Taken (Erin Bowman)

ropes that hang from hooks anchored in the ceiling, and Bree floats up and down as though the rope were doing the work for her.
    Their final drill is to find passage from one raised platform in the back of the room to another, which seems impossible. The space between the platforms is wide, and a fall would certainly result in some broken bones. The largest boy in the group, who looks something like a bear, simply jumps across, but his legs are so long he has an unfair advantage. Most of the others drop out completely, unable to complete the task. Bree, on the other hand, takes a spear in hand and runs full speed toward the gap. As her feet near the edge, she burrows the tip of the spear against the lip of the platform and propels herself into the air. The spear bows gracefully and projects her as fluidly as a bird in flight. She releases the spear at the peak of her arc and lands safely on the other platform, her knees bending and her hands finding ground before pushing to right herself. My father claps in approval, but the others stare on. I do, too. She’s completely crazy—wild and ruthless. I scowl in disapproval until I realize this doesn’t sound much unlike myself. As soon as their session ends, my father hurries off, mentioning how he needs to join Elijah.
    “The captains have daily status meetings,” Bree says, striding over to me. There is a ring of sweat on the neckline of her shirt. “Updates on the war, planning, tactics, that sort of stuff.”
    I stand and stretch my arms. Every muscle in my body argues with fatigue. I can already feel the soreness settling in.
    “Library?” she asks.
    “Definitely. Assuming you’re still willing to take me.”
    She half smiles. “It’s not on the top of my wish list, but I know how badly you’re craving the truth. And, besides, there are so many details your father left out. Like the scale of the project, for instance.”
    “Scale?”
    Bree’s lips press into a smirk. “Makes you hate Frank even more when you know it wasn’t just one test group, but five.”
    “Five? Like five different Claysoots?”
    “Well, where do you think I came from, brainless? You didn’t think I was one of those mundane Order folk turned Rebel, did you?”
    “Aren’t you?”
    “Oh please, Gray,” she says. “Even you admitted I was good—quiet, stealthy, quick. It shouldn’t be so surprising that some places Heisted girls.”
    It makes sense. Her fluid and swift movements, her utmost silence while tracking. She is tough. Raw, and powerful. Bree is like me, only from another Claysoot.
    And suddenly, she is twice as interesting.
    As we are leaving the Conditioning Room, the large boy who had leaped the width of the platforms brushes past us. He’s a good head taller than me, with hands the size of a hornet’s nest.
    “That was some display back there, Bree,” he says, running his hand over her shoulder in a way that comes across more condescending than sincere. “You know, there’s nothing more sexy than a strong, aggressive woman.”
    “I’m not interested, Drake,” she says, slapping his hand away.
    Drake reaches for her again. “Aw, come on, Bree, you know you want to.”
    “She said she’s not interested,” I snap.
    “No one asked your opinion.” He pushes me in the chest firmly with both hands, and I nearly fall over from the force.
    “No, but you asked hers, and she turned you down, so move on.” His fist hits my jaw before I even see it coming. I stagger backward.
    “See you tomorrow, gorgeous,” Drake says to Bree, and then stalks away with cumbersome steps.
    Bree folds her arms across her chest and looks at me. “You didn’t have to do that. I can take care of myself.”
    “I know,” I say. I lick my lips and taste blood. “You should really report him.”
    She pulls her shoulders into a shrug, and I’m surprised to see in her what Drake obviously had. Even covered in sweat, she is pretty. Stunning, really. Her limbs are long and lean, her curves itching to be touched. And her eyes, which usually look so harsh and stubborn, are suddenly soft. I’m terrified by how she’s snuck up on me.
    “Well, are you going to report him or not?” I ask.
    “There’s no point,” she says. “People have more important things to worry about. We’re at war, after all. And, besides, the things you fight alone make you stronger.”
    I’m fairly certain this is untrue, but I don’t argue.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    BREE PULLS A SERIES OF thin white journals