Shadow Fall

by Audrey Grey

  O shrinks away from him. “Roman.”

  “Ahh, there you are, my little flower!” Roman, resting his massive frame on the table until it creaks, plucks an iris from her hair, ripping a cluster of golden strands with it. I notice with relief Caspian has directed all of his rage at Roman now in the form of a quiet, fury-soaked stare.

  O’s eyes plead with Roman to stop. “Roman . . . please—”

  Roman plants a meaty palm on O’s face, hard enough to make a slapping noise. Using his thumb and forefinger, he smashes her lips together until they look like she is forming words. “Nice to see you, too, my love,” Roman says for her. His words are slurred and angry.

  O feebly tries to brush his hand away while we all stare in horror, her crown of flowers breaking in the process and tumbling to the ground.

  “Stop it!” My chair tumbles backward as I stand.

  Grunting, Roman releases O, his eyes narrowed in my direction as he tries to focus. I imagine a lion that has just been distracted from his prey would look the same. When he recognizes me, his fat, wet lips wriggle into a sneer. “Well, aren’t you the dew on a rose, stupid worm.”

  Both Riser and Caspian stand in unison, followed by Teagan. “You’re jiggered, Roman,” Caspian whispers. “And there are ladies present. I recommend you leave before you are forcibly made to do so.”

  But Roman’s red, squinty eyes are fixed on Riser, fingers caressing the handle of his sword. Even sauced, Roman is smart enough to know where the real threat lies.

  A taunting grin spreads across Riser’s face as he appraises Roman.

  The others, including Caspian, are bound by a sense of honor and civility. But Riser is beholden to none of these things. Perhaps sensing this somehow, Roman releases his weapon and leans down, clumsily forcing O’s hand to his wet lips. “My flower, soon you’ll be all mine.”

  Roman leaves, but the awkwardness remains. We all follow Teagan, who is the first to resume her place at the table, slipping a small wooden club back into her pocket as she does. Noticing my gaze, she answers with a subtle nod in my direction. Her eyes fall to my brooch. It isn’t the first time, and I raise my eyebrows in question.

  “Pardon me,” Teagan says, in a voice that sounds as if it rarely apologizes. “But I have to say, your choice of adornment is aces. Especially once you press the wings.”

  I follow her eyes to the phoenix. How to respond? Is this some sort of rebellious handshake? Or perhaps a trick? I nod, carefully. “Thank you.”

  She winks, carefully. “Welcome, friend.”

  Peeking around Teagan, I see O quietly trying to salvage her hair. Caspian moves to help her, but she shakes her head. “No, Cas. I must learn to deal with him on my own.” She smiles bravely, the flesh around her mouth red from Roman’s violent grasp. “After all, once we are married, you will not be there to rescue me.”

  I shudder, imagining gentle, quiet-spoken O being married to that brute.

  Caspian glares beneath lowered brows at the table. “Father will change his mind.”

  More broken flowers spill from O’s hair as she shakes her head. “Break a promise to the General? Father would never dare dishonor House Bloodwood, not when they control . . .”

  Apparently remembering they are not alone, she pauses.

  General Bloodwood has leverage over Emperor Laevus. I file that away for later.

  Attendants swap our untouched plates for the second course, a steaming-hot borscht soup with a basted egg and what looks like foie gras over poached herring. Hard, cracked bread is served on the side. Hungry as I am, I can’t find my appetite.

  “Thank you, Lady Everly.” I look up to see O smiling at me. “If only I were as courageous as you.”

  “Yes, Lady Everly,” Caspian says. “It seems your stupidity knows no bounds.”

  Riser is glaring at me as well. Well, they agree on something, at least. I lean across Riser. “You said to stay away from Countess Delphine,” I whisper, crossing my arms. “You never said her goon brother.”

  Ignoring the others curiously watching us, Caspian says through gritted teeth, “I assumed that was implied.”

  Rolling my eyes, I focus on my tepid soup, poking listlessly at the rich yellow yoke of my egg. I poke my way through the main course—roast wild boar with chestnuts—and the equally sumptuous second main course of steamed swordfish and risotto stuffed mushrooms. Why am I not getting any uploads? What in Fienian hell do I have to do to become interesting?

  I glance at Riser, who isn’t really eating either. Time to be interesting. “How is the boar, Lord Thornbrook?”

  Riser glances up at me. Smiles. A slow, burning, toe-tingling smile that electrifies me. “It is wonderful, thank you, Lady Everly.” His voice is syrupy-soft and hints at something more, a shared private joke. “And you. Is the boar roasted to your liking?” His voice takes on an even more intimate tone. “I remember from our days at your villa you prefer your meat rather raw.”

  From my periphery I see Caspian watching our exchange.

  “Well, Lord Thornbrook,” I say, forcing a smile, “things may have changed a bit since then.”

  “But I do hope you still swim in the buff, Lady March? It was always so entertaining.”

  Coughing, I manage a feeble laugh. “Always so humorous, Lord Thornbrook . . . if not lacking in decorum.”

  Riser takes his fork, impales a chunk of bloody meat, and holds it up to my lips. “I insist, my lady.”

  He’s toying with me! Choking down my anger, I dutifully open my mouth. Cold blood dribbles down my chin as he deposits the meat on my tongue. Caspian is frowning. Riser happily dabs a napkin at my moist chin.

  Chew. Swallow. Hopefully the angry flush creeping up my neck can be passed off as an amorous blush. “Divine,” I manage. “Thank you.”

  Not done torturing me, apparently, Riser parts his mouth and waits. Courting or not, I can’t imagine anyone being this sappy. I stab a stuffed mushroom and angrily force it down his throat.

  I’m pissed. Doesn’t he know how low my ranking is?

  Riser chokes his bite down, wiping bits from his face, and grins. “Always the clumsy one.”

  “What was my nickname for you?” I bat my eyes at Riser. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  Riser chuckles. “I don’t know, Digger. There were just so many.”

  The uploads aren’t coming. I understand that now, even if our courtship were more convincing. We all look up at once to see the attendants bearing the final course. They walk single file, the lids of the silver serving platters they carry rattling quietly.

  It’s too late. A heavy sense of foreboding weighs me down. I failed. I let down Max, my father. Everyone. Even Riser has just barely skated by.

  In desperation, I lean into Riser and whisper, “Please, I beg you, save Max—”

  He presses his finger against my lips. “Everly,” he says, “stop talking. I just want to enjoy this moment for a bit longer.”

  An attendant gracefully presents a small serving tray in front of me. I stare at it, hardly breathing. Only fifty of these platters hold a dessert. Mine will not be one of them. I know that just as I know Riser tricked me.

  I’m sorry, Max.

  Part of me wants to fight. For a delusional second I imagine battling my way to the head table. I wouldn’t make it far enough to actually hurt my mother. But maybe just looking into her eyes, making her face what she has done. Maybe that would be enough.

  The music has stopped playing. There is the sound of the lanterns jostling in the breeze, a horse neighing in the distance. I grasp the lid, hand sweaty and trembling, along with ninety-nine other finalists.

  As the others begin to open theirs, I hesitate. I can’t. I can’t do it. Riser’s hand suddenly rests on top of mine, warm and heavy and safe.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  Riser stares at me for a moment. “Why do you continue to doubt yourself, when everyone else, the entire world, sees how amazing you are?”


  The lid lifts. All at once I understand why he wasn’t taking my silly attempts at courtship seriously. Resting on my plate is a simple strawberry tart, topped with an elaborate, rising phoenix made of spun sugar.

  I am in. I have survived the Culling.

  I glance up at my phoenix, which is now lighted with my number.

  One. I am number one.

  Now I understand why I couldn’t feel my uploads. There was never a single upload.

  The entire time it must have been one long continuous stream.

  “But . . . You let me pretend . . .”

  “You liked me?” His lips press together in a wistful grin. “I am sorry, but you’ve made it abundantly clear I’m contemptible, Lady March, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to feel the opposite. If you like, consider it a parting gift.”

  I see it now. Riser’s empty plate. Looking up I discover somewhere between the first course and now his ranking has fallen to fifty-one. Just below the cutoff. And I was too busy worrying about my status to notice.

  I open my mouth to say what, I don’t know. But he stands, folds his napkin on the table, bows courteously to the other finalists, and remands himself to the waiting Centurion.

  I need to stay seated. Stay emotionless, calm. We knew this could happen.

  “Wait!” I am up before I can stop myself. The Centurion leading Riser halts, and I nearly run into them both. It’s Brogue, although I almost don’t recognize him in his Centurion uniform, shaved and showered and halfway respectable. There’s no recognition in his hard face. He has already manacled Riser’s hands from the front. Hundreds of curious eyes bore into my flesh.

  My first impulse is to slip Riser the hairpin to use later. In his hands it would be more than effective. But Brogue sees me reaching for it and subtly shakes his head.

  Stupid, of course it is.

  My second impulse is to say something comforting. Even stupider. I could beg him to run, but we both know he wouldn’t make it far. Truth is I’m powerless to do anything helpful but watch as they take him to be thrown to the wolves waiting on the other side of the wall.

  Riser locks eyes with me. He’s begging me not to do anything stupid. Too late for that.

  “Tell me what to do,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head, strands of his glossy hair falling over his face. “I lied to you, Everly. I saved you in the water, and I fed you in the pit. I thought my feelings for you were a weakness . . . but I realize now that was the one thing that made me strong.”

  A wild, desperate feeling comes over me. I know I should walk away. That part of these emotions are reconstructed. Just as I know if I do nothing about them, they will burst from my being. So I do something rash. Something I would never in a million years do otherwise.

  I kiss him.

  His lips are dry and hot. They part immediately. A surprised noise rises from somewhere deep in his chest. His constrained hands gather the front of my dress, pulling me into him. I’m startled by the softness, the curious sensation of his teeth grazing the sensitive part of my bottom lip, the alien feel of his tongue sliding over mine. Lady March had kissed a hundred boys by the time I stole her memories—but none have ever felt like this.

  Riser is the first to pull away. I suck in a small hungry breath, the deep rooted reconstructed feelings inside me screaming to pull him close again. It’s as if I have scratched an itch only to make it a thousand times worse.

  Smiling softly at me, Riser lifts his hands, shackles jingling, and cups my chin, his two thumbs pressing on either side of my jaw. “I told you, Lady March, it would be anything but stupid.”

  And then they drag him away.

  Chapter Thirty

  Five whole minutes. That’s how long I have been standing here outside my room. I know as soon as I enter and tell Flame what happened to Riser, one of two things will happen. Flame will murder me or die trying. Although I prefer the latter, both are not ideal.

  Footsteps. Lady Laurel and Lord Blaise are on their way to the midnight celebration being held in the courtyard to celebrate the Culling results. The finalists catch my eye and quickly look away. Now I’m not just some fallen Gold girl. I’m the fallen Gold girl with the most uploads.

  The girl with a shiny new target on her back.

  The room is in disarray. Wires and gadgets and miscellaneous strips of metal spill from the bed to the floor. They lead to Flame, sitting cross-legged, tweaking two sparking wires together. Without even seeing her face, I know she knows. Hoping we can just not discuss it, I go to the window to watch the displays. The sound of the cheering as the first face appears on the rift screen rattles the lead windowpane. The girl is smiling, her glossy red hair coiffed and plaited. It takes a few seconds to recognize my new face.

  I close the window and turn around. “I tried, Flame—”

  “No.” Flame glances up. “Trying would have been following the plan from the beginning. Trying would have been slipping him a weapon so he had a chance—”

  “I tried—”

  “Stop saying that!” All five feet of Flame rises. Far as I can tell she is weaponless, but that means nothing. “Trying would have been stopping them! You let them take him.” She rips the brooch from my dress. “You don’t deserve to wear this!”

  I slump onto the bed. Perhaps she’s right, but I’m too tired to deal with that right now. My body aches, my mind aches, my heart aches. It’s been days since I’ve slept well. The cheers continue outside, shaking dust from the stone walls. I toy with the torn fabric where the brooch was. “What can Brogue do?”

  “Nothing.” Flame’s voice has lost its razor-edge. Like me, she sounds exhausted. “Sometime tomorrow Riser will be dumped outside the fence, and they’ll tear him to pieces. But I’m sure your kiss will do him a lot of good.”

  My cheeks prickle with anger and embarrassment. “If you didn’t want me to kiss him, then you shouldn’t have reconstructed me to desire him.” The word sticks in my throat. Desire. But I do. I have to admit that. Something inside me needs him, and even though it may not be real, it feels real.

  Flame toys with a frayed wire. I wait for her to throw in a jab, but she’s unusually quiet.

  I begin gathering the debris off the bed. “Aren’t you worried about someone coming in and seeing all this stuff?”

  “Princess, right now we have bigger things to worry about.”

  “They discovered we’re in the system?”

  “Well, the wig-heads know someone’s been playing with their toys; they just don’t know who. Yet.” She goes back to the wardrobe and disappears behind the high-tech apparatus she’s been working on. “Get some sleep. Let the adults fix this.”

  “Sleep?” Crossing the floor to the wardrobe, I squeeze past Flame and rifle through leather corsets and horribly outdated petticoats until I find a short muslin nightgown. “You think I can sleep now after everything that’s happened?”

  Flame smiles up at me. “I could crack your skull. Lights out.”

  I’m fairly sure she’s being serious.

  I peel out of my clothes on the way to the bed. The nightgown is stiff and scratchy. I pause as I spy the partially opened bag by the wall, and a chill runs through me. Peeking from inside are two smooth, golden octahedra about the size of my fist, the shape similar to two pyramids put together. Ancient symbols cover them.

  Nano-shredders.

  Flame’s gaze slowly travels from the bag to me. “Problem, Princess?”

  “Why do you have those?”

  She makes a pouty face. “Aww, is the Princess scared?”

  Yes, I think. She is. Because I know those little, seemingly harmless objects have millions of nano-shredders writhing around inside them, whose only purpose is to seek out flesh like mine, the kind that’s been modified and reconstructed. If it went off, the Chosen would be the first victims, followed by anyone who’s been reconstructed. Basically half the Island would be shredded. Not that the shredders are picky. They’ll maim anything within their
path.

  Why would Flame have this?

  “The plan is to kill the Emperor,” I remind her, my words sticky with fear, “not the entire court.”

  “Well, plans bore me, as do Dandies with a pulse and simpering Royalists.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but there’s obviously no point. Instead, I lean over and close the bag, as if somehow I am now safer. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Reasons. Plural.”

  “Okay—”

  Suddenly Flame is up and coming toward me. “I don’t like you because you think you’re better than everyone else.” Another step. “I don’t like you because you’re like them.” Now she’s standing at the edge of the bed. “Currently, I despise you because Riser would still be here if you had just followed the plan from the beginning.”

  “The plan was flawed.” Sitting up—I need to be able to ward off any blows—I lift my hands. “No one can pretend to be in love. Even with the help of a Reconstructor.”

  “Ironic, isn’t that the pathetic act you were putting on when you thought you needed Riser’s help?”

  She’s right. Riser’s face flashes in my mind, and I shake my head, trying to dislodge him.

  She stares at me for a second. I feel the breath I’ve been holding release as she crosses the floor and begins digging through her satchel. There’s a fluttering noise as she tosses something at me. A book, I see, the cover filled with exquisite watercolor ravens, all black except one vibrant blue one—just like her tattoo. It’s titled: The Little Blue Raven.

  She nods to the book. “Open it.”

  I do as commanded, reading the dedication: For Charlotte, my beautiful, peculiar, wild creature.

  The next page depicts a blue raven with lanky, slumped wings and a sad face. I begin reading the text, turning the pages in the dim light.

  Me, you, and little raven blue,

  We have places to fly and things to do.

  Buttons to gather, yarn to twine, nests to build, friends to find.