Phoenix

by Elizabeth Richards

  “I’m sorry, Elijah,” I say. “You know nothing can ever happen between us, right?”

  “I know,” he says, releasing my hand. “Ash is a lucky guy. You clearly love him a lot.”

  “Until my dying breath,” I reply.

  I just wonder when that will be.

  25.

  NATALIE

  AT SOME POINT during the journey, I slip into a troubled sleep, my dreams filled with images of Polly. She starts off as my sister, then her gray eyes turn yellow and she becomes a Wrath Hound, her fangs dripping with venom. I call out to my mother for help, but she’s not there. Then I remember she’s run away. I’m alone. Slashes appear in the Polly-Hound’s stomach, spilling her innards across the ground, and suddenly she’s my sister again, curled up on the cell floor, surrounded by a pool of blood in the shape of a rose—

  The truck hits a pothole, jarring me awake. My legs are aching from being curled up in a ball all night next to Elijah. His strong arms are wrapped around my waist, his face nuzzled against the back of my neck. My cheeks are wet. I must have been crying.

  “Sleep well?” Ash’s cold voice says close by.

  I sit up, alert. Ash is perched on the edge of a nearby crate, dressed in one of the hooded black winter robes we found with the rest of the supplies. I wonder how long he’s been watching us.

  Elijah stirs and wakes up, yawning loudly. “What time is—”

  He stops talking when he sees the thunderous expression on Ash’s face.

  Ash tosses two robes at us. “Put these on. We’ve arrived.”

  We pull on the long robes just as the truck slows down. Around us I can hear the sounds of the city: merchants calling out to each other, carts rolling down the street, music spilling out of taverns. It must be early afternoon—my body clock is all out of sync after being trapped inside the trailer with no natural light.

  Ash lifts the truck door, letting in a welcome blast of cool air, which smells of spices and herbs. We’re in Thrace’s bustling central market, which puts the one in Chantilly Lane to shame. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of round buildings made from red sandstone bricks. Many of the buildings have murals painted on the walls, so the city is a vision of color. But this isn’t what’s most striking. All the buildings have elaborately tiered roofs, covered in tiles made from a strange, shimmering metal I’ve never seen before. It’s highly polished and reflects the light, so the whole city seems to be glittering, like sunlight on the sea. It’s beautiful.

  “I see how Thrace earned the nickname the Mirror City,” I whisper to Elijah.

  “They’re solar tiles,” he explains. “It’s how they get their energy. We use them in Viridis too, but not to this extent.”

  Without saying a word, Ash lifts his hood over his head and leaps off the moving truck, his cloak billowing behind him like phoenix wings. Elijah takes my hand, and we jump together, landing heavily on the dust tracks.

  We hurry away from the truck, getting as much distance from it as possible, and slip into the crowds of people dressed in corset bustle gowns, jewel-toned frock coats or vibrantly colored robes. I pull my hood up, disguising myself, as we follow Ash deeper into the market.

  Flags flutter in the cool spring breeze like butterfly wings, bright against the cobalt-blue sky. Swarthy-skinned traders sing ancient merchant songs as we pass by, which weave and layer over each other in a beautiful melody, reminding me of birdsong. The whole place is so joyous and alive. It’s a welcome change from the Barren Lands.

  Even so, the farther we go in the maze of alleyways, the more disheartened I feel. Everywhere I turn, there’s another tavern or inn. Frustratingly, none of the establishments have a sign hanging over the doorway.

  “None of these places are named,” I say. “How are we ever going to find the Moon Star?”

  Elijah frowns. “I guess we’ll just have to ask around.”

  Occasionally we pass large digital screens on top of wooden platforms scattered throughout the market. On every single one, the same eight photos are displayed under the words WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE:

  Ash

  Me

  Sigur

  Roach

  Mother

  Beetle

  Juno

  Day

  Thankfully Elijah’s not mentioned, and neither are Harold, Nick or Amy, but none of them are high-ranking members of the rebellion, or escaped convicts, so that’s probably why. Sigur’s photo has been crossed out on all of them. News of his capture must have already spread across the country. Rose didn’t waste any time making that victory public. What are they doing to him? Is he even alive? I pull my hood lower over my face.

  “Ash, slow down,” I say a few minutes later, breathless.

  Ash stops and waits for me, his eyes glittering like the mirrored roofs around us. His expression softens when he sees how tired I look. I’m feeling nauseated again, probably from the overpowering scents of perfumes and spices in the market. He gently takes my hand. I catch Elijah looking at us, a stung expression on his face. I wish he hadn’t told me he has a crush on me; it’s made things awkward.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Ash asks me.

  “I think I have a stomach bug,” I lie. I don’t know how many more excuses I can come up with before he starts getting suspicious.

  He kisses my forehead. It’s a small gesture, but it shatters my heart. I can’t believe I’m intending to break up with him. I love him so much. But I remind myself that’s why I have to do it.

  “Let’s find somewhere to stay,” Ash says. “There must be a Humans for Unity stronghold around here somewhere. Keep an eye out for the Cinder Rose emblem on the doors.”

  We stroll past the round buildings, casually checking the door frames for any sign of a burning rose. Each time we pass a tavern, Elijah darts inside and checks to see if it’s the Moon Star. Each time he returns, shaking his head. We pass stalls selling spices, sweatshops creating Sentry banners and swordsmiths forging silver-plated weapons, which are useful against Lupines and Darklings, both of whom have an allergy to the metal.

  Outside one of the market stalls, a Pilgrim of the Purity faith stands on a crate as he preaches from the Book of Creation. His flock of faithful followers listens, enraptured, occasionally chiming in with “so sayeth His Mighty.” The Pilgrim has a shaved head and rose tattoo, just like Sebastian, which is startling enough to look at, but there’s something else about him that makes me pause. It takes a fraction of a second for me to realize he’s got these silver halos around his irises. I’ve never seen anything like that before. It must be some sort of genetic eye condition.

  We skirt around the Pilgrims, keeping our heads bowed, and continue to search for a safe house.

  “Let’s look for the Darkling ghetto,” Ash suggests. “Where there are Darklings, Humans for Unity won’t be far behind.”

  I notice a sign for Spice Square. Assuming the Darkling ghetto will be next to the plaza, like it is in Black City, we head in that direction. Occasionally Ash’s fingers brush against mine, like he wants to hold hands, but neither of us takes that next step. It’s like we’re back to when we first met, uncertain about how the other person feels. As soon as we approach Spice Square, I can tell something’s wrong. A second later, I hear it: the crack of a whip and the scream of a girl, followed by the laughter of men.

  Ash takes my hand as we enter the plaza. “Stay close.”

  The town square is three times bigger than the one in Black City, and at the north end is a long stone wall, where the Darkling ghetto begins. At the other end is a stunning, centuries-old building made from red sandstone. It has an ornate façade and a massive decorative door almost half the height of the building, painted burnt orange, with a much smaller access door built into it. I recognize the building from my history books as Thrace City Hall.

  In the center of the town square
are three Sentry guards, who are beating up a couple of Dacian kids. Passersby ignore them, not wanting to get involved. The Dacians are a traveling community who live on the fringes of our society, and they get treated with even less respect than the Workboots. The first Dacian is a boy who can’t be more than ten years old, with dark tanned skin, black curly hair and eyes as blue as the cobalt sky. There’s blood over his face where he’s been punched, while the second—a teenage girl, around seventeen years old—has had her dress ripped at the shoulder. Her flowing auburn hair tumbles in waves down her tanned back, the ends touching the dusty earth. Colorful feathers have been woven into its strands, so she looks like an exotic bird.

  One of the attackers, a shaved-headed man with a broken nose, pins her arms behind her back while another man thrashes her with a short horsewhip.

  “Thieving Dacian scum!” the guard with the horsewhip says. “I’ll teach you to pick my pocket!”

  She spits at the man, cursing at him in some of the most colorful language I’ve ever heard. Despite her injuries, she struggles against her captors like a wild animal.

  A third guard grabs the girl’s face, inspecting it.

  “You’re a pretty thing for a peasant,” he says, kissing her.

  The sight of the guard roughly kissing the girl makes me think of Sebastian and how he forced himself on Polly.

  “We have to help them,” I say.

  “They’ll recognize us,” Ash replies, glancing at our photos on the nearby digital screen.

  The Dacian girl bites the man’s lip, and he staggers back, grunting in pain. She’s rewarded with a hard slap across the face, which knocks her to the ground.

  I wince. “Ash, we have to do something.”

  Ash scoops up some dirt from the ground and rubs it around his eyes and down his nose. Without another word, he strides over to the Sentry guards, his cloak billowing behind him. Elijah and I race after him.

  The people around us continue to go about their business, deliberately keeping their eyes downcast as they hurry past the Sentry guards. The man with the horsewhip raises his hand to strike the girl again. Ash grabs his wrist, stopping the swing in midair. The man flinches.

  “Do you know who I am?” Ash growls, his voice low, menacing.

  All the color drains out of the man’s face. He shoots a terrified look at his colleagues.

  “Phoenix,” the man whispers.

  “That’s right,” Ash snarls. “And do you know what I do to people like you?”

  The man nods again. He’s obviously heard the rumors from Gallium, where Ash supposedly killed one hundred guards with his bare fangs.

  “Then I suggest you leave this boy and girl alone, or else I may have to”—Ash flashes his fangs—“make an example of you too.”

  Ash releases the guard’s wrist, and the men sprint off.

  “You know they’re going to tell everyone we’re here?” Elijah says.

  “I’m sure they will,” Ash replies. “So we’d better go find somewhere to hide out.”

  Ash helps the boy to his feet, checking his injuries, while I help the girl up. She’s tall, with an hourglass figure and a striking face: sharp cheekbones, catlike eyes ringed with black Cinderstone powder and pouting lips painted the color of bronze coins. Elijah looks her up and down, clearly liking what he sees. I roll my eyes, feeling a pang of resentment.

  “There was no need to get involved; I could’ve handled those guys myself,” the girl says, wiping the dust off her purple dress.

  Well, that’s gratitude for you.

  “Are you hurt?” Ash asks.

  “I’ll live.” She sticks her hand down her ample cleavage, pulling out a leather pouch of coins. “But this certainly helps.”

  So she did steal that man’s money? Still, it’s no excuse for beating her.

  “Are you really Phoenix?” the boy says.

  Ash nods. “And you are?”

  “Lucas.”

  “And I’m Giselle,” the girl says, openly admiring Ash. “I have to say, those Wanted photos don’t do you any justice at all.”

  Ash rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed.

  Lucas laughs. “Giselle always gets these goo-goo eyes when you’re on the news.”

  Giselle slaps his arm. “Sshh.”

  I possessively take Ash’s hand, already distrusting this girl.

  Elijah tilts his head toward the ghetto wall. “I can’t hear any Darklings on the other side.”

  “That’s because they’re all dead,” Giselle explains. “They caught some virus last year.”

  The Wrath has spread to the Provinces already?

  Ash frowns.

  “How will we repay you?” Giselle asks.

  “We need somewhere to rest for the night,” Ash replies.

  “I know just the place.” She beams. “I’ll take you to Madame Clara’s.”

  26.

  NATALIE

  GISELLE BECKONS US to follow her. I hesitate, not trusting her, but the boys don’t seem to share my concerns, given how willingly they go with her. It reminds me of how the Sentry boys at school used to chase after Polly. They would do anything she wanted, not that she ever took advantage of this fact. My sister had the purest heart of anyone I ever knew.

  Giselle leads us down a labyrinth of back alleys, which get narrower and darker the farther into the city we go. The round market buildings are soon behind us, replaced by narrow brick buildings, their crumbling walls painted vivid reds, purples, blues and golds. I peer into one of the shop windows, and my skin crawls at the sight of the sinister objects: monkey heads, jars of frogs, chickens’ feet, snakeskins. Elijah curls his lip up at them, as grossed out as I am. An uneasy feeling comes over me. Where’s she taking us? I tug on Ash’s sleeve.

  “I don’t like this,” I whisper to him. “Let’s go back to the market.”

  He gives me a kind but slightly patronizing look. “Just because Giselle’s a Dacian doesn’t mean she’s untrustworthy.”

  No, stealing that man’s money is what makes her untrustworthy. I can’t help but feel he’s being blinded by her beauty. Or maybe . . . maybe it’s just me, I admit. I don’t like the way she keeps looking over her shoulder at Ash, flashing him a dazzling smile.

  Lucas walks beside us. He’s intrigued by Elijah’s tail, which is just visible beneath the hem of his robe. The boy keeps grabbing it and laughing when Elijah swats him away like a pesky fly. It becomes a bit of a game between the two of them, and although Elijah seems annoyed at the boy, I know from the glint in his eye that it’s just an act. I think this happens a lot with him when kids are around, remembering how the little girl we rescued from the Destroyer Ship, Bianca, also played with his tail.

  We turn down a side alley, and Giselle stops in front of a violet-colored house with a tiered roof covered in glimmering solar panels and topped with a weather vane in the shape of a sun.

  “Welcome to Madame Clara’s,” Giselle says, pushing open the black door.

  A bell tinkles as we step inside the gloomy shop. The walls are painted the color of night, with silver stars stenciled on them. There’s a heady smell of incense in the round room, making my stomach churn. The wooden shelves are packed with leather-bound books, potions, candles and colorful crystals.

  Sitting at a round table in the center of the room is an elderly woman wearing a traditional folk dress like Giselle’s and heavy silver bands around her wrists. Intricate tattoos of the ancient zodiac decorate her arms and face.

  Her long hair is coarse and gray; her dark olive skin is weathered with wrinkles and the strange tattoos. She’s wearing a pair of brass-rimmed sun goggles, and she lowers them. I stifle a gasp as I stare at her eyelids, which have been sewn shut.

  She turns her head toward me, and her lips spread into a gold-toothed smile. “Do you want your palms read? It’s only
two coins.”

  “They’re not customers,” Giselle says, dropping the pouch of coins on the table. “Clara, this is Ash Fisher, Natalie Buchanan and—”

  “Elijah Theroux,” he says.

  “They need a place to stay. They’re hiding from the Sentry,” Giselle explains.

  Madame Clara spits at the mention of the Sentry, muttering curses under her breath. She gets up, struggling slightly with arthritic hips, and waves at us to follow her into the back room. I soon realize the shop is just a tiny portion of the ramshackle building, which sprawls over five floors. Every room is painted a different rainbow color, and there’s a mural running up the stairwell, which was clearly painted by the ten children who are running about the building, laughing and playing.

  Lucas tugs Elijah’s tail and sprints on ahead, wanting to continue their game of cat-and-mouse. Elijah laughs and races after the boy. The sight makes me smile. I catch Ash looking at me. He turns away, his expression pained.

  “Why are there so many children here?” I ask as we walk up the creaking steps to the third floor. I can’t imagine they’re Clara’s kids, since she’s too old to be their mother.

  “Madame Clara runs a refuge,” Giselle explains. “All the kids here ran away from home for one reason or another. She keeps us off the streets.”

  That explains why she was pickpocketing earlier. She needs the money to help support all these children, the same way Ash had to sell Haze to support his father. Madame Clara shows us to a double room with bare wooden floors and colorful silken fabrics draped down the blue walls. Directly opposite us are wide bay windows, which lead out onto a balcony with loads of potted plants. To our right is the bed, which is covered in a handmade quilt, and to our left is a simple tin bath and sink. It’s not much, but after many hard nights spent on trains and trucks and in caves, it looks like heaven.

  “For you and Ash,” Madame Clara says to me. “There are dresses in the wardrobe, if you want to change. Elijah can sleep next door with Lucas and the boys.”