by Lauren Mansy
The patients up here rarely move, but their eyes are wide-open, shifting back and forth. Choosing to live in a memory is a common temptation for the Gifted. I never understood giving up reality to live in a fantasy before my mother fell into her coma, but after that, I stopped judging them. It takes a whole lot of pain to make someone want to escape to the past, and most never come back to the present. Memories are a tricky captor.
The man in the bed next to my mother’s draws in a shuddering breath. His brow twists as his eyelids flutter open and closed.
I gently pat his shoulder as I pass, though I don’t think he understands much. No one’s come to visit the whole time he’s been here. But it’s easy enough to include him when I tell my mother stories, or to make sure he’s not getting bedsores and feed him tiny spoonsful of gruel. The nurses call him Baldwin, or bald one, I can’t tell which. What I do know is every morning, he wakes with cold feet and his lips curl into a smile when I wrap a blanket around them.
My mother is as still as a corpse under a white sheet. The moonlight creeping in from the floor-to-ceiling window makes her look even paler, ghostly in a way. I used to think having a view was a good thing, but once I realized it perfectly overlooks the auction block, I saw it for what it really was: Madame’s less-than-subtle warning to behave.
Tonight’s auction is far from over, so I draw the curtain before I turn toward my mother, half expecting her to open her eyes and greet me. It’s been four years since I’ve heard her voice, only days after I turned thirteen.
We’re opposites in many ways, except for our tiny statures, white-blonde hair, and hazel eyes. My mother used to say that I was her mirror. The older I grew, the more I saw it too. Though as a child, I caught whispers about my mother’s gentle and loving spirit. Our similarities ended there. So everyone knew where I must’ve inherited the inky spots of my nature.
As I do every day, I kiss my mother’s cheek and remind her how much I love her.
There’s a cold bowl of gruel on her bedside table, now too thick to slide down the tube the nurses stick down her throat to feed her. I curse them under my breath for not feeding her earlier. My mother is skin and bones already, but they’ve never cared for her like they should. None of them expected her to hold out this long.
“Most coma patients don’t live more than a few months,” a nurse told me just after my mother was placed in this bed. “Her memories are like the threads of a tapestry but tangled and woven together in all the wrong places. It makes it very difficult for her to wake. At least if she dies, you can keep her memories.”
I shuddered at that. I’ve never wanted my mother’s memories. I’ve only wanted to make new ones with her. But the first night at the asylum, I did read my mother’s mind, hoping she could hear me when I spoke and feel when I touched her hand.
A rush of colors broke forth but none of the memories made sense. There were gardens in bloom and glittering fountains, of skies flooded with soft clouds and a tangerine sun. I saw nothing of our home in Blare . . . and no memories of me.
Not wanting to risk my mother’s healing, I didn’t read her mind after that. Only she’ll be able to tell me where she’s been these past four years, locked in the deep recesses of her mind. That is, if she’s given the chance. Because whatever twisted plan Madame has in store for me, Gwendolyn Lark waking up isn’t part of it.
I close my eyes as my memories take me back to the day Madame and I struck our deal . . .
Standing in front of the window overlooking the auction block, Madame studies my mother with a look of disgust on her face. “As you have upheld your end of our bargain, Julietta, I shall uphold mine. Your mother will have a place here until she wakes or dies.”
I reach down and clutch my mother’s hand, staring at the tattoo on my wrist. The swollen, stinging mound of flesh that was free of ink hours ago. My mother and I are both Craewick citizens now, under Madame’s watchful eye.
“What are you going to do with Greer?” I force out.
“Exactly what he deserves. He’ll be punished and killed,” she replies, and my stomach lurches as I imagine the look on his face when he realizes I’m the reason he’s in shackles, that I told Madame his location to buy my mother an asylum bed. “The Shadows are more than just a thorn in my side. Crime has increased throughout the Four Realms, compromising the safety of each citizen, and all for what? For Greer to grow rich?”
“It’s not about riches,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Is that what he tells you? Greer started the black market. He trained you to steal memories from my citizens.”
“I only stole what never belonged to your citizens in the first place and gave the memories back to their rightful owners. It’s your job to protect the Ungifted, but if you won’t, then the Shadows will. They make sure everyone isn’t forced to bow down to you,” I say.
The corner of her mouth twitches, fury flickers across her face, before she regroups with a tight pull on the hem of her military jacket. “You are a thief. And a society is only as strong as the morality—”
I wave her off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard your auction speech.”
“But apparently, you weren’t listening. You yourself have proven that if one presses on the tiniest crack, the glass will shatter.”
“I didn’t realize Craewick was so fragile,” I say.
“Oh, I’m not referring to Craewick,” she says with a pointed look at me, then my mother.
I lose the nerve to tell her it’s only under poor leadership that a black market flourishes. We stole from the wealthy to give back to the poor. While the Hollows crowd their minds with foreign memories, the Ungifted live in fear on the fray of Craewick and in the other cities, often victims of theft and forced to sell their own memories just to make ends meet. But Shadows do far more than protect the Ungifted. They’re the only family many orphans have ever known, and a safe haven for those on Madame’s hit list.
“My rules are strict but designed for the common good,” she says.
Ignoring her, I refuse to debate ethics with someone who puts people up for auction. It’s a demeaning and painful death, a torturous punishment for whomever she considers a criminal. With all the rules and regulations of Craewick, it’s as if Madame sets her people up to fail, then punishes them when they do. She’s made herself judge, jury, and executioner.
Madame rests her chin on her bony hand. “My father’s rule of Craewick was strict, as well, but there were flaws. Do you know what I vowed the night of his murder?”
I meet her eyes. “That you would hunt down the one who killed him.”
She gives a slight shake of her head. “That I would never let the same thing happen to me. Weakness is perceiving a threat and doing nothing to stop it,” she says before lifting her wrist to show me her tattoo. It’s shaped like an eye, signifying a Sifter’s Gift. “Do you know how a Sifter reads minds, Julietta? When I look at a person, their thoughts become my thoughts. It was exhausting at first, hearing all those voices that I couldn’t tune out. I heard what people truly thought of me, who they wanted me to be. But as I grew, I learned how to control my Gift and use it only when I wished, listening to myself instead of the thousands crying to be heard.”
I’ve heard this about Sifters, how they struggle to find their own voice. Then there’s the temptation to steal whatever they please. Their minds don’t fill up as quickly as ours do, their Gifts allowing them to hold much larger amounts of foreign memories. That’s why we call them Sifters in the first place. They sift through memories faster than anyone. They can snatch every memory from your brain, and you wouldn’t even know who did it before dropping dead.
“When I look at you, however, all is silent,” Madame adds.
I lift my chin, trying to appear stronger than I feel, but her grin only widens. I don’t know what happened to my mind at the time of my mother’s accident, but I’m different now. “The Minders said I was unreadable.”
“And so you are. I cannot read anoth
er Sifter unless they put their guard down. The energy in our minds creates a barrier to protect us from one another, but you are not like us.” She points to the gold flecks in her dark eyes, a trait all Sifters share that I don’t. “Your uniqueness is fascinating, though I’ve seen variations of Gifts before. They are uncommon but not unheard of. You might believe that the fact your mind cannot be read makes you invincible, but you would not have begged for that Ungifted tattoo if you didn’t fear for your life.”
I glance at my wrist. My Ungifted tattoo is part of the deal we made. After betraying the Shadows, my ability to hide among the masses is the only hope I have that they won’t find me. Now I’ll live in the fray, among the farmers, seamstresses, and lock-smiths, where the Shadows will never think to search for a girl who was once a memory thief.
Madame studies my mother’s still body. “This is all your fault, isn’t it, Julietta? She is in this coma because you are a liar and traitor . . . Let me see if I understand what really happened in Blare. You implanted dozens of violent memories while attacking who you thought to be a Minder, only to discover it was your own mother. Didn’t Greer teach you to look before leaping into a mind?” Her laugh cuts through me. “You were clever to use your Gift as a weapon, but the Ungifted are a delicate species. One spark of Gifted energy and they burst into flames.”
Her words turn my blood to ice. It all happened so fast. One minute, Minders were swarming my mother and dragging me to face trial for joining the Shadows. The next, my mother crumbled to the floor, her memories fragmented and tangled because I’d mistaken her for an enemy.
“You bought your mother’s life with Greer’s blood. Now the question you’ll ask for the rest of your life is this . . .” Madame meets my eyes. “Was it worth it?”
As the memory drifts away, I clutch my mother’s hand. The only movement of her body is the rising and falling of her chest and the brief flutter behind her eyelids. Then her finger twitches. I gasp and draw closer as she taps my hand three times, in the exact same way as when I was a child.
I . . . love . . . you.
A sob catches in my throat. Her fingers are now still, but she’s said more than enough before the coma takes her once again. She’s coming back to me.
Pounding my fist on my forehead, I sink into the chair. What other option is there but to escape Craewick? Maybe between Ry and me, we could figure out a way to carry my mother . . .
The Shadows can help her.
I brush the memory of Ryder’s plan away as another replaces it.
They help people who can’t help themselves.
There has to be another solution, but all I can think about is the one person who’s powerful enough to slip in and out of the asylum, get my mother out of Craewick, and keep us hidden: Bray, the Sifter whom Greer trained to be his successor.
Sighing, I rub my eyes. How bad have things gotten that I’d even consider contacting my former mentor? Striking deals with my enemies has been disastrous so far, but the black market is nothing like Craewick. There’s a use for my unreadability, a skill that could have endless benefits for the Shadows. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t own many talents, but theft has always come naturally. If I pledged my life to serve Bray, would that be enough to get my mother out of Craewick?
I kiss my mother’s cheek, whispering promises that I’ll always protect her, before I run out of the asylum.
The crowd surrounding the stage has grown even larger as I push my way toward Ryder, still standing where I left her. “I want to meet with the Shadows,” I whisper. “How do I find them?”
Her eyes light up. “I knew you’d change your mind. I’ll bring the Shadows to you.”
“No, I don’t want you getting involved,” I practically spit out.
She backs away. “I’m already involved, Etta. Just go home. We’ll meet you there.”
When I charge after Ryder, a Minder grabs my elbow and yanks me back, his grip as strong as steel as I try to wrench free. “Slow down,” he orders, glancing around as a few Hollows narrow their sights on me.
Some shove their hands into their pockets while others pull their collars up to their ears, looking at me like the insurgent I once was. Auctions are like a pile of kindling just waiting for a spark. Once this crowd grows restless, it only takes one scream, only a ripple of suspicion that a thief is among the crowd, to set the whole thing ablaze.
“Let me pass,” I say to the Minder, though I’ve already lost sight of Ry. She’s vanished, no doubt using all the tricks I taught her to disappear.
The Minder waits a second longer, as if expecting someone to rush up and accuse me of theft, but he lets me go once Madame starts the next bid.
Stumbling away, I curse myself for dragging Ryder into all this. Now Bray will find out she’s my friend. And if he hurts Ry to get back at me for betraying the Shadows, I’ll never forgive myself.
My sides split with pain as I sprint to my cottage.
For years I’ve dreaded the moment when I’d be forced to face Bray. Ever since I betrayed the Shadows, it feels as if his eyes have never stopped watching me. Whenever the wind rattles the lock on my door, I always wonder if he’s finally found me. Sometimes I’m just so tired of worrying, so tired of hiding, and so tired of feeling guilty that I almost wish he would.
But now, it isn’t just the thought of pledging to Bray which frightens me. It’s always a risk to play with memories, when you can’t help but sink into a sea of others’ wishes, hopes, and dreams . . . but if losing myself means saving my mother, isn’t it worth it?
The fray is completely deserted as I up my pace and come out of the alley near my cottage. I throw the door open and lean against it to catch my breath.
Not a second later, a dark hood slips over my head and a deep voice whispers near my ear, “Welcome back to the Shadows.”
CHAPTER
4
Many nights when I was young, I’d wake up crying from the nightmares that trouble Gifted children.
My mother would crawl into bed beside me, doing her best to explain that fear sits on the tip of our consciousness, and burying heartbreak and pain proves an impossible task for most people. Whenever I touched someone, I’d accidentally steal what most were trying hard to forget. Those dark, chilling memories haunted my dreams. My mother would rest her chin on top of my head as I nestled close. Her voice was soft and sweet as she lightly sang snippets of the Realms’ Songs.
The memory of my mother, of how safe I felt pressed against her, provide a few seconds of comfort before my mind snaps back to reality.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rock back and forth. The stone floor is icy and damp, and I haven’t stopped shivering since I woke up here.
I’m in the Mines now, where the best thieves in the Realms live, trade, and vanish right out from under Madame’s watchful eye. It’s a safe haven, a black market of memories, and a fortress so well protected that the Minders have never been able to find it. Any memories you want, from rare talents to secrets the Shadows use for blackmail, you’ll find far below the Realms in this underground city.
And to be back here, not as a thief but as a captive, fills me with dread.
The walls aren’t thick enough to block out the screams of the other prisoners, trapped in pitch-black cells like mine. I cover my ears as their cries pierce the silence.
Greer used these dungeons to lock up Minders who got too close to the Mines. He’d read their minds, erasing any memories which could lead Madame to our base, then set them free. He wasn’t violent unless forced to protect one of his Shadows, often showing mercy to those who didn’t deserve it.
Judging from the sound of those screams, Bray has taken a different approach to dealing with enemies.
My stomach twists at the sharp, cloying scent of dried blood clinging to every inch of the cell. I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing myself not to get sick. The darkness plays with my mind. Snippets of memories flash behind my eyelids.
Cade and Joss, two o
f my Shadow partners, appear before me. I miss them so much my heart feels as if it’ll split in two, but it isn’t until I see Penn’s face that I bite back a sob. I touch the four leather bands on my wrist, three of which once belonged to them.
Breaking free of the memories, I open my eyes and hit the wall with my fist, furious at myself for ever believing Bray would help me. Every passing second draws my mother closer to Auction Day. For four years, she’s battled her coma, far surpassing any expectations placed upon her. She hasn’t given up. I can’t fail her now, not when she’s so close to waking.
I push myself to my feet and scream, pounding on the door. If fighting my way back to my mother means escaping the Shadows, I’ll do it or die trying. My hands are bloody and bruised when someone finally comes.
As soon as I see who’s standing in the doorway, I recoil to the corner of my cell.
Gone are his boyish looks, his features sharp and refined now, as Bray towers over me. My legs threaten to give out as he studies my face. I will myself not to look away as his eyes meet mine. My mind is unreadable now, but if this surprises him, his expression reveals nothing. I’m still positive he’s wishing he could make my heart forget to beat.
He shuts the door and sets his lantern on the floor. “You’re supposed to be dead, Jules.”
Deep, bitter rage rolls off him, but the lightness of his tone sends a shudder down my spine just before he lunges at me. Bray slams me against the wall and wraps his hands around my neck.
“For years, I thought Madame had murdered you. But just before I killed the Minder who slit my brother’s throat, that coward told me you were the one who betrayed Greer,” Bray whispers near my ear. “Ever since then, do you know how many times I’ve wished for this moment?”
I claw at his hands as he tightens his grasp. Black spots crowd my vision. My lungs feel as if they’re on fire. “I had no idea Cade and Joss were with him,” I rasp. “Madame was going to murder my mother if I didn’t give up Greer’s location!”
