I turn to Acelot. “Can you make any sense of this?”
He takes the document, scanning it. Eventually he shakes his head. “Sorry.”
I tuck the document in my back pocket. “No, what’s far-fetched is you wanting to help me.” I turn to Marcel, who is plucking a loose thread off his crimson frock coat, clearly bored. “Help me load these supplies onto the Miniport—then we can get out of here.”
He reluctantly picks up a single can of beans. Acelot catches my attention and I roll my eyes. I gather an armful of supplies and Marcel follows me out of the room, holding his can of beans. We head down a corridor lined with portraits of Purian Rose, walking side by side. The boy barely reaches my chest, but I know not to underestimate him; Bastets are much stronger than Darklings.
“You know you’re going to get my brother killed, right?” Marcel says when we’re out of earshot. “I know you hate me for what happened in Viridis, and I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry that they took your girlfriend, but Ace is all I have left, so if he dies . . .” Marcel blinks and his golden-brown eyes glisten. “Please don’t get him killed.”
“I won’t,” I say, but the promise falls flat. I can’t guarantee Acelot’s safety.
“Sure,” Marcel mutters.
We continue our walk to the aircraft in silence. It takes a good half hour to put all the food and weapons into the aircraft, thanks to Marcel’s “help.” He’s trying his best, but manual labor clearly isn’t something he’s had much experience with.
We load the last of the goods into the aircraft, kicking them under the leather seats. Marcel slumps down in the pilot’s seat, his spotted tail swishing against the metal floor.
“Do you think Elijah and Natalie are dead?” Marcel says. “Sebastian reckons they are.”
My fangs flood with venom. “No, I don’t.”
God, just when I’m starting to warm up to that kid, he says something like that. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly prickle as a faint, musky smell drifts into the Miniport, stinging my nostrils. I sniff the air again. Marcel scrunches up his nose—he’s smelled it too.
“Is that you?” he says, and I growl at him. “What? All you Darks stink to me.”
I look outside the open hatch. The street is silent, and yet something doesn’t feel right. I can’t shake the feeling that something’s watching us.
“Let’s head back,” I murmur.
Marcel lets out a long sigh, like it’s the biggest chore in the world, and follows me outside. The instant we leave the aircraft, I know we’ve made a terrible mistake. A low, throaty growl comes from the roof of the airship. I slowly turn, my pulse racing, to look into the cold, steel eyes of a male Lupine, his silvery hair rippling in the cool breeze.
Behind us, there’s a teeth-tingling sound of claws against brick. I risk a glance over my shoulder to see a female Lupine slowly closing in on us. She’s dressed all in red. Around her throat is a choker made of Darkling fangs. Bounty hunters used to wear those during the first war. I swallow. The Sentry must’ve left the Lupines here to keep guard of the city—or what remains of it—and pick up any stragglers.
“I told you someone was staying at the Emissary’s old place, Dolph,” she says to the male Lupine. Then to me: “I saw the smoke coming from the window earlier. You ought to be more careful, sweetness. There are dangerous people out here.” She gives me a deadly smile.
“Run,” I whisper to Marcel, who is frozen beside me. “RUN!”
My raised voice is enough to break Marcel out of his trance, and he bolts for the kitchen door leading into Sentry headquarters just as the male Lupine leaps at me. I manage to dart out of the way of his snapping jaws, but his razor-sharp nails catch my shirt, slashing the material and my flesh underneath. I grunt as a searing pain rushes down my arm, but I don’t have time to think about it as the Lupine turns and lunges for me again. This time he catches me, knocking me off my feet. I hit the ground, hard. Nearby, the female Lupine howls, and I get a sinking feeling she’s calling out to the rest of their pack, scattered about the city. I struggle against the male Lupine, using all my strength as I try to keep him at arm’s length. His canines drip with saliva, and his hot breath stinks of rotting meat.
“Don’t bite his face, Dolph,” the female says. “We want him recognizable when we claim our reward.”
Dolph sneers at me, his face so close, I can see my reflection in his silvery eyes. There’s no light behind them, only death and darkness. In the distance I hear the howls of other Lupines as they approach Bleak Street. I should be panicked, but instead a peaceful sensation washes over me. So this is it? After weeks of running, this is how it’s going to end?
There’s a sudden pop-pop, a whimper, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. The noise distracts Dolph long enough for me to throw a punch, almost breaking my hand as it collides with his square jaw. He falls back, yelping with surprise.
Standing by the kitchen doorway is Acelot, a rifle in his hand. My eyes drift toward the female Lupine splayed on the street, a gruesome hole in her forehead. Her lifeless eyes stare at me, still wide with shock. Dolph lets out a pained howl and rushes over to the dead woman, pulling her into his arms. I’m immediately forgotten in his grief. Acelot aims his gun at Dolph and shoots him twice in the chest. The man slumps over his girlfriend.
“Thanks,” I say to Acelot. That’s the second time he’s saved my skin—the first time was in Viridis when he shot the Sentry guards chasing after me, and now this. The howls of the other Lupines get closer; they’ll be here soon. “Start up the Miniport. I’ll get the others.”
I collect Marcel and Sebastian, keeping the Tracker’s hands tied behind his back, then sprint back to the aircraft. Acelot closes the hatch just as the Lupine pack appears on Bleak Street. There are at least ten of them, all baying for blood as they spot us. The engines rumble, and the creatures bound toward us. Several of the Lupines leap up at the aircraft just as we take off, grabbing on to anything they can, trying to drag us back down. The Miniport wobbles, but Acelot guns the throttle and we speed off, the Lupines falling to the ground, thud thud thud. One stubborn male Lupine clings on to the roof, his legs dangling in front of the windscreen. Acelot tilts the aircraft, left, right, shaking off the creature.
“I’ve heard of it raining cats and dogs, but this is ridiculous,” he mutters.
I spin around on Sebastian the instant we’re clear from Bleak Street and punch him for the second time today, not caring that my knuckles are bleeding from hitting Dolph. It’s his fault we were nearly dog food, after that stunt he pulled with the fire. Sebastian falls to the floor, and blood seeps out of a gash on his head—a result of my punch—merging with the red rose tattoo above his left ear. I flex my aching hand and join Acelot in the cockpit.
“Head to Black City News,” I say, taking the seat next to him.
Acelot veers the aircraft to the left, flying us to the edge of the city. The broadcast station is a relatively modern-looking building by Black City standards, with BLACK CITY NEWS written in red letters over the entranceway. Acelot parks the ship in the forecourt. It’s not ideal being out in the open like this, but I’m hoping we’ll be gone before the Lupines catch up with us. We quickly scan the area for any sign of traps or cameras before heading inside the news station. I keep Sebastian a short distance in front of me, so he can’t run off.
The studio is deserted, the offices strewn with abandoned paperwork. We hurry through the maze of corridors until we find a voice-over studio. I flick on the light, filling the room with a dull orange glow. I tie Sebastian to a chair while Acelot checks the equipment. Marcel slumps on the battered sofa in the corner of the room and watches us.
“I’ve programmed the system to broadcast the message for twenty-four hours, then stop,” Acelot says. “By the time they trace it, we’ll be long gone.”
“Okay, let’s record it, then get t
he hell out of here,” I say, sitting down at the microphone.
A red light glows, letting me know I’m on air. I just hope Beetle and Roach are listening.
6.
EDMUND
Amber Hills, Mountain Wolf State
30 years ago
I FIDGET ON the hard pew, trying to get some blood circulating back in my bony legs, but it’s a lost cause. The church is heaving with people, as the whole town has turned up for Mrs. Hope’s funeral. Many have to stand outside and watch the service through the open doors. I’m surprised so many people showed up, but nothing draws a crowd like murder.
Patrick Langdon, and his friends Harriet and Drew O’Malley, discovered her corpse a mile into the woods, lain against a flat rock, like she was sleeping. Her shrouded body now floats in the pool beside the pulpit. Sprigs of lavender bob on the surface of the water to mask the scent of death, but it’s not helping. All around me, people delicately cover their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs as they listen to my grandfather’s sermon.
He’s a grave-looking man dressed in ceremonial robes that match the color of his thick hair and iron-gray eyes. Everybody says my eyes are just like his. It’s the only thing we have in common, other than the matching burns on our arms. Grandfather was the one who plucked me out of the scalding water when I was a baby and saved my life.
He’s standing at the pulpit—an overly ornate structure made from oak and rosewood, depicting a scene from the ancient scriptures. Carved at the base of the pulpit are a nest of Darklings, their limbs twisted around each other so it’s impossible to tell where one Darkling ends and another begins—it’s just a contorted mass of naked bodies, their clawed hands outstretched as they attempt to pull innocent girls into their pit of sin.
“It has been a trying time for our community these past six weeks,” Grandfather says, his deep voice traveling across the chapel. “Not since the Misery, eighteen years ago, have we experienced such violence and unrest. We have lost family, friends but not our faith.”
“So sayeth us all,” the congregation murmurs.
The Lupines have claimed four victims now. A kid called Tommy Stevens was the first to be taken, snatched out of his hospital bed in the middle of the night. A week later, they took a crippled woman, Mrs. Summer, then a fortnight after that, the Watchman and town drunk, Mr. Smyth. Mrs. Hope makes number four. What I don’t understand is why they’re doing it. The Lupines kill only humans who trespass on their territory, so what’s changed?
I peer across the aisle at Catherine. She’s sitting in the front row with the rest of the Langdon clan, a small frown on her lips. It’s no mistake they’re at the head of the congregation. The first four rows on the right-hand side of the aisle are reserved for the Guild—the wealthiest or most influential families in the town. Behind the Langdons are the O’Malleys, then the Kents, and finally the Cranfield family. It’s the Guild’s responsibility to uphold the word of His Mighty and protect our souls from impurity.
Catherine’s wearing an expensive blue crinoline dress from her parents’ clothing store, and her wavy brown hair has been gently teased up into a chignon, which her mother keeps fussing over. Catherine irritably swats her mother’s hand away as Mrs. Langdon attempts to fix another loose curl. I get the sense that Catherine’s recent metamorphosis from plain little Caterpillar into this beautiful butterfly was entirely her mother’s doing.
Patrick’s sitting beside her, his legs hidden by the voluminous layers of Catherine’s bell skirt, which is threatening to consume her whole family within its taffeta petticoats. He scowls, shifting position on the pew, clearly uncomfortable, which pleases me. Next to him is his father, Mr. Langdon, who is watching the service with rapt attention. He’s a handsome man with sandy-blond hair like Patrick’s, brown eyes and a neatly groomed beard.
Catherine senses me looking at her, and turns her head slightly in my direction, offering a sad smile. She gives me a look that says How are you? We’ve known each other for so long, we can communicate in silent shorthand. I frown and shake my head a little. Not so good. I can’t get the image of Mrs. Hope being dragged out of the window from my mind. She lightly touches her heart and raises a worried brow, referring to the chest cramps I had that night on the wall. I shrug a little. I have no idea what caused them, but they haven’t returned. Patrick coughs lightly, and Catherine turns her attention back to the service. He stares daggers at me, and I look away.
“However, we are not without blame for their deaths,” Grandfather continues. “After almost two decades of peace, we let our guard down, and now we are paying the price.”
I gaze at Mrs. Hope’s shrouded body floating in the pool. If only I’d gotten there sooner, I might’ve been able to save her.
“This being said, we must not look upon Mrs. Hope’s death as a tragedy, for she was suffering, and now walks in His Majesty’s eternal kingdom,” Grandfather continues, stepping down from the pulpit to the altar where a goblet and two bowls—one white, one red—awaits. “The Lupines may devour our bodies, but they cannot corrupt our souls, for we are pure of heart and spirit. It is this purity that protects us from the corruptions of evil. So I invite you all to come forward and drink from the sacred cup and be cleansed of your impurities.”
The congregation silently files out of their seats and forms an orderly queue down the aisle. I duck into the line behind Catherine. In front of her are Patrick and his friends Drew and Harriet O’Malley. The siblings look very alike, which is unfortunate for Harriet. Although their long slim nose and tapered chin looks noble on Drew, it gives Harriet a shrewlike quality. Harriet turns to look at me. Unlike the other women in the town, she’s wearing pants and a boy’s shirt and waistcoat. A knife is strapped to her belt.
“Way to go, freak,” she says to me in a loud whisper. “It takes a special kind of stupid to leave your post on the wall. Are you crazy or something?”
“Like mother, like son,” Patrick drawls.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, my temper flaring.
Patrick’s top lip curls up into an amused snarl.
“It’s nothing, Edmund,” Catherine says, shooting a warning look at her brother. “Just some nonsense Mother was telling us.”
“Which was?”
She bites her bottom lip. “That your mother used to hear voices in her head.”
“That’s not true,” I reply immediately, although I don’t know anything about my mother. Grandfather never speaks of her, or my dad, but that’s only to be expected.
As far as everyone knows, my father was a businessman from Gray Wolf, who wooed my naive teenage mother when she ran away, got her pregnant and then abandoned her to marry another girl. None of it was true, though, apart from the bit where my mom ran away to Gray Wolf, but she was already six weeks pregnant by that point. It was quite the scandal at the time. The townsfolk forgave us only after my mom tragically died and Grandfather was stuck having to raise a deformed, illegitimate grandchild.
“I know my mother’s lying,” Catherine says, gently placing a lace-gloved hand on my arm. “She still holds a grudge against your mother because she used to date my father when they were teenagers. It’s silly. Only my mother can be jealous of a dead girl.”
I look at Catherine’s mother, who is in the line ahead of us, gazing adoringly at her husband. I had no idea Mr. Langdon used to date my mother. There’s so much about her that I don’t know. I think back to what Mrs. Hope said last night—that my mom hanged herself—tied with the new rumor that she heard voices in her head, and a terrible, sick feeling starts churning in my stomach. What if these stories are true and my mother really was mad? These thoughts continue to trouble me as the line shuffles forward and Mrs. Langdon steps up to the altar. She dunks the goblet into the white bowl.
“May His Mighty wash away my sins,” Mrs. Langdon says, taking the drink. The look of bliss that enters her face is alm
ost instantaneous. She smiles dreamily up at Grandfather as he dips his thumb into the red bowl, which is filled with spring water, and rubs it along her forehead—the “mark of purity” to ward off evil.
“You are cleansed, my daughter,” Grandfather says.
Mrs. Langdon moves aside, her movements slightly sluggish, allowing the next person in the line to step up to receive the cup.
“I feel so bad about Mrs. Hope I can’t sleep,” Catherine says quietly to me as the line moves past the pool. “It’s my fault she’s dead; if you hadn’t left your post to walk me home, maybe the Lupine wouldn’t have gotten over the wall.”
“It wasn’t your fault, okay?” I reply. “There were three other Watchmen on duty that night. We all missed it.”
“It’s odd how they found her, don’t you think?” she says. “Patrick said she’d been bound to the rock, like they wanted the body to be discovered.”
That was weird. In fact, everything about these attacks feels off.
Grandfather catches my eye, his mouth tightening into a disapproving line. He doesn’t like me talking to Catherine. He thinks the Langdons care too much for money, and in his eyes, money is sin, which is why I’m always dressed in these itching, woolen clothes; they’re the cheapest suits you can buy from the store. Personally, I think His Mighty blesses those he loves the most with wealth. Otherwise why else would the Langdons get so much—beauty, wealth and popularity—and I have so little? We’re the only family belonging to the Guild with barely a coin to our name, but as a preacher, Grandfather was automatically given a seat on the council when he first moved to Amber Hills as a young man. Power and influence is just as important to the Guild as wealth, and in a religious community like Amber Hills, a preacher has a lot of both.
Wings (A Black City Novel) Page 6
