by Beth Hodgson
“By the way, I picked up these while I was out,” Glacia stated, tossing a shopping bag on her bed.
Emerald wiped her hands free of paint, then walked over to the bag. She pulled out a couple of fashion magazines, two music albums, and hair accessories that she needed for the evening’s event.
Emerald held out the albums curiously. “What’s this music? Never heard of these bands.”
Glacia chuckled, wiping Emerald’s arm and face free of paint with a hot towel. “They are the hottest rage in the mid-levels. Even the upper levels are catching on. Just listen to them. You might actually like them.”
“If you say so,” Emerald answered, slipping the albums back into the bag. The thought of Derek returned to her, and instantly her nerves took over.
After Emerald finished getting cleaned up, she hastily sat down at her vanity, applying her evening makeup to her pale complexion. As she applied her eyeliner, the light freckle under her eye caught her attention. It was the only freckle she had, and it always seemed to show itself, even through her makeup. How she hated that freckle; it always seemed to get the best of her. It made her feel so self-conscious.
As Emerald powdered her face, she caught a glance of her painting in the mirror’s reflection, demanding all of Emerald’s focus. Why are you so wrong? she asked the painting in the reflection, still vexed by it. Emerald kept staring at the lines of her brushstrokes, wondering if they were the issue.
Glacia returned with a gown, breaking Emerald’s concentration on the picture. She slipped on a long purple dress with puff sleeves, then adorned herself with magenta jewelry. The handmaiden combed Emerald’s long wavy tresses, leaving her hair down for the evening.
Emerald glanced in the full-length mirror, inspecting herself one last time.
“There. You look perfect, Princess,” Glacia declared, giving Emerald a once-over. Glacia smoothed a piece of Emerald’s hair that was out of place and fixed a twisted earring. “Now, how about you manage to make the Duke of Gefroy jealous tonight by giving Prince Derek a giant smooch.” Glacia laughed.
Emerald’s eyes popped open widely. “Glacia!” She gave her a playful shove, then rolled her eyes. “That’s not going to happen! And just so you know, I was trying to forget about the duke. He’s so… mundane.”
“But you two looked like you were getting along so well at the last party,” Glacia teased.
“More like I was trying to escape him,” Emerald retorted.
Emerald saw a flutter of white dresses. The other handmaidens had arrived, waiting to escort her to the feast.
“Did I miss something?” Celeste, the second handmaiden, asked as she appeared.
“We were just recapping her encounter with the Duke of Gefroy,” Glacia joked. The other handmaidens chuckled.
Emerald’s cheeks burned. “Enough about him,” she said, clearly annoyed. “Come, let’s get going. I will already be late, and you all know how my father is.”
Glacia bowed. “Yes, Princess, indeed I do.”
“Yes, Princess,” the others murmured, then turned to lead the princess out of her chambers.
For a moment, Emerald paused, looking back at the painting.
She realized her mistake. She’d used the wrong color.
The fierce woman needed to be painted in yellow. One would think she was happy and free by the looks of the picture, which would align with the color orange. But Emerald had been fooled. A gentle, quiet devotion had been hidden inside of this strong woman.
She radiated love and faithfulness.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she knew she could finally enjoy the party without giving another thought to the painting.
CHAPTER THREE
“The fuck is wrong with you?” the tattoo artist grunted. “If you keep moving, it will look like I smeared shit all over you.”
Gripping the cigarette with his mouth, Kyle took a long drag, then exhaled a stream of smoke. “Sorry, man.”
He tried to review the artist’s work on his right bicep through the corner of his eye, but between the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, the smoke, and the artist’s needle, Kyle couldn’t see shit. Instead, all he saw was the cigarette in his mouth, the rings on his fingers at his side, the dark red walls with pitted holes, and his friend Diego, all simultaneously blurred together.
“It was about time you got that shitty yellow out of your hair,” Diego commented, inspecting his freshly bleached white hair. “It looked like a dog took a piss on you.”
“Thanks, asshole,” Kyle remarked, taking another drag. “It doesn’t fucking help with everything being so damn expensive with this new tax shit. Plus, I don’t have Sonja around to bleach it anymore. She was pro at getting it white, and best of all, free.”
It was about the only thing she was good at, he thought, trying to sneak another peek at the tattoo. I dodged a bullet with that chick.
“What are you doing after this?” Diego asked.
“Nothing, why?”
“Let’s get lit at my place. I’ll get the other guys to come over. It will take your mind off that crazy ass bitch.” Diego took a swig of his flask, then slammed it into his hip pocket.
“I was trying to forget about her.” Kyle sighed. He continued to puff his cigarette periodically while the tattoo needle hammered into his bicep. He was somewhat numb throughout his body, all thanks to the alcohol, and the needle felt like nothing more than someone poking him with their finger.
“Well, you were the one to bring her up.”
“Whatever.”
“Just fucking forget about it and get shit-faced at my place. We’ll swing by the corner store and get a few forties. I’ll even pay this time,” Diego said.
“Naw, dude,” Kyle answered as he exhaled a sizable puff of smoke, “I think I’m gonna go home. I don’t feel up to it tonight. Besides, I need to practice.”
“You can go home and jack off whenever you want. You haven’t hung out with us in a while outside of practice and our shows. Just come over.”
Kyle scowled, glaring at Diego through the smoke. “Fuck you. Can’t a guy go home and be alone? I didn’t know I had to service you.”
“Do you fucking mind?” the artist snapped.
Kyle realized he moved.
“Won’t happen again,” Kyle said to the artist. Turning to Diego, Kyle pointed his free hand to him. “And no, I’m not going out tonight. I need to practice. Plus, I’m tired as shit. If it will make your ass happy, I’ll come out another night.”
“Fine. But if you don’t come out with us in the next few nights, I’m dragging your ass out.” Diego snickered, guzzling his flask.
The artist paused, turning off the tattoo machine. “See what you think.”
Kyle took another drag of his cigarette, exhaling quickly. His fingerless black leather glove snatched the cigarette butt from his mouth, putting it out in the ashtray next to him. He stumbled out of the chair, looking in the dirty mirror on the adjacent wall. It looked like someone had snotted all over it, then rubbed it around for good measure. Through the dingy reflection, Kyle saw the line work was clean and precise, or so he thought; it was hard to tell for sure through his drunken eyes. The fresh black ink shot out in contrast with the complexion of his muscular arm. The skin around the newly inlaid design was deep red and slightly puffy, with the ink seeping out of the skin.
It was about time Kyle added to his tattoo; it had been a while. His black tattoo consisted of sharp, angled lines plastered on his right bicep. He had started this tattoo back when he left his home in the wastelands and came to Arcadia. Every time something major affected his life, he would add another thick black line, angled in a new direction, like a giant life maze. Big events called for long lines; small events were shorter. Kyle had always told himself once the tattoo reached his hand, he should be dead, because what fun would it be to be an old ass and unable to get around in life? As of right now, his tattoo reached two inches above his elbow. The last line he added was meeting his ex, So
nja. The line before that was from his first gig with the band. The one before was word of his mother passing away. And on and on until the beginning. This new line was because of his split with Sonja.
Damn, I’m gonna die before I hit thirty at this rate, he told himself.
He flexed his bicep, then gave himself a small, satisfying grin at the sight of his muscles protruding from his sleeveless black leather vest. His dark eyes moved to his angled chin, then to his spiky hair. His silvery-white hair was almost as light as he was, standing out against his dark eyebrows. Damn, it was a good thing he’d rebleached his hair like Diego said. He had been looking like major shit as of late.
“Looks good, man,” Kyle said with a nod of approval. His attention turned to his ears, each lobe stretched with a curved black spike earplug. Not today, he told himself, thinking how he wanted to stretch his lobes bigger. Pulling out a few crumpled-up bills from his black leather pants, he paid the tattoo artist.
The two of them staggered out of the tattoo parlor, which was a few levels up from the street level. It was nearing dusk, and all of the street lights were already on. Kyle hopped onto a metal staircase railing, sliding down faster than he expected to. Diego followed him, both of them chuckling. The metal studs in their clothing rubbed against the railing, making a slight screeching sound. As they slid past them on their way to the bottom, passersby holding giant protest signs shot them a look of annoyance. Kyle and Diego reached the ground level, hopping off onto the sidewalk.
The street was packed with rioters. The citizens of Arcadia had gathered much earlier today, compared to the last few days. Who could blame them? The royals were taxing the fuck out of its citizens with their new tax laws, and people were pissed. Street fires were ablaze while the rioters threw bottles, trash, and other objects at the buildings, then looted them. Others were more daring, throwing objects at the Arcadia police, who blocked it all with their shields. Kyle turned his attention to a large ground vehicle on fire, its plumes of smoke blanketing the crowd.
“Damn, I forgot about the protests,” Diego said, lighting another cigarette.
“Yeah, me too. Let’s get to our bikes and get the hell out of here. I am gonna be really pissed if I see it on fire.”
“Same here. You sure you don’t wanna hang?” Diego asked as they both squeezed their way in and out of the inflamed crowds.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Kyle replied. They both made a fist, then tapped them together.
“See ya tomorrow, bro. Don’t be fucking late like last time,” Diego yelled at him through all of the street noise, hopping onto his motorcycle. “We want to keep our gigs with this place lined up.”
“You’re starting to sound like Remy.”
“Asshole.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be there on time. Later.”
Turning to his bike, Kyle climbed onto it, then started his engine. They both took off in the narrow back alley, leaving the riots to fend for themselves. Riding away from that sector’s protests, they approached the next city sector. Diego turned onto a different route, leaving Kyle to ride alone. Ahead, massive gridlock of ground transports crammed the roadway, but the traffic never slowed him down. He simply wove in between the vehicles, leaving them behind to wallow in the street trash and the rank sewage stench.
Within the street puddles, Kyle could see the reflected neon signs from the shops and local strip clubs. Fog steamed from the sewers, capturing the city lights, casting the street level in a thick haze in all sorts of colors. Occasionally, Kyle’s eyes would dart up at the glowing skyways above him, seeing shadows of people crossing between the buildings. The crowds of people on the sidewalks, the other biker gangs, the shitty ground transports, shitloads of trash, and the smell of piss and vomit—all worked in harmony to make the lower levels of Arcadia what they were.
This was what freedom was like. The winds beating his face while he drove through the city, free of everything. He didn’t have to think, he just drove, emptying his mind of everything that pissed him off. The city itself tried to confine and keep people controlled. But not him. His motorcycle liberated him. That and his guitar.
Reaching his apartment building, Kyle turned into the underground entrance and parked his motorcycle. Pressing the parking elevator’s button, Kyle lit up a cigarette while he waited. When the elevator opened, he continued to puff on his cigarette, then pushed for the thirty-sixth floor, the highest of the lower levels before one needed to pay the tax with an Arcadia Transportation-issued keycard. Fuck the tax. He didn’t need to go to the damn mid-levels anyway. Those people had sticks up their asses.
When the elevator opened on his level, Kyle dropped his cigarette to the elevator’s floor, rubbing the butt into the ground. Walking down the hall, he stopped at his apartment, pulling out his keys. The door across the hall opened.
Rosie…
Rosie appeared from behind her door, taking small steps that exasperated her in her old age, making it seem like she was about to crumble at any moment. Her pet rat was perched on her shoulder with its nose twitching. The thing was like a damn parrot to her, always attached to her body whenever he saw her.
Shifting his eyes to her doormat in the hallway, Kyle noticed a new celebrity gossip magazine that had been delivered. With her shriveled hand shaking to reach the tabloid, Kyle shook his head, grabbed it, and handed it to her.
“I can’t believe you read this shit,” Kyle stated, making sure that Rosie had a secure hold on it before he released his grip. “What’s up, Zaphod?” he said to the rat, stroking its fur with one of his fingers.
“That girlfriend of yours was here earlier,” she said, her voice wobbling. “She was screamin’ and poundin’ right outside your door. I think she had one too many drinks. I got several complaints from the other floor tenants, so I threatened to call the authorities.”
God, Sonja just won’t give up. She’s fucking crazy. “Did you?” he asked.
The woman smiled and nodded, petting her rat, who moved to her hand. “That convinced her to take a hike. I told her that if I saw her face again, I wouldn’t even give her warning.”
“Sorry about that, Rosie. I don’t want to see her any more than you do, believe me,” Kyle said, fidgeting with the lock on his door. “I don’t even have a phone anymore thanks to that woman.” He continued to fuss with the lock, kicking the door while turning the key.
Rosie watched him struggle. “Do you want me to have someone fix that?”
“Don’t bother. I need to give it a good kick every once in a while,” Kyle muttered under his breath, finally prying the door open.
“If you say so.” Turning to her magazine, Rosie giggled like a small child. “Prince Derek, rumored to be in Arcadia…” She shuffled into her apartment, closing the door behind her.
Rosie and her magazines. Who gives a crap about some damn prince? he thought as he entered his apartment and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
YELLOW
I called upon my dreams, and the gods came to me. I saw a barrier of protection, shielding me from a darkness that was on the verge of overcoming me. I cried out to the gods, afraid that I could no longer see their embrace. They did not show me their faces, but instead basked me in their pure yellow light. Within its golden rays, they whispered, “Do not be afraid, for we will protect you from all harm, and in the night, show you indescribable things that will come to pass.”
—excerpt from Akachukwu’s Lost Prophecies, 1435 M.E.
Auron took one last look of the sun’s rays peering through the sky citadel window, then turned his attention to the court. There were fearful whispers all throughout the audience hall, principally among the gifted, while everyone waited anxiously for Emperor Cyrus and Empress Ayera to appear. Auron knew exactly what they were saying without hearing a single word. The mysterious magical illness had claimed another gifted’s life. The second death attributed to this plague.
How many had lost their magic over the years from this
epidemic? Hundreds within World Sector Six. For those who contracted the plague, all but two gifted had survived their sickness, but they had lost their gifts. There were a little over eighty or so gifted left in World Sector Six, mostly in high positions within court. All entirely made up of reds, oranges, and yellows, except one blue, Lord Kohren, and one violet, the Sorceress Ikaria.
Anxiously clutching his staff, Auron fumbled with it in his ebony hands while a warm perspiration glistened within his stubby golden hair. He was nervous for the moment, wondering what the Empress would ask of him. He didn’t have an answer for her, nor had he had some god-inspired vision explaining the source of the illness. And for that, he knew there would be much disappointment within the court, particularly from the Emperor and Empress themselves, as they were desperate to rid the land of the plague that was ravaging their people. And no one would be more disappointed than himself. What kind of High Court Priest was he if the God of Light didn’t grant him a vision or a prophecy regarding the magical plague and how to stop it?
Auron’s golden eyes shifted to the only one in the room who didn’t seem worried: the Empress’s sister, the Sorceress Ikaria. If she was, she was hiding it extremely well. Violet eyes within her narrow slits remained lifeless, and it appeared her thoughts were somewhere else. Auron noticed that her violet hair wasn’t done up within her headpiece like it usually was. Instead, it flowed down her back all the way to the floor like a bolt of unraveled silk, with her bangs sharply cut above her brows, making her high cheekbones, long neck, and angled jawline appear more menacing than usual. Her tall, imposing hourglass figure was squeezed into a silver outfit that was much more revealing than the last set of garments she’d worn during court. Didn’t she have any sense of decency? A woman nearing forty should know better.
