Miscreants: Next Generation by Natalie Bennett (essential reading .txt) 📗

insignia customary for the faction. It was crazy to think I’d once known everyone here. That seemed eons ago now.

“I was beginning to think you were skipping breakfast,” Patty, Kodak’s long-time companion, tossed over her shoulder.

They were a sweet couple, both originally from a reservation that had been overtaken.

“Never. You two know how I am about food.”

“Go take a seat. I will bring you a dish,” Kodak ordered in his thick accent, waving me off as another proselyte stepped up in line.

This was a long-standing tradition with us. I always came to get a plate, more than willing to wait the same way as everyone else, and was always denied. Samael was responsible for starting the whole preferential treatment.

Normally we’d have gone back and forth, knowing the outcome would remain the same, but they were way too busy for me to banter with today. Understandably so. Their workload had been increasing right along with the faction’s following. The two of them oversaw everything food related, from cooking and checking inventory to skinning, planting, and gutting.

I left them to it and continued to the area where the picnic tables were.

Weaving between them to get to my regular spot, I ignored all the stares that followed, used to them by now. The proselytes typically fell into one of three categories when it came to me.

Curiosity—because of who I was to both Samael and the Savages.

Disdain—for the very same reason.

Friendliness—they didn’t care what my status or station was, liking me for me.

The last realm of judgement, or lack thereof, was obviously the one I preferred. In general, I didn’t care about what anyone thought of me unless I valued them as a person.

On the topic of people I considered meaningful… I joined Takara and Poet at our usual table.

“Hey,” I greeted, sliding in between the two of them.

“We were just talking about coming to get you,” Poet said, scooting over so I had a bit more room.

Given that he was built like a beefy, tatted-up grizzly, he couldn’t move much further without crushing the girl on the other side of him.

“I overslept.” I snatched a grape off his tray and popped it into my mouth. Then, catching a whiff of whatever he showered with, I inhaled deeply to smell more of it. Something like honey.

“You smell good. What’d you use?”

“Some new stuff Mal had brought in. Makes the hair luxurious, doesn’t it?” He shook his head, causing his shoulder-length waves to bounce around.

“Yes, the brown is exceptionally radiant today,” I replied with a laugh.

“Don’t get him started again. I’ve had to put up with that all morning,” Takara griped. “Want my orange?”

I accepted the fruit and immediately began to peel it. I wasn’t joking around when it came to my love of food. It had yet to do me wrong.

“Have you heard what’s going around today?”

“Nope. Do I want to hear it?”

“Let’s just say, the rumor mill is something else this morning,” Takara stated, tucking a strand of long black hair behind her ear.

“People have nothing better to do than stir up bullshit drama,” Poet added.

Their tones were casual, but I knew this was their way of cluing me in. If whatever was being said wasn’t relevant, then they wouldn’t have brought it up. We never participated in the gossip circles.

One wild guess was that it had something to do with Mack. I wasn’t going to speak on that now.

There were topics we didn’t discuss around the proselytes, me being one of them. Sometimes the newer recruits were foaming at the mouth for any sordid detail I might let slip, just so they could run to Samael and repeat it.

It was a fool’s endeavor, but that didn’t stop them. Their relaying of information was never worth it. The second they finished spilling what they knew, Samael would all too happily make blood spill from slits in their throats. Unless he specifically asked, disloyalty to me was disloyalty to him. There wasn’t any room for that here.

Thankfully, this didn’t happen all that often. Samael and the few that helped oversee things from a production standpoint were good at weeding out the bad apples. They were pickier about who got let in, which made it even more apparent that Mack was someone’s idea of petty entertainment.

“What’d you two do last night?” I asked, changing the subject.

“The question you should be asking is who did Kara. I crashed early,” Poet replied.

“Hmm, keeping the dirty details from me, huh?” I nudged her gently.

“The only details to share are the ones about my massive shame and disappointment because of the guy I took to bed,” she grumbled.

Poet began to laugh, covering it with the clearing of his throat when her eyes cut to him in a glare.

“Who was it?”

“Tigger,” she mumbled, hiding the side of her face with one hand.

My fingers stopped peeling as my brain processed what she’d just said. “The Tigger that sort of looks like a walking thumb?”

Her silence and Poet’s loud laughter were all the confirmation I needed.

“Kara,” I groaned.

I knew looks weren’t everything, but neither were brains apparently, because Tigger didn’t have either of the above. Not to mention, Takara was too good for most men, and that one for damn sure.

She was fun and spunky and had no problems saying exactly what she thought or felt. She was also freaking gorgeous, both inside and out. Being wholly Vietnamese, her small form covered in gorgeous ink. She looked like a doll you would protectively place on the highest of shelves.

“Hey,” she held her hands up as if warding both of us off, “in my defense, the last cock I saw was some old geezer’s when I was an A.R.C bitch. All I wanted was some excellent D. Was that