The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2)

by Saruuh Kelsey

  He says, “So you’ll know I’m here.”

  “Okay.” It might help. I don’t know. I don’t hate having Siah this close but at the same time I want to shove him away. I’m getting sick of my feelings making no sense. I breathe and breathe and breathe until I’m steadier, then let my limbs relax. I can feel Yosiah’s chest moving, hairs rising on the back of my neck with every breath. It’s not comfortable, but I’ll get used to it.

  I lie awake with my eyes closed until Yosiah falls asleep. Then I carefully turn around to watch him. If I can convince myself that this is real and he didn’t die in the underground tunnels, that I didn’t die in the tunnels and everything since has been some kind of afterlife dream, I’ll be able to sleep easier.

  My eyes swallow everything, crossing off some subconscious tick list. Skin that’s a dark gold in the grey light. Veins that cover fragile eyelids. An almost-healed scrape on his cheek from the jump in the Underground. An age old dip in his chin. A groove bitten into his bottom lip. A hooked scar on his jaw from a bar fight he lost a year ago. New grazes on his neck and collarbone that I’ve not seen before.

  A fake Yosiah would never have this much detail. This could never be a dream.

  I breathe him in, matching his musky scent with days spent close to my best friend. Everything about this Yosiah is the same as my Yosiah. I finally allow myself to believe that it’s him. Something in the back of my head argues that I must have believed it all along or I wouldn’t have let him this close to me or Tom or Livy. I shrug off all my inner voices, finally feeling tired again.

  Careful not to disturb Yosiah, I lie back. In this room in a lost town I start to feel dangerously content.

  Yosiah shifts in his sleep until he’s flat on his back. I watch him a minute longer, just to make sure he’s definitely asleep, before I curl up against his side. This close he smells rank, days of sweat from walking and limping and staggering layered on his skin. I press my face against him, the last strings of tension releasing me. He smells like nights spent dozing on the streets of Forgotten London, when I discovered that a home is more than a thousand bricks stacked together in a square, when I made Yosiah my home.

  ***

  Branwell

  08:04. 12.10.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Harwich.

  Honour and I spend the morning ransacking the sage-green house for anything that could be useful. Being antiques of an abandoned world, everything is predictably out of date, but some things are salvageable. Everything we can make use of is thrown into Honour’s backpack and my satchel—something Alba only returned to me two days ago when she decided I was to be trusted. A half-used bar of soap wrapped in a sheet of newspaper is nestled beside the bracelet that brought me to this time, my father’s journals, and the Cure.

  I wrap a shard of glass from a broken photo frame in an orange scarf. We may have reached this part of England without trouble but I expect it will catch up with us at some point. There will be no such thing as too many weapons when that time comes. I take everything I can imagine doing damage and hope that preparation will save my life.

  I reach for a metal hip flask but Honour gives me a misshapen clear bottle instead, saying it will hold more. He hands me another bottle and drops three more into his own bag. No matter what the next part of our journey throws at us, I’m glad we won’t have to keep scooping water from rivers at least.

  In the kitchen I find a box of tools in a cluttered cupboard; I take four of them—the only tools I recognise—because the future could hurl any number of unknown tasks at me. A screwdriver never goes amiss. Honour unearths a first aid kit and a dozen dull knives. He saves the knives to give to the others.

  With my satchel stocked with improvised weapons, hygiene products, shirtsleeves that look to be about my size, and a tattered copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I collapse into the arm chair in the sitting room, wishing this house was bigger so I’d have more to occupy myself with. I’m fine when I have something to keep my mind busy but as soon as I have time to think, all my troubles and terrors return to drown me.

  Bennet is dead.

  I have acknowledged that now but it’s impossible for me to accept it.

  12:17. 12.10.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Harwich.

  Alba and the Guardians have wrangled a ship from somewhere in the harbour. We are due to sail to an abandoned town farther up the coast and then make our way by foot to our true destination—the town of Manchester, where a band of survivors have been living for years independent of the Officials. This is news to even the people from Forgotten London, who respond to the statement with disbelief and outrage.

  “If people have been living there all this time, why didn’t you take us to them sooner?”

  “There was no way past the fence,” Alba answers coolly. “Once we were trapped inside the only way to escape was to do what we did—destroy the town. If we’d have attempted to escape before we did, even more people would have been lost to the Fall—you perhaps.”

  “We should still have tried,” mutters a boy no older than me.

  “You’re free now.” Timofei’s sharp voice cuts through the muttering. “You should be grateful for that.”

  Another Guardian says something but his words are blown into the sea. Others must have heard him, however, because a ruckus rises. I strain to pick out what they’re arguing about but until there’s a lull in the wind I hear nothing. In the sudden quiet I catch a vicious string of words that has me gasping.

  “He’s not to blame!” a girl yells. “We’d still be locked in there if he hadn’t found us. We’d be dead!”

  A woman adds her voice to the crescendo. “Yeah! Did you forget States were going to kill us, James? Would you rather be dead? I can arrange that.”

  “I’d love to see you try, Jessi.”

  “Enough!” Alba’s voice has worn thin. “You are Guardians and you will act like it or so help me—”

  “We’re people too, Alba,” says a dark haired man a little in front of me. He’s several years older than most of the people here, his voice brittle. “We’re allowed opinions—we’re not Officials.”

  “Yes, thank you, Kyle. And you’re right; you are allowed opinions, as long as you’re quiet and inoffensive about it. James, however”—presumably Alba points at the boy I first heard, the one with the nasty mouth—“was being downright malicious and there’s no need for it.”

  At Alba’s next words everything snaps into place.

  “Every one of us is equal now. Guardian, civilian, leader, follower. We’re all homeless, we’ve all lost people, and not one of us knows what will happen next. But to put all of your anger and blame on Honour is wrong and it will get you nowhere. We have to be a whole unit. We can’t be turning on anyone. There are only seventy of us left and we’re weak in our small number—but sticking together will make us stronger. Internal conflict will only make us easier to break when the Officials find us.”

  She looks at the people in the front of the crowd, her eyes settling on each person in turn. “This is hard enough without you fighting each other. I assure you that every single person feels bad enough already without being laid into.” Her eyes drift in the direction of the vicious James. “Attack anyone again, verbally or physically, and you’ll be left here without help.”

  With that she turns and heads up a set of wooden steps onto a blue-hulled ship. A white, three-tiered eyesore sits above the deck, filled with windows that glare like narrowed eyes, and a string of all the nations’ flags flaps in the sea breeze above them. The name Clelia II is picked out in silver on its side.

  We were told that a team of their technologists and pilots have almost figured out how to captain it, but I’m still dubious about boarding. I’m literally placing my life in the hands of men and women who are making things up as they go along. But if I don’t go with the Guardians I stay here alone, with no direction, purpose, or friends to speak to.

  I turn the collar of my jacket up against the sea wind and fix my
attention on Timofei as he informs us about the long voyage ahead, detailing everything from the route to the layout of the ship. Most of what he tells us is surplus to requirements. I don’t care how many boiler rooms there are.

  I tune him out, focusing instead on Honour. His short hair is stuck up in all directions, sweat rolling down the curve of his nose despite the coldness of being so close to sea. He doesn’t look well but that’s what sleeping hunched over a table will do for you. He catches me watching him and tilts his head inquiringly.

  “Ever been on a ship before?” I ask.

  Honour scrubs a hand through his hair, mussing it even more. “No.”

  “Not looking forward to it?”

  “How is it safe? Shouldn’t it like … fall over? Or sink? I don’t understand. It’s just a bit of metal.”

  “A bloody big bit of metal.”

  He looks at me sharply, a spark of true apprehension in his eyes.

  “It won’t sink, I promise you. And it won’t fall over either. Ships are made to be on the sea.”

  “Right.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sure. Of course. I still don’t understand.”

  “Do you trust my word?”

  He meets my eyes, searching. “Mostly.”

  “Then I give you my word—the ship is perfectly safe.” I don’t voice my concerns about the crew; I hardly think Honour needs more fuel for his fright.

  Timofei and another Guardian leader whose name I don’t know gesture for us to board the ship and the fledgling smile drains from Honour’s face. “I’ve changed my mind,” he says. “I don’t trust you at all.”

  “Come on.” I take hold of his elbow. “We can get on this thing together. Horatia can take your other side and you’ll be safe in the middle.”

  As we step onto the walkway, Honour’s body tenses, his shoulders locking. It’s slow going but eventually we make it onto the ship. Honour’s breath escapes him all at once when we’re herded down a corridor and into a wide ballroom. There are windows framing one side of the room through which the sea can be spotted, but with Honour’s back to that wall I suppose it could look like an ordinary room. He calms.

  “Thanks,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I freaked out like that.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  He apologises to his sister, dipping his voice so their conversation is private as Timofei calls the room to quiet. Everyone is on board the ship now, even spiteful James, and we’re free to move into our rooms or stay to help tidy the ‘common rooms’ to a liveable state.

  There are only twenty bedrooms so each chamber must be shared between three or four people. That in itself is problematic. I assume Yosiah, Miya, and her siblings will share a room and Honour and his sister will share another with Dalmar and Hele, which leaves me in a room with strangers.

  Honour looks like a wounded animal as he explains to me that there are only four beds in his bedroom and none of those are free for me to sleep in. Yosiah offers his bed to me, insisting he doesn’t mind sleeping on the floor, but I can’t take a bed from someone and keep a clear conscience.

  So when everyone branches off, I leave my jacket and satchel in the room next to Honour’s and hope that will let people know that I’ve claimed a bed. I slip The Cure into the pocket of my trousers because I promised myself I would never part from it, and then I close the metal door behind me, following the cold, grey corridor toward the noise of many voices. It feels strange to be alone, despite always being independent at home. I’ve been cocooned in friendship these past few weeks, I suppose. It’s changed me a little.

  The boat gives a gentle lurch and my hands automatically reach for the walls for stability, but it readies itself before a major disaster can happen. I suppose that means we’ve left Harwich, the port surrendered us to the greater mouth of the ocean. The sight of bustling Guardians in varying shades of grey that were once white keeps me from dwelling on the insecurity of the water.

  The beige room is grand and packed with people. Plush carpet covers the floor, matching the muted walls, and there are a number of round dining tables, some chipped and others ruined entirely but all clearly of fine quality. Some Guardians are righting the fallen furniture and sweeping up broken glass and crockery, while others move in a flurry, doling out tins of food. I cross the fray to help a girl with a table and between us we hide the scratched old surface with a daffodil yellow tablecloth.

  When the room is restored, people fill the chairs and yet more cans of food are given out to those who haven’t eaten. I spoon carrots from a tin that was only half full when I was given it. My stomach growls, either in gratitude at something to eat or despair that there isn’t more. I take a sip of water to wash it down, tasting mostly salt.

  When the meal is over and Timofei has again drilled into us what to expect of the coming days, we’re told we can return to our rooms until morning.

  Standing outside the closed door, not knowing who waits for me on the other side, nerves turn my stomach into a tempest. I have to take deep breaths and remind myself that I was never before scared of meeting new people. I shake my head, straighten my shirt, and turn the great circle of a door handle.

  Inside, I don’t find what I was expecting—three males, all of huge stature and intimidating aura. Instead there is a girl with white-blonde ringlets and a pale face. She’s perched on a bed suspended from the wall, speaking energetically with both her voice and her hands. On the bed beneath her is the girl who rescued me from imprisonment in the Guardians’ base. She is as unique and attractive as she was then, a watercolour of reds and browns, but her pristine hair is now untamed and there are scrapes and scratches marring her chestnut skin. She somehow manages to be even more interesting than before.

  When I step over the threshold the blonde girl stops mid-rant and says, “So that’s whose bag it is.”

  “Branwell!” Priya looks so shocked and pleased to see me that I feel awful for not speaking to her before now. I could have found time to spark a conversation with her during the long days of walking.

  “Hello,” I say sheepishly, pressing the door shut. “Are we the only people in this room?”

  “Yep.” My question is answered by the other girl, the stranger. She jumps down from the bed with leonine grace, white curls bobbing around her shoulders. “It’s just us girls.”

  “Marie.” Priya gives the girl a look laced with familiar exasperation.

  Watching the women, I sink onto the hard bed and put the satchel under my pillow. Sleeping on this rock of a mattress ought to be fun. Still, I tell myself, at least it’s clean.

  “We haven’t looked through it,” Priya says quickly. “We left your bag alone.”

  “Thank you.” I barely hold off the urge to search through it, checking that everything remains, but I trust Priya. I kick off my stifling boots and hang my coat over the bed’s railing, feeling able to relax for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

  “No problem,” Marie says, yet again speaking for Priya. She produces a pack of playing cards from the depths of her bosom and begins shuffling them. I turn my gaze away, blood rising to my cheeks. “Never seen a woman keep things in her bra before, Branwell?”

  “I don’t know what that is.” I’m mortified. I curl my feet up beneath me, fixated on the floor.

  Priya laughs softly, sitting beside me—at a respectable distance. “Ignore her,” she says. “Marie’s a terror.”

  “I am sure she’s no such thing.”

  Without warning, Marie flings herself onto my bed, draping her body across mine and Priya’s legs. “Oh, my Lord, how the ladies must swoon! What a compliment!”

  “M, get off,” says Priya, unceremoniously shoving the other girl to the floor. “You’re making him uncomfortable.”

  “No, no it’s fine,” I rush to say, wiping clammy palms on my trousers.

  “In that case I’ll lay back on you.” Marie slinks towards me with intent.

  I stand up as fast as my legs
will allow. “I’m fine without you … doing that.”

  “See!” She throws her hands up. “My case in point! You men think you can try it on with any girl you find attractive and it’ll be alright with her. But as soon as the tables are turned, it’s not alright. It makes you uncomfortable. It’s encroaching on your personal space.” She delivers the last two words with a strange hand gesture. “Funnily enough that’s because it’s not alright when you do it to girls!”

  “Try it on with …?” I repeat in confusion.

  “She had a guy give her …”—Priya pauses, searching for words—“unwelcome attention.”

  “Oh.”

  Marie crosses her arms over her chest. “It was disgusting. And unwanted. But as soon as I told the guy to get the hell away from me, I’m in the wrong! He said it was a compliment. A compliment! To have him leering over me, saying he could straighten me out in no time. Great compliment.”

  “I do hope he took your Unwanted Punch To The Face as a compliment,” Priya says, smiling.

  “If he didn’t, I’ll just have to keep punching him until he does. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?” Marie catches my blanched face and adds, “Don’t worry. I won’t try it on with you anymore. I was just making a point.”

  “M.” Priya regards the girl with fondness, “He’s literally an old fashioned gentleman. He wouldn’t have tried anything anyway. Would you?”

  I shake my head rapidly.

  “Right.” Marie shrugs one shoulder, her mouth a wry twist. “Well, he’s still a man. He needs to know these things.” She straightens her posture and announces loftily, “It is our duty, as women of the real world, to educate this pathetic boy.”