I linger for a few moments in the faint stink of death, that peculiar rot, wafting from nearby. The only thing the rain is good for is washing away the stench of the dead, unless the bodies are locked inside, as happens often enough. The tree can’t be measured for growth any longer. I stare up at it anyway before kicking off the wall and heading to its trunk to make my rendezvous, and I wonder not for the first time who’s behind the engineering feat of the magic bombs. Maybe it was the preacher man, Father Wes—that, at least, would explain how the Lasters got a hold of them. But something about that niggles at me.
Several months back, even before our Reveal, one of the preacher men had been arrested for sedition against Dominion. There had been rumors of technologically advanced weaponry.
When I mentioned it to our father, he’d scoffed.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, girls,” he’d said, eyes gleaming.
I’d asked, “What is the truth, Father?”
Our father turned his gaze first to Margot, then me, as though he wasn’t sure which of us had spoken. “They don’t have enough beans among them to light a match, let alone produce the destruction the Feed is talking about.”
Margot said, “Why do you say that, Father?”
Our father stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Someone should really profit from their ignorance. But know this, girls. Preacher men are men of words, not action. Until they have generals behind them, real money to get their hands on some cannon fodder, they’ll always be just—phffft.” His hands performed a vanishing trick. “Nothing but hot air.”
It’s a brightly tangled web in my mind. The bombs. The Splicer Clinic. The strange mutant men who tried to take Margot and me all those months ago. And then, finally, the preacher men. The preacher men who brought an army of Lasters to our door and lobbed the magic bombs. Why us? And if it wasn’t them who’d made the bombs, who was it?
“Marta,” I call. A brown head peeps up from beneath a heavy branch like a mushroom. I hold out a bag of food. “All for you,” I tell her. “You just have to take me to your gang. Okay?”
Marta pops up and dashes toward my hand at full speed. Before I’ve even processed it, she has grabbed the bag out of my hands and set out at a dead run down the alley. “Slow down. Wait for me, Marta,” I yell after her.
She’s like a scared rabbit, loping ahead of me. After a block, she looks over her shoulder at me and slows but doesn’t stop. I’m given the small luxury of looking at her. She’s wearing some kind of short pants, ripped and frayed at the bottom, filthy sandals on her feet despite the chill, and a moth-eaten gray sweater that hangs over thin, brown-flecked hands.
It had seemed like such a good idea the afternoon before, and simple, too. Find one of the kid gangs. See if they know anything. See if they’ll keep watch for the preacher men for me—for a price, of course.
Marta ignores me, hopping forward with her strange, silent, pigeon-toed gait. I’m falling behind. I reckon I should have thought through my plan a little more. “Marta,” I call again as she turns a corner into an alleyway and for a moment disappears from view. I know I need to pay attention to where we are, where we’re going, but somewhere in the last few turns, I’ve completely lost my bearings. And if I lose her, I, too, will be lost.
“Marta!” I yell. Only to see brown eyes peer impatiently at me from beneath a dirty brown strap of hair. “Stop,” I say, “I can’t keep up.”
Something red flashes in the corner of my eye. Disappears. Marta beckons again, more insistently. A shiver works its way up my spine. Something isn’t right.
I whisper, “I think someone’s following us.”
Marta grabs my hand and tugs me into the alleyway, then lets me go almost as quickly. It’s a narrow passageway, banded on both sides with small, dark balconies, windows boarded up with cardboard under broken glass. The pavement is covered in debris: broken bedsprings, rusty nails, shards of dark and clear glass.
She disappears again.
I gape up at the windows and wait for her to reappear. A clatter breaks the silence behind me. I turn in time to see a second rock hit a dented Dumpster shoved in front of the building on the left, overflowing with refuse. I can’t see who threw it. Then I see the stripe of red. Another kid, about twenty feet away. This one is a bit older than Marta, maybe fourteen. He’s got the shifty look of a gang kid. But not doing that well, it seems. A gash sits below his right eye, oozing a bit of pus.
He doesn’t seem to be up to much, but he is blocking the entrance to the alleyway. And I can tell from the bulges in his pockets, from the heavy weight in his hand, that he has a lot more rocks. Marta’s head pops out from a balcony above. She makes an odd hook gesture to the boy with a finger and thumb. He nods, then holds his rocks steady as a sinking feeling rips through my belly.
It’s a setup.
5
I stand there, stupid as the day I was born, and think through my options. I hadn’t brought the phone that would connect me with Storm’s keep. The last time I used it, I figured out it had a tracking device in it—absolutely the last thing I wanted for today’s adventure. Only, getting myself gutted isn’t exactly the other option I’d been hoping for.
“What do you want?” I say to the boy. “I haven’t any money.”
He tilts his head like he can’t quite figure out what I’m doing. Maybe he can’t hear? I sign a few words, but although he stares avidly at my hands, I can tell there’s no comprehension.
“Don’t bother,” a twangy voice calls from above.
“I haven’t any money,” I repeat. The man who owns the voice leans casually over the balcony railing. He’s got a shock of dark hair, striped white-blond like a dirty skunk. A green button-up opens down his chest. A smattering of chest hair. Beyond his shoulder bobs Marta’s fuzzy locks. “Only five Dominion dollars.”
“I know that.” Even before I see his long grin, a mouth full of metal and rotted teeth, I know I’m in trouble. He pulls a crisp fiver taut between his hands.
“What do you want, then?”
The man nods to the boy behind me. I turn, wanting to keep an eye on him. But when I pivot my body around, I count four boys. Three of them look better fed than Rock Boy. I look back up to the balcony, but Skunk Man is gone.
The boys behind me spread out, their arms outstretched to form a net. They don’t say anything more. A raindrop plops down on my face. It occurs to me, a little absurdly, that for a little while the rain had stopped. The drizzle changes to mist, making it hard to tell what the boys in front of me are doing. My heart hammers in my chest as my teeth start to chatter, a combination of terror and chill.
And then Skunk Man is standing before me on the broken asphalt. Marta cowers behind him like a dirty rag doll.
“What do you want me for, then? Since you’ve clearly already picked my pockets.” I nod at Marta and pretend as best I can that I’m not afraid. My hair clings to my neck and face, but I take a small pleasure in seeing how unhappy the skunk man looks in the rain, his striped hair wilting around his face.
Skunk Man shrugs and looks me up and down like I’m a head of lettuce in a market stall. “Marta here is my apprentice, not some common thief. Thieves are thick in Dominion. Information is better. And interesting Splicers who hang about in Heaven Square are even better.”
A chill works its way down my spine. I might be okay if he doesn’t yet know who I am. Those hopes are dashed a second later.
He sucks his teeth. “You’re that True Born’s girl. People’d pay a lot of money for his girl.”
They’ve been watching us, then. My chin goes up. “He’ll rip you to shreds with his bare hands.”
As though it’s a signal, one of the boys, a thick, beefy boy in overalls, pulls out a length of painted black chain. Out of another pocket he pulls a rusty combination lock. He comes forward at Skunk Man’s beckoning.
They’re going to lock me up, it suddenly occurs to me. “Y-You don’t want to do this,” I stutter.
“Checkers,” says Sk
unk Man to the beefy one. “Don’t hurt her too badly. Just make her shut up.”
The rain comes tumbling down from the sky, fat drops slapping like hands on my face. I stare at the beefy boy and wonder what making me shut up will feel like. I close my eyes as he comes toward me with outstretched hands. A thick crack rents the air like thunder. I open my eyes. Thick red ribbons of blood blossom from the beefy boy’s chest. His face goes slack as he crumples to the ground.
The other boys seem as confused as I am. For a moment they look around, especially the lanky boy with the rocks. But then he hurls one. A bullet flies into the rock and it skips sideways, knocking into Marta. She falls, too, a streak of red oozing from her temple.
They scatter, leaving behind Marta and the lump of beefy boy at my feet, blood oozing onto the cracked pavement beneath him.
It takes me a moment longer to spot the gunman. He wears a hat. The brim shadows his face so all I can see are wide, curving lips.
“Don’t move,” he calls out to me gaily. “I’ll be right down.”
He grabs at a cable attached to an old power pole and shimmies down, an automatic rifle strapped over his chest. I look about. There are no doors, only boarded-up windows and balconies too high to jump. A dead boy at my feet. And Marta, little Marta, crumpled and lifeless. There’s a choice here. I can wait for the gunman. Or I can run out the alley, knowing the likelihood that I’ll end up right back in the hands of the kid gang.
As I consider my options, the gunman looks up, and I get a glimpse of a handsome set of features. “I won’t hurt you,” he says in a wounded tone, as though he knows I was about to choose being a hostage over him.
“How do I know that?” I reckon my voice shakes as badly as my knees.
“You don’t.” He hits the ground with a thud and strides toward me with a strange loping gait. With one hand, he casually tosses up and catches what looks like a small reddish stone. “I’m a shade safer than a kid gang, mind.” He looms over me, a tall, slender figure, though his shoulders are broader than I’d realized.
I choke out, “Who are you, then?”
“You can call me Alastair.”
“What can other people call you?” I say, then kick myself mentally. Why am I being such a smart-mouth? This boy can kill me.
He regards me for a moment. When he tips his head back, I can see his eyes, a luminous brown flecked with green. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”
“Some people think so.”
The stone goes up in the air again, lands in the young man’s palm as though magnetically drawn. Goes up again. “Is that what you’re doing here? Making Fitz and his kids laugh?”
“I hadn’t been properly introduced to him, either, so no.”
“Touché. So what is your name, then, little girl?” His smile lengthens, a thin piece of rope.
“Are you always so rude?”
“Are you always so touchy?”
We stare at each other. His hands have gone to his hips. So have mine, I realize. But he’s the one with the gun strapped to his chest, I remind myself.
“You can call me Lucy,” I tell him grudgingly.
“Okay, Lucy.” He eyes me like a salvager. “So what’s a pretty Upper Circle girl like you doing in a dirty back alley like this?”
The puddle of Beefy Boy’s blood has grown. The red fan is almost to my feet. “I wasn’t being smart, I guess. I thought she’d help me,” I grumble under my breath.
“That little ragabond? Help you what—become a slave?”
I don’t know why I decide to tell the gunman the truth—maybe I’m in shock. “I need information, okay? I thought she’d be in a position to help me find it.”
The gunman cocks his head and looks at me from beneath the dripping brim of his hat. He snorts. “She was in the perfect position to help herself. None too smart, you Upper Circle girls.”
I decide to overlook the insult, since I’m not in much of a position to argue. “Well, then. Thank you for your assistance.” I don’t meet his eyes. “I suppose I should be getting back. Can you point me in the direction of Heaven Square?” I cast about for the top of the tree, but all I can see are crumbling, ruined buildings.
A long silence falls between us as my champion looks me up and down. Then, “You look like a drowned rat.” Alastair’s eyes gleam like dark, polished wood. “You know, I just might be able to save you twice today,” he says with a sly grin.
It’s a long, wet walk back to Heaven Square—much longer than it had seemed when I’d been following Marta. Shoes drenched, my feet squish with each step. And I can’t get away from the smell of wet wool.
I feel strangely inclined to trust Alastair, though that knowledge comes as little solace, given that I’d had no problem following Marta, either. Regardless, I need his direction, so I stay vigilant and allow him to lead me through the city.
“How much farther?” I inquire politely of my guide.
“Why, you bored of me already?” Alastair tosses back, casual as you please. I haven’t a clue what to make of the strange young man who’d killed a boy to save me, so I decide to fish.
“Where are you from?”
“Around. Not from your block.”
“You don’t say,” I tease back. “Talkative lot, your people?”
The young man scratches at his jaw. “Extremely.” Then a beat later, “So Lucy, what information could a nice, rich girl like you be trying to dig up from a rotten kid gang?”
I give my rescuer a sidelong glance. “What would a chivalrous young man like you need with a semi-automatic?” I ask, poking fun at his heroic escapades in a way that I’m surprised to note doesn’t make me nervous.
It earns me a laugh. “I asked you first. And anyway, how do you know about weapons?”
“I’m a nice, rich girl from the Upper Circle, aren’t I? You’ve got me pegged to rights. What do you think all us rich girls learn from our Personals?”
Alastair hitches his gun up on his chest. “And here I thought you were all busy studying dancing and knitting and such.”
“You’ve a pretty poor opinion of us, don’t you?”
He looks over at me, something strangely truthful in his eyes. “Not all of you.” Alastair stops. The rain falls down like tiny hammers, cold and sharp on the skin. “We’re almost there. So…are you going to let me help you?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting. Or why. Why would you?” I narrow my eyes suspiciously.
“Pretty tough for an Upper Circle girl,” he says after a long minute, not looking at me. “I can’t think of another one who would be brave enough, or silly enough, to seek out a kid gang.” There’s an insult in there, but I also hear a faint note of admiration in his voice. Still, that doesn’t answer the basic question. What does he want from me?
He must read my silence as refusal. Face raised to the sky, Alastair pushes his hat back before giving me an annoyed look. “You need information, right?”
“I told you I do.”
“It just so happens I’m having a sale on information.” He grins, so much like a mischievous little boy that I can’t help but laugh.
“So you’re in it for the money, fine. But—how do I know I can trust you?” I put a hand to my hip and regard the stranger before me. Money, at least, is a motive I can understand. Money is power, both in the Upper Circle and on the streets of Old Dominion.
“How do you know you can’t? I like to gamble, Miss Lucy. Do you?” Alastair stops to toss his little rock. “Besides,” he continues, squinting at me. “I can’t be worse than a kid gang, can I?”
He has a point there.
The reception line winds slowly around and down the elegant stone stairs of the mansion. I sneeze once, twice. Storm murmurs, “Are you coming down with something, Lucy?”
Surely being soaked in the freezing rain will leave its mark on me. I’ll be far more marked, though, if Storm finds out I snuck out of his place. And even more marked should he discover I plan
to do it again. “No, I’m fine.” I sniffle.
“Glad to hear it. This will be our last outing for a few days. You’ll have a chance to catch up on your rest.”
I nod and smile vaguely at my guardian, sweeping my eyes over the understated opulence of Senator Josiah Gillis’s home. This senator is a different breed than I’m used to. I’d crossed his path many times in my former life, of course. He was at our Reveal, Margot’s and mine. He might have even been driving the car that mowed down a dozen or more Lasters at our gates as people panicked and spread like wildfire.
It’s more than his opulent home that draws attention. Gillis is huge—a towering man with the physique of a merc. Against his silver-black skin, the white of his tux gleams. He’s clean-shaven, immaculate, his close-cropped hair kept military style. Unlike many of our father’s other cronies, when Gillis looks around a room, you believe he really sees what’s happening.
Two guests ahead of me in the reception line, Gillis engulfs the Asia Minor ambassador’s hand within both his own. He adds a sharp military bow, shoes coming together with a clack, then crosses one arm behind his back and the other against his belly as he greets her with a few words in her language.
It has been more than two hundred years now since the various countries of the world were rolled up into continent-wide nation-states. At Grayguard they teach us that the continental blocks helped countries large and small deal with the creeping droughts and Flux storms that had flattened the world economy. Here in Nor-Am, for instance, there were once hundreds of vibrant cities across the continent. That all changed when the storms grew more frequent, more powerful, sweeping away the farmers’ fields and, in some cases, leveling cities. My father always laughed at these history lessons, telling us girls to instead think like Foxes.
“Cause and effect is more complicated than a fairy tale. The harvest moved north,” he boomed, “and when it did, the Upper Circle was ready to lead.”
What our father meant was that Dominion was settled with an iron fist. They like to pretend differently now, but everyone knows that the powerful brought armies from the south of current-day Dominion. They expanded their empire, settling Nor-Am and its capital city through bloodshed—forging alliances along the way. All the country blocks owe their existence to Nor-Am and Dominion, the new world order’s first and most powerful capital.
True North Page 5
