Someone is always watchi.., p.1
Someone Is Always Watching, page 1
ALSO BY KELLEY ARMSTRONG
THE DARKEST POWERS TRILOGY
The Summoning
The Awakening
The Reckoning
THE DARKNESS RISING TRILOGY
The Gathering
The Calling
The Rising
THE AGE OF LEGENDS TRILOGY
Sea of Shadows
Empire of Night
Forest of Ruin
The Masked Truth
Missing
Aftermath
A Royal Guide to Monster Slaying
The Gryphon’s Lair
The Serpent’s Fury
The Final Trial
Text copyright © 2022 by K. L. A. Fricke Inc.
Jacket design by Talia Abramson
Jacket images: (cabinet) Gabriel Bucataru / Stocksy; (blood splatter) Pixabay and Mrspopman1985 / Shutterstock
Tundra Books, an imprint of Tundra Book Group, a division of Penguin Random House of Canada Limited
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Someone is always watching / Kelley Armstrong.
Name: Armstrong, Kelley, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200409956 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200409980 | ISBN 9780735270923 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780735270930 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8551.R7637 S56 2023 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
Published simultaneously in the United States of America by Tundra Books of Northern New York, an imprint of Tundra Book Group, a division of Penguin Random House of Canada Limited
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020951304
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
a_prh_6.0_143148852_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Also by Kelley Armstrong
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
PROLOGUE
THEN
Do you want to do something bad?
That was how it began. Seven words that started a friendship forged in anger and hurt and the dark joy of vengeance. It would become more, so much more, but it started there, fittingly.
I’d been at a company picnic with my parents and their colleagues. Running around with “the crew”—my friends whose parents also worked at the lab.
The company always hired a couple of high-schoolers to watch over us. Today, they sat on a picnic table while we amused ourselves. When we realized they were deep in a private conversation, we snuck closer to eavesdrop. Under Tucker’s direction, we crept from tree to tree like guerrilla soldiers until we overheard them talking—about us.
“Tucker’s cool,” the girl was saying.
“He’s a brat,” the guy said.
“But he’sinteresting. Not like Blythe.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Can you imagine being ten years old and already that boring? Always does as she’s told. Never causes any trouble. It’s like she had surgery to remove her personality.”
The guy laughed, and I froze. My gaze darted from tree to tree as I prayed no one else had heard. But they had. They all had.
I bolted. Ran as fast as I could, deep into the park, and huddled at the foot of a giant elm, shaking with an emotion I’d never felt. An emotion I couldn’t name. Humiliation.
I didn’t cry. I just shook, in rage and fury. When I heard footsteps, I jumped up.
“It’s just me,” Tucker said, appearing from around some bushes.
He lowered himself to the ground and sat there, watching me and saying nothing. Tucker was one of our crew, but I mostly hung out with his sister, Tanya. As the babysitters said, Tucker was trouble. My head told me to stay away from him. In my gut, though, I envied him. Nobody ever called Tucker Martel boring.
“Do you want to do something bad?” he asked.
My head jerked up, my eyes meeting his.
Yes.
The answer leaped to my lips, and I clamped my jaw shut as my brain shouted warnings.
Nothing bad. Never do anything bad, Blythe. Ever.
People presume I have strict parents. Those people have never met my mom and dad. Whatever small voice whimpers and panics at the thought of misbehaving, it’s mine and mine alone. Yet underneath it quivers a part of my soul that hungers for a taste of darkness.
A taste of darkness. That was Tucker Martel personified.
When I didn’t answer, he rose, lips curving into a shadow of his usual exuberant grin. That smile was shy and uncertain—words I would never have applied to Tucker.
“Let me show you,” he said.
We made our way to the parking lot, where he waved at a little blue car.
“That’s the babysitter’s car,” he said. “The one with the hole in the window.”
I squinted at it. “I don’t see a hole.”
“Not yet.” He grinned and picked up a rock. When he held it out, I stared.
“You want me to…,” I began.
“Only if you want to.” He glanced at the car. “I can do it if you’d like.”
I shook my head.
He glanced over. “If you get caught, I’ll say it was me.”
“That isn’t right,” I said.
“No one would believe it was you anyway. Blythe Warren would never throw a rock through a window.”
“Because she’s boring.”
“Nah, because she doesn’t want to get in trouble. That’s normal. I’m just weird.”
“Weird is interesting. Weird is cool.”
“I don’t do it to be cool.” He squinted at the car, his freckles bunching. “She was mean to you. She shouldn’t get away with that.”
Did saying something cruel deserve a broken window? All I knew was that I really wanted to do it.
I took the rock, hefted it, and pitched it as hard as I could. The window shattered spectacularly, and I stood there, bouncing on my toes, grinning.
Then the car alarm screeched. I froze, horror flooding me, but Tucker grabbed my arm, and we ran. We ran, and we kept running until we collapsed in the grass, snorting with laughter.
It was the start of a beautiful friendship.
Do you want to do something bad?
Yes. Yes, I do.
ONE
NOW
Eight-thirty in the morning, and I can already declare it a shitty day. I overslept, skipped breakfast, and forgot my travel mug and granola bar on the counter. I also forgot to take my migraine meds. Hence the headache that threatens to split my skull.
I have regular painkillers in my locker, so I beeline there. I know I have a bottle of ibuprofen, and it should be easy to find in a locker like mine. I swear, every time I open it a passing student snorts in derision. Typical Blythe Warren. So uptight that even her locker looks as if it belongs in an advertisement for storage organizers.
It wasn’t like this last year. Oh, it was never the trash heap that my little sister calls a locker, but I’d had no problem shoving in books and tidying later. The incident last spring taught me I need to do better. Hold tighter. Stay in control.
Do you want to do something bad?
Absolutely not.
No, that’s a lie. I still want to. But I’ve learned my lesson.
That’s when I realize I gave the ibuprofen to Gabrielle, who’s been having headaches of her own recently.
I sigh and rub my temples as I look up and down the hall for Gabrielle. We go to a private STEM school, which sounds fancy, but it’s just a perk offered by Coeus Medical Technologies (CMT), the research lab where my parents work. Coeus Prep is a tiny school, with only a hundred and forty students, most of them the children of CMT employees.
“B-Blythe?” a voice says behind me.
I turn to see a re
“I-it’s Blythe, right?”
The poor kid looks like he’s delivering a top-secret package, his life on the line if it falls into the wrong hands.
“This is for you.” He thrusts out the coffee. “It’s from—uh, from . . .”
“Tucker,” I say.
The freshman nods, his chin wobbling. “I don’t know him. I mean, I do—everyone does, but he just kind of . . .”
“Stopped you in the hall and told you to bring me this?”
“Right.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, he owes you one, then. He’ll remember that. But you don’t need to do what he says.”
The kid looks unconvinced. Then he roots around in his pocket and withdraws something hidden tight in his fist.
He looks around furtively. “Also this.”
I put out my hand, and he passes me a plastic baggie of pills. I glance at it as the kid frantically waves for me to hide it.
“It’s painkillers,” I say. “A grab bag of painkillers, because I get migraines.”
“Whatever. None of my business.”
“It really is—”
Another wave. “I don’t need to know.”
The kid hurries off, and I lift the cup. On it, where the name should be, it says Bliss. That’s Tucker’s nickname for me, bliss being a synonym for blithe. Blythe. Blithe. Bliss. The guy devours books the way I devour data. Not that it helps him much in a STEM school.
I glance at the baggie. Tucker started stashing this mixed bag of painkillers when I began getting migraines. He must have seen me coming into school and could tell that I hadn’t had my coffee and I’d forgotten my meds.
I scan the hallway, knowing I won’t see him. He didn’t do this to win brownie points. He did it because I needed it. I cherish all my friends, but Tucker is something special. For better or worse.
I take out my phone and text him a simple “TY,” and he responds with a thumbs-up. It’s our first text in two weeks. There’d been a time when we texted hourly. That was before the incident. Before our parents made us swear we’d keep our distance from each other. The alternative was that one of us would be transferred to another school, and I knew by “one of us” they meant Tucker. I’d never do that to him.
The last time I’d texted had been the anniversary of his mother leaving. A quick “thinking of you today,” and his “Dad’s moping, but T & I are fine.”
As I root around in the baggie, a couple of passing kids do a double take. I don’t bother to explain. They could tell Meeks—our VP—and he wouldn’t even order a locker search. Tucker’s gets searched weekly, which is ironic because he’s as straight-edge as they come. The power of illusion and reputation. I down two pills with a slug of coffee, and I’m tucking the baggie into my locker when Gabrielle walks up to hers beside mine.
“Hey,” I say.
She starts spinning her lock. She’s moving as if in a trance, purple-black smudges under glassy brown eyes.
“Gabrielle?” I say.
She gives a start, blinking and looking around as her eyes focus. Seeing me, she gives a smile, tired but genuine. She practically falls into my hug, and I squeeze her.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She steps back, and her gaze surveys the hallway. “Have you noticed the cameras?” she whispers.
“What?”
She jerks her chin toward one of the security cameras. Her braids swing with the movement, her gaze barely skimming the camera, as if she doesn’t want to be seen looking directly at it.
I frown at the camera. It’s nothing new. The school was built fully wired for tech.
“What about them?” I ask.
“They’re always—”
The bell clangs. I wait for it to stop, and then say, “They’re always what?”
She fixes me with that tired smile and shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m just . . . off.”
“Headache?”
“Yeah. They’re getting worse.”
“You need to talk to your parents. In the meantime . . .” I swing the baggie in front of her. “I have drugs.”
She laughs softly. “Tuck?” Before I can answer, she notices the name on my coffee cup. “Silly question.” She puts out her hand. “Hit me up.”
I do, and then I shove the baggie into my locker, and we head to class.
* * *
—
It’s lunchtime, and I’m heading to the cafeteria when Gabrielle texts.
Gabrielle: Skipping lunch. Sorry! Forgot I had a group assignment.
I slow outside the doors. We usually eat together as a group. That’s easier when Gabrielle’s there. Otherwise, if Andre and Callum have track practice, it could just be Tanya and Tucker, and that’s awkward these days.
I’m ready to slip off to the library when someone waves from a table. He’s a dark-haired guy, so good-looking that his glasses seem like a Clark Kent disguise. I smile and hurry into the cafeteria. Callum Kilpatrick’s parents joined CMT last year. I like Callum. Well, I suppose that’s a given, considering we went on our first date Friday.
For months, Callum had made it clear that he’d like to get to know me better, but I don’t date, for all kinds of complicated reasons. Recently, I’d begun to wonder whether “reasons” really meant “excuses,” and “complicated” really meant “Tucker.” So, when Callum started talking about a new movie we both hoped to see, I suggested we go together.
Callum’s sitting across from Andre Washington, his fellow track-team star. Callum is the team captain, mostly because Andre didn’t want it. Andre is our class president, mostly because Callum didn’t want that. If our school had a homecoming king, they’d be the main contenders.
On the opposite side of the table sit Tucker and Tanya. People always mistake them for twins because—being less than a year apart—they’re in the same grade. They share the same sandy blond hair and dark blue eyes, but otherwise there’s little resemblance.
Tucker has the kind of build that sets football coaches drooling. I get people suggesting I should lose a few pounds— you’re so pretty, you could be a model. With Tucker, they suggest he gain weight, specifically muscle— you’ve got the build for it; you could be a quarterback. I don’t need to lose weight; I’m a size ten. Tucker doesn’t need to put on muscle; he’s tall and rangy, in that loose-limbed surfer-boy way.
I suspect my “you could be a model” compliments are mostly just encouragement for me to lose weight. In Tanya’s case, they come complete with model-agency scout cards. She’s freaking gorgeous, tall and slender with a face no actual sixteen-year-old should have. Gabrielle and I joke that Tanya must sacrifice small animals for that perfect skin.
The only thing that would keep Tanya from a modeling career—well, beyond the fact that she’d rather sacrifice small animals—is her expression. People call it resting bitch face. With Tanya, it’s full-on active bitch face. Yet even as she turns her glare my way, I can’t suppress a jolt of grief. Apparently, in stepping away from Tucker, I also lost his sister’s friendship. Still not quite sure how that works, but with Tanya, one doesn’t question.
“Hello, all,” I say as I walk over. “Happy Friday.”
I slide into a chair as they return the greeting. Well, the guys do. Tanya attacks her burger like it’s still alive.
“Has anyone seen Gabi this morning?” I ask, as nonchalantly as I can.
“I did,” Andre says. “Passed her in the hall between first and second period. She seemed lost in thought. Everything okay?”
I make a face. “I think so. I’m just fussing.”
“Is she coming to lunch?” Callum asks.
“No, she has a group assignment.” I take my sandwich box from my backpack. “I hear Adrian’s parents finally agreed to let him have his annual Halloween—”
“I need to talk to my sister,” says a voice behind me.
“Hey, Syd,” Callum says.
“Hey, Colin.”
Callum rolls his eyes. He thinks she’s teasing, and a month ago, he’d have been right, but there’s an edge to my sister’s voice, as if she’s saying, “Remind me who you are again?”
I excuse myself and follow Sydney into the hall. Once the cafeteria doors close behind us, she says, “He had his hand on your chair, Blythe.”
