The Blood Racer (The Blood Racer Trilogy Book 1)

by Winchester, Matthew

  “You may want to see Alice today. Tomorrow, if you can’t,” Rigel said as we began shuffling toward the dock. The cradle we were walking on was retracting, but we never stood around to wait for it. We both usually had more work to do. “She’s got some…interesting things in there today.”

  I looked over at him, watching his gloved hands easily shift the heavy tanks in his arms. “What kinds of things?” I asked. Alice Butterfield’s entire shop was full of ‘interesting’ things, primarily because she was one of the very few shopkeepers left in Adams that still accepted trade if you had no money. There was never any knowing what would come through her door. Once, while there, Rigel and I saw the mounted, posed skeleton of an animal that no one could identify, or explain how it had arrived there. Another time, we had toyed around with an odd musical instrument that neither of us could seem to figure out. Her store was full of similar oddities. Rigel knew this, of course, so if there was something that he claimed was interesting, it was most likely worth a look.

  “I’m sure she’ll show you if she gets the chance,” Rigel said with a smile. He nodded toward the simple box in my hand. “Where’s that going?”

  If it were anyone else asking, I would have simply brushed off the question with something sarcastic. Since it was Rigel, though, I didn’t worry about it. “Mayor Westward,” I confessed.

  Rigel’s eyebrows lifted at once. “Ohhh, I see. What do you guess? Script for his Race Day interview?”

  I grimaced at the mention of Race Day. “Ugh. If it is, I think I should trip and lose it over the side.”

  It was sarcasm, of course, but Rigel knew better than anyone how I felt about the Race. For the last few days, more and more decorations had been going up all over town. It had been three years since I had seen them, and they were something I had not missed one bit. Soon, everyone in Adams would be asking who I was favoring, what ship I thought would be best, or which radio star I would get my play-by-play updates from. Some people knew enough to not bring it up to me, but I still dreaded it, and was unwittingly snappy and rude to anyone that I saw enjoying it.

  Part of me wanted to like it, honestly. The race was the only holiday that everyone in town could participate in. Most hadn’t the money for things like Christmas gifts or Ascendance Day parties, but the race was different. You didn’t need any money to enjoy it. You didn’t need a special venue to hold an event, it was universal. It was an event shared by everyone in every city. People were in good spirits leading up to it, it gave everyone plenty to talk about, and you could even stand to make a little coin, if you got lucky and placed a bet on the right pilot, anyway. And it only came around once every three years. I truly wished that I did enjoy it.

  But I didn’t.

  The race brought only pain to me. It brought memories and sorrows that I would rather stay buried. The race had taken my father six years ago. Three years later, my mother had entered. She never came back, either. The race had flown my siblings and me twice to Shiloh, the wealthiest, most fabulous city in the Dominion, where I’d wept against the Wall of the Fallen with my family’s names on it. At home, I had two Certificates of Bravery, the only consolation that we were given for their sacrifices. The race had taken almost everything from me, and it had given me nothing but grief.

  With the cradle still retracting, Rigel and I stepped onto the docks with Toby, the other dockworker a few paces behind us. Toby and I were cordial enough, but he was Rigel’s friend, really. He and I exchanged nods as he headed back to his work station, and Rigel let him pass before turning back to me.

  “You want me to help you take these to the shop?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and gesturing to the heavy hydro tanks under his arms.

  I nodded. “Yeah, if you could drop them there while I take this to Mayor Westward, that’d be stellar.”

  “Copy,” he said with a nod, seeming satisfied. “Toby, I’ll be back in a few.”

  Toby nodded, giving Rigel an odd smile as he passed.

  “What was that about?” I asked, glancing back at Toby. Rather than meeting my gaze, he was focused on watching the Cloud Kicker settle into place on the docks.

  Rigel looked down at me in confusion. “What was what?”

  “Hmm.” I narrowed my eyes up at him. “Nothing, I guess.”

  Shrugging, Rigel shifted the tanks in his arms and gave a smile to a passing mother and child. “Hi, Celia,” he said cheerfully.

  “Hello, Rigel!” Celia said beaming. Her daughter, which couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old, gave him a giddy wave of her own as they passed by.

  I had to admire the way that everyone seemed to adore Rigel. He may not have been the most skilled worker, or the best mechanic, or the best pilot, but…everywhere he went, people loved him. It may have been his sunny disposition. It may have been the way he was always ready with a joke or an optimistic comment. Personally, I thought it was just because everyone saw him as a big, goofy kid.

  “By the way,” he said to me as we made our way into the city. “You’re gonna want to cover your eyes when you cross the causeway.”

  I groaned. “Oh, right. The banner.”

  The causeway was the large, iron bridge that separated the town itself from the residential area, which was comprised mostly of tin-and-wood shacks. It was the part of Adams that actually spanned the gap on the mountain, the gap from which the city got its nickname.

  Due the rise in global temperature that had happened hundreds of years before my birth - around the same time that the air pollution was forming the Veil - the glacier that had been a part of Mt. Adams had melted, leaving two separated sections of land. When the geothermal plant was built, the shacks and huts for the workers sprouted up around it, creating a village that would later expand into a town. It was easier for the workers to live and labor there when it felt more like a home. Sadly, the financial backing was never enough, and the town had never been anything but impoverished. For the most part, I was grateful for this. I was glad that we didn’t end up like the snobby rich citizens from over on Rainier. Anyway, the city needed a bridge to connect the residents to the businesses, so they built the causeway between the two peaks, and the Gap became our official nickname. The wealthier cities used it almost like an insult when referring to Adams, but we adopted it as our own ages ago.

  “Yeah, the banner,” Rigel said, giving me a sympathetic smile. “Right where it always is.”

  “I’ll try not to tear it down as I pass,” I joked.

  Rigel grinned. “You really should. I’d make a new one that said Elana Silver is the greatest, and hang it there instead.”

  At this, I laughed loudly, something that I was not accustomed to doing. “Yeah, I’d like to see that.”

  We continued on our way into the city streets, nodding to the familiar shop vendors and even pausing so Rigel could drop some coins into the hands of Mr. Dormeur, the most notorious beggar in town. He gave Rigel a word of thanks and smiled widely.

  “How much do you give him on an average week?” I asked curiously as we walked away.

  Rigel shrugged. “I don’t know. Three or four tokens. Why?”

  “You do know that could feed you and your dad for probably two days?” I asked. “Since when are you that rich?”

  Rigel grinned again. “I’m not. None of us are. That’s why I like to help out. We’re all in the same ship, Ellie,” he finished with a crooked smile.

  I sighed, stepping out of the way as a group of young children scampered past our knees. “Say that when you’ve got mouths to feed.”

  “I will one day,” he said, almost dreamily. “See you later.”

  “See ya,” I said, watching as he took a left at the intersection we were passing. Despite the heavy tanks under his arms, he sauntered toward Old Man Nichols’ shop like he hadn’t a care in the world. I couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of him as I continued toward my delivery destination.

  The Mayor’s house was at the center of the town, and was the nic
est building in the Gap. Of course, that wasn’t saying much. That just meant it was sturdier, and had less rust on the metal sections of it. It also had a second story, which was basically unheard of in Adams. Mayor Westward and his wife were the closest thing we had to wealth in our town. The people here tried not to resent them for it, though. Their status gave them some privileges, but ever since the death of their young daughter, Constance, from illness some years back, none of the citizens ever gave them any flak for it. The Dominion had failed to provide Constance the proper medical care in time, and she had died. The Westwards had felt the pain that the rest of us had felt, as well as the barely concealed indifference offered by the Archons, who were the rulers of the Dominion. From that moment on, the Westwards had become the same as us, and we all felt it.

  My route to the center of town took me past all the landmarks I had grown up with. There was Wilkerson’s bakery, where my brother and sister always like to stop and smell the air when the door opened. I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed it, too. It always smelled of sweetness and cinnamon, and sometimes even chocolate. Such delicacies were always just out of our budget, but smelling the delicious fragrances on the air was a treat in itself, and it always made us feel like children again. As I walked by, I inhaled deeply through my nose, catching a small whiff of fresh bread. It was delightful.

  After that was the Greer’s shop, where Mr. and Mrs. Greer made and sold glass trinkets and miniatures. They never got much business. Not from locals, anyway. But it was a labor of love for them, and Zanna adored looking at the tiny glass animals and airships. Rigel was fascinated by the process of glassblowing, and had almost ended up as an intern for Mr. Greer before Leo Campbell, Rigel’s father, forbade him from doing so. Apparently, there wasn’t enough money to be made in glass crafting. I remember Rigel being pretty upset, but he had listened. He became a dockworker instead, but I knew he still sometimes snuck into the Greer’s on his lunch break to watch them work.

  Next was Joe Pipkin’s sweet shop. Rigel and I used to run across his rooftop as part of a shortcut that we’d made when bounding through the town. He had only ever yelled at us a few times. He had always been a very nice man. Like the Greers, money wasn’t Joe’s primary focus. As long as he could make enough to buy more sugar or syrup, it was fine by him. Even though he was in his fifties, and had a head of thin grey hair, I think he loved snacking on the candies as much as any kid in the whole city. I think that was what I liked about him. Even though the world was a bleak one, especially in Adams, he never let it bring him down. Maybe that’s where Rigel learned it from.

  As I continued through the main area of town, I was able to make it to Mayor Westward’s house without being badgered about what I was carrying. Doing my best to look as professional as I could, I pulled off my helmet with a free hand and tried to ruffle some life into the short brown hair that had been flattened against my skull. Giving up after only a few seconds, I lifted a gloved hand to the white door and rapped loudly.

  It took only a minute for the door to open, revealing the tall, pudgy frame of Mayor Westward. He was wearing a grey knitted waistcoat, and had an absurdly large, unlit pipe hanging from his mouth. His dark, greased hair was a bit out of sorts, and I wondered if I had awakened him from a nap, or something. His drooping brown eyes glared down at me in semi-confusion, but they quickly flitted over to the box and he seemed to understand.

  “Delivery, is it?” he huffed, breathing loudly through his nose as he adjusted the pipe with his lips.

  I nodded, holding out the box. “Yes, sir. From Rainier.”

  “I need to sign anything?”

  “Just that slip there,” I pointed to the corner of the box.

  Westward patted down the chest of his waistcoat, searching for a pen that wasn’t there. From behind him, a narrow feminine arm reached over his slouched shoulder. “Here you are, dear,” said his wife, Cecily, as she handed him a silver and blue fountain pen.

  “Hm. Yes, thank you,” he grunted, taking the pen from her. Blinking his eyes pointedly, he scribbled at the shipping slip for a moment before tearing off the top copy and handing it back to me.

  I gave him a nod of thanks and turned to leave when I heard Mrs. Westward slap her husband on the arm. “Rupert, it’s proper manners to tip the girl.”

  “Right, then. Here you are,” the mayor grumbled, tossing me a coin from his pocket. I had to snap a hand up to catch it, but he didn’t even wait for me to thank him. As he was closing his door, the only thing I could hear was Cecily whispering.

  “Is that for the race?” she asked.

  I scoffed as I walked away. Rigel had been right. Probably his Race Day speech. Definitely looking forward to hearing that, I thought to myself as I stepped away from their house. Opening my hand, I looked down at the coin he had tossed me and felt my eyes bulge for a second.

  “Twenty tokens?” I breathed, cradling the coin in my hand as if it were suddenly made of glass. That was as much as I made in a week. He had just thrown it to me as if it were nothing to him. How much money did he have that he could just throw twenty tokens at someone like it wasn’t a big deal? So much for being just like the rest of us. Quickly, I slipped the coin in my pocket and gave a cursory glance around, making sure no one had seen it. I didn’t want anyone begging me for a handout.

  It wasn’t that I was against helping others, but I had never begged for anything in my life. I had always found a way to earn my keep, to provide for those I needed to provide for. I didn’t have much in this world, but what I did have were things I had earned. I found it difficult to pity those that couldn’t. I even hated accepting gifts, even for my birthday. Rigel could attest to that. Once or twice he had tried giving me things, and I had mostly refused them. He once gave me a pair of flying gloves that he had made himself. I accepted them only because I knew it would crush him if I refused. In hindsight, I was glad I did. They were comfortable and durable, and I was still wearing them even after two years.

  With a bit of a spring in my step, I journeyed back toward the docks, headed for Nichols’ shop. I just needed to drop off my delivery slip and, hopefully, that would be all for the day. It was getting to be that time, anyway. And since I had made an extra week’s wages with one run, I would’ve loved to have the rest of the day off.

  When I arrived, Rigel was still there, putting the finishing touches on the hydro tanks I had given him earlier. He was laughing at some joke that had just passed between him and Sparks, the long-distance courier that Nichols used for carrying goods to other parts of the Dominion.

  Sparks looked over at me as I walked in. “Uh-oh,” he said, grinning widely. “Fun time’s over.”

  I chuckled. “Just like your days of having hair.”

  Rigel laughed loudly at my comment, but Sparks slapped a hand over his bald head as his mouth fell open. “Immediately, she comes out swinging!”

  “You can’t joke with her,” Rigel said, still laughing. “She goes for the hurt. Every time.”

  “Your face is gonna hurt in a minute,” I said, hopping onto a vacant stool by Nichols’ work table.

  Rigel pointed me and looked over at Sparks. “See what I mean?”

  Sparks got up from his own stool and made his way toward the door, pulling on his long leather coat and shouldering the large mailbag he always carried with him. “All right, I guess I should be going. Got some Rainier business to take care of. Besides, if I wanted to get nagged at all day by a woman, I’d get married.”

  I cackled dramatically. “You? With a wife? That would be the day.”

  He grinned again, his silver tooth glinting from the corner of his mouth, and stroked his scraggly goatee. “Still mad that I turned you down? How long are you gonna hold that against me?”

  Laughing at his own joke, he ducked out the door before I could muster a sardonic response. Growling, I tossed my delivery slip onto the worktable. He hadn’t ‘turned me down’ for anything. Sparks just loved getting the last word. His ego demanded it. H
e was older than I was, probably by about a decade, so his wit was a little sharper than mine. That didn’t stop me from giving him grief whenever I saw him, though. It was a regular routine with us. We would fire quips at one another every chance we got. I couldn’t do that with Rigel. He was a little too sensitive. He could joke for a minute, but he always ended up with his feelings hurt, like he thought I was serious. With Sparks, there was no danger of that.

  Still smiling, Rigel sauntered over to me with my hydro tanks dragging on the ground behind him. Now that they were full, he couldn’t carry both of them “You’ll get him next time,” he said with a wink. I gave him a playful shove and he slid out the door, managing to hook it with his foot so that it closed behind him.

  With a sigh, I turned to look for Old Man Nichols, who was hunched over a workbench in the back of his shop, soldering some small pieces of metal together. “I suppose I should count myself lucky that I had finished my business with him before you drove my mail carrier away,” he said, not even looking up from his work.

  I rolled my eyes to myself and smiled. “I assumed you’d already got the business out of the way first, and that Sparks was just flapping his gums. That’s kind of his thing, you know.”

  Nichols chuckled quietly. “Indeed, my dear.”

  I exhaled and tapped my fingers absentmindedly on the table in front of me, carelessly toying with various tools and bits of metal. “Well, the delivery slip is here. Signed by Westward. Is there…anything else for today?”

  Nichols paused in his work and raised up slightly. “Just one thing,” he said.

  I suppressed a curse, but I couldn’t keep my shoulders from slumping. Nichols stood from his work bench and made his way over to me, wiping his big filthy hands on the blackened apron that hung off of his neck. On his way over, he grabbed Sparks’ stool and set it down in front of me, taking a seat on it with a groan.

  On most days, Nichols didn’t really strike me as an old man. He worked harder than any young man I knew, and he never complained. He was always on time, he was always dependable, and he never even got sick. Not that I could remember, anyway. I knew he was in his sixties, though, and as he took off his ancient cap and rubbed his pale eyes in front of me, he suddenly seemed quite old. Old and weary. His lightly wrinkled skin looked to be sagging. His grey hair was shaggy and long, and was matted with sweat. I never understood how he could keep his beard so perfectly trimmed and shaped, but never bothered to comb his hair. At the moment, it didn’t matter. He removed the multi-lensed work glasses from his face and sighed deeply.