Chapter Nine

Whitesnake – Is This Love?

A/N: Yeah, that's Whitesnake up there. #noshame


Despite the continued heat wave over the next couple of days, Rose felt a cold front coming from Minho and Gally. Though she was used to Minho's sourness, she had thought she and Gally had forged some level of respect during her stint as a Builder. Now, he couldn't even look at her. Without the two biggest mouths in the Glade constantly sparring with her, everything seemed too quiet—even lonely.

Rather than poke the bear, Rose threw herself into her next jobs. Slicing was up first, and almost instantaneously she figured out she'd be a huge failure. Things started off promising when the Slicers' black lab, Bark, greeted her with an exuberant tail wag and sloppy kisses, but they took a nose dive the moment Rose entered the Blood House.

Fetid odors wafted up from the floor and radiated down from the ceiling. It was the kind of dark inside that even a ten-thousand-watt bulb couldn't disperse, a darkness that came not from the absence of light but from the absence of mercy. The dirt floor was stained garnet, as was every other surface in the space. Huge, naked hooks dangled hungrily from the rafters, and below waited thirsty buckets splattered with congealed blood. There was death in these walls, and it made Rose's skin crawl.

In the three minutes it took for Winston to explain what Slicers did, Rose had already made up her mind to bargain away every food ration she needed to as long as it kept her out of the Blood House forever.

Winston sent her out to the animal pens first thing, and even though it reeked of manure baking in the sun, it was leagues better than the rank of decay that lingered inside the butchery.

Once the pens were cleaned, Winston had no choice but to bring Rose back inside and introduce her to the tools of his trade. It wasn't the job itself that upset her, nor was it the cavalier way with which Winston chatted about his grisly work. It was the tools.

As the Keeper unrolled a leather pouch containing his instruments of death, he explained each piece: shears and sharpeners, a spreader and a frightening bone saw with wicked little teeth perfect for gnawing at ankles. Winston pulled out his prize possession last. A spear of sunshine winked off the gleaming metal of an enormous bowie knife almost as long as his forearm.

The next thing Rose remembered, she awoke to a wide, flat tongue slurping her cheek. She was in a heap on the dusty red floor, Bark and Winston standing over her, with the Keeper's brows and his knife raised. Rose let out a blood-curdling scream that sent the man stumbling backward.

Rose didn't remember running, but suddenly she was under the protective embrace of a wiry tree not far from the Deadheads. Her hand stroked her scar as she stared beyond the brilliant green of the Glade to another world she couldn't quite bring into focus—shades of evergreen and rusty orange and the deepest black she had ever seen, the black of pure evil.

Later she learned that Anil had found her and talked to her for almost a half hour before she heard a word. Luckily, nobody made her go back to the Blood House after that, and Rose spent the rest of the day working out her demons on her private training course.

Being a Bricknick was a considerable relief after yesterday's fiasco, and Rose spent the day under the tutelage of their Keeper, a reserved fellow redhead named Preston. They repaired a railing in the Homestead and then shored up the leaning wall behind the showers. The Bricknicks might not have been as busy as the Builders, Cooks, or even the Slicers, but their job offered a homey familiarity that she appreciated. Rose wondered if her father had done handy things like this around their house, wherever it had been—assuming she even knew her father or ever lived in a house.

Since she was already at the Homestead, Rose stopped in to visit Cat. His eyes looked less tired and his skin wasn't as drawn, but the strange smell she remembered from her first visit had intensified. Now that she had spent a morning in the Blood House, Rose recognized that smell as rot. She resolved to ask Clint or Jeff about it the next time she saw them, though she didn't honestly expect them to know much more about it than she did.

By the time evening rolled around, Rose sat on the stump outside her hut alone for the first time in a long time. After Gally's vehement reaction to seeing the two of them together, Rose and Thomas had decided it was best to take a few days off from whatever was developing between them to let things blow over. Besides, with how quickly their first kiss had escalated, distance was probably a good thing. It was also hard.

Being the only girl in the Glade had always carried with it a certain spotlight that followed Rose everywhere, whether she wanted it to or not. Not that she intentionally worked to be the center of attention, but Rose had grown used to it, and now that she had pushed many of the others away, it left a strange void. She was well and truly lonely for her first time in the Glade with nothing but a mounting number of regrets and a fair bit of shame to her name.

She was in bed before the sun had set, and she waited wide-eyed below her thatched roof for the ravenous galaxy above to consume her.

She awoke to a knock on the door. "Come on, Greenie, week's almost over. You're with me today."

Despite the stern voice, Rose smiled. It was one of the few jobs she had been looking forward to, if just for the company: Track-hoe.

"If you don't bloody answer me, I'll have to come in there, and trust me, that's nowhere near as fun as it sounds."

"I'm up, I'm up," she groaned.

Even though Newt meant every word of his warning, Rose was loving it. She missed people giving her a hard time, missed rising to the challenges of their teasing. Life in the Glade without that twisted warmth was just that—cold and unbearable. The boys had proven a point, and now it was her turn to prove one to them: they needed her as much as she needed them.

The more devious side of Rose, the one still irked by how successfully their silent treatment had worked, contemplated sporting the Creators' horrid crop-top if for no other reason than to demand the boys' attention. Petty, sure, and even a bit underhanded, but it would be rewarding for mere shock value. Ultimately, though, her practical side won out.

She opened the door just as Newt was in mid-knock. "Finally."

"I didn't think I'd see you or anyone else here again."

As they turned back toward the Kitchen, Newt sighed. "Gally told me what happened."

"I knew he couldn't keep his mouth shut," Rose growled and punctuated it with a crack of her knuckles as she made a fist.

"In that slinthead's defense, he's just worried about you. He's gets a little protective of this place."

"Oh, come on, it was one kiss—with Thomas of all people."

Newt shrugged. "That's kind of the point. Gally and Thomas have history."

"History?" Rose balked. "Thomas has only been here one month longer than I have! How much history can two strangers have?"

She realized the folly of her statement as soon as she'd said it. Shouldn't she know this better than anyone else? Wasn't that the whole point of what she and Thomas had been trying to uncover together—their history? It was either that or just admit Thomas was a good-looking guy, and her hormones were out-of-control, which was also possible.

"You'd be surprised," the blonde replied. "Our Tommy has a way of getting under people's skin."

Rose couldn't argue that point. "Who else knows?"

"Just me and Alby."

She stopped herself before she could ask what Minho's excuse for ignoring her was. Like that jerk needed another reason to hate her.

Rose rolled her head back, feeling every bit the willful teenager she was. "Are you going to give me a lecture, too?"

"Lectures are Alby's thing, not mine." Newt paused as he considered something behind his hazel eyes. "But would you take some advice from a friend?"

"Sure."

Newt held his pause so long that every muscle in Rose's body began to tense. His teeth gnawed the inside of his bottom lip for a moment, and after a long exhale, he said, "Just don't get carried away. There are consequences out here none of us are really prepared for."

He didn't mean injury or death or any of the other horrible things the Gladers had faced so far. There was only one thing Rose could do here that none of the others could, and the thought of it stopped her dead in her tracks.

Neither of them said another word until they had joined their table for breakfast, and, as it had been the last couple of days, it remained awkward. Newt had resumed sitting in his regular seat next to Alby, resigning Rose to the dead space across from her iciest critic. Thomas was now at the opposite end of the table from her, and if that wasn't a clear message, she didn't know what was.

"You look nice today, Rose," Chuck observed.

"You always look nice," Thomas amended, and Rose could see the rest of the table visibly tense.

Enough was enough.

"Bloody hell," she blurted out as she slammed both palms on the table, earning an incredulous smile from Newt and a deep scowl from Alby. "Are you all really going to be such babies about this? It was one kiss."

It wasn't just the clatter of utensils dropping to plates from the surrounding tables that jarred Rose, but the piece of toast dangling from Minho's aghast lips. She might have completely negated Gally's vow of silence, but then again, he had already done that partially himself. If everyone was going to vilify her over a stupid kiss, Rose would put them on trial instead.

Alby stood up and pointed with one thick finger toward the exit. "I need to see you outside. Now."

Rose tossed her hands up but followed Alby behind the Kitchen near the still-unfinished cellar.

"We need to talk," he began. "Ever since you got here, she-bean, you been nothin' but trouble for me. I can appreciate it ain't been much easier on you either, but you lookin' out for you. I'm lookin' out for everyone here. I need you to understand what you do to my Gladers and why you can't be doin' and sayin' stuff in there just because you want to."

"Actually, I don't want to have this conversation at all," Rose countered. "I didn't want to share that part of my life with anyone other than Thomas, but Gally saw fit to bring the rest of you into it like it's any of your business."

"Everything that happens in my Glade is my business, Greenie," Alby hissed. "Order is what keeps us alive, and respect for each other is what keeps us together. You're challenging both."

"I'm not trying to! I'm trying to figure out who I am and how I fit in here, and all I get is judgment and lectures and guilt-trips because 'I'm a girl' and 'I'm different' and 'I'm distracting everyone else by just breathing.' Well, it's bullshit. I can't help any of it, and I'm not going to try to anymore either.

"I respect you, Alby, and how much you care about us, I really do, but if you want to be a leader of anybody, you'd know that doesn't come from total control. People have to want to follow you." Rose reached out and grabbed his wrist. Alby looked down to her hand and then back to her face. "I want to follow you, but don't try to police my whole life. And don't you dare put anyone else's behavior back on me ever again. I refuse to be held accountable for what boys think and do."

She removed her hand, and Alby softened. He was still wary—the caution he had had in his eyes since day one had never left—but he was listening. "Fine, just understand that no matter what you might think, it's more than just the two of you out there. Other shanks here, they care, some of 'em more than they should."

"Is that a warning?"

Alby shook his head. "Nothing like that. You just don't know the effect you have."

Rose wanted to ask what he meant by that, but the man was already redirecting. "This is probably all pointless anyway. Next week we'll get another Greenie, and it'll probably be another girl, and no one will care anymore."

"Nice," she retorted, "keep me humble."

Alby puckered his lips. "Fat chance in hell for that. You just like that shuckhead, Minho—ain't nothin' I ever say gonna sink in."

"Hey, I resent that."

Rose moved back toward the Kitchen door, but it was Alby's turn to stop her. His fingers curled around her shoulder and squeezed. "Just keep in mind what I said, Rose."

Her real name from his lips made her pause, but Alby punctuated it with a surprisingly gentle caress of her skin with his thumb before he removed his hand. The only response Rose could manage was a nod.

Everyone stared as they reentered the Kitchen and rejoined their table, with a few notable exceptions.

"Where did Thomas and Minho go?" Rose asked as she sat back down.

"Off to the Maze, I think," Chuck said.

"Already? Isn't that a little early, even for them?"

Chuck just shrugged in response.

Newt swiped a grape from her plate and she slapped his hand. "Keep that up, and I'll have Anil throw you in the Slammer."

Newt grinned. "You ready to actually work for the first time this week?"

"What do you think I've been doing every day?" she replied.

"Besides testing Alby's patience?"

Rose rolled her eyes. "Leave the wise-cracking to Minho, would ya?"

It was wonderful to talk again with her friends, to banter and play and feel like a part of something. She even lamented the end of breakfast, though the promise of a day spent with Newt was the most exciting one all week. As Second-in-Command, Newt would help out whatever group needed him, which often meant the Gardens since it usually had more work than hands. Plus, it didn't hurt that he could keep an eye on every Maze entrance from there.

After showing Rose around the Gardens, Newt took her to the Keeper of the Track-hoes. Zart loomed over the beanstalks and tomato plants, his hoe cocked high over his head in mid-swing. Despite the milder temperature, beads of sweat dotted already his brow.

"My turn to babysit, huh?" he said, wiping his brow.

"Suddenly, everyone fancies himself a comedian today," Rose grumbled.

Zart assigned Rose to the least desirable chore of all, watering the plants. Most of the boys sat back teasing and whistling as the grumbling redhead carried jug after jug of water over to the rows of seedlings and carefully doused them through the homemade watering cans.

"Shuck-faces," she groused at them, which only sent a ripple of laughter through her audience. In spite of herself, Rose smiled.

The sun was nearly at its zenith when Newt sauntered over to the grape trellis. As he helped Rose secure a branch of the grapevine, he asked, "So, what do you think about being a Track-hoe, Greenie?"

"I like feeling productive. It's kind of cool to make something grow out of this garbage soil." Rose smiled and added, "And no knives is a huge bonus."

Newt paused, his fingers brushing hers as he tied the loop on the vine. "But?"

"But I don't know. Alby's right, I got problems. I still feel antsy, like this isn't my place."

Newt leaned against the trellis, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. "You think your place is in the bloody Maze."

It wasn't a question because he already knew the answer.

"Still a couple of jobs left to go, Greenie. You might change your mind," Newt added hopefully. "Besides, I don't think you'll argue that the company's better out here."

Rose joined him against the trellis and bumped his shoulder with her own. "No contest."

As they stood there under the unflinching sun, staring out at the rest of the Glade, Rose's eyes caught movement at the South door. She squinted. "What's going on out there?"

Newt followed her eyes to two figures emerging from the Maze. They jostled back and forth, one of them trying to soothe the other one, but he just keep brushing the other angrily away. She could hear them before she could make out their faces.

"Where's Alby? Somebody get me Admiral Alby!" Minho snarled.

Thomas grabbed his friend's arm and tried to slow him down. "Minho. Minho! It's not going to change what's happening. Listen, man—"

Minho jerked his arm out of his friend's grasp and yelled, "Where the hell is that shuck-face? Alby!"

As Minho's eyes swept the Glade, they spotted Rose and glared at her. Though they had been on opposite ends of almost every argument since she'd arrived, Rose had never seen Minho look at her so frostily. It was hard to imagine that someone who, only a few days ago, had touched her so intimately could act like she was the reason they were all trapped in this hellhole.

Under Minho's withering gaze, she shriveled like one of the grapes. "Great, what did I do now?"

Rose racked her brain for anything she might have done to send the Keeper of the Runners into such a frenzy, but there was nothing. They hadn't said a word to each other in two days, and she'd been in the Gardens all morning, but there was no mistaking Minho's fury nor the fact that it was aimed at her.

Alby trotted out from the Homestead toward the commotion. The three men headed toward one of the buildings Rose had never been allowed in, a small stone hut Newt called the Map Room. Upon seeing their leader, Minho shifted his anger from Rose to Alby, and though he was still yelling, she couldn't hear them anymore.

Rose took a step forward but Newt pressed her back with a hand on her collar. "I better go check this out. You stay here, finish tying those vines."

"But—"

"That's an order, Greenie," he snapped, and once again, Rose felt the power the young man was capable of wielding.

She nodded as a breeze feathered his blonde hair and carried him away from her.

The slam of the Map Room's door boomed off the Walls, and Rose was left alone with the sinking feeling that everything was about to change for the worse.


Rose had no idea how long Newt was gone, but it was long enough that she had eaten lunch and hoed a new garden bed. Her eyes darted to the Map Room, but near as she could tell, none of the men had emerged from whatever conference they were having.

Right before the Track-hoes packed up for the day, Newt emerged from the stone hut alone. He trudged across the field toward the Gardens, his limp looking a little more pronounced than usual. He headed straight for Rose, his lips pressed in a resigned line. With a long exhale, he sat down next to her in the grass, his legs stretched out in front of him, hers tucked under her chin.

"How was your day?" He tried to sound cheerful and failed miserably.

"Could have been better," she replied.

"Bloody same."

Newt didn't say anything else, just glanced toward the Maze with sorrowful eyes. Rose's fingers drummed furiously against her shins until she blurted, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you going to tell me what's going on because it sure feels like that whole thing," she emphasized with a wild gesture toward the Map Room, "was about me?"

"It's bigger than you, Rose," he sighed.

"But I'm a part of it."

"If it were up to me, I'd tell you, but it's not my secret to share. You'll just have to wait. No doubt you'll hear about it before the day is out."

Well, that sounded ominous. If this was about her kiss with Thomas again, she would have to put out a public bulletin to stay out of her business. But something about Minho's eyes had told her otherwise. The more she thought about that look he'd given her, the more she realized it wasn't just anger that had stoked his irises, but something else—maybe fear. He was afraid of her.

Dinner was a quiet affair. With Alby, Minho, and Thomas conspicuously missing, there wasn't much to distract Rose's thoughts; she was too preoccupied with the memory of Minho's eyes. Secrets roiled beneath the surface, and her thin layer of patience was quickly eroding.

As soon as she was finished, Rose marched to the Homestead in search of the Keeper of the Runners, but he was nowhere to be found. She added a quick jog around the Glade, stopping at any of his usual hangouts, including the Map Room, but the door was locked and she couldn't hear anyone inside. After almost an hour of fruitless searching, Rose headed back to her room.

Evening arrived, the gentle kiss of night's cool promise ruffling the nape of her neck. Up high on the Wall, she heard the caw of a lone crow pining for attention. Something skittered above her head in the trees. Rose caught a flash of silver followed by the buzz of red light, but she was too frustrated to give the creature anything but the middle finger.

The door to her room was ajar. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to cut through the murkiness inside. It wasn't until she had taken two steps inside that Rose could make out her intruder.

"Shut the door," Minho commanded.

He stood in the misty shadows, his arms looking particularly intimidating against the pale blue of his shirt. One look at him, and Rose's haunches bristled.

"What are you doing in my room?" she asked. No need to mention she'd been looking forward to this confrontation for the last hour.

From his pocket, he flung a shower of red rose petals at her. A few of the velvety teardrops slid down her bare arms like a lover's fingers. "Care to explain these? Found 'em in my section of the Maze today. Only my section. Ready to tell me how they got there?"

Rose picked up one of the petals and rubbed it between her fingers. "How should I know that? You won't even let me in the Maze."

"That's interesting because it sure looks like you've been in it." His words were stony as his eyes drifted to the corner of her room to the patch of dirt where Rose had scrawled the abstract patchwork she had yet to knit together.

"What's your point?" she spat. "That's just nonsense from my dreams."

His forearms flexed as his fingers clenched his biceps. "If it's nonsense, why even bother to write it down, huh? It's a map of the Maze, you shuckette. You still going to be pretend you haven't been in it when you seem to have it all mapped out already?"

Rose paced her room. "This is ridiculous. I'm not going to stand here and take the third degree from you."

"Oh, this ain't no third degree, chickie. I'm flat-out accusing you. I know you've been in the Maze before. I've seen you. Or did you 'forget' that, too?"

"Yeah, I forgot it, just like I forgot everything else about myself. I'm not any different from any of you. For all you know, you could have been in the Maze before, too. Difference is, there was nobody here before you to judge you about it."

Minho rolled his eyes. "You followed me before you got here, my little Shadow, and you're following me now."

"Says the slinthead standing in my room. You've had it out for me since day one. I saw your face when you captured me, Minho, so proud of yourself, like I was some trophy."

"You ain't no trophy, lady. Get over yourself." But Minho's arrogant façade was crumbling under Rose's piecing stare.

She pushed harder. "For all I know, you could have put those in there to frame me. You said they were only in your section, and you were the one running it. Do the math, genius."

Minho threw his hands out to his side. "You're something else, you know that? Of all the dumb shuckin' things to say. Why in the hell would I do that?"

"I don't know. Who knows what goes on in that sadistic pea brain of yours?"

"Pea brain? I'm Keeper of the Runners, woman. I'm the best of the best."

"I think all that beautiful hair takes up too much real estate on that head of yours. It's crowded out all your common sense, assuming you ever had any." Minho was dumbstruck, and Rose smirked. "If I found a way into the Maze, what would be the point of coming back? I could just stay there. You think I just made those sounds myself—those things, whatever they are, calling me? Something wants me in there, Minho, and for whatever fucked up reason, it wants me in there with you."

Only after she had uttered those careless words did Rose realize it. The anger she had seen in Minho's eyes had never been for her, but the fear she had sensed underneath had been. Fear for her, not of her. He didn't really believe she'd put the petals there; he wanted her to know that someone had, that someone was toying with her—with both of them, that someone wanted her for a darker purpose than either of them could imagine.

Rose might never have realized all this if she hadn't been standing so frighteningly close to him. In the heat of their argument, her feet had propelled her closer to their confrontation until she had no choice but to look at the consequences of her impetuousness. Rose had Minho pressed against the wall with only a half-dozen inches between them. He was so much larger than she was, in height and body, but she had him cornered beneath her fury, and power surged through her with her adrenaline creating an intoxicating cocktail. Despite herself, despite the anger that Minho always managed to provoke in her, even Rose had to acknowledge he looked damned good backed into a corner. Her eyes flicked to his neck, to that bicep and that rugged forearm—all clean. He had showered before he came here.

"Are you trying to torture me?"

His words cut through the tense silence, and Rose sucked in a breath—at some point, she had stopped breathing. What was wrong with her? There was an edge to Minho's voice she didn't recognize, something that sounded an awful lot like pleading.

A strange wave of hurt snaked through her as she processed his words. Rose was suddenly conscious of how little oxygen there was between them. She was conscious of everything, the way she could feel his warmth without touching him, the way the air crackled around them. It must be torture for him to be this close to someone he despised.

"I'm sorry that my presence is torture," she retorted and took a step back.

Suddenly, Minho's hands were on her waist, pulling her back to him. "Why do you insist on misunderstanding everything I say, Rose?"

He was talking to her, but he was looking at her lips. It was only the second time Minho had ever said her name, and her breath hitched. He tugged her closer until her hips bumped against his, and the touch sent shockwaves into her bones. Whatever Minho was trying to say, her whole body was evidently listening.

There was a knock at the door.

"Rose, are you in there? I brought the stuff I made you." Another knock. "Rose?"

Minho's head rolled back with a thunk against the wall, and his hands dropped from her waist, leaving patches of gooseflesh in their wake. With a low grunt, he stalked over to the door and yanked it open to reveal a very startled portly kid.

"Chuck, you shuck-faced slinthead son-of-a-shucking-shank."

With those words, the Keeper of the Runners blew by the Slopper without sparing a look back, his boots trudging down the path back to the Homestead.