Feral King by Ginger Booth

Author:Ginger Booth [Booth, Ginger]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-12-19T16:00:00+00:00

Ava huddled on the loveseat in a down blanket against the cold and dark. Her crying wound down to shudders. She mopped her nose on a dishtowel that smelled of the ramen they split for dinner.

Kat gave her an earful before insisting she sit here to face the music. That was almost as shocking as Frosty’s punch, that Kat agreed she deserved it. Ava’s humiliation felt like nausea mixed with horror, far worse than the quiet frozen corpses felled by pitiless microbes. She only wished she could vomit it out.

She was right, wasn’t she? Older kids shouldn’t molest the preteens. And her boyfriend shouldn’t hit her, ever. And that galled her worst of all. She was a damned good fighter. But he was better, and she was small, and any time Frosty wanted to hit her, there wasn’t a damned thing she could do to stop it, him no more than the rapists on New Year’s Eve.

And her other option? She could try to break up with him, she supposed. She’d lose her apartment, her rank in the gang. Every time she’d pulled rank on another girl would come due for payback.

No, that didn’t bother her, really. She’d fight, maybe she’d lose a few. In Kat’s role, queen bitch, breaking off with Frosty might be a death sentence, but not as the kidkeeper.

She just wanted Cade back. She might as well wish for her parents, for her world before Ebola. Or rewind even further, back to Texas when she was 12, before they ever came to this cruel city of the bitter winters. Winter was nice in Austin. Summer was hotter than hell and lasted an eternity.

Silly. She and her boyfriend had a fight. Every couple has a fight eventually, as Kat hammered into her ears. You want to keep him? Meet him halfway. Since he has the upper hand, and you’re dead wrong, meet him more than halfway. Then Kat vowed to mop the floor with her if she dared budge from this apartment before Frosty came home.

Ava stilled. Those were his footsteps now. Her whole face felt like a plaster of paris mask of shame. She still tasted the coppery salt of blood from where her molars cut her cheek under the blow. She sniffed and blew her nose one last time, mopped her eyes. Find that fighter’s zen, that cool poise. She blew out slowly, as the door opened.

Frosty was the one who taught her to do that, to master her anxiety with her breath.

He carried a lit candle stub he used for traversing the pitch-black halls. He glanced around, found her, met her eye for a second, and blew it out. He liked to leave it on the high counter to grab on his way out. His keys clanked beside it. Funny how well they could see each other in the dark, so used to each other’s movements and habits.

“Sorry I was delayed. Jake chose to follow your fine example. He’s now writing an essay on honor.

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