by Rachel West
“Is your dad still around somewhere?” Kalia asks.
A memory of the old pain rises. But I’ve long since gotten over the loss of my father. “No,” I say. “He disappeared when I was younger. Annie couldn’t have been older than two.” Sometimes I still wonder where he went. Part of me hopes that one day he’ll walk back into my life, full of smiles and apologies. I’ve pictured the scene a thousand times. As a child it always ended we me in his arms, eyes wet with tears. These days, when I bother to think about it at all, the fantasy ends with a slap to his face and a turned back. He doesn’t deserve me and he certainly doesn’t deserve Annie.
“Your mum?”
I shrug and that is answer enough. In Westwick Slums there are a lot of orphans. No explanation is ever needed. I offer one anyway, “The Praetors.”
“Is that why…” She trails off. I know exactly what she’s asking. Is that why you fight?
“No,” the word is slightly too sharp. “I mean. Maybe a little. I don’t know.”
Kalia lightly touches the back of my hand. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“No. It’s fine. At first I mostly just went along with Jaxon. All of a sudden he was here, in my life. And it was like..,” I try to find the words. Overwhelming. Amazing. Consuming. “I can’t explain it. In the beginning all I cared about was getting my sister back. This,” I wave my hands around me, “I never expected any of this. Sometimes it still doesn’t make sense.”
Kalia barks a laugh. “I know exactly what you mean,” she says with an easy smile. “I think Vertigo’s a little pissed.”
I work hard to force a laugh but can’t stop the twist of adrenaline at the thought. I don’t trust Vertigo. Not a bit. Not even if he is Kalia’s surrogate father. His eyes – I shudder, sweat breaking out on my palms – one look at his eyes is all it takes to know the man.
The door bursts open, a grateful reprieve from what could quickly become an uncomfortable conversation.
“Hi Annie,” I greet my sister. She’s dressed up today and I wonder where she got the clothes. A bright yellow dress that looks freshly cleaned and a pair of shoes I’ve never seen before.
“What are you doing? More war planning?” she sneers, not bothering with a greeting. I look away, unable to bear the sullen pout on her face because all it does is make me wish I could go back in time to when things were bright and happy. To when we were a family. Not these two strangers tiptoeing around each other.
“No,” I say, taken aback. “Just hanging out.”
“Oh,” her steps falter for half a second.
“Want to stick around? We were thinking of playing Clubs.”
Despite the lie, Kalia immediately backs me up. “I was about to go get my cards,” she says.
For a moment the angry façade drops and I see the loneliness in her eyes. In an instant it’s gone again. She cuts me off and I have no idea how to get her back. “No,” she snaps. “I was just grabbing my jacket.” She pulls her jacket from the back of the door and storms from the room.
Kalia looks at me with wide eyes.
I wring my hands. “I don’t know.” I say, defeated. “Family.” The one word manages to encompass all my feelings about my sister. How I love her but goddamn she’s gone bat-shit insane since I rescued her. Despite all that, I would do anything for her. I would throw myself on a Praetor’s blade if it would keep her safe. But she can be so…frustrating.
“Yeah,” she says with a half-laugh and I can tell she understands exactly what I’m not saying.
Another sound at the door, this one far more welcome, interrupts ups. “Jaxon,” I jump to my feet. “Hi,” I smile.
For a moment he looks almost shocked to see me. He musters up half a smile and I immediately know that something has gone wrong. “Come on,” he reaches out for me then drops his hand mid-motion, “we have a problem.”
“What?” I ask. I stumble forward and panic sets my heart racing.
“The Praetors are burning the slums.”
***
Jaxon pushes through the crowd at the main entrance to the Hollows. At least two dozen stand before us, trying to wrangle their way to the front for a better view, as they spill out of the broken down tomb. Deep thudding vibrations shake me down to the bone as Cull beats his spoon over the metal pipes above, his voice bellowing out for order. But it’s not until Jaxon speaks, a polite whispering request for silence that the crowd finally settles.
Upon hearing Jaxon’s voice, the crowd parts, leaving room for us to pass. I don’t recognize most of them, and it’s impossible that they’ve all aligned themselves with Jaxon but it doesn’t matter, his presence alone is enough to demand respect. He accepts their deference in the way only a man born to power could. Whispered mutters trail behind him, I strain my ears to hear them but all I make out are the muddled words of awe and fear and lingering hate.
We step from the entrance of the tomb. A chill wind dances across my flesh. A sense of foreboding, but at first I don’t see what’s wrong. The sky is bright red but that’s not uncommon for this hour. Between the always-lit billboards and giant floating zeppelins Haven glows with vibrant colors day and night.
“Look,” Jaxon points to the west where the poorest parts of Haven are. It takes a moment for the scene to process. The red flickering is too unnatural…or maybe it’s that it’s too natural. Black smoke belches into the sky with what looks like red lightning flashing within. It’s beautiful, in a twisted, haunted way.
The smoke billows up like the breath of some great demon, the heavy darkness so thick and widespread that it’s impossible to pinpoint the origin. I’d guess a mile, maybe more from where we stand – where city meets the giant, protective walls that circle Haven. The outskirts. A place so ignored almost to be forgotten. The streets dangerous enough that even in daylight I’ll keep my distance.
“What do we do?” I gasp. There could be dozens of buildings on fire. Maybe more. Are the Praetors insane? They could light the whole city up like this. Burn us all down, all the neighborhoods with only Crescent city left floating above. Is that what they want? Is that what it has come to? A few attacks. Some protests. Is our threat so great?
Jaxon’s hand drops down and rests on my lower back and it’s only with the gesture that I realize I’m trembling. From his position Jaxon calmly gives orders to those around us. “Kalia, send out your runners and gather as many volunteers as you can. I don’t care if they’re for or against us. We need as many bodies as we can get. Meet us at the west entrance.” Jaxon looks around and spots another familiar face “Ezzor, send at least a dozen ahead of us. Make sure we aren’t walking into a trap.” Ezzor gives a short, single nod then melts from the crowd.
“A trap,” I murmur under my breath. Jaxon shoots me a look, urging my silence. My lips tighten as I struggle to contain the pounding of my heart. The people here, they may not agree with Jaxon, they may not like Jaxon, but they need someone to take control right now. The sharp edge of panic hovers over the crowd and the slightest misstep will send it crashing down.
The crowd parts once more as we make our way back into the Hollows. The west entrance isn’t far, but the twisting maze of hallways lengthens the journey. A small crowd beats us to the western entrance, the large empty sewer pipe that opens into an alleyway next to the Crematoriums. They quietly shift in place, looking expectantly up at Jaxon as they wait for orders.
“Start making your way to the fire. In small groups,” he brings his hand down in a sharp motion to emphasize his point, “not as one. Help who you can. You and you,” he points at two boys a few years younger than us, “go to the nearby clinics. See if any have medical supplies to spare.”
The younger of the two thumps his fist against his chest, “I’ll go to Magwin’s. She helped me when I cracked my arm last year.”
“Good,” Jaxon nods as if he knows exactly who Magwin is. “The rest of you. Go. Now!” he orders in a desperate whisper. The crowd disperses and rushes out the entrance.<
br />
“Evie!” I recognize Red’s voice immediately. I turn to see him pushing forward with at least two dozen men following him. The air lights up with an undercurrent of dangerous electricity as Red’s coliseum soldiers fan out around us. “I heard what happened. Where do you need us?”
I blink slowly. Red is looking at me for direction? Our entire lives it’s been the other way around. Another thing gone topsy-turvy since meeting Jaxon. I look over the men Red has with him. Any one of them could easily fit two of me in their arms.
“Have you men bring the injured to a safe place,” I say. I try to remember any places that may be nearby “First Elementary should be near there,” I reference one of the small school houses that dot Westwick Slums. It’s late enough that the only one around would be the schoolmaster protecting his territory. Red nods and I see the look of approval in his eye. Of pride. What is he playing at?
“Red,” I shout, stopping him before he leaves. I tilt up on tiptoes, close to his ear so only he can hear. “Be careful,” I whisper. He quirks a half-smile in response and leads his men away.
The entryway slowly empties as the last of the straggling volunteers rush off to help. The silence lengthens and soon only Jaxon and I remain. I look at him; to the tight pinch of his eyes; the stiff line of his lips. He’s aged. In the few months that I’ve known him he’s gone from the stoic Millennial boy who showed up at my doorstep to this man struggling to become a leader of others.
But then he turns to me and his features soften and I realize it doesn’t matter what he’s showing the world – I know who he is deep down. He’s heart and strength and loyalty. And I can’t bear the thought of losing him. What if this is a trap? Would the Millennials really light half the city on fire to draw Jaxon out? Are we that much of a threat? My chest gets tight, my breathing labored as I struggle to hold in the fear that this is all going to come tumbling down. That Jaxon will be taken from me and Annie and Red executed. That I will be left all alone. Again.
“Hey,” Jaxon steadies me with a hand. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I squeak out.
Jaxon tips one black eyebrow up.
I look at him. I take his strength and make it my own. “I swear,” I tell him. “I’m okay.”
“We need to wait for Ezzor to return. If this is a trap,” he looks torn for a moment like he’s arguing within himself. “If there are Praetors there I will have to stay here.”
“That’s smart,” I say with a nod. And it is. Without Jaxon pushing at us, always pushing, our rebellion or revolution or civil war, whatever you want to call it -- it wouldn’t exist. Jaxon’s mouth curls up in an expression I can’t decipher. Half snarl, half frown. “It is,” I defend my words, my voice gone a pitch too high, “it doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you smart.” I cross my arms and dare him to contradict me.
Jaxon’s gaze is long and lingering and I start to wonder if I said something wrong. “You are too perfect for me,” he says suddenly.
“What?” I blush and instantly look away, unable to bear the heat of his gaze. My shoulders hunch of their own will. Perfect? Impossible. I look down at my hands and see dirty nails. The rest of me can’t be much better. “No,” I deny. My voice comes out muted.
He steps forward until his body is pressed against mine. I take one stumbling step backwards but the wall prevents any further escape. A squeak escapes my lips but I don’t know why. I’m not afraid of Jaxon - if anything it’s the exact opposite. I’m drawn to him. When I see him I want to press my body against his until we melt into each other. Nothing but flesh and heat and the sound of our hearts.
I arch my back, almost involuntarily, and press my hips against his. He curls one arm around my waist and pulls me closer. I lean back, my lips hovering just under his.
A discreet cough from the left snaps me back into reality. I jerk back. “Ouch,” I say, rubbing at my head after bumping it painfully into the wall.
Ezzor stands behind Jaxon. Other than the cough he makes no reference to what he’d seen. “Not a single Praetor. I had my men search a three block radius beyond the fire. Nothing. “
Jaxon steps back smoothly as if we hadn’t just been interrupted. “Good,” he nods. “Time to go,” he says to me. His smile is bright and fierce.
Ezzor steps forwards and raises one cloth-draped hand to stop Jaxon. “There is however, something you should see.”
“And what would that be?”
“Better, I think, If you see it for yourself,” Ezzor shakes his cowl slowly. There is something to his voice that I can’t quite place my finger on. Like he’s testing Jaxon. There’s something bad out there, and whatever it is Ezzor wants it to be a surprise.
There is a moment of stilled silence. I hold my breath, waiting for what might come next. Jaxon looks off into the distance and clouds of darkness move through his eyes. When he turns back to us the mask has dropped down. Cold, arrogant, and absolutely in control.
“We are not helping anyone by standing here chatting,” he says archly. I frown at him. Whenever he gets out of his depth he steps back into his Millennial persona. This man in front of me is not the Jaxon of just moments ago. I shake my head. It doesn’t matter, he’s right. Standing here does no one any good.
“Yeah,” I mumble. And with that, we take off running
CHAPTER 13
The buildings surrounding us quickly block out our view of the fire. The smell of smoke grows stronger and stronger, reeling us in like fish on a line. The stink clings to me like solid matter. Bitter and acrid and so different from normal wood smoke. My mouth tastes coppery like I’ve bitten my tongue but there is no blood. Fear, maybe, but I convince myself I’m imagining it.
We slow to a halt beside a crowd of people. I recognize the faces. These are the men and women from the Hollows we sent to help. Why are they standing here? Heat burns on my face like a bad sunburn as I push my way through and inch closer to the fire. Jaxon follows behind, his hand resting on my back so he doesn’t lose me in the crowd.
I freeze as we reach the fringe of the crowd.
“What is this?” Jaxon puts voice to the confusion running through my mind.
There is a pile of bodies before us. The flames paint the backdrop like a work of art. The bodies are arranged carefully, each one neatly placed. One after another. Three dozen, four? Too many to count. Women. Children.
Their faces are waxy and still like dolls. I stare at a child. Her long, stringy black hair fans out around her like a parasol. Her tiny hands are clutched into fists, like she died about to step into a fight. Seven years old, maybe eight. She could be any child from Westwick Slums. The women next to her, her mother? A neighbor, perhaps, or a friend. Surely someone that loved her.
My flesh turns to ice, like I too am one of them. A single drop of sweat drips down back. I shiver in the wake of its path. This is…It’s not possible. Were we too late? Were all of these pulled from the fire? It’s impossible though. There is not a single mark on any of them. No burnt clothing, no bubbling flesh. I’ve seen how fire kills and it’s not like this.
“What is this?” Jaxon repeats again. His voice is cold, calm and deadly like a winter storm. Everyone turns to look at Jaxon. I see fear in some eyes, hate in others. What is this?
“It’s for you, Jaxon Prayer,” a man says then spits on the ground at Jaxon’s feet.
Jaxon’s head tilts minutely, a request for clarification. The man twists his head back to the pile of bodies. I steel myself and turn my gaze back to the dead. Someone comes up behind me and lightly brushes my shoulder. I finch away from the touch.
“It’s just me,” Red whispers. He steps in close, offering a solid wall of protection and comfort. With him standing behind me, it’s somehow easier to look on the dead. I search for any hint of what this man means. This is for Jaxon?
A piece of ash floats down in front of me. I follow its trail to the ground.
“They will pay for this,” Jaxon’s words are a threat. A promi
se.
What? I shake my head. I need to pay attention. Why can’t I pay attention?
“Don’t you see it,” Red whispers. He points and finally I understand. There is a small sign near the bodies; like a vendor would place in the front window of his shop.
Courtesy of Jaxon Prayer.
Gods. Who would do this? The Praetors, obviously. But even they would never go to such lengths. The Millennials are at last moving against us. Could this have been the order of Jaxon’s father? The Great Uniter himself? Burning his own city and killing his own people to teach his son a lesson?
Something violent brews in Jaxon’s eyes. Red shakes his head at my unvoiced question. Nothing can be done for it now. Jaxon lowers his head as if offering a prayer for the dead. Around us, others do the same.
I stare into the fire as the silence stretches on. The buildings that burn, small one story shacks that can barely be called homes, are now nothing more than piles of smoldering wood.
A sound draws my attention. A whisper that breaks the silence like a diamond cutting glass. I glance behind to see who would be so callous. There is a crowd behind us. A large crowd. A crowd full of men and women whose anger seethes like a living creature.
“That’s him,” someone whispers urgently. Then there are so many whispers that I can no longer decipher one voice from the next.
These are men from the city. The Westwick Slums, certainly. But not from the Hollows. These newcomers are not bound by the dark secrecy that keeps the Hollows together. Any one of these people could turn Jaxon in to the Praetors.
The crowd bends out around us like a half moon; the few of us from the Hollows like a star hanging in its embrace. The only way to move is forward, and the only thing that lies ahead is fire and pitch.
Red’s men circle around us, offering a small layer of protection. There is the silky sound of metal on leather as Red pulls his weapon. Jaxon rests his hand on Red’s wrist. He slowly shakes his head and Red slips his weapon back into its sheath.
