Dualed

Dualed

by Elsie Chapman

Paperback(Reprint)

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Overview

The Hunger Games meets Matched in this high-concept thriller where citizens must prove their worth by defeating the other version of themselves—their twin.

Two of you exist. Only one will survive.

West Grayer is ready. She's trained for years to confront her Alternate, a twin raised by another family. Survival means a good job, marriage—life.

But then a tragic misstep leaves West questioning: Is she the best version of herself, the version worthy of a future?

If she is to have any chance of winning, she must stop running not only from herself, but also from love . . . though both have the power to destroy her.

Fast-paced and unpredictable, Elsie Chapman's suspenseful YA debut weaves unexpected romance into a chilling, unforgettable world.

Praise for Dualed:

"A gripping, thought-provoking thriller that keeps your heart racing and your palms sweaty. . . . The kind of book Katniss Everdeen and Jason Bourne would devour." —Andrew Fukuda, author of the Hunt series

"Full of unexpected turns. . . . Fans of the Divergent trilogy will want to read this imaginative tale." —VOYA

"A fast ride from first to final pages, Dualed combines action and heart." —Mindy McGinnis, author of Not a Drop to Drink

"Intense and swift, Dualed grabbed me by the throat and kept me turning pages all the way to the end. Romance and action fans alike will love it." —Elana Johnson, author of the Possession series

"Stylish, frenetic, and violent, . . . the textual equivalent of a Quentin Tarantino movie."—Publishers Weekly

"A double dose of intensity and danger in this riveting tale of survival, heartache, and love."—Kasie West, author of Pivot Point

"This thought-provoking survival-of-the-fittest story will leave you breathless for more." —Ellen Oh, author of Prophecy

"Clever suspense—here, stalking is a two-way street." —Kirkus Reviews

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780307931559
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Publication date: 05/27/2014
Series: Dualed
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 320
Sales rank: 653,909
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.25(h) x 0.68(d)
Lexile: 780L (what's this?)
Age Range: 12 - 17 Years

About the Author

ELSIE CHAPMAN is a Canadian living in Tokyo with her husband and two children, where she writes to either movies on a loop or music turned up way too loud (and sometimes both at the same time). Visit Elsie at elsiechapman.com and follow her on Twitter @elsiechapman.

Read an Excerpt

I’ve buried nearly everyone I love.

That’s the thought that keeps crossing my mind as I sit in the restaurant, picking at the seam along my sleeve where it’s starting to wear thin. Beneath the overly bright lighting, the cheap black cotton of the jacket I usually wear to funerals is faded, gray, nubby with use.

Across the table from me, Luc’s staring blankly at the menu. His blacks aren’t looking too hot, either. The jacket is too small across the shoulders, stretched tight, his wrists popping out from beneath the cuffs. At seventeen, my brother’s taller than Aave was. By default I’m the tallest girl, since Ehm’s gone, too.

I toss my menu down. “I guess I’m just going to get the same thing I always do.”

Luc shakes his head in puzzled disgust, glances up at me. “Why do we keep coming here, again? The food sucks.”

“I think Aave kept making us come back? He always said Balthazar’s was one of his favorite restaurants in the Grid. And we just kind of . . . never stopped.”

“Yeah, probably. I swear the guy had a stomach lined with steel.”

I fiddle with the fork that’s lying next to my hand, wondering if any Alt has ever actually used one to complete an assignment. A last-­resort-­and-­being-­cornered kind of thing. Would a handful of pointy tines be enough to fend off death if you’re the one meant to survive?

“What do you think about your combat classes so far this year?” Luc’s voice breaks through the buzz of my thoughts, the clamor of the crowd seated around us.

“Well, I’m already counting down the days until weaponry. You don’t know how lucky you are to be in there already.”

“Hey, what’s wrong with combat?” Luc’s dark brown eyes are amused. “At least admit it’s not as bad as kinetics.”

The study of body and muscle movement, kinetics is the first level of the Alt Skills program, and it makes up year one in school. Learning how to fight effectively with your body is combat, years two and three—­though in a battle, given a choice between bare flesh and man-­made steel, I know which one I’d pick every single time. An Alt’s bullet travels fast, before you can even begin to think about calculating how to form a fist without breaking your bones. It’s not until weaponry that you learn the minute mechanics of aiming and firing a gun, the torque and spin of a blade, the balletic beauty of wielding a dagger.

“Okay, fine, nothing’s as bad as kinetics,” I say to Luc. “But it doesn’t change the fact that year two combat’s not much more than filler.” At fifteen, I’m just starting year three at Torth Prep. In Kersh’s citywide school curriculum, weaponry isn’t offered until years four and five. “Everyone knows weaponry is the only training class that isn’t a total waste of time.”

“Well, you’ve only got this one last year. Then you’re good to go.”

I pick up the dinner knife, let the muscles of my hand spin it into position.

“Relax, West,” Luc says, and gestures to the waitress headed in our direction. “You’re going to scare Bren.”

Slowly, I put the knife down.

“Two of my favorite customers,” Bren says to us, smiling. But I can see the sympathy in her eyes. “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. Was he sick?”

I look away, not caring if it’s rude. Whatever Luc tells her is up to him. All I know is I can’t say the words.

It seems like a very long time before he answers. “Yeah, he was sick, Bren.”

Close enough to the truth, I guess.

“Can I just get the chicken salad, please?” I ask abruptly. It’s late, way past dinnertime, and I don’t even know if I feel like eating. But we’re here, and I’ll do anything to keep her from asking more questions.

“Sure.” Bren flicks her eyes at me, uncertain. “You know it’s just the culled pigeon, right? Chicken’s reserved for completes.”

“Until when?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. You know how it is.”

“Sure, it’s fine,” I tell her. It has to be. Completes always get the best food. Idles like Luc and me are served the scraps, remnants, surplus. None of the good stuff until we’re completes, too.

“Just the cheeseburger,” Luc says to the waitress. “Thanks.”

“It won’t be too long.” She walks away.

“Wow, tasty,” I say to Luc. “You keep ordering that like you think it’s going to taste different each time. It’s not even meat; it’s straight filler.”

“It’s not filler. It’s . . . protein booster.”

I laugh for the first time all day. “Yeah, okay, tell your- self that. You’re probably going to sprout a third eye or something.”

“Hey, having a third eye when you go active could actually help—­”

A sharp crack in the air. It could be mistaken for the boom of thunder, or the sound of a car backfiring. But living where I live, I instantly recognize it.

Gunfire. And it’s close by.

“Completion of an assignment,” Luc says, looking past my shoulder and out the window, proving my instincts right. “Just across the street.”

Breath held, I turn to see the figures of the two Alts outside. Slightly rippled through the bulletproof glass and little more than blurred shadows beneath the hazy glow of the streetlamps, but their movements are familiar, a choreography of steps all citizens of Kersh have seen before. One Alt finally tumbles to the ground. The other crouches over him, checking for vitals. It hits me how their silhouettes could almost be mistaken for lovers’.

But they’re not. They’re Alts. Enemies from birth. And now one’s dead, which means the survivor has completed his assignment. He takes off down the road, leaving behind his childhood, a past life as easily shed as a prisoner’s jumpsuit.

Able to breathe again, I turn back to see Luc still staring out the window, his expression strange, not his own. Around us, the other diners begin talking and eating again. A waitress brings an order to a table in the corner.

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