by Danny Lasko
Annie sighs through her nose and squeezes my hand.
“There’s someone I want you to meet.” She pulls me along the web of bridges until we arrive at an open deck where a small group is busy weaving together what appear to be decorations for the party tonight. I spot a familiar face, the woman from the Elder Council. Her long dark hair remains in a single tight braid, but her crystal blue eyes set against dark olive skin do not hold the stern, serious fix as in the council room. Instead, they smile with a peace I can’t ignore.
“Talia,” says Annie, quickening my heartbeat.
“Annie Walker, the songstress of the woods,” Talia says with an exotic accent and a wide smile. “And Horatio Gaph, our guest of honor. How are you feeling, Horatio?”
“Fine,” I stutter. “Annie fixed me up well.”
“Good.”
“This is Talia Taloquan, speaker for the Angels.”
“Angels?”
“Those who believe that all life is worth fighting for,” answers Talia. “Including life in New Victoria. I understand your grief, Horatio. Your anger. It is hard to watch your neighbors suffer.”
“Exactly!” I cry, realizing she’s a kindred spirit. There is clearly something different about the Angels. Their demeanor, the way they carry themselves. I don’t know how else to describe it other than they seem somehow brighter.
“How do you follow a guy like Valor who lets those—”
“I will stop you there, Horatio,” interrupts Talia, returning to the sternness I saw in the council room. “I cannot let you criticize the Chief Elder. The Angels are and will forever be servants of the Soul. If the Chief Elder declares it, we will follow … mostly,” she adds with a coy smirk.
“Mostly?”
“We sneak out!” whispers a twelve-year-old girl with the same black hair and coloring as Talia.
“My daughter, Tanesh,” explains Talia with a sigh. “Yes, we do find ourselves ill at ease sitting idly. So the Angels have, on occasion, slipped away to find opportunities to help ease the burdens of others.”
“I’ve heard that it’s more than occasionally,” says Annie. Talia simply smiles.
“Valor is aware of our minor rebellions, as all Chief Elders have been. But as long as we are like thieves in the night, out of the eye of our enemies, then we are left to ourselves.”
“Then you’ll help? You’ll stand with Allen?”
Her face once again goes sullen, and the brightness dims slightly.
“It cuts to the core, I admit,” she says looking away, “to see so many caught in the crossfire of a battle they themselves did not wage. It is a common story in war.”
“I just need to know that Allen will have a fighting chance. I need to know that they won’t burn … because of me.”
“If you find Berebus Pock, the Angels and all others we can persuade will give our lives for Allen if need be.”
“And if I can’t find him?” I ask, desperate for someone to side with me. “Look, I don’t know anything about this Pock or Mira or anything. I’m supposed to just bring it all together in twenty days? You people have had your whole life! Please,” I beg, “Allen is my home. They didn’t ask for this. They did nothing wrong. Please.”
By now, others of Talia’s group have gathered, some whispering, others leaning in, not to miss a word. If Talia notices, she doesn’t acknowledge them. Her eyes are hesitant. She’s thinking about it.
“If you find Berebus Pock,” she repeats finally, “then we will defend Allen.”
With each step toward the tree village’s square where all of us are meant to gather for the festival, I feel my heart harden, like a rock pounding in the center of my chest. Angels. Hardly.
“I thought they might have helped,” apologizes Annie. “I wanted you to see that not everyone is as rigid as Valor.”
“I know.”
“There are only a handful of Angels, a few dozen or so,” explains Annie, “but they are powerful. The most powerful of all the Children, it seems.”
“Then why don’t they just take over?” I ask.
“They are loyal to the Children of Hamelin and to the Soul. They want to see it restored as much as everyone else. I know you’re angry. But this is not the time. You’ve given them hope, Raysh.”
“And left none for myself.”
But for Annie’s sake, I hide it as we enter the celebration. The “square” is a miraculous, wood platform suspended in the air by eight enormous trunks. The floor is carved into a complex lattice work, with light spraying up through the gaps from the ground a hundred feet below, dowsing the dancers, musicians and celebrators in a mystifying glow. I haven’t seen a group of people this happy, ever. Not even after our victory against Trinity. There was always the looming control of the Synarch watching over us and the knowledge that we would never be truly free. But these people aren’t celebrating a victory for a game. They’re not celebrating my great performance. They’re celebrating validation.
I mostly watch, still feeling out of place. I’m not willing to feel anything different. Annie dances with the rest of the throng, embracing the atmosphere. She tries a couple of times to pull me into it, but I resist. Under any other circumstance, I would want nothing more. Just not here, not with them watching.
Even Linus joins in, playing a flute with a band of musicians. Extraordinary, flawless music wraps the party in undeniable joy. But what hits me hardest is when I spot my mother, clapping along, watching the party, smiling, laughing. Happy. She twirls my little sisters, who have found flowers to weave into their hair. My father takes my mother’s hand in his and leads her out to the floor, wraps her in his own arm, and together they dance.
Dance!
And the only thing that I can think about is how in the world these people could be so cruel as to let an entire city be destroyed. How can they dance and sing and carry on when so many lives are at risk?!
Soon I’m led onto the stage in front of the band where they tell a short tale about Mira and its people and the threat of the Shadow Clan and the Pied Piper and his leading the Children to Hamelin and this world and the promised day when the Soul would be restored to defeat the growing Shadow and all would finally know peace. I’m only half listening. I’m counting heads. Even including their youngest, fewer than two hundred Children of Hamelin crowd the square. Such a small group with such great hope. Hope in me. And I get it. They’re not thinking about the lives at risk. They’re thinking about the lives that can now be saved.
I step forward when my name is called, present the pipe of old dark wood, and commit to returning it to Berebus Pock. I am not ready for their roaring ovation, easily rivaling any Escape crowd. All from just a handful of hopefuls. They believe in this stuff. I guess I always knew that. But for the first time, I see it in the teary eyes of the old, who have waited their lives for this day. In the beaming faces of the men to be proven right. And from the mothers, who took their children to live in the trees. An odd sensation overtakes me. Something I fear. Something I have to resist for Allen’s sake. I find myself tolerating the Children of Hamelin.
I slip away from the party, shaking off the confusion and putting my plan in action. I know the Children still hide something from me. It’s time to know what I’m really up against.
It’s not long before I’m crouched in a plush chair, scanning the half-closed curtains over the glass wall of one of my teammate’s apartment, the illuminated Knights Field peeking through. I swear I can smell the grass from eight hundred feet up.
The trip is more pleasant than I thought it would be, more like a falling sideways and rolling to a stop. Plus, Mrs. Sterling’s apple-scented hair is always reassuring. It took some doing to convince Mrs. Sterling—Tarra—to jump from the Garden to the Tower’s residential floors. But she also knows I have to learn who wants me dead. If anyone else from the
Garden knew I had planned to come here, they would have chained me to a tree.
The apartment door bursts open, and Dexter Worsack’s massive frame hangs on the entryway, trying to catch his breath. He stumbles through the door, nearly falling face first on the pewter-colored rug. My former teammate is drunk, which I imagine is a hard thing for a man that size to do. It’ll make this easier. No resistance. He dodders to the kitchen, his mouth breathing echoing through the darkness. He rifles through his cabinets, coming up with a dark glass bottle and an even sadder face. Finally, he takes a swig and wanders his way to one of the plush chairs in the living room. I happen to be sitting in the chair just opposite. He doesn’t see me. The sword flashes, and before Dexter knows it, its point is a quarter inch from the girth of his neck. His breathing gets faster. His eyes are on the blade, not me. But he must know who’s holding it.
“Who was it, Dexter?” I say. He sucks as much air into his panicked lungs as he can muster.
“Don’t,” I warn. “Don’t scream. You tried to kill me and failed. I won’t. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. You were forced to kill me, weren’t you?”
“Y-yeah … f-f-forced … ”
“By who?”
“Oh, man, Sooth,” he says, tears in his eyes. “I can’t tell you. I’m a dead man if I do.”
“You’re not in great shape now, brother,” I say, touching the blade to his skin. The tears stream down his round face, getting caught in the creases of his chin.
“I feel bad. Honest, Sooth. Honest! I didn’t want you dead! I wanted to play with you. That’s why I gave you the sword! That’s why I gave you the sword, Sooth! Please! But they threatened my family, Sooth. They threatened my kid!”
I’m not here to kill Dexter. I think he knows it too. In fact, it’s all my fault that he’s even in this position. He’s not drinking himself stupid because he likes it. He’s drinking to forget.
“You should notta come here, Sooth. You should notta come here. They’s got cameras all over this place.”
“Here? In your house?”
“In every place. They’s be here any second.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but I have to worry about it later.
“Dexter,” I say, standing and pressing the sword slightly, “I believe you. But you have to tell me the truth, or a lot of people are gonna get hurt. Really hurt, Dex.”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“A woman?”
“Yeah, by the sound of her voice, she’s a woman. Almost a kind voice to start with. But got scary real quick. I was just hittin’ home from Blaine’s place—remember Blaine?”
“I remember. Keep talking.”
“And I just start hearing this laugh. It was so great, Sooth. Like a song or something, you know? So I follow it and she was in a dark red robe with a hood over her head. Next I know, she puts a fireblade to my throat, tells me to lay down in the next game. I tell her no. She throws a bunch of money. I still tell her no. And then … ”
“And then what, Dexter?”
“I’m not lying about this, Sooth, I promise.”
“What is it, Dex?”
“She … she lit her hands on fire.”
“What?”
“I promise, Sooth, she lit her hands on fire. Not with a match or a light or anything. They just all at once burst into flames! And then she told me if I didn’t lay down, she’s gotta kill me, my whole family, and anyone who says they my friends. Then she burned my arm, you know, just in case so I don’t forget.”
He pulls up the sleeve of his coat, pulls down the wrap, and bends near me to get into the light. The hair on his arm had been singed off from the elbow to his wrist. If it weren’t for the blistering pink and white flesh, I would have thought it a tattoo or some other art. Not just one burn, but eleven, lined up in fives next to each other. They look like starbursts, some bigger than others in a wave pattern, with the last star leading the rest. I cover my eyes with my hands, blocking out everything because I know I’ve seen this pattern before.
“Did you get a look at her?” I ask, still with my hand over my eyes.
“Nah, except for her chin and mouth. She’s got white skin. Big red lips. Small chin. That’s all I saw. Raysh, why does the Synarch want you dead—”
We both hear it at the same time. Footsteps. Lots of them. Coming fast down the hall. I flash forward and find the way out.
“Hit me over the head with the bottle,” I order, standing up and facing the door.
“What?”
“Hit me over the head! Now!”
He swings and knocks me with the dark-colored bottle, smashing it all over. Good thing to know the shield still works on the sword. I fall to the ground, faking my pain.
“Now throw me out the window.”
“Throw you—”
“Now, Dex, throw me now!” Dex grabs me by the shirt and lifts me full off the ground. I hear the door being busted open just as the window glass breaks. I glimpse the Synarch police just as I fall out of sight. I hope they didn’t see my grin.
I spin myself around to face the approaching ground, and my smile vanishes. Somewhere in the crash, I’ve let go of the sword! I whirl my head, trying to find it, and it’s there, just above me, falling at the same speed. The eightieth floor of anything is a long way to fall. I’m hoping long enough. I swing myself in the air, reaching for the sword. Closer, just another inch. I spread my whole body out flat, hoping to slow myself down. It works just enough. I grip the sword in my hand and hope that the sudden impact of hitting concrete is not as painful as the hit of three League enforcers.
My hopes go ignored. I slam into the concrete with the sound of a crack and a pain in my side assuring me it wasn’t the sidewalk that broke. I’m pretty sure I’ve pierced a lung because I can’t catch a breath. my shirt sticks to my body. It’s wet. I’m bleeding. But I’m alive, though at the moment I’m not sure that’s the best thing that could’ve happened.
Sometimes my vision includes details like broken ribs or punctured lungs or severe bleeding. Sometimes it just tells me if you do this, you die; if you do that, you survive. I didn’t have time for the details. I start crawling and dragging my body with my good leg and arm back to the rendezvous point a couple of hundred yards away where Mrs. Sterling is waiting for me. But I can hardly breathe, hardly walk. I fight to my feet, body bent and limping, stumble down the sloping wall of the stadium’s grand suites, nearly faint, hobble down a corridor and to the south stadium exits where two dozen police are waiting for me.
I flip around, hoping to make it to the players’ tunnel. But I’m blocked there, too. They’re coming in fast. They must be tracking me on the camera feed. I try to see my options, but the pain is clouding everything else out. I count the number of police on each side and choose the unit coming from the players’ tunnel. They have two fewer than the other. It’s not much, but it’s something. I raise the sword high and charge down the passageway. I wonder why I smell apples. I run through a streak of light, then a bank of shadow, when I feel myself falling sideways and rolling to a stop.
I collapse on the floor in my room in the safety of the Garden, coughing blood onto the rough hewn wood. Yep, a collapsed lung.
“I’ll get the doctor,” says Tarra, rushing out the door.
“Annie,” I cough. “Get Annie.”
I try to get off the floor and onto the bed, but the pain grips tighter when I try to move.
I can hear footsteps and the combination of apple and vanilla and the absence of musk tell me Annie is the only one with her.
“Help me with his shirt,” Annie says, and I can feel two pairs of hands wrestling with it, trying to pull it up high enough to find the wound.
“Are you okay?” asks Annie. “You’re shaking like crazy.”
“Fine
,” answers Tarra, out of breath. “Always happens when I jump. Looks like the rib has punctured the skin. Can you do compound fractures? Maybe I should get the doctor.”
If Annie answered, I didn’t hear it. Instead I feel her hands press against the exact spot where the pain is most potent. Her touch chases the pain screaming up my body and into my head, pounding on my skull for her to stop. It feels like she’s driving the rib bone back into my body with a hammer. The pain feels like holding your breath, the kind when you’re underwater, thrashing for the surface and your lungs are can’t hold the air. You can feel yourself climbing through the murk, you know oxygen is close, but you can’t hold your breath any longer. And you just give up. And faint. But then I’m pulled from the daze, the pain gradually rolls back, like an ocean wave retreating after its attack on the beach, and gives me room to breathe. And like it was never there, the pain is gone. Completely. At least in my side. A sharp stinging in my left arm I didn’t even know existed now demands my full attention until Annie presses against it and the pain subsides. Same with my knee. I look down and can’t see any evidence that I was ever even jostled except for the blood all over my shirt and the floor.
The Synarch can keep their fancy blue medical lights.
I open my eyes, blinking away the brightness of the room until I can lock in on Annie’s beaming face.
“Hi,” she greets, caressing my cheek.
“You saved my life.”
“’Course I did,” Annie says, catching her breath.
“I was going to die, and you didn’t let me.”
“That’s what saving means.”
“You keep doing that.”
“Yeah, when I said ‘no matter what,’ that was before I knew you were going to disappear in the middle of the night on your own, telling no one, once again proving yourself an idiot. What’d you do, fall off a building?”
“Thrown off,” I say. “Eight hundred feet of it, anyway.”
I want to lift her in my arms, hold her until dawn, but I can’t, of course, because at that moment, everyone and their literal mother arrives at the door.
