New Bloods Boxset

by Michelle Bryan

Both women laugh at this. I ain't got no idea what they're talking about, but I got a strange feeling if I did, I wouldn't find it as funny.

  "True, Clara dear; they are quite enjoyable for you young ones at least. I'm afraid I'm a bit too long in the tooth now for that sort of thing. I'm reduced to having to live vicariously through you now, my dear." The old woman says it with a smile, but I swear I can see an evil glint in her eye. Like somehow she resents that fact and if she could suck the younger woman's life force outta her, she would do it in an instant. It makes me shiver.

  "That one will be my first conquest," the slag murmurs, still eyeing Jax.

  Gramma nudges her and ever so slightly nods her head my way, reminding her of my presence. The dark eyes finally flick my way, staring me over before dismissing me. She don't say nuthin', but that look pisses me off something fierce. It says to me that she don't consider me threat enough to stand in her way. I ain't that daft. I can tell she has a hankering for Jax, and she ain't about to let me stop her. My hand tightens on my tea cup, and I gotta stop myself from throwing the hot liquid right into her slag face. We'll see about that, I think, but I don't say nuthin'.

  Almost like the old woman can sense what I'm thinking, she changes the subject.

  "Tell me, my dear, who is your dressmaker?"

  "My dressmaker?" I repeat stupidly and then clear my throat again. I ain't got a clue how to answer that.

  "Surely, you have started on your dress by now? Who’s making it? Is it Gormichi or Donneto? Oh, I do hope it's Donneto. I do so prefer her workmanship over that atrocious beast Gormichi."

  How the hell do I answer that? Is it a trick question? Sweat beads my upper lip as I rack my brain. Just pick one, you idiot, I think.

  "Neither," I find myself saying. "I had my dress brought from Southpoint." I smile smugly to myself at my clever answer.

  "Ohhhhh Southpoint! They have beautiful designers as well. Who was it? Do tell," the gramma demands.

  Shite. I'm saved by none other than the slag who, bored with our conversation, jumps to her feet and glides effortlessly across the room in her heels. Makes me hate her even more.

  "My dear, Jackson, please let me show you the gardens." The smile that lights up her face actually makes her annoyingly pretty in a way. "The gardens of House Camon are a legend here in Skytown, almost rivaled to the Prezedant's himself."

  I glare at Jax across the room. Don't you even dare! I yell at him in my head, but he seems to be charmed by the woman and oblivious to her intentions.

  "I would enjoy that, ma'am, thank you," he says, and my anger at his stupidity boils over.

  "So would I," I pipe up, setting my teacup down with a loud clank. "And Fin… Quinn too, wouldn't you Quinn? As a matter of fact, I think we all could do with a bit of fresh air. And I'm sure no one is more suitable to show us around the gardens than Missus Camon herself. After all, she would know 'em the best."

  I smile sweetly at the old gramma, and to my surprise, she agrees with me.

  "That's a wonderful idea. Shall we?" she says and gets to her feet.

  I'm pretty pleased with myself and the crimp I put in the she-devil's plans with Jax, but if looks could kill, let's just say they would be digging a hole in that garden for me right about now.

  Well, Missus Bodes didn't lie about the garden's legend. As soon as we enter, we’re greeted by a wave of smells and colors. The air is perfumed with lavender and grass and other stuff I cain't quite make out, but it has to be coming from the sea of flowers. The garden floor is ablaze with shades of red and white and purple. Unfamiliar pale pink trees surround us on either side, creating pathways through the garden. Occasional orange trees dot the landscape, the fruit hanging heavy on the branches and some of it already lying rotting on the ground underneath. The beauty of it all is beyond compare, yet I cain't help but be angered by the wastefulness of it all.

  Missus Bodes laid claim to Jax as soon as we entered the grounds, and they now amble ahead of us, arm in arm. She leans in every now and again to explain or point out an area of interest to Jax, her chest lying heavy on his arm. Seriously, does he not feel that? Why don't he at least try to pull away? Peeved at her forwardness and Jax's stupidity, I send Finn ahead to pepper 'em with questions and the parting words of "Don't hold nuthin' back." I can hear her exasperation in her answers as Finn starts questioning her about everything and anything he sees, and I grin to myself. Good boy.

  Mack and the gramma totter slowly behind us, which leaves me stuck with the tour guide of the gramma's better half. Mister Camon is a nice enough old coot, and with his neatly trimmed gray whiskers and watery blue eyes, he kinda reminds me of Grada. Even though I know he’s a member of the Prezedant's Army, I cain't help but find myself liking him against my better judgment. He don't say much to me, content to let all the others do the talking, but answers me politely every time I do speak.

  "What is this flower?" I say as I point to the beautiful, blood-red blossoms growing on a row of bushes to our right. I touch it lightly and am amazed at the soft, satiny texture of its petals.

  "A rose," he answers with his old man voice voice. "A beautiful flower indeed, but be careful. Its beauty hides many sharp thorns."

  I kinda draw my hand back at his warning as I can now see the hidden thorns underneath. He approaches the bush, snaps one of the blossoms off, and tucks it behind my ear. I'm immensely glad for Coral's trick of darkening the white stripes in my hair with tea. Old man or not, I sure don't want him seeing those.

  "You are from Southpoint, yet you do not know what a rose is? It has been numerous years since I’ve been there, but if memory serves me correctly, I’m sure they have just as many beautiful gardens as we do here in Skytown."

  The eyes I had considered weak and watery earlier now contain a shrewdness in 'em that I ain't noticed before, and it chills me. I choose my words carefully.

  "Yes, they do have beautiful gardens, but I’m afraid I'm not one much for flowers. Learnin' names don't interest me much. I would rather be spendin' my time in the barns or with the animals. Thank you for the gift." I touch the rose in my hair and smile at him. He inclines his head at me slightly, and we continue walking.

  "Captain MacKenzie informs me you are his niece and the little one his nephew. His sister's children?" he says.

  "That's correct," I say. A story we had already agreed upon.

  "Hmmmm, you do not carry much family resemblance."

  My laugh is light. "No, we do not. I look like our ma while Quinn looks like our pa."

  "And neither of you bear any resemblance whatsoever to our good Captain," he says.

  I swallow nervously and plaster a smile on my face. "Not true. Put an eye patch on me, and you wouldn't be able to tell us apart." I laugh at my own joke, but old man Camon don't even crack a smile. I try to distract him from his line of questioning. "Your gardens are very beautiful. And are those cages I see down there below us? Do you keep animals, too?"

  I don't give him time to answer. I yell out to the boy, eager to get away from the questions.

  "Quinn, they have animals! Let's go see." And the boy rushes ahead of me down the 'crete steps to the lower garden. He beats me there, of course, but draws up short at the first cage in front of him. I can see it has to be a larger animal, a brown ball of fur huddled in the corner of the cage. Cain't quite tell what it is, though, but as I get closer, I can see Finn backing slowly away. What kinda animal is it to scare the boy?

  "Tara," he whispers as I touch his shoulder, and I look around to make sure no one noticed his slip with my name, but the others ain't close enough yet.

  "Careful, Quinn, you—" My words catch in my throat. The brown ball of fur has turned in its cage, and a pair of tortured eyes stare out at us from the barred prison. Only it ain't the eyes of some wild animal. These eyes are very much human.

  I stare back, not understanding if I’m seeing correctly. What the hell is this? The mutie, maybe recognizing our wide-eyed shock, starts up a keening that soon
has Finn covering his ears with his hands. I’m too dumbfounded to do the same, even though the sound is like a knife piercing through to my brain. I can only keep staring back as it makes its miserable sounds.

  "Shut up!" Mister Camon smacks the bars of the cage with his walking stick as he approaches, and the mutie immediately goes silent as it cowers back into his corner. I feel like I should say or do something, but my shock is far outweighing my indignation at the moment.

  "This is Horax. One of the best arena fighters you will ever get to see. We were very lucky to have been able to buy him and quite cheaply too, I might add. Though now I can see why his old owners sold him at such a bargain price. His noise can be very distracting to say the least."

  They keep muties locked in a cage in their garden? What kinda madness is this? The creature don't make no more noise, but the look he’s giving me starts a small flicker of flame burning in the pit of my stomach.

  My eyes search the other cages. There are at least five or six more, and they’re all filled with the same pathetic-looking occupants.

  "You have mutants in cages," I say, like hearing it out loud is the only way to get my brain to accept it as reality.

  "Not just any mutants; these are all top-notch arena champions."

  He says it with such pride, and I can feel the slight flame starting to burn a little stronger. This ain't no time to show my Chi, but I cain't seem to stop the boil in my stomach from happening.

  "You have mutants in cages," I say it louder this time, and the old man regards me with a look that says he thinks I may just be a little bit crazy. Maybe I am giving off the crazy vibe because Mack arrives at that moment, takes one look at me, and starts saying his goodbyes. Jax suddenly shakes Missus Bodes off like some damned sand biter, grabs my arm, and starts ushering me outta the gardens.

  "Jax, they have people in cages," I whisper loudly, but he shushes me.

  "Not now, Tara. Hold it in. Your hair is starting to glow. The white is showing through. You need to hold it in. Quinn!" he barks over his shoulder, and Finn comes scampering to my other side.

  I don't know what excuse Mack gives them for our abrupt departure, and I truly don't care. I cannot stand to be in this garden or around these cruel people for one more moment. The look in that mutie's eyes, the suffering and misery. How could they? The memory of the cold-blooded yelling and the screams we’d heard coming from the arena on our first night here, it all comes flooding back to me.

  "Jax, we have to help 'em," I say suddenly, trying to pull away, but he don't let go.

  "We can't do anything right now, Tara," he hisses in my ear. "Other than get you out of here."

  "But—"

  "Not now. We'll do something, I promise. Just don't argue with me right now, okay?" And I nod at his words. He promised, so I believe him.

  With the gods as my witness, we will do something.

  8

  The Masquerade

  It’s finally here: the Thirty-First. Everything we’d done this past few weeks, the plan to rescue Lily and Ben, it all hinges on today. We’d gone over the plan a hundred times. Over and over, discussing and analyzing everyone's part.

  There are seven of us going. Me, Mack, and Jax, we’re the inside people getting a layout of the estate—every room and corner. Our goal is to find the underground cells in the lower levels of the estate. Mack's inside man had already given us a basic layout of where the cells are located. With a little luck, we could get to 'em no problem. If Ben and Lily are being held there in the estate at all, then it makes sense that's where we will find 'em.

  Talbert, Beanie, and Riven—Mack's "servants"—are to patrol the outside under the guise of taking care of the carriage and horses. Their job is to scope out every nook and cranny of the grounds, trying to formulate the best escape route in cause our plan went awry. They will mark all the guard posts and take care of the guards if necessary.

  Tater had gotten himself a spot on the entertainment staff with Mack's help. The original storyteller hired for the task had found himself suddenly and violently ill-disposed, so Mack had thrown Tater's name as a fill-in. His job is to deliver some nightweed and two costumes to Mack's inside man. He, in turn, would make sure the nightweed found its way into the cell guards' supper. Each evening watch consisted of two guards, and they are fed from the kitchens at exactly the same time every day. Nightweed works quickly and is long-lasting. Once the guards are out, we will have a two to three hour window of time to search the lower levels.

  We are to wait for Tater's signal that it’s a go. If everything has fallen into place and the spy has successfully delivered the nightweed and costumes we need, then Tater's story will be Sinbad and the Seven Lands. Any other story means the plan has failed. At the signal, me, Jax, and Mack will sneak outta the party. I’m to remain on watch outside of the cells while the other two are to steal the cell keys and go in to find Ben and Lily. My job is to distract any stray guard that wanders our way with my "feminine wiles." Well, that was the original idea, but after seeing me practice those said wiles, Mack had finally decided I should just pretend to see a mouse, scream really loud to alert them, and fake faint. Sounds good to me. Once we have Ben and Lily dressed in the extra costumes and masks, we’ll just casually walk 'em outta there along with the rest of the party guests and drive 'em away in the carriage. Simple enough. Now, we just need all the pieces to fall exactly into place liked planned. And for the gods to be truly on our side. A lot can go wrong. I ain't gonna lie; it worries me something fierce.

  My innards clench in knots, but I ain't sure if it's to do with our plan or the image staring back at me from the gilded mirror Coral had pushed me in front of. Who is this strange-looking creature staring back at me? The image moves when I do, but surely, it cain't be me. The long, black hair looked like mine, but the white stripes are gone, hidden again by the tea, and the curls hanging over my shoulders are a result of her tying my wet hair in strips of cloth and leaving them for hours to dry. The rest of my hair she has tied up into a loose knot on the top of my head. The colors that adorn my face are the Duchess's doing. I’d fought tooth and nail to not let her paint me. I’m gonna be wearing a half mask. What’s the point? But Coral insisted I wouldn't fit into the elite crowd otherwise, so against my wishes, I let her have her way. I have to admit, the results are … startling to say the least. What I’d always thought to be my drab, colorless gray eyes now actually seem to sparkle from the colors she’d placed on my lids and lashes. My normally sun-darkened skin is made a shade lighter from the gunk she’d dusted on, and my cheeks shone with the palest of pink, like a constant blush. My lips still sting from whatever she’d rubbed them with, but they look plump and red. Duchess's warning of not to lick them is hammered into my head. I look like a totally different person, and I’m itching to rub every last drop of this shite offa my face.

  But that isn't the worst of it. I’ve been squeezed once again into a form-fitting dress so tight that the color in my cheeks isn't from the powder alone. Does she seriously want me to wear this? It isn't the shockingly bright blue color or the fact that it clung to me so tight I can barely breathe that’s the problem. It’s more of the fact that there’s so little of it. I think the ladies of the ill house wear more clothing than this.

  Oh, the bottom of it is fine. In fact, the bottom has enough material I coulda probably make another dress. The silky layers swirl ‘round my legs with a soft swishing sound every time I move. And it’s roomy enough to hide the knives that I’d strapped to my thighs, much to Coral's horror. She’d almost fainted when she caught me doing that earlier. But there ain't no way I'm not taking some sort of protection with me. No, the problem isn't with the bottom of the dress; it’s the top half that’s bothering me. The top half, well, I use the term "half" loosely. There are no sleeves to begin with. The dress is held up with these two tiny straps that tie around my neck and leave my shoulders totally bare. And without my flower necklace hanging there, my chest feels naked. The impossibly tin
y waist of this torture device called a corset squeezes my own waist so tight that it has no other choice but to move up and push my normally small chest out, so it looks almost doubled in size. No wonder Duchess always looks like she’s gonna fall outta her dress at any moment. Now, I know how she felt. And I’ve come to understand why she’s always so irritable. Wearing a corset all the time would be enough to piss anybody off.

  I try in vain to push my overflowing chest back inside the scant material but to no avail. I feel like I’m about to smother myself. Do they seriously expect me to go like this? As if in answer to my unspoken question, Duchess approaches me from behind and covers my shoulders with a gauzy, light wrap, her arms encircling my neck to clip it at the front. Thank the gods. The wrap may be almost see through, but it’s better than nuthin.

  "Now remember, any refined lady in the Prezedant's circle will be elegant and poised. No shows of temper or sharp-tongued remarks no matter what you see. Do not engage in prolonged conversation. Your accent is a dead giveaway you do not belong. Stay by Jax's side; let him do the talking."

  The way she says accent almost sounds like an insult but I don’t let it bother me. I'm too thrown off by her tone. She is giving me advice, and she sounds concerned. Is she actually worried about us? About me? We’d gotten along a little better these past two weeks, but I ain't had no indication she was invested in what we’re doing. I reckoned all she was interested in was her payment. But as I study her preoccupied face, I realize I may have been wrong. She steps around me and studies me, her head tilted to the side.

  "You do look the part. Your dancing will pass. Anything strange you may do they’ll probably just pass it off as you being from away. I’ve done all I can do. Just don't do anything … strenuous. Mack has promised me that dress as part of my payment, and I intend to take him up on the offer. I want it back in one piece."