The Memory Thief

by Lauren Mansy

  Madame angles toward the crowd. “A society is only as strong as the morality of its citizens, and we must protect the wisdom of our past to ensure a prosperous future,” she says before facing the prisoners. “You have been given a trial and declared guilty.”

  I almost laugh. Trial? What a joke. What she really means is a few Minders held these prisoners down while she sifted through their minds.

  We’re never privy to the details, so who knows what these prisoners actually did before being accused of treason. Perhaps one snatched a loaf of bread to feed her starving children, or another can’t pay back his debts to the Minders. A lot of Ungifted use desirable memories to pay for rent on those tiny shacks the Minders have the nerve to call cottages. When there’s barely enough food to go around and icy wind seeps through every rotting floorboard, you run out of happy memories pretty quickly. Still, the Minders never forget to come collecting.

  “The punishment for these crimes is death,” Madame says, angling toward the audience. And just for the tiniest moment, she meets my eyes.

  My breath hitches in my throat. I tell myself Madame can’t possibly see us back here, but fear slices through me when she narrows her sights on Ryder. I take a step in front of Ry, gently nudging her behind me. When the corners of Madame’s lips pull up, in a flicker of a mocking smile, I’m certain she’s watching me as closely as I’m watching her.

  The lottery ticket burns like fire against my skin. We made a deal, I want to scream at her. You promised my mother wouldn’t be harmed. You swore she’d have a place at the asylum until she woke. I gave up everything because I believed you!

  I can almost hear her reply.

  What a fool you were to believe me.

  Madame blinks twice, her gaze darting away. “Bring forth Kellen Marks.”

  Ryder ducks around me and asks if I’m okay.

  I nod but keep my hand on her shoulder.

  The Minders usually have to drag unwilling victims forward, but not Kellen Marks, the boy I noticed earlier. He steps out from the line of prisoners without a moment’s hesitation. Two Minders secure his arms to the chair, the sharp rattling of the chains cutting through the stagnant air. Most of the auctioned lack the strength to keep their heads up, but Kellen lifts his chin and stares straight into the audience.

  I bite my tongue, wishing I could tell him he is not Craewick’s true enemy.

  It’s Madame who will strip him of his most treasured possessions for breaking her Craewick law. Then this mob will stuff themselves full, buying items that’ll be enjoyed for a while then discarded like trash. No, Madame is the real criminal here, not Kellen Marks—she’s using her Gift to steal his life.

  Once he’s been secured, she takes her place beside him, her bony hand trailing along his shoulders. “Do you have any last words, Kellen Marks?”

  He tips his eyes up to meet hers. “Better things await me.”

  The audience goes deathly silent, and I too am mesmerized by his calm. There’s a rare beauty about him, one that never graces this stage. Death does not frighten him. How is it he’s made his peace with this world and is ready to travel into the next? He looks serene, content even.

  Then I blink, and his eyes have rolled back into his head. I don’t realize I’ve grabbed Ryder’s hand until she squeezes mine. I’ve watched a lot of auctions, but Kellen’s cries strike me harder than most, like a knife hitting bone.

  The Memory Auction has begun.

  CHAPTER

  2

  It doesn’t take long for Madame to sort through Kellen Marks’ memories. He grinds his teeth as she decides what’s of value to auction and what terrible events she’ll force Kellen to relive before death claims him. Tears stream down his cheeks as he cries out for his mother. His words are strangled and jumbled, but it’s clear enough Madame has trapped Kellen in the moment when his mother died. His brow twists before he rears up from the chair, fighting against the chains so hard that the cuffs of his shirt are soaked with blood.

  Ryder covers her ears and nestles into me.

  My chest burns as I watch him gasp. It only takes a few carefully extracted memories to ensure he can’t remember how to fill his lungs. I close my eyes and draw Ryder closer.

  A lady shuffles past us, bumping into my shoulder and mumbling things about being late and missing all the good merchandise.

  Ryder sticks her foot out, but I jerk her back before the lady trips over it.

  “Don’t make a scene. Too many Minders,” I whisper.

  “Not making a scene is what led to this,” she mutters, pointing at the stage.

  I want to agree with her, but as I clutch Ryder’s tiny hand and picture my mother asleep in her asylum bed, my words dry up to nothing.

  Kellen’s twitching and still struggling to breathe when Madame steps in front of him. “Kellen Marks has paid the price for his acts of treason, and we will judge him no longer. He will now be given the chance to give back to society.” She pauses. “He is a fisherman from the city of Blare.”

  A murmur passes over the crowd and hearing the name of the city where I grew up is like a slap in the face. Though I don’t recognize Kellen, fury rushes up inside me as the audience cheers and claps. Bile rises up my throat as I feel their hunger, their unquenchable thirst for whatever joys that Kellen’s memories hold.

  Blare isn’t known strictly for its rickety wharves and seaside cottages. It’s the capital of the Coastal Realm where painting, drawing, singing, and dancing are all taught. If Kellen grew up there, he’ll be full of artsy talents.

  “He was paired and has one child,” Madame continues.

  Hands shoot high in the air as the bidding begins. True love is always a top seller.

  On my tiptoes, I catch sight of a bidder and nudge Ryder. “He’s from Aravid.” As a person’s fashion tends to lean toward their most recent memories, whether purchased or created, his thick wool jacket is a dead giveaway he’s come from the capital of the Woodland Realm.

  Ryder’s eyes go wide. “Haven’t seen someone from there in months.”

  Aravid isn’t more than a two days’ hike from here, but it’s the danger of traveling through the common lands between each Realm that discourages most from leaving one of the well-protected capital cities. Ever since Madame came into power after her father was murdered, the woods have been filled with criminals and vagabonds because she pulled all the Minders patrolling the forest back to Craewick.

  Some say she did this to protect her people after her father’s death. The rarity of a ruler being killed, and the fact that his killer was never found, frightened the Hollows so much that most didn’t question Madame’s orders. Others argue she did it to drive up the price of auction bids. Because nowadays, unless a person can afford to hire a Minder as an escort, the only hope of gaining new memories is up on that auction block.

  Casting a look down, Madame motions for a few Minders to escort the bidder up on stage. Aravid memories are scarce in Craewick, and it’s unlikely he’ll be outbid. They speak in low tones, quickly deciding which of his memories she’ll accept as payment. They’ve only minutes until Kellen will die, his veins cooling and his pupils fading to white, to retrieve his memories.

  As Madame is a Sifter, one whose rare and powerful Gift works through sight and not touch like the rest of the Gifted, the only clue that Kellen’s past has moved into this bidder’s mind is when Kellen slumps in the chair.

  I let out a long breath, relieved he didn’t suffer as long as some.

  The ecstatic bidder leaves the stage, but it’s only a matter of time before he’ll sell those memories in search of a grander high.

  “He’s even walking like Kellen Marks now,” Ry murmurs, and I follow her gaze, frowning when I see she’s right. The Aravid man is no longer hunched over but standing tall and erect, like Kellen did only minutes ago. “Bet by tomorrow, he’ll be rid of that stuffy wool jacket and be dressed like he’s from Blare too. Just like you.”

  “At least my memories of Bl
are are real,” I snap.

  She barks out a laugh. “Try telling that Aravid Hollow that his memories aren’t real.”

  A memory from the first auction I ever attended floods back to me.

  “Why do you say most of the Gifted are hollow?” I ask Greer.

  “Because there’s nothing left inside of them.”

  I frown. How could he say these people were empty when they were stuffed full of rare talents and thrilling memories? “But there’s so much inside of them!”

  He touches his heart. “No, nothing left of them, of who they once were . . . they’ve lost themselves to become someone else.”

  The wind picks up, stinging my cheeks. I cross my arms under my cloak, but I can’t stop shivering.

  The crowd is getting antsy between auctions, but Madame knows how to keep the calm with a talent show.

  Standing in front of the prisoners is a whole new crop of Collectors, those who work for the Craewick Treasury and spend years mastering talents throughout the Four Realms. It’s not a terrible career, I guess, traveling from one Realm to the next until their minds are a goldmine of talents and experiences. But after they sell those memories tonight, they won’t remember any of it. Years of their lives gone in a matter of seconds.

  The first offering is from a master of etiquette, which a mother with four feisty children immediately scoops up. As soon as the memories are transferred, she breathes a sigh of relief as her well-mannered offspring follow her obediently off the stage.

  Next, a cliff-jumper whose leg is bound by a bloodied cloth hobbles onto the auction block. He has this smug look on his face as multiple bidders raise their hands. People will pay a fortune to experience the rush of adrenaline housed deep inside his memories, but cliff-jumpers rarely live long enough to have much of a career. After selling his memories tonight, he won’t remember what nearly killed him. He’ll climb bigger mountains and jump off taller bluffs until his luck finally runs out.

  To close out the show, a couple waltzes to the tune of a woman belting out an aria, but my guess is no one will buy either one of the talents. It’s still early. It will take a few more prisoners’ auctions—and a few more pints of ale—before the bids flow more easily.

  “And here come the orphans,” Ry says. “They’ll be working late tonight. This crowd’s huge.”

  To our left, kids in threadbare clothes barrel through the less-than-amused audience. Most Ungifted orphans are forced to make a living this way, offering up their minds to store the Hollows’ unwanted memories.

  I watch a woman hand over a few coins to a tiny boy, gold that won’t buy more than a measly meal. She removes her gloves and as they clasp hands, and I wonder what kind of painful memories she’ll transfer into him so she can forget about them. A toothache? A nightmare? Memories from a bad relationship?

  My heart aches at the sight of the orphan’s flushed face, at how the whites of his eyes are yellowing, a sure sign his mind is being overloaded by foreign memories.

  “I wish I could get them off the streets too,” I tell her, stealing a glance at the stage where Madame is about to start the next bid.

  “Well, you saved one orphan.”

  I swing my arm around her. “Only because she followed me around like a lost puppy after we met.”

  Ryder snorts. “Probably because you welcomed her into your life with open arms.”

  That makes me grin. Goodness knows I tried to shove the responsibility of taking care of her onto my neighbors. But once Ry made up her mind that we should stick together, there was no dodging her.

  As Madame calls the name of another prisoner, someone pushes us aside before scurrying off toward the stage.

  Ry stumbles, but I grab her arm before she falls, the tiny jolts of energy in her Gifted skin tingling beneath my fingertips.

  Colors flash behind my eyelids. Fiery warmth coils in my belly as the memory on the tip of her consciousness seeps into my brain. It’s a rush, giving into the deep yearning where my Gift begs to be used. But as soon as I realize I’ve read her mind, I let go of her wrist.

  One word pulses through my head, a fragment of a memory that I’ve accidentally stolen from her.

  Shadows.

  It’s a moment before Ryder clutches her head, her eyes wide as she stares at me. There’s always a slight delay between losing memories and the headache the Gifted feel, the sweet spot any thief uses to escape before a victim realizes a memory is missing.

  “What did you take?” she asks between breaths.

  My knees threaten to buckle as I lean closer, lowering my voice to a raspy whisper. “Why were you thinking about the Shadows?”

  She doesn’t back down. “Because I’m going to ask them to save your mother.”

  I gasp. “You what?”

  Ryder bites her lip as she meets my eyes, her brown curls a nest of tangled strands in the moonlight. “That’s what the Shadows do. They help people who can’t help themselves.”

  “Except they haven’t been seen in years. They’re just a myth now,” I whisper harshly.

  “Not true.” Her eyes dart all around us, but nobody’s paying attention to our conversation. They’re too enthralled watching the Minders secure a thrashing prisoner to the chair. “I met a Shadow, and I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you. I’ll ask him to help your mother.”

  I close my eyes as a cold sweat slithers down my spine. Help her? I want to laugh. To Ryder, I’m a daughter whose comatose mother could use all the help she can get. Not the memory thief who backstabbed the Shadows to pay for that asylum bed in the first place. Surely, Bray, the leader of the underground memory market, wants to do one thing with me—slit my throat. And now four years of hiding could vanish with a single word from Ryder.

  “I want nothing to do with the Shadows,” I hiss. “And if you have any sense, you’ll stay away from them too.” I back away from her and glance around, searching for signs they may already be watching and waiting to haul me back to Bray. And if they are, I don’t want Ryder anywhere near me.

  “Don’t you want more than this, Etta?” she calls out after me.

  Keeping my back toward her, I stop walking. Of course I want more than a life of worrying that Ryder will one day end up on the auction block and watching my mother wither away in the asylum, but I’m not sure I deserve it. Not after everything I’ve done.

  I glance down at the four leather bands on my wrist before I shove my hands into my pockets and push out of the crowd. There’s a collective hush in anticipation of the next auction, and I gulp in a breath so I don’t scream. The only place I need to be is at the asylum, so that’s where I’ll head to find a way out of this mess.

  Making my way to the edge of the audience, I pull my mother’s lottery ticket from my pocket. In the moonlight, a few of the words shine through the envelope.

  My heartbeat rushes to my ears as I rip it open. This is no lottery ticket.

  It’s my mother’s Notice of Auction.

  CHAPTER

  3

  On my seventh birthday, I nearly drowned.

  The rain had been falling in sheets for days, and white foam capped the waves off the coast of Blare. My mother had been teaching art classes from dawn till dusk, and I was bored out of my mind. So I skipped down to the beach and dove into the frigid water before anyone could stop me.

  Waves swept me along the cove, smashing me against the rocky edge until a pair of strong hands lifted me out of the water. I don’t remember much of the fisherman who saved me, or the hours my mother bounced between fits of fury that I’d run off and thankful kisses that I was safe.

  What I do remember is how it felt to hit that boulder. Like every inch of me shattered into a million pieces. I didn’t think there was a more painful feeling, but there is.

  The auction notice trembles in my hands. Madame doesn’t auction asylum patients! It’s a torturous death reserved for thieves and rebels. But my mother has never been either.

  That was me.

&n
bsp; I lean against the alley wall as my knees give out. What if this isn’t a mistake? Auctioning my mother would be far worse than anything Madame could ever do to me. If this had been a lottery ticket, her death would’ve been painless, not agonizing like up on the auction block.

  Now strangers will be given the chance to own her entire life and part of mine, as well. They can buy the memories of me growing up on the beaches of Blare, of my mother teaching me how to paint and draw. And once those memories are gone, scattered among the highest bidders, it’ll be as if my mother never existed.

  I take off toward the asylum.

  This section of Craewick is a maze of alleys, full of beggars and drifters, but the sight of the asylum is what really makes me quiver. From its place high on the hill, it casts a long shadow over the street below as I run up the stone steps. There’s always a Minder stationed outside the door to ward off thieves who’d steal from addicts and coma patients, though what’s inside is far more frightening than him.

  As I push through the doors, frenzied screams fill the air. The stench of sweat, urine, and blood sparks memories of uneasiness, disgust, and fear.

  An addict lunges at me as I pass her. Like everyone else trapped in these rows of cast-iron beds, she’s held back by a crisscrossing of chains on her wrists and ankles. Spit trickles from her cracked lips. Scabs dot her hairline where she’s torn the hair from her scalp. Housing too many foreign memories has rotted her mind, turned her pupils the color of a raincloud.

  We might call the ability to swap memories a gift, but there’s only so much energy the mind can handle before it implodes.

  Eventually, most addicts will fall into a coma, and their families usually end up selling all the addict’s memories to pay for Madame’s steep asylum fees. But as these deaths ensure the Craewick Treasury stays well-stocked, it’s no wonder why many fail to recover.

  I take the stairs to the second floor, where the silence is just as unnerving.