Taken (Erin Bowman)

suggest, my eyes still on his feet.
    The man grunts. “Very clever. You Order folk have an odd sense of humor.” He shifts something from his shoulder and sets it on the ground. It looks like a bow, but I can’t be sure. Then he walks to the corner and grabs a tall slender pole and positions it before him. After flicking something on its trunk, brightness floods the room and he adjusts the light source until it is practically on top of me. It’s blinding and I drop my head further into my chest.
    “Look at me,” the man demands. Again, his voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. I keep my head in my chest. “I said look at me,” he orders.
    It’s too bright, but I lift my head slowly. I squint, opening one eye at a time. He takes a step backward when the light hits my face.
    “You . . . ,” he starts, but then his voice fades out. “What’s your name?”
    He sounds like Bree. “I don’t see the point in telling you if you’re going to kill me anyway.”
    “Maybe we won’t.”
    “Maybe you will.”
    “Boy, just tell me your name. Please?” His voice has gone from demanding to kind, as if nothing could be more important than learning my name at this particular moment. But I’ve kept it to myself for so long now, it seems foolish to give it away just because someone’s asking nicely.
    “Are you Blaine or Gray?” he offers when I remain silent. Those words make me flinch, open my eyes wider in an attempt to see him. How out of all the names did he pick these two to pair together?
    “Neither,” I spit, but I know my reaction has proven otherwise.
    “No, you’re most certainly one of them. I would bet my life on it.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why won’t he step into the light and show his face? The coward.
    “Of course you don’t. You never knew me, but I knew you.”
    The man is making me uncomfortable. I shrink as far as I can into the chair as he moves toward me. There is a moment when he changes from a black silhouette to a person with such recognizable features that I believe my eyes are tricking me, that the dehydration has altered my vision. Dark hair, wild as mine was before it was cut. Broad shoulders. Deep, blue eyes as bright as Blaine’s.
    “I’m Owen,” he says when he finally stands before me. He stretches out a hand in greeting. “Owen Weathersby. You are?”
    “Gray,” I say, struggling to stand. “I’m Gray.”
    He pulls me into his chest, clutc hing an arm tightly around my back, and whispers, “Welcome home, Gray. Welcome home.”

TWENTY-TWO
    MY FATHER. HERE. ALIVE.
    He walks me through the cool stone passages and back to the cot I first awoke in. I remember seeing his face above me as I succumb to darkness.
    When some subconscious drive deems me strong enough to open my eyes again, Bree is sitting beside me, examining her weapon. I wonder if it ever leaves her hands. She wears an outfit oddly reminiscent of Claysoot: a lightly woven jacket and thick, cotton pants.
    “How long was I out?” I ask, sitting up quickly. I feel strong again. Hungry, but strong.
    “A full day.”
    It feels much longer. “Where’s my father?”
    “He’s waiting to see you. I’m supposed to bring you in now that you’re up.”
    “And my brother?”
    “He’s been brought to the hospital. At Mount Martyr.”
    “Aren’t we already there?”
    She scowls. “You think I’m that stupid? That I would have brought you both to our headquarters before confirming you were Owen’s sons?”
    “But you said—back when Clipper came in . . .”
    “No. You said we were at Mount Martyr. I neither confirmed nor denied that fact.”
    She’s right. “How come I had to stay here?”
    “Because you are not in a coma like your brother. He’s harmless. But you, on the other hand . . . we just don’t trust you.”
    “Right. Don’t trust the guy that practically died of dehydration looking for the so-called Rebels.”
    She stands aggressively and pushes a wild strand of blond hair out of her eyes. “You know nothing. Absolutely nothing. You come in wearing that horrible Order uniform, and we spare you, nurse you back to health. We take unnecessary risks for you because you’re a captain’s son. And instead of seeing what’s happening around you, you focus on how we’ve treated you unfairly .”
    I roll my eyes, uninterested in arguing with her. “Maybe you should have shot me then, Bree. Me and my brother. Maybe that would have made things