I didn’t want to make him weaker. He was already short for his age, and he trusted people too damn much. I had to make him tough, or else he didn’t stand a chance. He’d end up face-to-face with a roaming gang or worse and not know what to do. And if anything happened to him, Star would fall to pieces. That’s what I was really worried about: one day, his weakness would tear her apart. So I might have looked cruel, but I was only looking out for the poor kid. I wanted the best for him. The best for Star.
After two years of trying with him, I was getting frustrated that he wasn’t improving. He was still small and clumsy and nice. When he started crying after we shot his first wolf, I just about lost it. If he couldn’t turn himself into a predator, I shouted at him, he was going to wind up as prey. Later that day, I caught him whispering to a tree stump that he thought had a soul, and I felt helpless. Just helpless. Like no matter what I did, Wick was going to love the whole goddamn world and walk headfirst into danger.
Then the worst happened. Last year, Wick started to cough. A sickness took him over, and he’s more fragile than ever now. The more he fades, the more Star suffers, and her pain has been ripping my heart in half. Every time Wick has a bad fit, I end up holding Star for hours and watching her cry. There’s nothing I can do to help anyone. Not Star, not Wick, and not myself. I love them—I have always loved them both—but seeing Wick these days fills me with such frustration that I have to bite my tongue to hide it.
Unlike me, Wick’s spirits haven’t changed. Whenever I visit, he sits himself up and looks at me the same way he always did. Like I’m his hero. I don’t say much, so he just asks me questions. Last night, when I went inside Silk to pick Star up for the rounds, he was awake and we went through the same routine: Where does darkness come from, Phoenix? Do raccoons have feelings, Phoenix? Does everyone die? I couldn’t even look at him, because all I saw was his slow death. Star’s pain. So I stared at the floor instead and gave him short answers. When he had to cough, he tried to muffle it with his sleeve so I wouldn’t hear. I just wanted to leave.
Star and I spend a lot of time these days just talking about Wick. She doesn’t bring him up—I do, but that’s only because she’s clearly thinking about him. Right now, staring at this electricity, I know Wick must be on her mind again. If I’ve already thought it, then she’s definitely thought it, too: This power might be able to save him. It could keep him warmer than ratty blankets and finally dry out that cough.
I look at Star. She’s brimming with hope and leaning forward on the balls of her feet. Her pale-white skin gleams in the spillover light, and I notice we’re both holding our breath. Goddammit, it’s here. Electricity is finally here on this side of the Frontier. My fists clench and unclench excitedly because I’m about to experience real power for myself. Tonight, I’m going to find out if warm air has a special smell or taste. As soon as possible, Wick will feel it, too, and I will get him strong, and then Star and I will be better than ever together.
Starting now.
We bolt toward the library. A thrill builds in my chest and I’m laughing. Actually laughing. Star and I dash up their steps to the battered door, and I realize why the neighbors have kept to themselves: They’ve been figuring out how to turn on the lights. I peer through the three glass triangles that remain in their door and see the woman arguing with her husband inside. They look like us—dirty faces, thin beneath plush parkas and cargo pants—but these DZs are bathed in light. I want in.
The woman turns to the side and catches my eye. My heart thumps passionately and I wave, but she only sneers in clear contempt. Sneers. Her husband follows her stare and glares at us with equal scorn. Now I’m confused.
“Leave us alone!” the woman yells.
I step back, surprised.
“Go on, get!” the man shouts, waving us away like flies over his meat. They turn back to each other and resume arguing.
This can’t be happening. The Frontier divides good from evil, right from wrong, and we’re on the good side. DZs are supposed to stick together, but this couple doesn’t want to share. They’re hogging power like Easies, and it’s making me angry.
“Hey!” I shout. My eyes narrow. I hit the stone column by the side of their door. “You have to let us in!”
“Get iced!” the woman snaps.
I raise my eyebrows in shock. Get iced? We shout that at the Frontier! And no one talks like that to Star. I kick through the glass without thinking and send shards skidding across the floor. The neighboring couple cowers against the back wall. They might look like us, but they’re not true DZs. This power is in the wrong hands, and I’m going to make it mine.
In the middle of their floor stands one gray metal pole, taller than I am and thick as a tree trunk. On top, a yellow sphere beams bright light in all directions. Warm air rushes into the room through thousands of pinpricks running up the pole, and a steady hum fills the silence. I’m mesmerized, but I can’t get carried away. We’re not safe yet. I survey the rest of the library in the naked light to rule out any threats. Small pats of snow melt in between empty bookshelves. No weapons in sight. The walls around me are wooden skeletons, and a small boy leans dejectedly against one of the beams. His face is red and puffy from crying.
Star fixates on the boy. Her eyebrows angle up toward each other and she bites her lip, overcome with compassion. In her mind, nothing exists but this boy right now, and it’s in dazes like this that she gets herself in trouble. She kneels next to me, opens her arms, and looks so tenderly at him that he runs straight toward her. He pumps his little arms in his dull navy parka until he lands in her embrace and they hug. He watches me fearfully over her shoulder while she rubs his back. Star whispers calm words into his ear, but we’re not here to make him feel good. We’re here for us, and we’re here for Wick. I’m going to use this little boy.
I wrench him out of Star’s grasp and lift him to sit on my arm. He’s crying again now, pushing my chest away with small fists, but he’s weak and his efforts won’t free him. I turn back to face the couple.
“Please,” the woman says. She holds her hands nervously by her mouth. Her eyes fill with tears. “Don’t hurt my Spark.”
“How did you get power?” I demand, swiveling Spark behind my far shoulder.
“Mommy! Daddy! Tell them!” Spark cries.
“We earned it,” the man says firmly. “Don’t hurt our son.”
“Oh yeah? And how did you earn it?” I spit.
“We’re not allowed to tell you,” a new voice growls. A boy about my age in a hooded black jacket walks toward me with a shotgun aimed squarely between my eyes. His broad shoulders are tense, and my stomach sinks when I realize just how big he is. His arms are wider than my thighs. He stops five feet away from me, and I can see his hands aren’t shaking, as if he’s shot at this range before. “Put Spark down, and no one will get hurt.”
“Blaze!” the woman cries with relief.
Spark cries louder in my arms, and I know my life is at risk. Star tugs subtly on my sleeve, telling me to put Spark down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see she’s still racked by sympathy, and I wonder if she can even hear us anymore. If she’s not careful, she might let herself walk right in front of Blaze’s gun. She tugs harder on my sleeve. I have to get us both to safety.
“Alright,” I say. “We’re going.”
“Not with Spark, you’re not!” Blaze says.
“Run, Star,” I whisper, but she won’t budge. She just stands next to me staring at Spark, and I clench my jaw in frustration. We’re close to death, and her concern for a complete stranger might get both of us killed. She has to take her safety more goddamn seriously. Our safety. “Star!” I whisper with more force. “Get the hell out of here. Now.”
She still won’t move. Think, Phoenix, think. Do something!
And at last I have an idea.
“Catch!” I shout. I throw Spark toward Blaze and spin around to dash out the door. My hands grab Star and push her outside to keep her from reac
hing for the runt herself. Behind us, Blaze drops his gun to catch his brother. We run into the street. Within seconds, Star and I are outside the umbrella of their faint light, out of range and hidden in the dark. My eyes readjust to blackness as Star and I slow to a stop.
I pull her close. She throws her arms around me and hugs me tightly. As if making me feel good right now is the most important thing in the world to her. It’s childish how much she cares, but I can’t be mad at her anymore. Being close to her helps me breathe again, and I can’t help but love her for the same reason she drives me insane: her heart. I look down, cup both sides of her face, and kiss her forehead to say that I’m here. It’s over. I’ll protect you.
Together, we stride into the night. Blaze can’t chase us now, not in this darkness. His family travels too much to know these streets like we do. Star and I sidestep around a nearly invisible mailbox. We’re safe. Shocked, but safe.
A bitter taste builds slowly in my mouth as we head back to her shelter. My mind’s eye can’t stop seeing that light. I was in the presence of real power tonight. Goddammit, I was so close! I should have touched the sphere. Palmed it as if it were mine. I still want to know what power feels like—not just to find it, but to own it. Then I’d be able to walk by the Frontier without feeling so goddamn second-rate. I’d be able to look at Star and see her beauty in beaming light. Hell, I could even save Wick’s life. But I can’t do any of that right now because I’m as powerless as ever.
Star and I are quiet the whole way back. I doubt either of us wants to admit how devastated we are at the way this night has turned out. How close we came to power—and the horrible emptiness at having it slip away. We curve around a pickup truck abandoned in the middle of the street. Its hood is still popped from when DZs stole its batteries.
Back at Silk, I open the door for Star just a few inches. Any more and it would creak and wake Mrs. Windsong and Wick. This is where we’ll separate for the night. As usual. I pause and gaze into her blue eyes one last time. So beautiful. Still shaken.
“Will you spend the night?” she asks softly.
My heart leaps.
3
Star has never asked me to spend the night. Not even in snowstorms. I’ve dropped her off in freezing winds and had to crawl my way home, but that’s Mrs. Windsong’s only rule: Don’t spend the night, Phoenix. No matter what. Star’s always listened to her mom, and I never wanted to come between them, so this is the way it’s been. To invite me now, Star must be much more scared than she seems.
I take her hand firmly, and we creep inside Silk on tiptoe. The whole first floor is one spacious room made for dancing, apparently. Useless spotlights jut from spiderwebs of iron bars spread across the high ceiling, and creaky stairs lead up to the “VIP Lounge” where Star sleeps with the rest of her family. And now me. Star beckons me after her into the Lounge and together we enter the circular room. An old bar hugs a wall, and one mattress sits in the center. I could’ve gotten them more than one, but Star didn’t want to feel excessive. I indulged her because I figured they’d share body heat better this way.
On the mattress, in sleeping bags, Mrs. Windsong and Wick curve in C-shaped lumps next to each other. Ready to discover us at any second. Star takes her boots off one at a time, pressing down on each heel with the toes of her other foot. She places them with her backpack on the bar top, and I do the same to respect her home. When she crawls into her sleeping bag, the mattress bends beneath her weight and jostles her family slightly. Watching Mrs. Windsong roll over in her sleep, I almost swallow my tongue. This is worse than being at gunpoint. Star unzips the bag so I’ll be able to fit with her. Every click down the zipper makes me wince. Her hair falls in front of her face, and I’d tuck it behind her ear if I weren’t paralyzed with fear that any second Mrs. Windsong might wake up. Star nods when she’s done, and I slide in next to her. She rests her head softly on my chest and melts in the security of my arms.
“You’re warm,” she whispers.
You too, Star. And I’d say it out loud, but—your mom.
Her body relaxes as she drifts toward sleep, but I can’t join her yet. Unwilling to let my guard down, I nervously keep the back of my head raised an inch above the mattress. Mrs. Windsong breathes deeply then exhales a small, white cloud. She could wake up right this minute and I’d be doomed. I stare at my backpack to distract myself. The barrel of my rifle—nicknamed Magic—sticks straight out of the top. I always carry it like that to keep my hands free. It lets the butt bounce rhythmically against my back when I walk, so I always know it’s there. I let my head drop slowly, still eyeing my gun.
Everyone in Dark DC has a weapon of choice, and Blaze pointed his in my face tonight. Took aim. I’ve never pointed Magic at another DZ—well, not a living DZ anyway. Once, and just once, it happened during target practice. I was shooting an old statue when Dad’s arm suddenly reached over my shoulder. He shoved the barrel down, yanked my wrist and squeezed it hard. He told me to have some goddamn respect. This was the Lincoln Memorial. Before the Blackout, it symbolized something good, and I shouldn’t shoot anywhere near here. The man in the statue was one of us. Dad was getting pretty emotional, as if the statue meant a lot to him. Since then, I haven’t aimed at another DZ, real or statue. And I never will. Magic is reserved for big game, practice cans, and our true enemies, Easies.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake to the sound of Wick coughing. The air is filled with loud hacking noises that sound wet and painful. Star wriggles her way out of our sleeping bag and curls around him before I can stop her. The mattress bends and I bite my tongue, but at least Wick quiets down in her arms. I turn carefully onto my side and stare at the back of Star’s head in the dark.
“Did you see Phoenix tonight?” Wick asks her.
His voice sounds small and helpless, and a pang of sympathy I’m not used to hits me in the gut. I hold my breath to hear Star answer.
“Yes, Wicky,” she whispers.
“I told you not to call me that!” Wick says. He breaks into a brief but agonizing cough, and Star strokes his arm until it’s over. “Star?”
“Yes, Wick?”
“Has Phoenix ever been sick?” he asks.
“Everyone’s been sick,” Star whispers.
“Yes, but has Phoenix been sick?” The way Wick emphasizes my name makes me wince. I’ve intruded on a private moment, and now I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Wick lets loose a terrible hack, worse than I’ve ever heard him before. Each cough almost rattles the walls, and my eyes widen in surprise. I had no idea it was this bad. He really has been holding back the worst of his illness from me, and all because he idolizes me so damn much.
“Of course he’s been sick,” Star whispers.
“But—really sick? Like me?” he asks, sniffling.
“No,” Star says thoughtfully. “You’re fighting something very big. Not many people have faced anything like this.”
“Really?” he asks.
“Really.”
This answer seems to satisfy him, and they snuggle close together. Wick’s awful cough echoes in my mind, and I realize he is stronger than I thought. He’s managed to hide this from me through months of visits. Made me think I’d seen it all. The time Star and I have spent talking about him now feels completely justified, and I don’t just want to cure him for Star’s sake anymore. I want to save him from this pain.
Wick quiets down again, and I wait in silence for the return of Mrs. Windsong’s light snore. Please, Mrs. Windsong, please be asleep. At the far edge of the mattress, her sleeping bag rustles as if she is about to stand up. I cringe for one tense beat until the rustling stops and her snore finally resumes. I exhale sharply and decide not to stay here and test my luck any longer. I creep out of the sleeping bag, grab my stuff, and tiptoe as fast as I can down the stairs. Gray light pours in through the cracked door, and I jog into the cold.
The route back home takes me by the Frontier. I reach the wall in a couple of minutes and look i
t over. It’s as grim as ever. Halfway up the towering concrete wall is a horizontal ledge patrolled by Easy guards. We call them Frontmen. They walk back and forth, each stationed a mile apart between the gates. Their patrols started about ten years ago and, as with everything else, we weren’t told why. I can see one now. He wears a dingy green suit and carries the biggest gun I have ever seen. Like all Frontmen, he is deathly silent. He turns on one heel far above me, and I see a tiny white cloud of breath color the air in front of him.
Still tense, I run my gloved fingertips along the concrete base to calm down. It feels smooth. I pass a section where someone has spray-painted We Are Not Ghosts in black bubble letters bigger than me. Ghosts, I think, shaking my head. We are not Ghosts. Down here, that word is a scathing slur. It comes from the idea that Easies can’t see DZs, but they know that we are here. Calling someone a Ghost is telling him that his life is worth nothing. I’ve never used the word.
I walk past the humongous G, then the H, still dragging my fingertips through the letters. Instead of an O, someone has spray-painted a giant black arrowhead with two white eyes. That symbol means the Shadows have been here. I shiver.
After the Blackout, class divisions disappeared. Skills meant more than money, and the best survivors were initiated into a new elite: the Shadows. They are the smartest hunters and strongest fighters in the Dark Zone. No one knows how many there are, and I’ve only ever seen a few. They stick to themselves. At night, during the rounds, sometimes we tell each other stories about them from the scraps we’ve seen or heard.
Last month, the two Rosens said they witnessed Shadows in training. At least, it looked like training—or an initiation—we don’t know. Chasing big game, Flint and Lightning had trekked all the way to the ocean. A week-long journey. As they approached the beach dunes, exhausted, they saw a Shadow standing sturdily with his feet spread apart in the sand. It was dawn. Frigid ocean waves ran up the beach and wet his bare feet up to the ankles. He wore all black leather, like all Shadows seem to, and had thick black lines drawn from the outer corners of his eyes to his temples. The Rosens flattened themselves against the dune and studied him. This Shadow oversaw a line of boys and girls about my age as they lay arm in arm in the surf before him. He watched waves lap over their shivering bodies for an hour.
Blackout (Darkness Trilogy) Page 2
