked open and there were rodents and shit eating their food. And they were all alone out there. It’s cold as all hell and you have no idea how depressing it was, seeing them like that, and James—”

“I get it, Kenji.” I blow out a breath. Fold myself onto the floor. “I really do.”

I look up, look around. Everyone is busying themselves with some kind of task. Running or sketching or training or lifting weights. I think we’re all exhausted by this drama. No one wants to deal with it anymore.

Kenji sits down across from me.

“He can’t keep treating me like that,” I finally say. “And
I won’t keep having the same conversation with him.” I look up. “You brought him here. He’s your responsibility. We have three weeks before we initiate this plan, and we’re already cutting it really close. I need to be able to come down here and train every day, and I don’t want to have to worry about him freaking out on me.”

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Hey, so—were you serious?” Kenji asks. “When you said Warner doesn’t care about him being here?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Kenji raises his eyebrows. “That’s . . . weird.”

“One day,” I say to him, “you’ll realize that Warner is not as crazy as you think he is.”

“Yeah,” Kenji says. “Or maybe one day we’ll be able to reprogram that chip in your head.”

“Shut up.” I laugh, shoving him a little.

“All right. Up. Let’s go. It’s time to work.”

Alia has designed me a new suit.

We’re sitting on the mats like we always do in the evenings, and right now, Alia is showing us her designs.

I’ve never seen her this animated before.

She’s more confident talking about the contents of her sketchbook than she is the weather. She’s talking fast and fluid, describing the details and the dimensions, even outlining the materials we’ll need in order to make it.

It’s built with carbon.

Carbon fibers, to be precise. She explained that carbon fibers are so stiff and abrasive that they’ll need to be bonded with something very flexible in order to become wearable, so she’s planning on experimenting with several different materials. Something about polymers. And synthetic something. And a bunch of other words I didn’t really understand. Her sketches show how the carbon fibers are literally woven into a textile, creating a durable and lightweight material that will serve as a stronger basis for what I need.

Her idea was inspired by the knuckle braces she made for me.

She said she originally wanted the suit to be made of thousands of pieces of gunmetal, but then she realized she’d
never have the tools to make the pieces as thin as she’d like them, and therefore, the suit would be too heavy. But this is sounding just as amazing.

“It’ll complement and enhance your strength,” she’s saying to me. “The carbon fibers will give you an added level of protection; they won’t damage easily, so you’ll be able to move more freely through different terrains. And when you’re in a dangerous environment, you must remember to maintain a state of
electricum
at all times; that way your body will become virtually indestructible,” she says.

“What do you mean . . . ?” I look from her to Castle for clarification. “How can that be possible?”

“Because,” Alia explains. “In the same way that you can break through concrete without hurting yourself, you should also be able to sustain an attack—from a bullet, for example—without harm.” She smiles. “Your powers make you functionally invincible.”

Wow.

“This suit is a precaution more than anything else,” she goes on. “We’ve seen in the past that you
can
, in fact, damage your skin if you’re not wholly in control of your power. When you broke the ground in the research rooms,” she says, “we thought it was the enormity of the act that injured you. But after examining the situation and your abilities more thoroughly, Castle and I found this deduction to be inaccurate.”

“Our energies are never inconsistent,” Castle jumps in, nodding at Alia. “They follow a pattern—an almost mathematical precision. If you cannot injure yourself while
breaking through a concrete wall, it does not then follow that you should be able to injure yourself by breaking the ground, only to remain
un
injured after breaking the ground a second time.” He looks at me. “Your injuries have to do with your hold on your ability. If you ever slip out of
electricum
—if you dial it back for even a moment—you will be vulnerable. Remember to be
on
, at all times. If you do, you cannot be defeated.”

“I hate you so hard right now,” Kenji mutters under his breath. “Functionally invincible my ass.”

“Jealous?” I grin at him.

“I can’t even look at you.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised.” Warner has just walked in. I spin around to find he’s heading toward our group, smiling a brittle smile at no one in particular. He sits down across from me. Meets my eyes as he says, “I always knew your powers, once harnessed, would be unmatched.”

I try to breathe.

Warner finally breaks eye contact with me to glance around the room. “Good evening, everyone,” he says. He nods at Castle. A special sort of acknowledgment.

Adam has a special sort of acknowledgment of his own.

He’s staring at Warner with an intense, unmasked hatred, looking as though he truly wants to murder Warner, and I’m suddenly more anxious than I’ve been all day. I’m looking from Adam to Warner and back again and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if something is about to happen and I’m so desperate for things to be civil that I—

“Hi,” James says, so loudly it startles all of us. He’s looking at Warner. “What are you doing here?”

Warner raises an eyebrow. “I live here.”

“This is your
house
?” James asks.

Strange. I wonder what Adam and Kenji told him about where they were going.

Warner nods. “In some capacity, yes,” he says. “It serves as my home. I live upstairs.”

“That’s so cool,” James says, grinning. “This whole place is so cool.” He frowns. “Hey I thought we were supposed to hate you, though.”

“
James
,” Adam says, shooting his brother a warning glance.

“What?” James asks.

“You are free to hate me,” Warner says. “If you want to. I don’t mind.”

“Well you
should
mind,” James says, surprised. “I’d be really upset if someone hated me.”

“You are young.”

“I’m almost twelve,” James says to him.

“I was told you were ten.”

“I said
almost
twelve.” James rolls his eyes. “How old are you?”

Everyone is watching. Listening. Too fascinated to look away.

Warner studies James. Takes his time answering. “I’m nineteen years old.”

James’s eyes go wide. “You’re only a year older than Adam,” he says. “How do you have so many nice things if
you’re only a year older than Adam? I don’t know anyone your age who has nice things.”

Warner looks over at me. Looks back at James. Looks at me again. “Is there nothing you want to add to this conversation, love?”

I shake my head. Smiling.

“Why do you call her ‘love’?” James asks. “I’ve heard you say that before, too. A lot. Are you in love with her? I think Adam’s in love with her. Kenji’s not in love with her, though. I already asked him.”

Warner blinks at him.

“Well?” James asks.

“Well what?”

“Are you in love with her?”

“Are
you
in love with her?”

“What?” James blushes. “No. She’s like a million years older than me.”

“Would anyone like to take over this conversation?” Warner asks, looking around the group.

“You never answered my question,” James says. “About why you have so many things. I’m not trying to be rude,” he says. “Really. I’m just wondering. I’ve never taken a shower with hot water before. And you have so much food. It must be really nice to have so much food all the time.”

Warner flinches, unexpectedly. He looks more carefully at James. “No,” he says slowly. “It is not a terrible thing to have food and hot water all the time.”

“So then are you going to answer my question? About where you got all this stuff?”

Warner sighs.

“I am the commander and regent of Sector 45,” he says. “We are currently on an army base, where it is my job to oversee our soldiers and all the civilians who live on the accompanying compounds. I am paid to live here.”

“Oh.” James goes pale in an instant; he suddenly looks inhumanly terrified. “You work for The Reestablishment?”

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy,” Kenji says to James. “You’re safe here. Okay? No one’s going to hurt you.”

“This is the kind of guy you’re into, huh?” Adam snaps at me. “The kind of guy who petrifies children?”

“It’s nice to see you again, Kent.” Warner is watching Adam now. “How are you enjoying your stay?”

Adam seems to be fighting back the urge to say a lot of unkind things.

“So you really work for them?” James is asking Warner again, his words just a breath, his eyes still frozen on Warner’s face. He’s shaking so hard it breaks my heart. “You work for The Reestablishment?”

Warner hesitates. Looks away and looks back again. “Theoretically,” he says. “Yes.”

“What do you mean?” James asks.

Warner is looking into his hands.

“What do you mean,
theoretically
?” James demands.

“Are you asking,” Warner says with a sigh, “because you are actually seeking clarification? Or is it because you don’t know what the word
theoretically
means?”

James hesitates, his panic dissolving into frustration for a moment. He screws up his face, annoyed. “Fine. What
does
theoretically
mean?”

“Theoretically,” Warner says, “I’m supposed to work for The Reestablishment. But, obviously, as I’m hosting a group of rebels on this government-owned military base—in my private quarters, no less—and sustaining said rebels so that they might overthrow our current regime, I would say no. I am not, exactly, working for The Reestablishment. I have committed treason,” he says to James. “A crime that is punishable by death.”

James stares at him for a long time. “
That’s
what
theoretically
means?”

Warner looks up at the wall. Sighs again.

I bite back a laugh.

“So, wait—then you’re not the bad guy,” James says all of a sudden. “You’re on our side, right?”

Warner turns slowly to meet James’s eyes. Says nothing.

“Well?” James asks, impatient. “Aren’t you on our side?”

Warner blinks. Twice. “So it seems,” he says, looking as though he can hardly believe he’s saying it.

“Perhaps we should get back to the suit,” Castle cuts in. He’s looking at Warner, smiling triumphantly. “Alia has spent a long time designing it, and I know she has more details to share.”

“Yeah,” Kenji says, excited. “This looks badass, Alia. I want one. Can I have one?”

I wonder if I’m the only person who notices that Warner’s hands are shaking.

“Punch me.”

Warner is standing directly across from me, head cocked to the side. Everyone is watching us.

I shake my head, fast.

“Don’t be afraid, love,” he says to me. “I just want you to try.”

His arms are relaxed at his sides. His stance so casual. It’s Saturday morning, which means he has time off from his daily workout routine. Which means he’s decided to work with me, instead.

I shake my head again.

He laughs. “Your training with Kenji is good,” he says, “but this is just as important. You need to learn how to fight. You have to be able to defend yourself.”

“But I can defend myself,” I say to him. “I’m strong enough.”

“Strength is excellent,” he says, “but it’s worth nothing without technique. If you can be overpowered, you are not strong
enough
.”

“I don’t think I could be overpowered,” I say to him. “Not really.”

“I admire your confidence.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“When you met my father for the first time,” he says, “were you not initially overpowered?”

My blood runs cold.

“And when you set out to fight after I left Omega Point,” he says to me, “were you not overpowered again?”

I clench my fists.

“And even after you were captured,” he says quietly, “was my father not able to overpower you once more?”

I drop my head.

“I want you to be able to defend yourself,” Warner says, his voice gentle now. “I want you to learn how to fight. Kenji was right the other day, when he said you can’t just throw your energy around. You have to be able to project with precision. Your moves must always be deliberate. You have to be able to anticipate your opponent in every possible way, both mentally and physically. Strength is only the first step.”

I look up, meet his eyes.

“Now punch me,” he says.

“I don’t know how,” I finally admit, embarrassed.

He’s trying so hard not to smile.

“Are you looking for volunteers?” I hear Kenji ask. He steps closer. “Because I’ll gladly kick your ass if Juliette isn’t interested.”

“
Kenji
,” I snap, spinning around. I narrow my eyes.

“What?”

“Come on, love,” Warner says to me. He’s unfazed by Kenji’s comment, looking at me as if no one else in this
room exists. “I want you to try. Use your strength. Tap into every bit of power you have. And then punch me.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

Warner laughs again. Looks away. Bites his lip as he stifles another smile. “You’re not going to hurt me,” he says. “Trust me.”

“Because you’ll absorb the power?”

“No,” he says. “Because you won’t be
able
to hurt me. You don’t know how.”

I frown, annoyed. “Fine.”

I swing my fist in what I assume a punch is supposed to look like. But my motion is limp and wobbly and so humiliatingly bad I almost give up halfway.

Warner catches my arm. He meets my eyes. “Focus,” he says to me. “Imagine you are terrified. You are cornered. You are fighting for your life.
Defend
yourself,” he demands.

I pull my arm back with more intensity, ready to try harder this time, when Warner stops me. He grabs my elbow. Shakes it a little. “You are not playing baseball,” he says. “You do not wind up for a punch, and you do not need to lift your elbow up to your ear. Do not give your opponent advance notice of what you’re about to do,” he says. “The impact should be unexpected.”

I try again.

“My face is in the center, love, right here,” he says, tapping a finger against his chin. “Why are you trying to hit my shoulder?”

I try again.

“Better—control your arm—keep your left fist up—protect your face—”

I punch hard, a cheap shot, an unexpected hit even though I know he isn’t ready.

His reflexes are too fast.

His fist is clenched around my forearm in an instant. He yanks, hard, pulling my arm forward and down until I’m off-balance and toppling toward him. Our faces are an inch apart.

I look up, embarrassed.

“That was cute,” he says, unamused as he releases me. “Try again.”

I do.

He blocks my punch with the back of his hand, slamming into the space just inside my wrist, knocking my arm sideways.

I try again.

He uses the same hand to grab my arm in midair and pull me close again. He leans in. “Do not allow anyone to catch your arms like this,” he says. “Because once they do, they’ll be able to control you.” And, as if to prove it, he uses his hold on my arm to pull me in and then shove me backward, hard.

Not too hard.

But still.

I’m starting to get irritated, and he can tell.

He smiles.

“You really want me to hurt you?” I ask him, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t think you can,” he says.

“I think you’re pretty cocky about that.”

“Prove me wrong, love.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Please.”

I swing.

He blocks.

I strike again.

He blocks.

His forearms are made of
steel
.

“I thought this was about
punching
,” I say to him, rubbing at my arms. “Why do you keep hitting my forearms?”

“Your fist does not carry your strength,” he says. “It’s just a tool.”

I swing again, faltering at the last minute, my confidence failing me.

He catches my arm. Drops it.

“If you’re going to hesitate,” he says, “do it on purpose. If you’re going to hurt someone, do it on purpose. If you’re going to lose a fight,” he says, “do it on
purpose
.”

“I just—I can’t do this right,” I tell him. “My hands are shaking and my arms are starting to hurt—”

“Watch what I do,” he says. “Watch my form.”

His feet are planted about shoulder-width apart, his legs slightly bent at the knees. His left fist is up and held back, protecting the side of his face, and his right fist is leading, sitting higher and slightly diagonal from his left. Both
elbows are tucked in, hovering close to his chest.

He swings at me, slowly, so I can study the movement.

His body is tensed, his aim focused, every movement controlled. The power comes from somewhere deep inside of him; it’s the kind of strength that is a consequence of years of careful training. His muscles know how to move. Know how to fight. His power is not a gimmick of supernatural coincidence.

His knuckles gently graze the edge of my chin.

He makes it look so easy to punch someone. I had no idea it was this difficult.

“Do you want to switch?” he asks.

“What?”

“If I try to punch you,” he says. “Can you defend yourself?”

“No.”

“Try,” he says to me. “Just try to block me.”

“Okay,” I say, not actually wanting to. I feel stupid and petulant.

He swings again, slowly, for my sake.

I slap his arm out of the way.

He drops his hands. Tries not to laugh. “You are so much worse at this than I thought you’d be.”

I scowl.

“Use your forearms,” he says. “Block my swing. Knock it out of the way and shift your body with it. Remember to move your head when you block. You want to move yourself
away
from danger. Don’t just stand there and slap.”

I nod.

He starts to swing.

I block too quickly, my forearm hitting his fist. Hard.

I wince.

“It’s good to anticipate,” he says to me, his eyes sharp. “But don’t get eager.”

Another swing.

I catch his forearm. Stare at it. I try to pull it down like he did with mine, but he literally does not budge. At all. Not even an inch. It’s like tugging on a metal pole buried in concrete.

“That was . . . okay,” he says, smiling. “Try again. Focus.” He’s studying my eyes. “
Focus
, love.”

“I
am
focused,” I insist, irritated.

“Look at your feet,” he says. “You’re putting your weight on the front of your feet and you look like you’re about to tip over. Plant yourself in place,” he says. “But be ready to move. Your weight should rest on the heels of your feet,” he says, tapping the back of his own foot.

“Fine,” I snap, angry now. “I’m standing on the heels of my feet. I’m not tipping over anymore.”

Warner looks at me. Captures my eyes. “Never fight when you’re angry,” he says quietly. “Anger will make you weak and clumsy. It will divert your focus. Your instincts will fail you.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Frustrated and ashamed.

“Try again,” he says slowly. “Stay calm. Have faith in yourself. If you don’t believe you can do it,” he says, “you won’t.”

I nod, slightly mollified. Try to concentrate.

I tell him I’m ready.

He swings.

My left arm bends at the elbow in a perfect ninety-degree angle that slams into his forearm so hard it stops his swing. My head has shifted out of the way, my feet turned in the direction of his punch; I’m still standing steady.

Warner is amused.

He swings with his other fist.

I grab his forearm in midair, my fist closed around the space above his wrist, and I take advantage of his surprise to throw him off-balance, pulling his arm down and yanking him forward. He almost crashes into me. His face is right in front of mine.

And I’m so surprised that for a moment I don’t know what to do. I’m caught in his eyes.

“Push me,” he whispers.

I tighten my hold around his arm, and then shove him across the room.

He flies back, catching himself before hitting the floor.

I’m frozen in place. Shocked.

Someone whistles.

I turn around.

Kenji is clapping. “Well done, princess,” he says, trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

I grin, half embarrassed and half absurdly proud of myself.

I meet Warner’s eyes across the room. He nods, smiling so wide. “Good,” he says. “Very good. You’re a fast
learner. But we still have a lot of work to do.”

I finally look away, catching a glimpse of Adam in the process.

He looks pissed.