Fighting for a Future (A Zombie Apocalypse Love Story Book 2)

by Kate L. Mary

  The man’s gaze met mine, but only for a beat before I once again lowered my eyes to the floor. The House of Saffron was one of the most affluent homes in Sovereign City and employed more guards than the average house inside the walls. Still, during my three years of employment, not once had I ever spoken to the dozen or so men and women who guarded the family. The Fortis may not have been Sovereign, but they were still better than me. I was an Outlier. I was nothing.

  I nodded once in response to the man’s question, not daring to utter a sound, and then hurried to my place among the other Outliers.

  Isa stood at my side, and the uniform she wore looked on the verge of swallowing the bony fourteen-year-old girl’s body. She had been in the house for only two weeks now, having replaced her sister, Emori, who was too swollen with child to continue working. Unlike most of the Outliers who came to work in the city, Isa had lost weight since she started. I knew why: she had been sneaking her rations to her pregnant sister, but I also knew it would have to stop. Once a week was acceptable, but if Isa took food outside the city too often, even if it had been given to her, someone would take notice and accuse her of stealing, an offense that Outliers rarely risked. The penalty for theft was much too harsh.

  Isa tugged at the sleeve of her dress, a sign that she was not yet used to wearing the strange clothes of the Sovereign. It was a sensation I remembered all too well. The fabric of the uniform was too stiff, too unnatural feeling after a lifetime of wearing fur and animal hides. Although it was not the fabric alone that made Outliers feel like intruders in this world. The clothes the Sovereign wore were too colorful, unnaturally bright and garish compared to the drabness of Sovereign City, as well as too long and with too much excess fabric in general. The women wore dresses with sleeves that covered the entire length of their arms, even when it was not cold outside, and skirts that flowed around their legs when they walked. The men, too, seemed to dress more for looks than for comfort, with long pants and clunky shoes, and jackets that were unnecessary for keeping warm. Despite how hard my mother had tried to prepare me for my position in the city, it had still taken me some time to adjust to the new world I had suddenly found myself immersed in, just as I knew it would be for Isa.

  I had been much older than her when I arrived at Saffron’s house though, and the passage markings on the young girl’s temples that indicated she was now the main provider for her household seemed to contrast with the childish roundness of her face and the flatness of her chest. Fourteen was much too young. Even when I had received the passage markings on my own temples at the age of twenty-one, I had felt the weight of the lines. It had not been the pain of the half circles and dots being carved into my skin, but the knowledge that it was up to me to make sure my mother and sister did not starve. I could only imagine how difficult it was for Isa.

  “Did you eat the stew you were given this morning?” I whispered to Isa. I had to look up because even at fourteen she was taller than me, which was not unusual. Almost everyone towered over me.

  On my other side, Mira shot me a warning look, but I ignored her and focused on the teen.

  Isa shook her head.

  “You must,” I whispered, my gaze darting to the table quickly before going back to the girl. “You have taken Emori enough food.”

  “She needs it.” The teen stuck her chin out defiantly and kept her eyes straight ahead, avoiding my gaze.

  “She also needs a sister who has both hands.”

  Isa’s dark eyes shot down, capturing mine. They were big eyes, round and brimming with innocence. The eyes of a child who had been protected too well by her mother and older sister. Emori and Cera had thought they were helping Isa by taking on the burden of life for her, but now that the girl had been forced into service, her naïveté was a hindrance. She needed to be better acquainted with the ways of the city or her time in the House of Saffron would be short, and then Cera, Emori, and the baby that would soon join them, would struggle to survive.

  “You promise me you will eat the stew?” I hissed again.

  Mira’s fingers wrapped around my wrist and I tore my gaze from the young girl at my side so I could focus on the table. Saffron was watching me from across the room, her gray eyes like icy thorns. I would be punished later, I knew, but I also knew that I could not let Isa be found out. Her punishment would be much greater than mine.

  “Promise,” I hissed, talking out of the corner of my mouth even as I watched Saffron. The mistress’s lips turned down, but I was rewarded for my efforts when Isa’s head bobbed twice.

  I lowered my head and only a beat later Mira’s hand slipped from my wrist, but not before I felt the tremble in her arm.

  Chapter Two

  After dinner, the family and their guests retired to the drawing room while the servants went about the task of clearing the table. We did it wordlessly, knowing that Saffron was still nearby and would not tolerate conversation of any kind while company was in the house. Around the room, the Fortis guards stood watching over us, and the black fabric of their uniforms blended into the shadowy corners as if they would soon become one with the darkness.

  The room was silent enough that I was able to discern the quiet hum of electricity from the light hanging above the table. A “chandelier” Saffron called it. It consisted of nearly a dozen light bulbs and hundreds of polished balls of glass dangling around them. I had never seen anything like it before coming to work here, and had been enthralled by the delicate balls for the first few weeks in the house. Then I had been tasked with cleaning the thing. Spending hours on a ladder polishing the little pieces of glass had cured me of the obsession. Now I only saw it as a nuisance.

  When the dishes had been cleared, I stripped the lace tablecloth off and took it to the back of the house. The air in the laundry room was cozy and warm, and the drone of the dryer as it flipped the clothes nestled inside was soothing enough to make me wish I could curl up and take a nap the way the Sovereign often did after their midday meal. A silly wish, and one that would never come to fruition for someone like me.

  Back in the kitchen, the other Outliers were washing pots and pans, and packing leftover food away. The atmosphere was less tense than it had been in the dining room because we were no longer within earshot of Saffron. The kitchen was the one place in the house where we were able to talk a little more freely, and even though it had its limitations, I was always thankful for the break.

  Isa alone was not working, but instead sat at the table in the corner of the room eating her stew, much to my relief. The girl had appeared thin in the dim light of the dining room, but in the brightness of the kitchen it looked as if her collarbones were trying to push their way through her dark skin. She had been giving her sister too much, something I would need to address. Pregnant or not, Emori had to know that Isa needed the food just as much as she did.

  “I started the wash,” I told the head housemaid, Siri, when I stopped in front of her.

  “Good.” The older woman made a face when she hefted a pot up off the counter and passed it to me.

  Nearing her fiftieth year, she was the oldest Outlier working in the house. She had taken the position when my mother retired three years earlier, and I knew that Siri was not far from retirement herself. The work was taking a toll on her and I could see it in the lines of her face, interwoven with her many passage markings, and the gray streaked through her dark hair. She had put in good time, but I knew that before long she would be forced to pass the position to her own daughter.

  I carried the pot over to the sink where Mira was already busy washing one and set it on the counter. “I have another one for you.”

  She looked my way for only a second before her gaze moved to Isa. “You need to let her make her own mistakes.”

  I exhaled and took the clean pot to dry while Mira dipped the dirty one into the soapy water.

  “How can I do that? If I see her making a mistake, I will do what I can to correct her. To save her from some of the pain of life.”


  “At your own peril?” Mira kept her eyes on the pot when she said it.

  I shrugged, but said nothing in response.

  We washed and dried in silence for a moment, Mira focusing on getting every spot off the pot and me staring at the water as I dried. The steam rising off of it never failed to amaze me.

  “Indra.”

  My back stiffened at the sound of Saffron’s voice, and next to me Mira froze, allowing the pot to slip from her hands and sink into the soapy water. I refused to look my friend’s way when I set the pot in my own hands down, or when I turned to face the mistress.

  Saffron was standing just inside the door to the kitchen, the frown on her face pulling her waxy skin tight until it appeared as if the tendons in her neck would break through.

  “Mistress.” I curtsied, ducking my head down in the process.

  “My office. Now.”

  Saffron spun on her heel and her skirts swished around her as she headed back through the door. I followed obediently, feeling Mira and Isa’s gazes on my back as I went. The punishment would not be fun, but it would be worth it knowing that Isa had listened to me.

  Saffron had already taken her place behind the ancient mahogany desk by the time I reached her office. I only knew the thing was mahogany because she emphasized it so often. As if any of us knew what mahogany even was, or the difference between how it and oak needed to be cleaned. Not that we dared show our ignorance to the mistress of the house. In situations like these, it was best to keep your mouth shut and nod.

  The desk shone under the electric lights, just like the wood floors beneath my feet did. The house was hundreds of years old but wore its age with dignity, as did the furniture and pictures and other random décor, all things that I had never seen before coming to work here. Mirrors imprisoned by intricate frames, pictures that displayed bodies of water that seemed to go on forever, and lights that turned on with the flick of a switch. Everything inside the city was foreign to an Outlier like myself, from the electricity that ran through the city to the clothes the Sovereign wore.

  “You were talking during dinner,” Saffron said before I had even had a chance to shut the door.

  I turned to face her, my head down and my hands clasped in front of me: a perfect picture of submission. “Yes, Mistress.”

  “I haven’t had to chastise you since the first few weeks of your service. That was, what, three years ago?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I repeated.

  “I expect more from you, Indra. Your mother was head housemaid, and I expected that you would take the position when Siri retires. Have I not treated you well? Have I not put all of my trust in you by allowing you to pick a Hand for Lysander?”

  I dug my nails into my palms as I often did when faced with a ridiculous question. As if anyone in the city had ever attempted to treat the Outliers fairly.

  “You have done well by me, Mistress,” I lied, the words coming out smoothly despite how difficult I found it to push them past my lips.

  “Then what, may I ask, was so important that you felt the need to talk during my dinner?”

  “Isa,” I explained, my eyes still on the ground, “the new girl who took Emori’s place.”

  I ventured a look up at the mention of the maid who had left, curious if Saffron had any clue that the baby growing in her stomach was of her blood. Her grandchild. Wondering if the woman in front of me knew or cared what her son was really like. There was no acknowledgement on the Mistress’s face though, and the cold eyes fixed on me were as emotionless as ever.

  “Isa needed some more direction and I felt that it could not wait,” I continued. “She is young and naïve, and I wanted to be sure she understood the rules so she would not get in trouble.” I shook my head slightly when the words came out, then corrected myself by saying, “So she would not break your trust.”

  Saffron may have been a cold woman, but she was a woman of her word, something she prided herself in. We were all told the same thing upon arriving in her house: if we kept her trust, we would be treated fairly. She was true to that promise. As much as a Sovereign could be, anyway. It made her better to work for than many of the other people living inside these walls, a fact I knew well since I had been loaned out to other houses on multiple occasions to help with celebrations. Saffron had little concern for the people working in her house, but she did care about appearances.

  “I know you feel protective of your people and that’s an honorable thing, but you must know that by talking during my dinner, you have betrayed my trust. You don’t speak unless spoken to, especially when we have company in the house.” Saffron let out a long sigh that could have come across as regret were it not for the lack of feeling in her eyes. “You know you’ll need to be punished.”

  “I do, Mistress,” I replied.

  “It will be as much of an example to Isa as the guidance you gave her earlier was.” Saffron’s chair scraped against the floor when she stood, and despite my best efforts, my body jerked in response. “Kneel.”

  I did as I was told, keeping my head down as I sank to my knees in the middle of the office. The wood floor was hard and cold against my knees, even through the thick skirt of my uniform.

  “Arms out in front of you,” Saffron said as she moved closer, her skirts swishing around her with every step.

  I did as I was told, putting my arms out in front of me, palms up, but I kept my eyes down.

  “Five.”

  I closed my eyes even though I knew I would not be able to keep them that way.

  “Eyes open, Indra. Head up.”

  I lifted my chin and forced my lids open. Saffron was right in front of me now, so close that the folds of her skirt almost touched my fingertips. The tendrils of the small whip she used for punishment dangled between us, and the scent of leather tickled my nostrils. The smell was different than the hide we used in our village, and would forever be associated with this woman and this room, with pain and humiliation. The smallest whiff of it made my skin sting, just as it was now.

  “Count,” Saffron commanded as she raised the whip.

  It came down before I had a chance to respond, and the strips stung against my palms, forcing a gasp out of me.

  I had to swallow before I could whisper, “One.”

  The second lash brought tears to my eyes and welts to the palms of my ivory skin. The number “two” came out of my mouth automatically, and the third blow came only a beat later. I gasped out the next number, my voice shaking as much as my arms were. My palms were crisscrossed with red welts, the skin not broken but swollen where the leather had struck me. I cried out with the next strike, the number “four” being forced past my lips with the yelp, and then Saffron brought the whip down for the fifth and final time.

  “Five!” It felt as if the glass in the windowpanes shook with the force of my scream, and my cheeks were streaked with tears. Underneath me, my legs wobbled, but somehow I managed to stay on my knees.

  I kept my arms out in front of me, knowing that Saffron would want to inspect the welts lining my hands. She would do it under the pretense that she wanted to be certain no medical attention was needed, but I had long suspected that she secretly enjoyed seeing the pain she inflicted on others. Even though she did not beat her servants the way some of the other Sovereign did, I believed there was a part of her that craved the dishing out of pain. I even wondered if she used that whip on Bastian when they were alone in their room at night. It seemed like something she would do.

  Saffron bent down so she could get a closer look at my palms. “No skin was broken. You should be fine to return to work.”

  I kept my arms up when I nodded.

  Saffron stared at my hands for a few beats longer, and I ventured a glance up. Her icy gaze was focused on my palms, but for once her eyes were not devoid of emotion. Excitement flickered in them.

  I averted my gaze before she noticed me staring, but I knew the expression would stay with me until the day I died.

&nb
sp; Saffron turned away and I was finally allowed to lower my arms. I rested them on my knees, palms up. They throbbed, pulsing like every welt had a heartbeat of its own. I wanted to curl my fingers into fists and beat them against the back of Saffron’s head, but I could do neither. My palms hurt too much to even consider making a fist, and if I struck a Sovereign I would be put to death. If something happened to me, Anja would have to take my place in Sovereign City and no one would be around to take care of our mother. She was too sick to spend her days alone anymore.

  Saffron didn’t even glance my way when she said, “You may go.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” I said.

  Getting to my feet without using my hands was difficult, but I managed. I had been in this position before, although it had been nearly three years since my last punishment. Saffron had been right about that, which to me was another sign of how much she savored these moments. Outliers kneeling on the floor of her office, bending to her will more than ever before. It was the only way to explain how she remembered exactly when my last punishment had been. With all the people in her employment and all the punishments she dished out—several a week—it seemed unlikely that she would remember who had been punished and when. Especially when so much time had passed.

  Mira rushed to my side the second I set foot in the kitchen. “How many?” Her heart shaped face contorted into an ugly version of itself and her forehead wrinkled, pulling her passage markings together until they formed one continuous line above each eyebrow instead of four dashes.

  “Five,” I said, allowing my friend to take my hands in hers.

  Her palms, like mine, were decorated with callouses, and her knuckles and joints were dry and cracked from washing too many dishes. It was soothing though, having hands that were so familiar on mine. Mira and I had been through a lot together over the years, and she had come to work at Saffron’s house only a couple months after I did. Unlike me, however, Mira had earned more than her fair share of punishments. So many, in fact, that if I looked hard enough I could detect the faint lines of the last lashes still decorating the pale skin of her palms.