by Rachel Jonas
“It’s easy money,” I shot back. “And a lot of it.”
Hearing this didn’t sway her even a little.
“No way. It’s a double risk. One: climbing on that thing. Two: you’re racing Ianites, for Pete’s sake, Cori! It doesn’t get any stupider than that. What if you fall and injure yourself? You and I both know, as sophisticated as those things pretend to be, at the first hint of blood they forget all that fancy talk, and restraint and they’re as bad as roamers. A vampire is a vampire, no matter what they call themselves.”
She was right. I never doubted for a second that she was, but I also knew I wasn’t wrong either. The races were a huge payday for us. On more than one occasion, my win had been the reason we ate for the next few months, and had money to bargain with to get the next list of transport candidates. While I understood why she didn’t think I could afford to enter again, I was also painfully aware of why I couldn’t afford not to do it.
“Just … think about it,” I said, hoping to appease her by making it seem like her decision might make a difference. When, in actuality, my mind was already made up about it.
She nodded, agreeing to these terms.
I breathed deep, rubbing Riot’s head again when she leaned into me. “How’s HIN-016565 coming along?”
“Her name’s Sara, and she’s doing fine,” Liv replied with a faint smile. “Banks got her settled in sector seven, she’s been fed and some of the other kids are already starting to warm up to her.”
“And the team? Is everyone as pissed at me as you are?”
The hint of a smile was back. “From what I can tell, no one else is holding a grudge, but I assure you I’m only mad because you’re stupid,” she reasoned. “And because I love you.”
Riot rested her chin on my knee when I laughed.
“Back at ya.”
I stood. It was a wobbly, inelegant maneuver, but I was on my feet. Riot was at my side, insisting we take every single step in tandem.
“Need help?” Liv was already coming closer.
“I’m okay.”
She let me walk on my own, but I felt her watchful gaze the entire way—from the infirmary where I’d been left to recover, to the space we’d dubbed as our command center. The others were all there. Shay, O.C., Jonesy, and Alex were at each other’s throats over an intense game of spades. Poor Banks had been recruited as Felix’s lacky, assisting him as he tweaked the … the thingamajig that made it possible for us to tap into restricted airwaves.
The Ianites were incredibly clear regarding their ban on humans’ use of communicative technology without supervision. Televisions were included in that ban, an attempt to keep us in the dark when it came to world news. An attempt at further control.
As if five-hundred years of enslavement hadn’t been control enough.
“How goes it, Boss Lady? Feeling better?” Banks asked, adjusting the band that held long, blond dreadlocks away from his face.
I grimaced at the term he insisted on using, and with the wave of my hand, I dismissed his concern.
“Just another day,” I replied, anxious to change the subject to something other than me, other than my health. “How’s the signal coming? Think you’ll have it up in time for the Address?”
Sighing, Felix paused to run a hand through the thick, dark curls cropped close to his scalp. He then pushed a pair of blue-framed glasses further up his nose, before going back to banging the contraption he held with a rubber mallet.
“Well … considering we still have an hour until it starts, we’re in good shape,” he replied.
Shay huffed, fidgeting with the trail of small, silver hoops that adorned the rim of her ear. Her entire body was decorated—from piercings in her nose, brow, ears, and lip, to the two blue French braids that rested over her shoulders. More color saturated her skin, an array of tattoos that told her story.
“I don’t get why we have to watch this crap anyway,” she complained.
“Because knowledge is power,” Liv chimed in, beating me to that exact answer.
“Yeah, but I’m with Shay,” Jonesy rebutted. “Who needs a freakin’ State of the Die-Nasty Address, when we already have a pretty good idea how things are going? I mean, we’re slumming it underground in an elaborate, military bunker, and that qualifies us as the ones living the good life. That says it all, doesn’t it?”
Laughter echoed around the room before a rousing, “We’re in!” from Felix.
Half a second later, fuzzy shapes and colors popped up on the overhead screen. Finding a nearby seat, I got comfortable. Riot wasn’t far away, of course. In fact, she sat directly on my foot and showed no signs of moving.
Before long, there were voices and the picture cleared considerably. Those fuzzy shapes and colors were now figures—two Ianite newscasters with fake smiles plastered on their faces, exchanging lighthearted banter and perky laughter.
I stared at them, their pale skin, the crimson centers of their eyes, and the expensive clothing and jewels they wore. The sight of them always triggered my fight or flight mechanism. Even when they weren’t in the vicinity, but seated comfortably inside some distant production studio.
‘In other news,’ the one on the right began, ‘an anonymous tip has led to the recapture of seven human females who were reported missing just last week, right here in our Dynasty’s capitol.’
‘That’s right,’ the other confirmed. ‘Camp Lester was the most recent victim in a rash of thefts that have resulted in numerous sows being stolen from local facilities.’
O.C. scoffed from across the room. “That’s all we are to them, swine and warm-blooded juice boxes.”
He fell silent again as the broadcast continued.
‘Yes, Catherine, and there’s even been an increase in missing donors, resulting in many orphanages raising security measures.’
I hated when they referred to human children that way. Donors. As if they volunteered to be bled to feed these monsters.
‘We’re talking doubling the number of huntsmen and wolfpacks on site, as well as landmines. Some have even gone as far as employing hives of roamers to patrol their property, with hopes that they’ll aid in this effort to catch the infiltrators before they make off with Ianite goods,’ the woman added.
Liv moved a pencil across her notepad at warp speed. She kept both in her pocket just in case she needed to jot something down. Pertinent information about security changes was definitely worth notating.
‘Natalie, wouldn’t you say these fringe, vigilante groups are becoming a growing problem? Especially with this newfound boldness?” The Ianite I now knew as Catherine had asked.
‘Most definitely. And it would be negligent not to cite the source of this boldness.”
The room went silent and the team collectively held their breath, faint smiles ghosting on their lips as they all waited for it.
‘If you ask me, we have Blackbird to thank,” she added with an air of sarcasm.
The team erupted with cheers and fist pumps. A media mention for me was a media mention for us all.
“You know?” Alex piped up. “It’s too bad we have to operate in secret, because whether these people realize it or not, we’re famous and it’s all thanks to them. Every time some ‘fringe, vigilante group’ shows up on the map causing trouble, they blame it on Blackbird.”
He was one-hundred percent right about that. We had somehow become the posterchild for an entire movement of humans who’d grown tired of being mistreated and oppressed for centuries.
Banks walked over and gave my shoulders a hard shake. “And you thought the mask was a stupid idea,” he teased.
“Oh, I still think it’s a stupid idea,” I assured him with a laugh. “If it didn’t bring awareness to the cause, I would’ve ditched it a long time ago.”
It was true.
Shay stumbled across the mask when she and O.C. went on a scavenging run for supplies. There it was—silk covered, decked out with faux, black pearls and sequins, small feathers, a
nd a short beak that protruded from the center. It was bagged at a nearby dump, a favor from one of many Ianite galas, I was sure. They had a flare for the elaborate, and their parties—typically grandiose masquerade balls—were the perfect time to flaunt their money and excess.
Shay had the bright idea to bring the thing back to basecamp. At first, I wore it out on a mission as kind of a tongue in cheek way to poke fun of the contrast between the two worlds—the lavish way of the Ianites, and the scarcity our people faced, but it stuck. All it took was one still of me captured on a closed-circuit camera, and all of a sudden, the Ianites didn’t see me as just another misfit human fighting the tide. From that one image of me dressed in all black, wearing the mask, I became the icon for an entire movement.
Blackbird.
“Quiet,” Liv said, shushing everyone. “I’m trying to hear.”
The room went silent again, and we continued listening to Natalie and Catherine’s report.
‘You raise an interesting point, Natalie. However, some might consider it presumptuous to assume all of these thefts have been orchestrated by Blackbird and her team.’
Catherine paused to laugh.
‘Mentioning a team was totally a slip of the tongue,’ she admitted, ‘but come on … we do have to assume there’s a team out there helping Blackbird with these foolish missions, right? There’s no possible way one girl could manage all this on her own.’
Natalie nodded in agreement. ‘Oh, absolutely. I always imagine a team of mindless imps, pressing buttons and calling the shots behind the scenes.’
The two on television laughed.
The eight of us did not.
‘But to address your original thought,’ she continued, ‘to say that Blackbird, personally, has had a hand in all this might be a stretch. However, I’m definitely comfortable going on record stating that her boldness, her callous disregard for The Mortal Bylaws—or Standard Forty, if you prefer to call them that—has inspired these rogue thinkers and the defiance that seems to be spreading like a plague.’
The two turned to the camera again, less jovial than when we first tuned into their callous rant.
‘Well, there you have it,’ Natalie concluded, before the broadcast moved in a different direction the next second.
‘In national news, the Quincentennial Celebration is fast approaching,” Catherine announced with a huge grin.
‘That’s right. Local establishments are already gearing up for the festivities, commencing with the lightshow and parade to kick things off this weekend. The William H. Mortimer Museum has even designed an exhibit dedicated to Ianite history. It’s said to give one of the most accurate depictions of our beloved forefather from whom our name derived, Dr. Ian Percival. As you’re all well aware, it was his selfless efforts that bravely paved the road our people walked from savagery to civilization.’
A sickeningly perky laugh bubbled from Catherine and I couldn’t fight the scowl it brought out of me. ‘I like that, Nat! From savagery to civilization,” she repeated.
O.C. scoffed again, and without him having to say a word, I understood.
The man they revered as some sort of god was actually a tyrant, and that was putting it mildly. After our kind fell, following the war five hundred years ago, it was Ian Percival’s lofty ideals that created the booming blood distribution industry, which morphed the entire nation—the world. It was those same lofty ideals, and the great wealth they accrued, that later caused a majority of the vampire population to adopt this self-important persona, which prompted them to set themselves apart by name.
His name—Ianites.
They saw themselves as some sophisticated, evolved species, because they no longer chose to hunt and kill their prey like roamers—their primitive counterpart. Instead, they developed a system—one that pushed our men to work themselves into early graves, forced our women to face an even harsher fate.
Harvesting camps—those glorified farms where they were artificially inseminated and made to reproduce on eleven-month cycles, over and over again.
With twins and triplets being commonplace, and with little time to heal after birth, their bodies often gave out from the stress of the repeat pregnancies. In other cases, they were euthanized due to poor health once it was determined they were no longer capable of carrying children. By the time their purpose in the Ianite world had been fulfilled, they were too sickly to even be spared to serve a dual purpose—as blood sources to offset the shortage. The only option Ianites saw was to put them down.
Like animals.
Or, as the Ianites put it, like swine.
The children—from birth to age thirteen—were little more than walking, talking blood banks, drained three times a day, in between bouts of hard labor of course. Once they aged up, they were considered adults—the boys sent off to join the work force, while the girls went to … camps.
My mother was an avid reader. Among her collection were many books that had long-since been banned, books that told of the old world and the way things were before the transformation. This was once a beautiful place, although not void of its flaws, its historical blemishes—like war and inequality. Yet, it was nothing like what remained today.
Today, this land belonged to them, the Ianites, and they seemed to forget that our lineage shared roots, theirs only diverging half a millennia ago.
The news broadcast continued and I focused on it again.
‘An important announcement was made this morning, Natalie, and let me just say, I was elated to hear that the Westower reign will continue.’
Catherine faced viewers, peering through the camera with her over-sprayed, blonde hair, and those red eyes. ‘You heard right. News broke this afternoon that the only son of our Dynasty’s beloved Presiding Emperor has chosen to follow in his father’s footsteps.’
An image popped into the top corner of the screen. A face we had all seen often over the years, but less frequently in the last four—since being a socialite had, apparently, taken a backseat to his studies.
I breathed deep at the sight of him, Julian Westower, and not for the reason so many Ianite women did. No, my thoughts weren’t fixed on the things they swooned over on the online forums. His cool, silver gaze—a trait only possessed by members of the First Families—or the slight flare of his nostrils that hinted toward him having an intense edge he kept secret, nor his dirty-blond hair, staggering height and broad shoulders. Those may have been the things they saw when they looked at him.
But me?
All I saw was the next generation’s dictator.
‘It was unclear earlier this year whether Prince Julian would, in fact, remove himself from the line of succession, choosing to forego a life of politics for a chance to pursue other endeavors. However, it is a great joy to announce that at the end of our current Emperors’ five-century reign, which will conclude next year, our beloved princes will be seated on their respective thrones—Prince Silas Aldridge of the North, Prince Roman Fairchild of the South, Prince Julian Westower of the East, Prince Levi Buchanan of the West.’
And now, all four photos were plastered onscreen, each chosen with care, an attempt to highlight the quad’s humanity. Not the tyrannical tendencies we all knew lurked just beneath the surface of their alluring exteriors.
Silas—who’d been regarded as a respected scholar among their people—was featured in a popular news publication several months back. Naturally, that was the photo the media chose to share tonight. One of him posing at an archeological site with both arms around well-known scientists in the field.
A broad smile hid so much behind it, like his soullessness, and how he had a heart as cold as the arctic. He reminded me of a recurring character I read in several of my mother’s books. Yes, the name changed, his appearance and objective was never the same, but there was an ideal boy-next-door that found his way into so many of the plots. He was charming, said all the right things, and generally had that same killer smile.
Only, in Silas’ case, his
really was the smile of a killer.
I stared at him, his carefully styled brown hair, his solid physique that wasn’t well concealed even beneath tan cargo shorts and white t-shirt. He, like the others, had the entire world fooled, but not us, not the humans on which their luxurious lives had been founded. It was the red-gold that flowed through our veins that had brought their families so much fortune.
I glanced toward Roman next, at the image of him at a well-attended book signing. He was an accomplished author among the Ianite community, and it pained me to say his success wasn’t totally based on his name and status. Having read some of his work myself, it was obvious his notoriety was warranted. He knew his way around a pen and paper, although, in recent months, he’d fallen off the radar.
Long, dark waves hung to his neckline where broad shoulders stretched the material of a black sweater. Low, manicured facial hair brought my focus to his lips—a perfect shade of pale pink, full. He, like the other three, shared that same silver stare and I forced my gaze away from him, realizing my thoughts had gotten sidetracked.
In the bottom left corner was Levi, the most outspoken of the four—a loud mouth in my opinion.
Typically, I found it hard to believe so many flung themselves at him. That is, until moments like this, when the full effect of his attractiveness was so freakin’ apparent. It was hard to admit, but I could see why the fact that he was a major dick ninety-nine-percent of the time wasn’t a deterrent. Even with his perfectly imperfect smile, slight gap between his two front teeth and all. In fact, it made him even more attractive in my opinion. Perhaps because, even with what some would consider a flaw, he was still insanely confident, bordering on arrogant.
His chosen photo was another I remembered. It was one from the cover of a fashion magazine Liv swiped while on a supply run. She and I sat up that night, scowling as we read the feature written about him. We became more cynical and condescending with every line, but there was a reason we went over the article three times. It had nothing to do with our interest in Levi’s newly-debuted, men’s accessory line, and everything to do with the full spread from the accompanying photoshoot.
