I heave an inward sigh of relief that they don’t suspect Darian was here—but the way Mom corrected the word “friends” to “neighbors” bothers me. I know she’s saying what the official wants to hear, and I know that Coral and Owen are now considered social pariahs, but by The Protectorate’s law they get a chance to redeem themselves.
“Okay, thanks for your concern,” Mom says. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” The video-com beeps as Mom shuts it down.
The mattress shifts beside me, and Mom rests her cool hand on my arm. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. “You okay?” she asks, worry etching her face.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I tell her. “Just a headache, that’s all.”
“The official said your brain waves had a slight variation.”
I think about confessing my dream and the snaky feeling that crept though me when I saw Coral at Shanty Springs, but decide against it at the last moment. I don’t want to make her worry any more than she already is. I sit up and stretch my arms wide. “Must have been the headache,” I lie, and swallow back the guilt. “I had a bad migraine last night, but I’m okay now.”
I shove back the covers, peck her cheek, and scoot around her.
“You sure?” Mom twists around to see me, her face tight with concern.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I turn away, afraid she’ll see the lie all over my face and point to my bathroom. “I’m gonna shower and head over to the Grange,” I say over one shoulder.
She sighs like she’s reluctant to change the topic. “Well, okay. Your dad and I are heading out, so we’ll see you at dinner then?”
I keep my eyes fixed on my bathroom door as I push it open. “Mmhmm. See you later.” I shrug as though a heavy weight isn’t bearing down on my shoulders.
After scrubbing myself clean and using extra concealer to hide the puffiness under my eyes, I slip into a pair of jeans, a black tank, and zip up my aqua blue jacket. After quickly snatching up my paintings, I head outside. It’s already ten a.m. and I’m usually at the Grange by nine. I want to catch the people spending money before the other merchants scoop up all the cash.
Outside, the sun hides under clusters of bloated, gray clouds that look as if they’re holding out for this one moment. I pray they hang on a bit longer, at least until I can sell one painting. I need to make money to help my parents. With the expenses of the formals and all the upcoming planned dates with Asher that The Protectorate is sure to have mapped out for me, they’ll need the extra money. We are each expected to pay our own way until our binding formal, and even though my parents have been saving, with their low-paying jobs, I know things are tight. And because the event is for me, I feel extra responsible to contribute.
I hurry across the paved driveway to Shia’s house, remembering my promise to take her with me.
Her aunt answers the door, still dressed in a yellow bathrobe, eyes rimmed with red, and her blond hair pulled back into a tight, short ponytail. I want to reach out and hug her, to tell her I’m sad about Coral and Owen, too. But at the last minute I lose my nerve.
“Oh, hi. I don’t know if you remember me,” I say, holding out my hand. She opens the door wider and wraps her hand around mine. “I’m Desiree—I met you once before and my parents dropped off Shia yesterday…?”
Behind her, the room is dark and gloomy, like misery has settled in and made its home. It looks nothing like how Coral and Owen’s house normally looks like.
“Of course I remember you, Desiree. You’re the neighbor.” She smiles and lets her hand slip away. “Shia’s resting, dear. She said you asked her to go to the Grange with you today, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She palms a hand down the side of her robe. “Maybe another day?”
I nod, somewhat disappointed and worried about how Shia’s feeling. “Okay, tell her I said hello?”
She gives a weak smile. “Of course, honey.”
After she closes the door, I rush away and grab my blue bike from the garage. After ensuring the trailer is secured to the back of it, I place my treasured paintings inside and cover them with a tarp just in case the clouds decide to break loose.
I cruise in the direction of the Grange, thankful that most of the way is flat road. A few people mill about the streets and the closer I get, the more crowded it becomes. A cool breeze zips across my face, fluttering my jacket as I round the corner onto Nash Boulevard where the Grange is located…and almost run into a woman.
My brakes come to a screeching halt and my trailer hitch shimmies wildly to a stop behind me.
The woman twists around with a loud squeal and nails me with a scornful look. “Watch where you’re going. You nearly killed me!” Her fingers splay across her chest.
Okay, then. Drama queen it is. The bike didn’t even touch her.
“Sorry.” I hop off and snake my bike through the boisterous sea of people while searching for an empty spot where I can set out my paintings. On each side of the Grange sits a long row of multi-colored awnings that all look occupied. Merchants sell trinkets, candy, toys, and food of every variety imaginable. Wafts of sweets and all kinds of spices are carried on the cool breeze. Muttering under my breath, I curse Darian for keeping me up and making me late. Then I find myself wondering where he’ll sleep tonight, or if tonight is the night he’ll be caught. It’s really only a matter of time. And strangely, I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I shake the thought away and squeeze into one of the only two spots left for vendors. The yellow awning in the empty spot next to me is ripped and, with the rain already misting the air and threatening worse, I settle under the only canopy remaining—next to Loud Mouth. Lucky me.
“Fresh fish!” he yells in a sonic boom sort of voice. Only, the smell is so bad, I know it isn’t true. “Get yours now!” he hollers.
I meet the gaze of Mrs. Fitz under the canopy on Loud Mouth’s other side. She makes the most beautiful handmade jewelry and hair accessories I’ve ever seen. There’s one aquamarine-colored hair comb I’ve had my eye on for several months. Within the blue color of the comb, there are swirls of iridescent pearl white. It mesmerizes me and, for some reason I can’t place, I always feel drawn to it. But with my dating schedule and the cost of the binding formal looming, I can’t afford it.
Mrs. Fitz ticks her head toward Loud Mouth, pinches her nose, and chuckles. I laugh and wave before placing two of my paintings side-by-side in my cramped space, then stack the others beside it.
A couple of officials are wandering the streets like they always do in their telltale charcoal-gray uniforms. They ensure no merchants sell any form of contraband like cigarettes, alcohol, mixers like Darian had, or any sort of baby supplies. With the one child per household policy, they strictly monitor the use of things like diapers, formula, and baby clothes. For the first three years of the child’s life, a local official delivers supplies directly to your house to ensure the children are healthy and thriving. I can only imagine how devastating it would be to lose the one child you’re allowed to have, and I’m thankful The Protectorate cares.
As the rain begins to spit down harder, spattering against my awning and trickling over the edge, I worry I won’t get a chance to make a sale. Worse, that my images will get wet and the paint will be ruined. With a grumble, I shift them as far from the dripping canopy as I can.
Someone taps my shoulder behind me just as Loud Mouth shrieks, “Fresh fish!” Startled, I twist around. It’s Mr. Slater, one of the officials. He’s bought a couple of my paintings in the past.
My heart leaps with excitement. “Good morning, Mr. Slater.”
He nods silently and steps in under the awning, out from the rain. He removes his glasses and wipes them against the lapel of his jacket, next to the embroidered owl logo. “What do you have this week, Miss Desiree?” His voice is even, without a glimmer of kindness, but his eyes seem to smile. He replaces his glasses and takes an appraising look at the two paintings featured in front. “These are nice, but what else do you have?” He raises a ginger
eyebrow and points toward the pile stacked to the side.
I take a step, then freeze. I didn’t remove the painting from last night, the one depicting an angry Protectorate spewing a colony of bats.
My heart does an instant crescendo.
He can’t see that painting. If he does, he will arrest me on the spot, and I will be no better off than Coral and Owen, convicted of being Noncompliant.
I curse myself for being so careless—and Darian for making me that way.
Blocking the paintings with my body, my stomach tightens as though struck by a fist, and I force myself to meet his gaze with a smile. “M-more of the same, you know?” I attempt a chuckle even as my heart rises to my throat.
He bats me away and looks at the first painting in the stack. It’s a forest scene.
“Lovely,” he says and flips to the next. My heart beats frantically. The stench of old fish mixed with fear churns in my stomach, making me nauseous.
He moves to the next painting, and the next. And I know at any moment a sea of bats will explode off the canvas.
And I’ll be done.
Noncompliant.
My chest constricts and I gulp in a labored breath. Just as he’s about to flip to another, I place a shaky hand beside his, teetering at the edge of the painting, and stop him.
“What about this one?” I ask about the portrait our hands are on, depicting a night sky over a pristine lake. “You like it?” My eyes catch a glimpse of the canvas directly behind it. There is no mistaking the orange flames. I let the night sky painting fall back to cover it, hoping against hope he will stop.
But he begins to pull it forward again. “It’s very pleasant, but—”
A loud popping sound erupts over the chatter. I’m not sure if it’s a gun or an explosion, but it’s soon followed by someone screaming, “Help!”
I’m surprised it’s not my own voice.
Mr. Slater twists around, hand on the gun holster on his hip, and scans the marketplace. A man dashes out from beneath his canopy, jumping up and down, and waving his arms.
Mr. Slater rushes toward the vendor as people scatter and merchants duck behind their wares. Loud Mouth curses and begins packing up his fish. While I’m thankful for the diversion from my close call, I worry a thief is stalking around.
With one last glance across the market at Mr. Slater talking to the dark-haired vendor whose arms are flailing about, I begin gathering up my paintings. Between the rain, the chaos, and my near brush with the Terrorscape, I decide to call it a day.
I start packing up my paintings when I hear a voice whisper, “Any interesting paintings here?”
To my left, a tall figure shrouded in a black hoodie slouches against a post, arms crossed over his chest. With his profile to me and his hood up, his face is covered. Only the brim of a blue baseball cap pokes out from beneath the top of his hood. “Well?” he asks, turning to look at me.
I gasp and stumble back a step. It’s Darian.
I dart my eyes around, but notice the official is conferring with the old man under his awning. I look back at Darian and hiss, “Are you crazy? What are you doing here?” Out of habit I look again, then take two long strides toward him. “You’ll be caught,” I whisper.
He lifts a shoulder and grins. “You know, Rae, you’re not that good a salesman. I’m trying to support our local artists. One would think you didn’t want to sell your paintings.”
“Well, not today and definitely not to you.” I shake my head and go back to packing up my paintings. If Darian wants to stick around, it’s his own death wish. “You’re impossible,” I mutter absently. “Besides there’s nothing here you’d like. Who are you trying to kid? You were never into art.”
“Kinda like bats though.”
My head snaps up and I check to make sure nobody heard him. “You looked through my paintings last night. You weren’t supposed to see that—or any of them actually. They’re private, you know.”
He flashes a half grin at me, pops a piece of gum from a package he pulls from his pocket, and tosses it into his mouth. “Sorry. I’d like to buy it though.”
“Buy it? It’s not for sale.”
“Suit yourself.” He jerks his chin across the Grange. “Maybe the official will want to buy it instead.”
I twist around to witness Mr. Slater walking back toward me. I heave a sigh. “All right fine. You can buy it.”
His lips twist into a smirk. “I’m not sure I want it anymore now.”
Mr. Slater’s so close I can almost hear his footsteps. “You’re maddening, you know that? Just take it, all right? It’s free!” I bite my tongue to keep from screaming again.
Darian dips his hand into his jeans pocket. Pulling out a one hundred dollar bill, he stuffs it into my hand, and clasps his warm fingers around mine. I don’t know where he got the money, and I don’t ask. His answer might scare me.
“Take the money. I only have one condition,” he says. He leans in close, his toes nearly touching mine. The scent of peppermint mixed with his earthy scent surrounds me. “Meet me at Lake Briar in one hour,” he whispers into my ear.
I pull my head back. “No way,” I say. “Are you out of your mind?” What am I saying? Of course he is. He killed his parents.
Another quick glance reveals Mr. Slater has stopped to scan a patron’s wrist a few feet away. The hum of his ID scanner seems to magnify in my ears like a warning. He catches my gaze and holds up a finger as if to say, “one minute.”
Darian leans forward, his eyes peering into my own, and I swallow back the lump forming in my throat. He keeps his one hand coiled around mine and, with his other, pulls a tan, folded linen bag from his back pocket. “The official is on his way back now, Rae,” he says, sounding calmer than any escaped convict should—considering an official is just feet away.
I toss my hair over my shoulder and notice that Darian is telling the truth. The official is on his way back, having finished checking out the guy. My hands begin to tremble and my heart pounds. “Why are you doing this?”
His lips twitch. “It’s a deal then? You’ll meet me at Lake Briar?”
“This isn’t funny, you know,” I snap.
“I don’t joke,” he says very seriously. “Is it a deal?”
“Fine,” I say, glaring at him. “Deal.”
He releases my hand and quickly rifles through the paintings before slipping the artwork into his bag. He slings it over his shoulder, winks, then tugs his baseball cap low over his eyes. “See you in one hour.”
“Miss Desiree…” Mr. Slater’s voice trails off as he places a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry about the diversion. It seems some hooligan set off a firecracker. Nothing serious. Where were we?”
I glance back to where Darian just stood, suspecting he is the hooligan in question.
But Darian has vanished into the mist like a ghost at dawn.
Chapter Nine
After pedaling home so fast my legs ache, I unhook my bike trailer and notice with great relief that my parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. I rush across the hallway and return my unsold paintings to my room before Mom and Dad show up and drag me into some long conversation about how I’m feeling.
Hopping back on my bike, I head toward the Sky Tram Port, my heartbeat pulsating in my ears. It mixes with the whistling of the cool October wind skating past my face.
Darian said to meet him in an hour, not giving me much time to get home with my things, get to the tram, and make it to Lake Briar. What can he do if I’m late anyway? Turn me in for the painting? He couldn’t hand it in without incriminating himself. But, he could always mail the painting to The Protectorate with my name on it.
I swallow hard and pedal faster.
He wouldn’t, though. Would he?
Just the thought sends a shiver skittering down my spine, and I press my feet harder against the pedals. Push, push, push.
The rain stopped, but a wind has picked up. With each gust, orange leaves flutter along the street, swi
rl up into the air, and whoosh past my bike. I don’t know why Darian wants to meet with me, but I have to tell him to leave me alone. Along with everything else—becoming betrothed to Asher, my neighbors in the Terrorscape, and Darian’s escape from Olympus Jail—I’m starting to feel like a homemade sweater with a snag—unraveling a bit at a time. It’s unnerving.
The closer I get, the more cars, bikes, and people fill the street heading toward the Sky Tram Port. When I reach it, I pull my bike up abruptly, shove it into the bike rack, and lock it into place. I check my watch. I have twenty minutes to meet Darian’s one-hour deadline, but even with luck, it’ll take me twenty minutes just to get off the tram. Then I still have to get to the lake and, even if I run, that may take me another fifteen minutes.
I replay in my head all the times I’ve been there and all the shortcuts I could take through the forest. I don’t have time to dwell on the fact that I’ve completely lost my mind agreeing to meet a murderer in the woods—I just keep going, thinking about the swarming bats on a canvas etched with my signature and what Darian will do if I don’t meet my end of the bargain.
I scan my tram pass and hurry up the escalator two steps at a time to the eastbound tram. The sleek, red train lingers on the track, steam shooting from the engine like a mythical dragon ready to charge.
An alarm sounds out, notifying the crowd that the doors are about to close.
My heart rate ratchets. I can’t be late. I won’t be late.
I lunge forward at breakneck speed and hurl myself through the doors, skidding through just before it slides shut. I land on my knees and pain shoots up my legs. I’m going to have bruises in the morning, but I’m relieved I made it. I look up and my relief is quickly replaced with embarrassment when I notice people gawking.
A man helps me to my feet and whispers in my ear, “There’s an official back there. I wouldn’t be train jumping again if I were you.”
Awakening Page 6
