The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

I stare out at the road, my eyes glassed. I inhale deeply—and I realize the street is silent and cold. It never beckons me. All my friends are dead. I can never return to the orphanage or Purple Coach. Everything I ever loved is gone, and if I head straight, I’ll never be able to explain this life to another person.

  I’ll never be able to tell them about my mother or driving or the orphanage. I’ll never be able to share the pains of believing I died when I lived.

  I’ll have to live a lie.

  I glance at the building of flats. So maybe I’ll pretend to be an Influential, but I won’t always have to pretend with them.

  * * *

  When I reach the door of their flat, flames lick my cheeks and bathe my body in warmth. I almost expect to be beneath a burning torch, but cold whistles in the dank hallway.

  I’m warm because of them, I realize. I better live to be a hundred and thirteen because I can’t imagine being used to this link before then.

  I slip inside.

  Their heads swing toward me.

  Both Mykal and Court sit casually on uneven floorboards next to a lit fireplace. They’re dressed in long-sleeved shirts and soft woolen night slacks.

  Their moldy flat is what I’d expect of any dwelling located on the fringe of Bartholo. I’m not briny about these accommodations. The orphanage had the same weathered appeal.

  There’s not much in this room besides two cots and a bath and sink basin.

  I shut the door behind me, stiff, my battered muscles pleading with me to sit. On instinct, I remain standing, fighting the urge to plop down on the floor.

  I’m not sure why I say it, but I feel the need to explain. “I’m here because I have nowhere else to go.” At least, nowhere that I could be Franny Bluecastle, a Fast-Tracker who dodged her deathday. Here, in this room with them, I can be me.

  The taller one, Court, opens his mouth to say something, but my nerves jostle and I quickly add, “But that doesn’t mean I’m some chump you can walk all over. If you two treat me poorly, I’ll choose nowhere over your company.”

  My chest rises and falls heavily, trying to catch my breath. It wasn’t a very long speech, but every word came out a little louder than the next.

  A moment of silence passes before Court says, “If you’re going to stay with us, then you have to commit. Because I don’t have the energy or time to spend on you, only for you to leave after a few weeks.”

  “Court,” Mykal growls.

  “What?” Court snaps at him. He waves his hand toward me. “She’s a Fast-Tracker, Mykal. She can’t read. Can’t write. I had two years to teach you. She has less than two months. Not to mention we now have to find fifteen thousand bills. We can’t afford for her to bail halfway through.”

  “I won’t,” I say, my voice rising.

  They both turn to look at me and I see the worry … no, I feel their worry.

  “I’m staying with you,” I add, my legs aching from standing. Slowly, I cross the room toward one of the cots. It creaks when I sit down and my limbs relax in thanks. “Really staying.”

  Mykal shifts away from the fire. Closer to me, I notice the broadness of his shoulders. He’s larger than most people my age—and somewhat tougher. His crooked nose casts an odd-looking shadow in the light.

  I remember he grew up in Grenpale. I lean forward in intrigue. I only know fanciful tales about the Grenpalish. I once heard they’re impervious to frostbite. The cold is no match for the northerners, people will say in awe. Most revere them for their skills in the wild and ability to live without tech.

  “For how long, little love?” Mykal asks. That last word crinkles my forehead. Love. Fast-Trackers don’t believe in such things. I’ve never even heard an FT utter the word. At least none of my friends did.

  I stumble over his question, stuck on love and the fact that I’m having a conversation with a Grenpalish boy who became a Hinterlander. “What?”

  “How long will you be staying with us?” Mykal asks again.

  “For…” I say, thinking of the right phrase. I don’t have an end date, not like I used to. “For a long while, but I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.”

  “We want you here.” Mykal turns to his friend. “Isn’t that right, Court?”

  Court stares at me intently, his eyes narrowing into pinpoints. My pulse thumps. For some reason Court’s approval means more to me. I think because it seems harder to come by. “I want you here,” Court says.

  Something in my stomach flutters. Can they feel that?

  Mykal’s lips curve into a smile.

  Gods.

  “But…” All flutters die with that but from Court. “I’m not kind. Whatever warmth existed in me died long ago. I’ll treat you as well as I can because you’re linked to me, but anything more than that and you’re asking too much. If that bothers you, the door is open now. But it will close tonight.”

  He’s trying to scare me off, not because he wants me to leave, but because he’s worried I might leave down the road. But I meant what I said.

  This is where I choose to be.

  I adjust my posture on the cot, the iron moans and I kick my feet on the pillows, making myself at home—trying to prove my point. I’m about to comment on the woolen blankets, thicker than I’m used to, when my stomach lets out a low groan.

  My eyes shift to the floor. There’s a wooden plate with a hunk of grain bread in front of Court. Soft white cheese and three shreds of meat divide the other side.

  An identical plate and portion rests in front of Mykal.

  Between theirs, they set a third plate.

  I sit up, fear pricking me. “Who else is coming here?” I ask. They never mentioned a third person.

  “It’s for you,” Mykal tells me. He pats the floor next to him.

  I frown. They set a plate for me. My stomach rumbles at the sight of the food. Growing up in the orphanage, we had stale bread that I’d drench with warm gravy.

  I can’t remember the last time anyone set a plate for me or even hoped I’d be their company for supper.

  My friends at the orphanage would come and go, some working night shifts while others spent free time in bars or party flats—the location for twenty-four-hour raves. We rarely kept tabs on one another, so there was no need to worry if one of us had a meal or not.

  I bend down tentatively and pick up the plate before shuffling back to the cot, my feet dragging heavily with the weight of the day. They keep on staring at me like I’ve grown three horns.

  The first bite is less than graceful, my mouth filled to the brim.

  I chew, open jawed, and stuff another piece into my mouth. I wince only a bit. My gums sting when food rubs against them. The insides of my mouth are still all scraped and scratched from being smacked in the alleyway. It’s hard to believe that was just this morning.

  Pushing through the pain, I shove another chunk of bread between my lips.

  I have trouble letting my food sit for long. When I first entered the orphanage in Altia, other children used to steal leeks, cabbage, and onions off my dish—sometimes our only meal. They’d slip beside me, scoop up a handful of greens, and run off.

  My eyes flit up after a minute and I catch Mykal smiling at me.

  I choke on the next bite.

  His smile vanishes and he coughs hoarsely into his fist. I bend, doubled over from the bread lodged in my throat.

  Court rises from the floor like he means to help, but I quickly swallow the bread down with a cup of water. It takes me a few more seconds to inhale properly.

  Thick tension layers the room. They really just felt me choke?

  I’m about to mention how this link is pure madness when my gaze falls to their untouched food.

  “You’re not eating,” I say and then shove my plate aside. “Is it moldy?” Not that I haven’t eaten my fair share of spoiled food. I touch my throat, wide eyed. “Gods, did you put something in it?”

  Court is the first to roll his eyes. “No.”

  “That’s
not exactly fair, Court,” Mykal says, lifting up his plate to eyelevel. “I put a great deal of love into this meal. Caught, skinned, and cooked it myself.”

  I try to conceal my surprise, but I guess it’s useless.

  They can feel me.

  At least I remember that no one bothers to hunt in Altia. Histories might make little sense to me, but for six years, I lived above a butchery. These shops sell packaged meat for consumption, livestock shipped from the farms in Orricht.

  I have no idea why Mykal would choose to hunt in Altia, a country that prides itself on cultivating knowledge at the world’s greatest universities and is home to some of the finest engineers of our time.

  StarDust is in Altia, after all.

  I sniff the cooked lamb. Fresh game should be similar to store-bought meat, I guess. It smells delicious, but it still doesn’t explain why they haven’t touched their portions.

  My head swings from Court to Mykal, not sure what to make of them yet. Court and his no-nonsense attitude, his stiff rigid posture that makes my own back ache. Mykal and his lopsided smile that combats his angry blue eyes and muscular frame. They’re so different.

  We’re all so different.

  “If there’s so much love in this meal,” I counter. “Why haven’t you taken a bite?”

  “Because,” Mykal says, “we like keeping food in our stomachs.”

  “You make no sense,” I say plainly and turn on Court. “You. Explain.”

  He gives me another warty eye roll. “Linking isn’t just emotional. It’s about three senses: smell, taste, and touch…” He lets that word linger like it’s more complex than I realize.

  Touch.

  I’ve just only grazed the surface of what it means to be linked. This, I know.

  I’m the only one who tenses, it seems.

  “If we eat food you dislike, you’d taste it and gag,” Court says. “In turn, it’ll cause us to gag and eventually, we may all vomit.”

  That sounds horrendous.

  “Not our finer moments,” Mykal says with a short laugh.

  I stifle a wince, having trouble believing that my preferences will affect theirs and theirs will affect mine. I wouldn’t want to sully anything they love.

  “Why are you just telling me this now?” I question, staring at my half-eaten plate. They’ve been sitting over there hungry and letting me eat.

  Mykal shrugs. “You looked like you were enjoying the meal and you’ve had a long day. No need to rush.”

  Court lets out an annoyed breath, one that causes tremors in my throat. He doesn’t agree with Mykal. I wonder if he’s counting each second until StarDust.

  I’m in this odd group now and I vow to pull my weight. I won’t be some lagging chump, bringing us down.

  “All right then,” I say, placing the plate on my lap. “I like most everything.” My eyes dance around the food. “But this white stuff here.”

  “Cheese,” Court corrects me as if I don’t know.

  I glower. “I know what cheese is … just not what type.”

  “Goat,” Court counters in a matter-of-fact tone that grates on me.

  “All right, goat cheese.”

  Mykal throws up a hand to his eyes and I feel his dread compound. “God of Wonders, she hates cheese,” he lets out a heavy breath. “I’ll never be able to eat it again.”

  Court shakes his head. “You promised never to speak of the gods in this room.” He reaches for his own plate. “And don’t be so dramatic, Mykal. It’s just cheese.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I reply quickly.

  Mykal’s hands fall from his face and he straightens up, a burst of hope in his chest.

  “When I was little, I learned I couldn’t digest anything made of milk.” I realize this may not make things better, so I wait for his displeasure to crash harder, but it … alleviates.

  “But you like the taste all right?” Mykal asks eagerly.

  “I mean, I guess…” I shrug. “I haven’t tried it in so long, I wouldn’t know.” I sniff the cheese. It smells edible.

  “Would you like to?” He scoops goat cheese on his finger and my hesitance diminishes, realizing exactly what he means.

  I nod.

  And he puts his finger in his own mouth. The long-forgotten taste instantly melts across my tongue like dessert. Creamy and richer than bread. Maybe not better, but it’s wonderful in its own right.

  They watch my reaction. The more the taste lingers, the more I stiffen and wait for my stomach to churn.

  It remains peacefully at ease.

  My eyes begin to widen. A door has opened. One to milk and butter. One to ice cream and pudding. A door to many foods that I never thought I’d taste again.

  I nod over and over, rubbing my burning gaze with the back of my hand. I savor the flavor like I might not experience it in the future. I will, I remind myself. The link.

  No one says anything more. They don’t have to ask about my feelings, and in the next moments, we eat in quiet.

  Wind beats at the sole windowpane, and while Court and I use a fork, Mykal tears at his meat with his hands and teeth, licking each finger. Maybe that’s how they eat in Grenpale. I like it.

  I remain on the cot, a good distance between us. My shoulders ache from Court’s unbending posture and my fingers feel slimy from Mykal’s handful of lamb.

  I chew quickly, shoveling meat into my mouth, and I wipe my greasy lips on the back of my hand.

  I sense Court eyeing me and I glare right back. Then I study him like he studies me.

  He carries himself with refinement, but he’s a Fast-Tracker, which means he was most likely raised in a house with Influentials. That doesn’t explain his miserable personality, but I suppose that could come from just about anything.

  I fit the last of my bread into my mouth, so large that I chew with all my might.

  Disgust breaks across Court’s face and he disrupts the quiet. “Is that how you always eat?”

  I flash him a rude FT gesture, middle and pointer finger raised with my knuckles facing him, mostly because my mouth is too full to respond with rude FT words.

  Court is shaking his head like he could earn medals in a head-shaking competition. “You can’t eat like that. Not where we’re going.” StarDust.

  I swallow down the chunk of bread with a gulp of water and rub my arm over my mouth. “Is it the way I eat?” I wonder, truthfully. What else will I have to fix?

  “The way you eat,” Mykal chimes in and lists off his fingers, “the way you talk, walk, dress, take a piss—”

  “He’s teasing,” Court says flatly, but my stomach has already front-flipped. Becoming an Influential will prove to be more difficult than I realized.

  “Only about the last one.” Mykal keels back on his elbows, plate completely clean. “I have firsthand experience in Court’s master Influential training.”

  I tense, eyes bouncing between them.

  “Shut up, Mykal.” Court is miffed about—well, everything. To me, he says, “You can’t talk with food in your mouth or chew with it open.”

  I can’t help but blister. “Whose rules are these?” They seem pointless. What does it matter if I chew with my mouth open or closed? I’m not disturbing anyone. If they don’t like it, look away.

  “It’s not a rule as much as a custom,” Court explains. “It’s called etiquette.”

  Etiquette. I’ve heard of it. I didn’t like the sound of it then and I don’t like the sound of it now. “I think it’s worthless.”

  “It’s worth your life,” Court says. “Is your life worth nothing to you?”

  You will live, Franny. I’m still grappling with the concept of living, but even if I had a proper reply, I wouldn’t let him hear it. His speech, while seemingly kind, rubs my skin coarse. He acts like I’m impossibly slow to catch on—like I’m dragging my heels when we all need to be running our fastest and hardest.

  This is my fastest.

  I promise.

  Court contin
ues, “If you’re to pass as an Influential with us, you have to be more like—”

  “You?” I interject.

  “Like them.” His nose flares, his emotions too muddled to pick apart. He must not know what he feels either. “And yes, like me.”

  The air is more strained. I stare at my plate for a long moment. Be an Influential. They were forthcoming on their plans. I knew I’d have to pretend, but I just didn’t consider all the requirements and all that I’d need to change.

  “I…” I stammer, hands on my knees, palms sweating all of a sudden. “I don’t know how to be an Influential.”

  Court’s gray eyes soften just a fraction. “I’ll teach you.”

  EIGHT

  Mykal

  With a hard thrust, I swing an ax down onto a log. Wood splits cleanly in two.

  Wind whips through my hair. A midafternoon storm imminent. I’d rather be spending what time I can outside before I’m forced back into the suffocating flat.

  These past few days have been challenging. Tripled senses and emotions are like walking through three-foot snow in a whiteout. Overwhelming. I only hope we’ll be growing used to it soon.

  Court has started his master Influential training with Franny.

  So far, it’s gone sour fast.

  Their frustration doubles, and during each lesson, our heads pound hard. Court says she’s not as slow as I. And I hang on to that glimmer of good fortune.

  After a bit of fussing, they both agreed to take an hour break from studying. While Franny bathes in our flat, Court joins me at a tiny thicket a few blocks away.

  Skeletal trees sway and creak. I chop wood and Court sits on an overturned bucket, his back to a gaunt tree. He reads from a worn book. Quiet.

  Mind wandering, I stare off at the snow. Steam blankets every inch of my body. Hot water encasing me. I quickly shrug off my coat. I’m about to stay in my loose shirt, but when Franny dunks her head beneath the bath water, my temperature rises tenfold.

  I strip, bare-chested.

  Using her hands, she scrubs her prickly legs and ankles. Wood. Wood. I chop another log.

  Being linked, privacy is hard to come by. No matter how much we try. I can’t control who I’m sensing that well. I try my best to focus elsewhere, but I sense her palms.