black tiger (Black Tiger Series Book 1)

by Sara Baysinger

  God.

  Only a fool would trust their life to a god, Dad would tell me. Why do I ever even acknowledge that God might maybe be real? Is it because of this strange pull I feel every so often when I’m alone? When I allow the most bizarre thoughts to occupy my mind? Is it because of this sense that there’s another presence here in this room, and not just that of the other prisoners? Is it because of the feeling that there’s something there that knows me fully—knows my grief, my fear, my darkest thoughts and my wildest hopes—and still wants me to call out?

  I don’t know. I might be going crazy. It’s been a weird day full of all my worst fears, and I think I need to rest my brain so I’ll have the ability to defend myself tomorrow. So I close my eyes again. And count the apple trees in our orchard until sleep offers me sanctuary.

  Too soon, though, the lights switch on, pulling me out of a fitful sleep. I shield my eyes against the blinding light. When my pupils adjust, I squint down the hall. A Defender is making his way down the cells, unlocking them while other Defenders place wristbands around the prisoners’ wrists. I bolt to my feet and grip the bars. It must be morning.

  My trial is this morning.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I begin making up a defense in my head when I notice a boy who can’t be any older than me standing in the center of the room. He wears gray slacks and the vest of a Patrician. A newsboy cap sits snuggly on his head. Shaggy auburn hair falls into his eyes. His nose is slightly crooked, as though it’d been broken once, but the rest of his face is perfectly angular with high cheek bones and a sharp chin. He crosses his arms with an air of confidence while he watches the Defenders work. He seems too young to be supervising.

  “Today’s your lucky day, boys.” His sharp gray eyes catch mine, and he offers a mocking bow. “And girls. Judges like to start the trials early so they don’t miss their mid-morning coffee.” His lips twist up in a bitter smile. “So let’s make this quick. Chop, chop.” He spins on his heel and leads the way out of prison.

  A freezing wind greets me when I step outside. If the sun was shining today, the tall buildings would block it out. I look up through the narrow slit of the skyscrapers. The sky is gray with churning clouds. Dad and Elijah would be trying to get the rest of the apples picked before a winter storm rolls in.

  Newsboy Cap snaps his fingers. I look at him and he stares back, his gray eyes like cold steel, hard and unfeeling. He arches a brow and jerks his chin toward the blue bus.

  “C’mon, criminal.” His voice is light, almost musical. “Don’t want to keep your judge waiting.”

  Swallowing hard, I step onto the bus and sink into a cold metal seat beside an older man with long greasy hair. The stink of sweat and gasoline leaks off his body. Newsboy Cap sits in front of me. The prison bus starts with a jolt and bumps down the road and the stench of exhaust fills the air. And I don’t look back, because I can’t afford to look back, because looking back will only make it more painful. So I look forward, and I can’t help but wonder where, exactly, we’re going.

  “’Scuse me.” I tap Newsboy Cap on the shoulder.

  He turns fully to face me, his eyes sharp and piercing. “No talking allowed.” His breath smells like peppermint.

  “I just want to know where we’re going.”

  He blinks two quick blinks, and a hint of amusement weaves in and out of his eyes. “Frankfort,” he says simply. “Now, no talking, please.” And he turns back around, lays his head back on the metal frame of the seat, and pulls his cap up over his eyes. Does he know how lucky he is? That he gets to relax because he’s not on his way to a trial that will determine whether he lives or dies?

  I look out my window. And think of Frankfort. Our capital.

  They say it’s clean and well-organized, with silvery-blue high rises stretching clear to the sky and huge mansions where the Patricians live. The kids receive the best education and everybody’s happy. There’s even a library full of books from the Old Country, leftover scraps from before the White Plague brought the world to its ruins. I can’t deny that I’ve always been a little curious about Frankfort. I kind of always wanted to see it, but not this way. Not as a prisoner.

  We drive for almost an hour through the maze of old brick buildings. A slow drizzle begins, the water weaving veins down the windowpane.

  Rain. So much blasted rain.

  I don’t realize I said that out loud until Newsboy Cap turns around to face me again.

  “Excuse me?” he says.

  “Um. Rain,” I say, sinking lower into my seat and pointing out the window. “It’s—it’s raining.”

  He closes his eyes for the briefest moment, then blinks them open and stares at me again. “I thought I told you to be quiet.”

  I nod and sink a little lower and look out the blur of the rain-streaked window. Rain seems to be everywhere as of the past few days, clouding my mood, putting a damper on life. Rain isn’t so bad in springtime, when it’s giving life to the dirt and plants and food and people. But in the winter it just makes the cold more bitter.

  Eventually, the bus takes a turn onto the highway that arches over the city, then picks up speed. This road is nothing like the gravel road in the Community Garden, or the cracked pavement in the city streets. It’s completely smooth, like glass. As we rise above the metropolis, I can see the crumbling city of Ky at a glance. I knew Ky was big, but not this big. The buildings stretch as far as the horizon. A dusty haze rises from the streets. Way out in the distance is the only patch of green this country owns. The Community Garden. Home.

  The Community Garden is nestled in the heart of Shelby County, one of the six remaining counties of Ky. It’s located in the center of Ky and is the only place where food is grown for all the people, so the Community Garden is literally the heartbeat of Ky. The food is harvested and sent off to the rest of the country, to the factories where it’s altered and turned into wafers and boxed meals and gross blandness, stretched too thin to enjoy so it can feed the thousands of citizens of Ky. These citizens take our freshly harvested food and offer clothes and supplies in return.

  The systematic machinery of a perfect government.

  A yellow glowing light appears ahead. I straighten in my seat. We pass a sign that says “Franklin County,” and through the front window, a strange tangerine glow hovers over the capitol, like a dome of some sort. Within the dome are tall, silver skyscrapers. These aren’t like the dull, uneven shadows I’ve grown up looking at from the Community Garden. These buildings are immaculate, all pointing toward the sky like silver arrows.

  We drive through a dusty ring encircling the outer rim of the dome.

  “The outer ring,” the greasy man beside me says, his tired eyes scanning the distance. He winces. “And the Rebels Circle.”

  I glance back out the window. Sure enough. I can barely see the iron circles from this road, but stakes, about thirty feet tall, rise in the distance with giant rings at the top. Through the hazy rain, I can just barely see the bodies swaying in the hearts of the circles by the breeze.

  Shuddering, I look away. The Rebels Circle is the sort of death reserved for those who conspire against the government. Criminals get a quick execution. Rebels are burned. They’re tied upside down in a circular ring, hanging by their feet with a cord. I guess they place the Rebels Circle around the perimeter of Frankfort to remind the rebels what could happen to them if they had an uprising against Chief Titus Whitcomb.

  The bus crosses the ring, then stops at the edge of the dome where the driver speaks to a Defender. When we pull in through the gates of Frankfort, I don’t feel like I have enough time to take it all in.

  Every building is made of glass, not crumbling brick like the rest of Ky. Flowers the color of ripe plums grow in the median of the streets. Trees shoot straight into the air, their only branches long green fronds that leaf out at the top, shading the street from the sun.

  When did the sun start shining?

  I have never seen so many Patricians in o
ne place in my life. It’s too crowded here. Too loud. Too busy. Unlike the plain uniforms and heavy coats everyone was wearing minutes ago in the rest of Ky, the men here wear long-sleeved shirts beneath their gray vests, and women wear bright togas––fuchsia, turquoise, burgundy, lime. Their arms are bare, like they’re not cold at all, and gold and silver bracelets grace their wrists.

  Up ahead is a round glass building, taking up its own block. This must be the capitol courthouse. The driver takes a right turn on the road that wraps around the courthouse. When he parks on the curb, we’re ordered off the bus. The Defenders unload first, then wait to take custody of their assigned prisoners. One prisoner to each Defender because we’re apparently as bad as the White Plague.

  I’m last to step off the bus. I wrap my hands around my arms, bracing myself for the freezing winter chill, but no cold air greets me. I look up. The sun is still shining, the air warm, like spring. Sure, the seasons change quickly, but not within hours. A front must have hit, which means tornadoes. I hope Dad and Elijah stay safe.

  “If you’re planning on bolting, you can forget it.”

  I turn to face Newsboy Cap, the only person left to take me.

  “Your electroband,” he says in that musical voice, tilting his chin slightly. “Will shock you if you step more than ten feet from me. Now come on. I don’t want to hear another lecture about being late.”

  He jerks his head for me to follow, and my heart sinks a little, but I do. Because, what’s my other option? Get shocked by the electroband? Yeah, no thanks. So I stumble behind him and inhale the faint scent of peppermint that lingers in his wake. He stands a full head taller than me and walks with fast, purposeful steps, and I try to keep up, try to keep that ten-foot gap closed between us so I don’t get shocked, and I can’t help but feel like a dog on a leash.

  When we arrive at the double glass doors, Newsboy Cap mumbles something to one of the Defenders while flashing his I.D., then he turns and looks at me. Lifting an auburn brow, he gestures inside and offers a clearly forced grin. “Ladies, first.”

  Such a gentleman. I look at the doorway, the threshold to the place that will determine my fate, but suddenly my feet are frozen in the concrete, and I can’t get myself to step through those doors.

  “Come on, criminal.” He rolls his eyes in obvious irritation. “We’re already running behind schedule because of your obsession with the sky.”

  I gasp. So insensitive. Doesn’t he understand what this means to me? That this is a trial that determines my life? That, once I go inside, I might not come back out? That the glance I spared the sky earlier might have been my last? But to have any chances at survival, I have to do whatever this arrogant son of a jackal says, no matter how old he is or how mocking he is or how annoyingly condescending he is.

  So I inhale. I exhale. I replenish bad air for good.

  And I step across the threshold.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The door slams behind me, making me jump. Light filters through the glass walls, reflecting off the beige tile floor of a hallway. The first thing I notice is a balcony across the hall that overlooks a vat of sand. An arena. The balcony wraps around the perimeter of the arena, about thirty feet from the ground. The roof is open to the blue sky, the warmth of the sun pouring onto the sand.

  I’m led down the hall, passing giant oil paintings of people who I imagine must be important. At the end of the hall is a portrait that stretches clear to the high arched ceiling.

  “Is that—is that the chief?” I ask Newsboy.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “He’s really young.” I mean, he couldn’t be too much older than me. Maybe just a couple years. He stands tall, wearing a black vest over an immaculate white button-up shirt. Black bowtie, black slacks, black hair. He’s onyx on ivory with green, green eyes. His face is completely void of any emotion, and one elbow rests casually on a gold-fringed shelf. The other hand holds a gun. The portrait is, in every sense of the word, intimidating. And I think that’s exactly the chief’s intent.

  We turn down another hall. I wipe my clammy palms on my pants as we walk closer to the courtroom. It’s suddenly too hard to breathe, and I can’t quite focus. I try to clear my mind. I try to rehearse what to say to the judges, but my brain is a whirlwind of thoughts scattered in a funnel cloud, and I can’t seem to grasp them, to put them in the right order that’ll make a valid defense for the judges. Then a Defender opens the door, and all I can think is I’m not ready to face a trial.

  He leads me and the other criminals in single file through the entrance. Bright lights greet me when I step through the entry. The sound of shuffling steps echoes down the tile floors, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. I’ve seen the small courtroom in Farmers Square where the citizens settle their disputes. That room was small, with dim light slanting through the cracked windows. It smelled of mildew. This is nothing like that courtroom.

  This room has a dome ceiling that stretches a good two stories high. It’s circular with balconies wrapping around the perimeter and climbing halfway to the ceiling. In the center of the room, on the marble floor, are ten round podiums. I’m taken to a podium just wide enough for me and Newsboy to step on. A railing rises around both of us, locking us in, and the podium slowly begins to lift off the ground. The unexpected movement makes me stumble back against Newsboy. I quickly regain my footing, glancing at him just long enough to catch a glimpse of his arrogant smirk and a dimple forming in his left cheek.

  How stupid I must appear to him. Though he stands a full head taller than me with his arms locked behind his back, his smile makes him look less Patrician and a little more human. But his humor infuriates me. I’m preparing to face the judge who will determine whether I live or die, and he’s laughing at me.

  I grip the railing to stop the trembling in my hands and turn back toward the balconies lining the wall. The podium stops rising when we reach a balcony holding three judges. At least with three judges, my chances of having a just trial look better.

  “Ember Carter,” the first judge begins reading. “Stands on trial for killing a Defender.”

  I bite back my reply. Chew my lip until I taste blood. Try to properly wait until he’s finished reading to state my defense. And he reads. On and on and on, listing all the facts. The time of day, place, how it all happened, more details than I can remember. Because all I remember is Leaf shouting out treason on a shoddy microphone.

  Defenders aiming guns at Leaf.

  Leaf laying limp on the stage.

  Dead.

  “Verdict?” The judge’s voice snaps me back to the present.

  The other judges both mumble, “Guilty of murder.”

  “She is to be executed,” the reader says with a flip of his hand, then his face breaks into a wide yawn. The podium begins to lower.

  “Wait,” I say. “I-I didn’t get a chance to defend myself.”

  Newsboy snorts behind me.

  “I’m not guilty,” I shout.

  But the judges are already turning away. The head judge shoves the paper back into a folder and laughs at something one of the others says.

  My heart begins pounding until I almost feel dizzy. I grit my teeth, search my brain for the right words, the polite words, the mature words that will garner some respect but all that comes out is, “I didn’t kill the shoddy Defender! I was just t-trying to save Leaf.”

  The older judge stops. He slowly turns around, watches me as my podium lowers the floor. He’s going to hear me out. He’s going to actually listen to me and maybe offer forgiveness. But then he shakes his head, turns away, and exits the balcony as my podium arrives at the floor, stopping with a click.

  And I’m numb. Every last drop of hope sapped from the marrow of my bones because my life is going to end in an execution.

  “Nice try,” Newsboy mutters as he escorts me out of the room. “But they never hear a criminal out. Ever.”

  “Of course not.” And why did I think they would? The politicians and Patri
cians and judges and chief never have been for the people of Ky, because if they were, they would try to fix the starvation issue. They would try to improve our living conditions. They would do something that would make our lives a little more livable and little less miserable. So why, why on this forsaken earth would they bother listening to the plea of a commoner? A Proletariat? Me?

  Tears sting my eyes and my hands curl into fists when I hear footsteps behind us.

  “Hang on, Rain.”

  Newsboy—who’s apparently called Rain—grabs my arm to stop me and turns around. The older judge walks toward us, his hands locked behind his back and his black robe hanging neatly down his shoulders. Maybe he wants to hear my case after all. My blood is melted butter and a smile fights its way to my lips. I open my mouth to speak, but Newsboy/Rain squeezes my arm, stopping the words from leaving my mouth.

  “She murdered a Defender,” the judge says, looking at Rain. “To save her friend. Leaf. The rebel. Yes?”

  “No,” I say. “I didn’t—I didn’t murder—”

  Rain clamps his slender hand over my mouth, but keeps his eyes on the judge and offers a grave nod. “Mm-hm.”

  I jerk my face from his hand, relieved when he releases me.

  The judge stares at me with birdlike eyes, disapproval shifting in and out of his gaze. His lips pinch into a beaklike expression. Then he looks at Rain again. “Take her to Perseus. We have plenty of criminals to feed the black tigers, and Perseus may want her to die on the Rebels Circle, instead.” He looks at me again, his upper lip curled in disgust. “Anyone who associates with rebels should have the most inconvenient death.”