The Girl Who Wasn't Read online

  “Sorry,” I say, though I realize as I utter the word it is not what Authentic Raven would say.

  “No, it’s my fault.” The speaker is a boy with dark hair and even darker eyes. His frame is slight and bony, decidedly feminine.

  The contrast of his features against his creamy skin is all too familiar on this handsome stranger in a tailored suit. I know his face in an instant, though I’ve never seen it before, and it shakes me to my core. The pain in my body fades against the seizing in my chest. It can’t be …

  This boy in front of me with porcelain skin and a sing-song voice—he is her. She is him. However impossible, this is Ida’s Authentic.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  Before I can answer, recognition dawns, and he blurts, “Shit! Raven, uh—Miss Rogen, apologies. I had no idea it was you.” The way his shoulders slouch inward makes him look small and afraid. Like her. That, more than anything, jolts me out of my shock.

  “It’s nothing,” I assure him. “What’s your name?”

  “Obadiah Whitcomb. I’m so sorry for bumping you. It won’t happen again. I swear to God I’ll be more careful.”

  Obadiah. Ida. Does he know she exists for him? Does the sweetness in his words reflect the pureness of heart that is inherently Ida? “It’s fine, Obadiah, really. I’m not upset.”

  “You’re not?” His eyes narrow in suspicion and I can see the faint hint of black liner around them. As if it’s been washed off but only recently and not very well.

  “No.” I smile at him as the tightness in my chest loosens. I am elated to have found a familiar face and I do not care what Titus will say. “You and I, we’re going to be friends.”

  “We are?” He sounds less afraid, though still suspicious.

  I nod. “Best friends.”

  “Why the hell would we do that?”

  “Have we met before?”

  “We … haven’t spoken. Different circles.”

  I know it’s his way of saying Authentic Raven would never speak to this doe-eyed boy but I don’t care. I will have this one thing. “Well, consider us in the same circle now.”

  He cocks his head. “I heard you had an accident. Did you sustain brain damage?”

  I laugh and it’s so foreign, I let it go on longer than normal just to savor the sound. “No brain damage. Just … more appreciative of life, I guess.”

  “Obadiah! I told you to get the hell inside and mingle. You are not sitting on the sidelines for this one. Not again,” a man snaps from across the foyer. His face is pinched into a snarl that seems almost permanent.

  “On my way, Dad. I was just chatting with Ms. Rogen here.” Obadiah puts emphasis on my name. His father tenses.

  “Sorry, sir,” I say, turning on the charm that only exists because it’s been hardwired into my DNA. “It’s completely my fault for bumping Obadiah and then holding him up, making him talk to me.”

  The man looks momentarily baffled. “Right, well, when you’re finished …” His words have lost their bite and he retreats.

  Obadiah turns to me with the ghost of a smile. “Huh. Well, regardless of your reasons, having you as a friend may be useful if it shuts my dad up.”

  “Your dad is Senator Whitcomb?”

  “The one and only.” His head tilts sideways at my expression. “What’s wrong?”

  I hesitate, unsure how much to say about what I know. This is the man Daniel and Titus spoke of, the one they are elevating to power if only he will swing the vote in their favor. The vote on banning the poor from uptown, removing the less fortunate to the outer rim of the city.

  This is the man they will use as their puppet. If not, they will replace him. Until this moment, I wasn’t sure what that meant. But now, staring at this boy who is every inch his Imitation, I know.

  Titus means to replace Senator Whitcomb with his Imitation. And there is only one way he would have the power to speak so confidently about a move like that. Suddenly, all of his comments, the knowledge he’s displayed of the City—it all makes perfect sense. My subconscious knew it from the first moment.

  Titus is the Creator.

  Twig City belongs to him.

  I belong to him.

  A thousand thoughts pass through my mind. Of risk and uncertainty and fear. Of position and power and what he’s capable of. None of which I can let show on my face. Obadiah is waiting for me to say something. And I still have to be her for the night. I can’t be me just yet. I can’t feel all of these things. Later, I tell myself. Not now.

  “I’ve heard your father has been very successful in garnering support for his campaign,” I say.

  Obadiah grunts. “No thanks to me, I guess. He’s made it pretty clear I only make his life in politics harder. Hence this stuffy suit and clean-cut ’do. Not my usual style.”

  I think of Ida and wonder who chose her to be this boy’s Imitation. Or why. But I do not ask.

  I grimace. “Not my style, either,” I say, gesturing to my dress.

  He gives me a once over. “I know. Usually, you look way more slutty.” His eyes grow wide. “Shit, sorry. I mean, you look …”

  My lips twitch. “I get it,” I say.

  At my easy response, his suspicion returns. He falls silent.

  I realize I’ve made another error but I don’t care. Not with Obadiah. He is too much like Ida for me to worry. I already love him, although he doesn’t understand. Or trust me. I am determined to rectify the latter. Especially now, knowing who Titus is and that there’s absolutely no escaping.

  I lean in and lower my voice. “I have a confession. The head injury did something to me. I have temporary amnesia.”

  “Explains why you want to be my friend,” he says like it all makes sense.

  Senator Whitcomb appears again, not quite as vicious but intent nonetheless. I wave at him cheerily and he relaxes, but he doesn’t move from his spot. He stares pointedly at Obadiah.

  “Showtime,” Obadiah says.

  “Come on. Let’s get this ridiculous party over with.” I hook an arm through his and let him lead me in.

  We’re in the ballroom less than thirty seconds before a boy approaches us. He is tall and light haired and has a cocky smile that is a little mean when it lands on Obadiah. I tighten my grip on my new friend and stand my ground, mustering the courage and calm of the girl I’m supposed to be.

  “Who is that?” I whisper to Obadiah.

  “Caine Rafferty. Shameless player. Unapologetic asshole,” he whispers back.

  The boy stops in front of me. “Hey, Rav, what’s new?”

  He ogles the neckline of my dress in a way that makes me think he is disappointed. I feel the heat of anger creeping into my cheeks. When I don’t answer, Obadiah nudges me with his elbow.

  “Mm, not much, Caine. What’s new with you?” I say, letting my voice drawl in a way that I imagine she does.

  He glances at Obadiah again as he says, “Dance with me, kitten. It’s been too long.”

  I bristle at the use of the nickname. It is the same thing Daniel called me and I’m not sure what that means except that Authentic Raven must prefer it—and not be shy in saying so. “Let me make the rounds and then I’ll find you.”

  “You’re turning down a dance? Are you feeling all right?”

  I can feel his suspicion and I know that somewhere in this room, Titus is watching. I suppress a sigh and offer him my hand, sliding it free of Obadiah’s. “I’ll find you later,” I whisper to him as Caine leads me away. I cannot hear Obadiah’s response.

  The dance floor is mostly empty. Caine leads us to the very center and then wraps his arms around me and pulls my body tight against his. I react, channeling both myself and her when I smack him on the arm and yank away.

  “Caine, this is not the place or time,” I say. I leave what I hope is enough sultry in my voice to balance the anger.

  “Then what is?” he whispers in my ear. “Name it, kitten, I’m there.” He traces a finger over my healing tattoo. “Lov
e the tatt, by the way. How’d you get the purple in there?”

  I scowl and step back, allowing more space between us when I re-enter his hold. I don’t answer the question and he merely laughs at my silence. Maybe it’s something he’s used to.

  Obadiah watches from beside the bar. He looks worried as he sips on some dark-colored drink. I spin again and lose him in the crowd, only to find Titus watching from another angle. He is locked in conversation with a man whose back is turned to me, but his eyes aren’t on the man, they are on me.

  As I scan the faces, I realize many of the guests are watching our dance. Authentic Raven is the center of attention. I have forgotten that. She hasn’t. I let her take over, knowing Titus needs a show. I swallow the bitterness in my throat and prepare to give it to him.

  The next time Caine spins me, I twirl faster, tilting my head back in enjoyment, and let my dress flare out around me. I fall hard into the circle of his arms. The rough contact sends a tremor through my bruised body. To cover the pain, I pull him close and hang on tight. He takes it for the invitation it is, pulling me against him so that our bodies touch from chest to knees. We sway suggestively until the song ends.

  I feel the attention, the whispers, and I know this is what it’s like to be Raven Rogen.

  The next hour is filled with dancing. Every song brings a new face cutting in, another body pressing to mine. I learn through snatches of comments that most are sons of senators and politicians. They all seem very familiar with Raven Rogen. Intimate, even. I shove aside those thoughts—or any that take me out of character. For now, it is easier to be her.

  I dance. I laugh. I brush against them as we sway. I openly stare with heavy lids and I am quick to give a sultry smile. It should scare me that I am capable of being this person—that I am capable of losing myself so effortlessly.

  I steal glances at Titus throughout the night and when I can no longer spot him in the crowd, I disentangle myself from a protesting boy whose name I cannot remember and exit the dance floor. I slip through cracks in milling bodies until I can no longer hear the boy’s complaints behind me. Obadiah disappeared a few songs ago, so I wander aimlessly until I catch sight of a set of open French doors that lead onto a patio. The idea of fresh air is too enticing to pass up, even if it means getting cornered by another would-be dance partner with wandering hands.

  I pass through the doorway into the crisp darkness. A few people stand about, mostly couples, taking in the view of the gardens below us. I wander as far away from them as I can, into a darkened corner where the white string-lights don’t quite reach. The thick railing is cold underneath my palms. I soak it in, letting it cool me.

  I’ve grown warm from the dancing. My hair is wrapped around my neck, a necessary curtain. It feels sticky and itchy against my skin. I pull it away and wrap it around one hand, enjoying the air on my flesh.

  “You shouldn’t do that. People are watching.”

  I drop my hair and twist around. “Linc.”

  I have to squint to see him. He is tucked deep in a corner I didn’t realize was there. He is dressed in dark slacks and a jacket, no tie. His hair has been combed forward into something more deliberate than usual. He looks handsome.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” I say.

  “I got switched to crowd control. Titus wanted to escort you himself.”

  I think back to why Titus wanted to see me. To inspect me. To gauge my level of pain and injury and know how I’d hold up, how well I’d play my part. Between the role I’ve played tonight and the realization of my hopeless connection with Titus, tears well.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  My muscles ache, my feet are numb, and it is tempting to let the tears fall. I feel safe enough with Linc to allow it, but I know he would feel a need to avenge them even without fully understanding what they mean, and that is something I cannot allow. So, I swallow them back.

  “Raven?”

  The sound of a name that is not my own grates on me. Somehow, it’s worse coming from Linc’s lips than anyone else’s. I wish I could make him call me Ven. But that is a silly and impossible sort of wish.

  “I’m fine,” I say. My voice trembles. He takes a step toward me and I hold a hand out to stop him. In my attempt to steady my voice, it becomes steely. “I need to get back inside. People will be looking for me.”

  Even in the darkness I can sense his anger. His shoulders stiffen and he straightens out of his slouch. “Yeah, you don’t want to keep your fans waiting. You’re in high demand in there.”

  His condescension makes me angry. “It’s a warmer welcome than I’m getting out here.”

  “Is that what you’re after, a warm welcome? Or a warm body? It’s hard to know the difference with you.”

  I feel the heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. I hate that he can be so hot one minute and so cold the next. “Either way, it’s not your concern, is it?”

  I spin and take a step back toward the light of the party, but I can’t control the wince that creeps onto my face at my sore muscles. Now that I’ve stopped the constant spin of the dance, the full extent of my injuries has caught up with me. I feel ten times worse than I did this morning. The thought of walking back inside, being forced to dance and smile and mingle, is excruciating. As proof, I stumble.

  “Raven?” Linc is by my side in an instant, his voice gentle, his hand on my elbow leading me back into the safety of the shadows.

  “I need a minute,” I whisper. My head spins. I pray my body can hold it together for another hour—or however long it takes Titus to let me go home.

  “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is a growl and I cannot argue.

  A shadow moves in front of me. I freeze until I realize it is only Obadiah. I can see his jaw slacken in the darkness as he takes in the sight of Linc and me together in the alcove.

  “Raven?” he asks uncertainly.

  “It’s okay, Id—Obadiah.” I almost slip and call him by his Imitation. I wonder how often I’ll do that before he notices. Before the pang in my chest will be so great I’ll give in and tell him the truth. In this moment, in my weakness, I want to desperately.

  “Titus was looking for you inside,” he says, approaching slowly, eyeing Linc. “And so were Caine and Daniel.”

  I cringe at that. Linc stiffens. “Obadiah, this is Linc. He’s part of my security detail. Linc, Obadiah is Senator Whitcomb’s son.”

  “I know who he is,” Linc says.

  Obadiah’s distrust turns to curiosity and he regards Linc more openly. His gaze lingers on where Linc’s hand still holds my elbow then travels upward to my chest. I realize a moment too late my scarf is displaced.

  “Oh my gawd, what the hell happened to you?” he asks. He takes a step forward but Linc slides in front, blocking me.

  “Linc, he’s my friend,” I say, but Linc doesn’t move.

  I sigh and speak to Obadiah over the barrier of Linc’s shoulder. “I was attacked again. They … left a mark.”

  “I’ll say.” Obadiah shakes his head. “You need a doctor. Or some really heavy pain meds.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little stiff.”

  Obadiah looks unconvinced. “I know a guy who can get prescription-grade Vicodin. Just let me know. Shit, even a hit of excess would do you some good right now.”

  “I’ll manage. Thank you,” I tell him.

  “Anyway, you should probably get back in there if you can. I mean, do you want me to get your dad?”

  “No!” Linc and I both say, way too loudly.

  Obadiah looks taken aback. “Okay,” he mutters.

  “Can you give us a moment, Obadiah?” Linc asks quietly.

  “Sure. I’ll … see you inside?” He is hurt. I know because of the shaky expression he wears and also because Ida would’ve been hurt by such an aside. I promise myself I will make it up to him.

  “I’ll see you in there,” I say.

  He turns and wanders back toward the glowing
lights of the party. Linc doesn’t speak until we are alone again. “Are you going to be able to make it through tonight?”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “I’m giving you a choice.”

  The way he says the words leaves no doubt he knows what he’s saying. He would take me away right now if I asked. I’m not sure what else it means—for us—but it would change everything. It would get him killed. I cannot allow it.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, my tone a gentle letdown to his gallant offer.

  He nods once, affirming my choice. “I’ll be close if you need me. Just take it easy. Maybe don’t dance so much.”

  I cock my head at him—the burn of his gaze, the set of his jaw. I remember the day in the wheat field when he told me he didn’t want anyone else touching me. “It bothers you.”

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Part of me loves that he minds. Part of me wishes he didn’t.

  I square my shoulders and put one foot gingerly in front of the other. I hope walking daintily will make me look more like a lady instead of a hobbling mess. Linc’s hand on my arm stops me and I turn to face him.

  “Your hair,” he murmurs. He reaches for my waves, arranging them gently around my face and throat. He is looking intently at my hair and its placement, which is a good thing. I cannot look away from his face. Something in my heart cracks at the sight of him this way. Gentle, caring, worried. He’s so … human. So Authentic. And I can never be.

  The moment he is finished, I mumble a thank-you and stride away as fast as my sore feet will carry me. I cannot look at him any longer tonight. If I do, I will crumble. Or worse, let him take me away. I owe him so much more than death.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Wake up,” Titus barks, jarring me awake the next morning.

  He is cross. I know it before I’ve opened my eyes but there is more proof in his expression. He stands over my bed with drawn eyebrows and fisted hands. I shrink back into the mattress and clutch the sheet.

  Somewhere in my mind, I know that he will not kill me. But only because I am more valuable to him alive so someone else can try. Beyond that, I am absolutely positive nothing else is off limits. He is the Creator. Even sleep could not blur my recollection of this. It makes me more scared, though it shouldn’t. Nothing else has changed—except that I know something I didn’t twelve hours ago.