The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  I glare. Besides the sharp pinch of the needle trudging along my shoulder, my chest and ribs sting like mad from Court’s raw skin.

  Sweat gathers uncomfortably on my breasts, neck, and forehead. I wipe the stickiness with the back of my hand, but I still burn inside out.

  The needle hums, silence stretching, and out of the corner of my eye, Mykal crouches and fixates on the laces of his boots. Pretending to retie them.

  The mug of ale is only an arm’s length away. If I stay hopeful that he’ll succeed, he may sense my belief in him.

  I try to concentrate on encouraging Mykal through our link, but so much tugs at my mind: the tattooist, the needle, the pain, Court.

  I scratch at my arms. His itch, not mine. I ball my fingers into fists, our linked senses a disaster. It’s not the doubled pain or an aching, empathetic heart that disturbs me.

  Just yesterday at the flat, Court bathed in lukewarm water, his long limbs scrunched in the bath basin. I hate that no matter how hard I tried, his hands felt like my hands—my hands gliding over the grooves and divots of his battered skin, his calluses and knotted scars.

  My hands traveling up and down the ridges of his abdomen and planes of his arms.

  My hands.

  His hands.

  A pit is wedged in my gut. I hate that I stand many feet away from Court now, and without my body meeting his body, I can recall the crevices of his build.

  Easily, he could’ve already sensed me the same way. Maybe my hands have been his hands. Maybe his hands slipped along my breasts and journeyed down my narrow hips.

  Maybe they fell even farther.

  Yet it wouldn’t change how terrible I feel.

  Court has been clear about not wanting me metaphorically or even physically close to him.

  I’d rather just be linked to Mykal, who makes me feel less like a worm invading someone’s body. Kindness exists in Mykal where coldness festers in Court.

  From across the tiny room, a pair of eyes roasts my face. My cheeks heat, and like he willed it to be, Court captures my hot gaze. I sweep his features, only to find knowingness cut in every stern line.

  He can’t read my thoughts.

  Just feelings.

  Court may be one of the most bookishly intellectual Fast-Trackers I’ve ever known, but he’s far below average at interpreting the meaning behind Mykal’s emotions. So I doubt he’d be able to untangle mine.

  I flinch. The needle pricks another nerve. With gloved fingers, I rub the sweat beneath my eye and then suddenly pause. Court slowly, very slowly, brings the canteen to his lips. All the while, his gaze remains cemented on me.

  He chugs and a trickle of water slides pleasurably down my throat. My lips part, coolness rushing through my boiling veins.

  I drink while he drinks. Emotionally quenched.

  Could he have known this would soothe me? I wonder if this is Court’s way of saying, “What happened is fine, Franny. We’re okay.” Probably wishful thinking on my part, but I wish anyway.

  His attention reroutes to Mykal. Who has yet to dump the crushed Juggernaut into the ale. He fumbles with his laces, acting more harebrained than suspicious.

  I crane my head behind me, and the tattooist flashes a halfhearted smirk my way. His left ink-stained hand clutches my shoulder while his right squeezes the needle device that drives into my flesh.

  “What do you do for Fast-Tracker benefits?” I ask, my voice as wooden as my body. Altia provides deathday benefits to FTs for laborious jobs.

  To be a professional artist, actor, musician, you’d need to attend school. To attend school, you’d need more time to live.

  Influentials only.

  Lack of deathday benefits rarely stops Fast-Trackers from pursuing their passions, and if they need more bills, they’ll work a second job. Mostly for that Final Deliverance check.

  His needle buzzes beside my ear, not replying. Red-dyed tips of his hair stick to his crusted lips, and he spits out the gristly strands. No smirk or glance up from my shoulder.

  I guess, maybe, he prefers privacy. It’d account for why he hasn’t shared his name. I’m not dying for him to answer me anyway, but I thought I’d distract him from Mykal for a minute or two.

  Using the fabric of my shirt, balled in my hands, I pat the sweat from my armpits. “You seem like the type,” I say vaguely.

  “The type for what?” His breath reeks of spoiled goat’s milk.

  My throat bobs—not my throat. I touch the hollow of my neck, motionless. Court is the one who forces down a gag.

  I tense. “The type who’d plan to die surrounded by a thousand toes and nothing more.” I muster the strength to raise my brows at him. “I’d call that a lurk.”

  He pushes his ratty hair with his elbow and laughs once. “Sure, you say I’m the lurk when people sell soiled undergarments just outside the door.” I must cringe because he sniggers, “I don’t seem that unnerving now, huh.”

  He’s still not anyone I’d try to befriend.

  Off my silence, he adds, “I work electrical maintenance in city-center.” For FT benefits.

  “What’s your plan for your deathday then?” I can’t think of a less invasive question than this one, so routine that most people have a response at hand. In the back of my head, I remember Mykal. Concentrate.

  Concentrate.

  Head turned forward, I shut my eyes for a brief second. Velvet. Velvet skims my fingers. His fingers. The pill pouch. In fear of drawing attention to Mykal, I don’t dare sneak a look.

  His pulse races, soon alongside Court’s. Then mine. Tripled. Like three cars revving, three cars peeling off at varying paces, all pulsing frenziedly in my veins.

  “My deathday plans,” the tattooist says in thought, “I plan to go the best way out. Party at my apartment with my friends.”

  I stuff my shirt beneath my armpit. “You have friends?” I joke.

  “Prettier than you.” He tries to be cruel.

  Mykal grinds his teeth and my jaw contracts from the pressure.

  To the tattooist, I say firmly, “I’d much rather be ugly in your eyes than pretty.”

  Right as the last word escapes, he punctures my skin beyond the standard practice. A wounded noise scratches my throat. Mayday. Out of all that could’ve offended him, this is really it?

  Someone suddenly stands. Without peering around, I’m confident that legs bend and rise. Less so about whether that someone is Mykal or if it’s Court.

  I careen away from the tattooist on instinct, but he clasps my arm, then the base of my neck.

  Mouth to my ear, lips curving in an oily smile, he says, “Don’t move.”

  “Then don’t stab me,” I growl, suppressing the urge to stomp on his foot.

  Court sidles near—he’s the one who stood up. My head whips, doing a double take of his stance. Almost disbelieving.

  Court stood up for me? Maybe surprise shouldn’t flood me. At the Catherina Hotel, Court passed me ice for my bruises. When I taught him to drive, he gave me ointment for my lips. He just rarely lets me see whether or not he cares. On the other hand, Court could just be creating a diversion for Mykal.

  The tattooist gradually retracts the needle from my back. I bite my tongue to keep from wincing again, and the needle device begins slowly buzzing. Not finished.

  Court rounds me with a decisive stride, shirtless but otherwise clothed. His authority rains down on me and lifts my sore shoulders. I have never felt this stern or arched my limbs this high.

  Mykal and Court have told me many things since we’ve met. They said that they were a part of me. They said that I was a part of them. These are just words—weightless, nothingness words. Yet, Court saunters forward, and his presence grants more than just a touch of security.

  I have more than Court’s towering frame and grim gaze. I have his power. His austerity. His unflagging heart.

  I’m as afraid as I am content. How can I be more than just me? Why do I feel this way? They said it’d drive me mad to wonde
r, but I will. Every day, I’ll continue to wonder why we’re linked. Why we dodged our deathdays. Why us?

  Why me?

  I watch Court silently. In one moment, he can be the most domineering person in the room, and in the very next, the most fragile. It makes it harder to loathe him, and even harder to understand him.

  Court shifts behind me, scrutinizing the handiwork along my shoulder blade. Before he even speaks, his stormy grays roar and rumble. His lip starts to curl and disgust dredges the bottom of his stomach, then churns mine.

  Straining my neck once more, I pull the skin of my shoulder to see, but the tattoo isn’t visible to my eyes.

  Court blocks the tattooist from me. “You’re done.”

  I shuffle backward until my heels hit the edge of the moldy wall. Melted snow drips from ceiling rafters to my cheeks. I don’t bother wiping the liquid away. I just urgently try to peer at the tattoo. Jumping. Hopping, twisting left to right. Probably looking like a chump—fool. Like a fool.

  I wish I had a mirror.

  The tattooist chews on his crusted lip, laugh deep in his throat. He spins the needle device between his fingers. “It’s a winter creature. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Court fumes in place, heavy breath pumping his chest. Heat gathers in my lungs, but I won’t boil for nothing. I need to see first and then I can react. Otherwise, I’m relying solely on Court’s feelings, not my own. Don’t let go of who you are.

  I try not to blister too soon. Breathing just as heavy, I glue myself to the filthy wall.

  Mykal stretches up from his crouched position. I didn’t see whether Mykal slipped Juggernaut into the ale and his muscles are too bound to sense any sort of relief.

  “What’s this about?” Mykal asks.

  Court bears hard on his teeth, jaw protruding.

  The tattooist twinkles in amusement. “At a loss for words?”

  “I’ve met handfuls of people more clever than you,” Court says through his teeth. “All you’ve done is made a mess and if that’s your talent—making messes—then I pity you.”

  “Mayday,” he laughs. “You pity me? Aw.” His jeering face hardens. “Like I care.” He bends to the tin box and clasps his mug of ale. He packs away his ink, not drinking yet.

  Simmering down, Court returns to my side. Mykal lingers much closer to the Fast-Tracker and obstructs his path to our toes.

  Quickly, Court slips his belt through the loops and begins to dress. He gestures me to follow suit, but I stand cold and uncertain.

  I open my mouth to ask about the tattoo. I bundle my shirt in my fists.

  Court swiftly collects my coat and hangs the garment over his arm. He uses his free hand to yank his shirt over his head. “Dress, Franny.” Dotted blood seeps through the gray fabric along his ribs.

  I fight to find the armholes of my shirt. “How bad is it?” I question, my nose flaring. No—wait. His nose flares, not mine. “That bad?”

  The lump in his throat ascends and he jerks on his tight leather gloves. “I wouldn’t mind the design, but you will.” Court may be vague about his past, but for all else, he’s been unfailingly honest toward me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you apologizing? It’s not your doing.” Frustrated and upset, I chaotically yank the shirt over my head, toppling toward Court. He steadies me with a hand to my hip. I growl out and just notice the tattooist searching noisily in his tin box.

  Metal clatters together, Mykal swings his head from us to him, cautious.

  “Tell me quick,” I whisper to Court, slipping on my gloves, then lush fur.

  Dressed, he lifts the collar of his black wool coat. “The tiniest fox.”

  I frown, about to shake my head. I can live peacefully with a fox.

  “And Mal’s tree.”

  Color drains from my face. “Mal’s tree,” I mutter, wide-eyed and horrified. To worship Mal means to smite the three gods: of Death, of Victory, of Wonders. Where Caeli brings you to the gods—meant to dine in a great hall together—Mal guides you to a decaying tree and sends you to one of the three hells for eternal damnation.

  No gods.

  No mother.

  “Could it pass as any old tree?” I ask in the smallest, weakest voice I’ve ever owned.

  “He drew three withered roots and Mal’s trident crest cut in the trunk. It’s unmistakable.”

  Well then. I blink back fiery tears. This is life. Wretched, cursed life. I wipe at my eyes rapidly, sniff, and tilt my head up. We have more to worry about than my ugly tattoos.

  His are ugly too.

  I smile a sad, tired smile.

  Court watches me more than I like, but I refuse to meet his eyes and gush forth my feelings when he rarely shares the meaning of his.

  The tattooist finishes groping in his tin box and he rises … with a meat cleaver in his left hand. Ale in his right. “I pity anyone who thinks I’m stupid enough to fall for a trick.” He overturns the mug and amber liquid splashes the floorboards.

  Mykal clutches his knife harder.

  The Fast-Tracker chucks the mug aside. “Someone put Misty in my drink a few months back. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.” He displays the cleaver, blade rusted and bent.

  “You.” Mykal points the tip of his knife at him. “I’ll be slicing off your toes before you lay a finger on either of them.”

  Someone breathes shallow breaths. I’m standing near Court, his gloved hand on my hip. I struggle to discern whether it’s him or me. I think him.

  My temples pound and instinct overwhelms me. I turn to Court and whisper rapidly, “I’m running. Are you?” I’d never believe my fists could defeat a meat cleaver. Mykal may be armed, but I’m not.

  “Just wait.” He tucks his arm more fully around my frame, as though to say, With me. Wait with me.

  Wait?

  Panic erupts in my eyes. Am I waiting for Mykal’s death? Am I waiting for our own? I shake my head over and over. And he thinks I’m reckless?

  The Fast-Tracker boy sidesteps to avoid Mykal.

  Mykal stalks every movement. Plainly obvious that he is not prey to be snared. He does the trapping. “You’ve forgotten something.”

  The tattooist adjusts his grip. “What?”

  “Me.” Mykal elbows him, cracking his nose. Blood gushes profusely. Quickly, he twists the tattooist’s wrist, cleaver clattering to the floor, and he kicks the weapon away. This is where we should all run. We have the advantage. We have the time and space.

  “Let’s go,” I say aloud.

  Court remains absolutely stationary beside me. Not in a trance. I could snap my fingers in his eyes and he’d just as easily swat my hand away. Purposefully, he stays here.

  Mykal stays here.

  What more is there to do?

  The Fast-Tracker shrieks, face drenched in crimson red, spilling from his nostrils to his mouth and chin.

  Mykal wrenches his foe’s arm to his back and wraps his own biceps around the tattooist’s throat, airway imprisoned. His strength is my strength, unprecedented force and vigor. Vibrating my muscles. Searing my lungs.

  My arms are his arms. Tiny bones in the FT’s neck break. One. Two. They snap against my forearm. I never let up. I crush harder.

  The Fast-Tracker kicks out, cheeks purpling. Mykal grits his teeth, veins bulging in his arms, spit spewing. He holds tighter, stronger—longer.

  He chokes him.

  I choke him.

  I shut my eyes, rattling. Shaking. I open them and impulsively step forward.

  Court pinches my coat, tugging me to his chest. Again, his arms curve around my frame. So I won’t interrupt Mykal.

  My beliefs may seem silly, but they’re all I have. The Fast-Tracker tattooed us, even poorly and grossly, he did. In return, we made an agreement. We owed him something and I settled with the idea of drugging him. Not harming him.

  Not this.

  “We can run,” I say. We can run and then no harm will come to anyone.

  Lips against
my ear, Court murmurs, “He’ll chase us.”

  “We’ll outrun him.”

  “He’ll find us.”

  “We’ll disappear.” Somewhere.

  “I’m not taking that risk.” His voice frosts.

  I shouldn’t care about someone who tattooed Mal’s tree on my shoulder and wanted my toe in exchange. No matter how much life Mykal tries to squeeze out of him, he’ll live tomorrow. But never have I thought or wanted or dreamed of hurting someone for doing me a favor.

  I watch the Fast-Tracker’s hurried, alarmed feet go sluggish, and his arms slacken. Eyes close. Mykal drops the bulky body, weight crashing down onto the tin box. He’s unconscious.

  Court lets go of me. “Now we leave.”

  I stand frozen, the only one in a daze, and I only wake when Mykal pats my cheek. I’d slap his hand aside, but I shake my head instead, more and more stunned.

  Mykal extends his arm over my shoulder and directs me to the door. On my own, I doubt I’d be able to move anywhere but a confused circle.

  “You didn’t realize, did you?” he asks, and as he stares down at me, I finally understand why he calls them hard-hearted eyes. They fissure through me like saw-toothed ice.

  “Realize what?”

  “That we’d be a bad influence on you.” He pauses. “That we’d do just about anything to survive.”

  I’m frightened to look behind me and see what we’ve left in our wake. I feel a little bit of my soul hardening and I’m so afraid to change.

  Gods.

  I’m so afraid.

  FOURTEEN

  Franny

  Night has fallen, the last one before StarDust’s enrollment tomorrow. Journal open, pen between my dry fingers, I sit cross-legged on the cot next to a dying fire. Mykal made a firm bed out of woolen blankets for himself, right on the flat’s uneven floorboards. Long ago, he graciously offered his cot to me and refused to take turns.

  “It’s yours,” he said the first night. And the second. And every night thereafter.

  I scribble 59th night on a cot—owed to Mykal. Thinking, I bite the end of the pen and add, Roasted fox—owed to Mykal.

  Court gave me the journal to improve my writing skills and I guess he thought I’d document my tedious daily routines or curse him on each page.