Hunted

One: A Semblance of Normality

James took a steadying breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw. The Food Hall was crowded, the students eating and chatting at the rows of wooden tables. The staff dais was at the opposite side of the room, every seat occupied. Elmhirst was in a deep conversation with Old Dalton, an elderly red-faced doctor, who took more interest in food and drink than he did in his students. Elmhirst seemed to have relaxed slightly, probably due to the fact Matthew Desmarais had left the school, as had the rest of the patrons, though he still appeared exhausted. The ship had left and with it any means of escape for his students preoccupied with their freedom.

What it really meant for him was that Charlotte Owens could not now escape her impending death sentence. The students had been permitted to return to meals, to classes and to their instructed training. Any private sessions were still held to be a punishable offence, as was leaving the school building unless supervised.

James let his eyes fall to his plate where his food lay untouched. His appetite had never surfaced as the morning had crept back into the world, the sun dawning a new day at Kingston. The truth was he felt ill, or at least he presumed that was what being ill felt like. His stomach was twisted and even the smell of the food made the bile rise in his throat. His skin was clammy, his head aching. He hadn't slept at all the previous night, but the excursions hadn't lent much to sleeping. He hadn't slept very well since the games in fact, but with news that Charlotte's life hung in the balance, sleep had become a hollow dream.

At the very thought of Charlotte, James balled his hands into fists, beneath the table. His knuckles were white, his skin stretched almost painfully across them, his nails slicing into his palms. Too many emotions seemed to course through his body, but anger and fear were predominant. As he sat there, anxiously waiting for dismissal, waiting until he could return to the sanctuary of his room, he tried to keep his gaze fixed forward, to ensure his face didn't betray anything. He found he couldn't look at her, he couldn't bring himself to turn and face her. He didn't know what to say to her; he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Granted it had been his idea, so in that case it was probably his job to make conversation, to break their awkward silence - he just found he didn't want to. It was too uncomfortable.

She seemed to be radiating the same tension, her shoulders raised about her ears, her movements stiff and unnatural. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, a hollow pit in the bottom of his stomach. She lifted her fork delicately to her mouth, placing a piece of fish on her tongue, before chewing methodically.

Wrong, he grimaced tensing his fists even tighter. Her brown hair fell loosely around her shoulders and down her back in gentle waves, but her skin was different. She was lacking her usually blush, the colour staining her cheeks and betraying her thoughts. Wrong, he thought once more. She was sitting too straight in her seat, her expression too blank. Her eyes weren't the right shade of blue either - they weren't bright enough. Wrong, wrong, wrong! He had to restrain himself from slamming his fist on the table. It was all wrong, he knew, but there was little he could do now. Matthew was gone.

James glared out across the room, trying to forget about Charlotte Owens. His gaze instead, and rather reluctantly, fell on Iseult Deluca, one of Charlotte's best friends. Iseult had obviously lost interest in her own food, but not in Charlotte. Her eyes were fixed on the girl, sitting to James' left. James shifted uneasily as he watched her. Iseult must have felt his gaze on her, because her penetrating eyes flickered from Charlotte to him. James glanced down guiltily, trying to hide from her scrutinising stare. Warily, he chanced looking at her, trying to appear indifferent, but it was too late to stop Iseult from seeing the truth. She had seen enough, her brown eyes brimming with tears as she watched Charlotte. She knows, James thought, of course, she knows.

Almost as soon as Elmhirst and Bennett had left, James caught Charlotte's hand, dragging her from the Food Hall, before any of the other students could engage with them. He couldn't allow Iseult to corner them. He couldn't allow it - not now. He needed to buy time, he needed to keep her away from Charlotte. He knew deep down though that Iseult wouldn't say anything - not if she knew what the consequences were. Charlotte did not speak, as he brought her through the old school to the third floor of the Eastern Wing.

"Don't touch anything," he warned, his voice unnecessarily sharp as they came to a stop outside their bedroom doors.

"Okay," she muttered, peering into the room. Wrong, he thought again. "How long do I have to stay here?"

"I don't know... Until the morning," he exhaled, running his hands through his sandy-blonde hair.

"But I'm not allowed touch anything," she frowned, shyly.

He sighed. "Lie on top of the blankets," he shrugged indifferently.

"I am doing you a favour. This isn't my fault," she mumbled, unable to meet his gaze. A great soldier you'll make, he growled to himself. You can't even keep eye contact and assert yourself.

"It's nobody's fault," he replied. "I just can't deal with it yet. It's..." His words trailed off as he stared into the room, feeling strangely empty.

"You loved... me?" she hesitated, looking at him with the wrong blue eyes. He could see how uncomfortable she was, how fearful she was. He hated the fact that he had made her this way, had put this pressure on her.

He gritted his teeth, looking back into the room. "Enough to send you away". Charlotte frowned, puckering her lips to one side. Wrong, he grumbled to himself once more, frowning. You bite your lip when you're worried. He reached out, hesitantly, and pushed her hair behind her ear, sighing. A slight colour tarnished her cheeks, but unsurprisingly it wasn't quite right.

"James?" she whispered, her embarrassment turning to unease.

"Your eyes are the wrong colour," he breathed half-heartedly, dropping his hand, before running it through his blonde hair.

"The wrong colour?" she asked, frowning, a slight smile on her lips, glad the awkwardness had been broken. She looked at him again and they seemed to appear brighter. He shrugged dismissively.

"It doesn't matter," he replied.

"I want to help. I am trying my best," she said in a breathy voice.

"I know," he said, forcing a smile. "Sorry - I seem ungrateful..."

She smiled comfortingly at him. "I'll sleep on top of the covers".

"Tomorrow, as well, you need to swap about a bit," he reminded her, turning to his own door. She nodded slowly. They had gone over this a dozen times. She knew what she needed to do. Hesitantly she took a step towards the open door, but James reached out and caught her hand, gently squeezing it.

"Thank you," he breathed.

"Good night, James," she muttered in acknowledgement.

"Good night... Freya," he replied, as she walked into Charlotte's room, closing the door to him.

Thanks everybody for reading this chapter, and welcome to the second in the series of Altered! If you enjoyed this chapter please don't forget to vote and comment!

I am going to dedicate this to @LinaHanson - who managed to point me in the right direction for splitting Altered into two books - Check out her story "Cursed Times: What Now?" Amazing and very funny tale!

Now press the little star before reading on!!