“Arson,” I sneer at Whit. “How many years for that?”
The fire climbs up a trellis on the police station, and an alarm begins clanging.
Emmet starts to look nervous. “Uh… I don’t know if that was such a good idea,” he says.
But there’s still fire inside me, and it’s itching to get out. “Well, maybe you guys don’t want to stick around for this,” I say. And I fling my arms into the air, and the streetlamps begin to blaze like klieg lights, and then sparks start arcing out of them. Any moment they’ll explode in a shower of scarlet embers.
I want to shout and dance in the light—I want to feel the burn on my skin. I will not let Darrius put out my fire.
I’m spinning madly, shooting off sparks, when suddenly there’s an arm around my neck, and it’s pulling me into the darkness. I fight it, kicking and scratching, and then another hand clamps down hard on my mouth so I can’t bite.
I’m blind with fear and rage, but the arms are too strong. They’re pulling me deeper into the darkness, dragging me away from my dancing flames.…
And then they let me go.
I whirl around, fists raised—and I’m face-to-face with Whit.
“Hush,” he whispers. “The Horsemen are coming.”
Behind him, Serena and Emmet stare at me in fear and wonder. And I understand why. Because when you’re breaking laws established by murderers, you really ought to be quiet about it. Unless you want to eat a bullet for your midnight snack.
Chapter 45
Whit
DARRIUS’S FACE FLICKERS onto the TV screen at five a.m. Again. If this dictator business doesn’t work out, he’s got a bright future as an alarm clock. (Not that he managed to wake Wisty up; I can hear her snoring in the next room.)
He serenely wishes us a good morning, but then he quickly hands the microphone to General Bloom, and without preamble, Bloom launches into the latest set of rules. “Public parks have been closed, pending further notice. Benson Polytechnic School is now closed, as is the Drake Academy of Art and Science. Citizens residing in the City’s eighth quadrant will be receiving their relocation assignments within the week.”
More closures, more forced relocations: it makes me want to kick the screen in. They promise we’ll earn our freedoms back, once we learn how to comport ourselves. They say in the meantime, we should be grateful we’re still alive.
“Contrary to what you have been led to believe,” Bloom likes to say, “existence is not a right. It is a privilege.”
I unplug the TV—I’ve had enough of them for now. And then I get dressed, even though the sun’s not up yet. I grab a breakfast bar from the cabinet and scrawl a quick note for my mom. I slip outside before anyone’s up to ask me where I’m going.
After Wisty’s obnoxious display last night, I made up my mind to take a different approach.
Which is why I’m going to join the slave brigade at Work Site #1.
It’s not as crazy as it sounds, I swear.
Work Site #1 is a giant pit in the middle of the City. A full square block in size, it was supposed to be the foundation of a new cultural center. Once Darrius came to power, though, everything changed. Instead of building support columns for the future building, people were forced to dig the huge hole still deeper. And if you believe what you hear, the labor of excavating rock and mud is literally killing people.
I’ve decided my job’s going to be helping them survive. I can do that, even without my healing magic. I’m also going to find out why they’re digging. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure out a way to stop it.
We have to fight with the weapons we’ve got, after all: that’s what I keep telling myself as I join the hordes of unwilling workers. My weapon, for now, will be subterfuge.
One of the Horsemen grabs my arm and quickly clamps a strange metal band around my wrist. Before I have time to look at it more closely, he motions me and hundreds of other bleary-eyed people down rickety ladders into the vast, muddy hole.
It feels like I’m climbing down into the pit of hell. But instead of fire, there’s rock and mud and cold, wet sludge. The only sounds are the clang of the shovels and pickaxes and the groans of the filthy, miserable workers. The air smells like sweat and piss and worse. I’ve seen a lot of suffering in my life, but this just might take the misery cake.
“You do not rest. You do not talk. You work,” the Horseman shouts from above, “until the bell sounds. The only excuse for not working is being dead.” He pats the gun slung across his shoulder and smiles cruelly.
“But being dead must be better than this,” whispers someone nearby.
I can already tell he’s got a point.
As I walk farther along, I notice that all around me, carved into the walls of the pit, are the beginnings of tunnels. Muddy figures labor in the rocky, gaping maws—but there’s nothing to see but darkness. Where will the completed tunnels lead? Are we building a subway system down here? A network of new water lines? Are these tunnels supposed to be mine shafts? And what’s up with my weird new bracelet?
I try to ask a fellow slave as I pass by, but he shakes his head in warning—we aren’t supposed to talk. When I try again, he swings his pickaxe so close to my feet that I have to jump back.
I join a group of about a dozen workers by the mouth of one of the tunnels. None of them say anything to me, either—why risk a lashing? But I nod at each of them in turn, trying to say, I see you. You’re not simply a faceless slave.
I move next to a red-bearded man wielding a pickaxe. I decide to risk speech again. “I’m Whit,” I say as I slam the shovel into the earth.
At first I think he hasn’t heard me. But then he says simply, “Stan.”
“Do you know—” I begin.
“Shut up,” he says, not unkindly.
And so for a while I do. And I work.
The sun beats down on us as we dig, and I don’t think I’ve ever been this hot in my life. Sweat stings my eyes and pours in rivers down my back. Within an hour of shoveling, huge blisters form on my hands. When they pop, the shovel handle grows slick with blood and pus. The dust from the shattered rock billows up, getting into my eyes and nose and covering my hair in a fine gray powder.
And still I dig.
And dig.
Each minute takes an hour, and each hour is a lifetime.
My lungs feel like they’re filled up with dirt, and I’m so hungry I think I could fill my stomach up with it, too.
“When do we eat?” I whisper to Stan.
He snorts. “Eat what?”
I guess that answers my question.
We’re allowed a five-minute break in the afternoon, when the sun blazes so brightly it feels like the whole world’s on fire. By now I’m too dehydrated to sweat.
For a few moments, I catch my breath, supporting myself against the wall of the pit. Above me, a group of Horsemen gathers around at the lip of the pit, inspecting a map and arguing in their foreign tongue, interspersed with smatterings of words I can understand. I hazard a few steps closer, hoping to hear something more. I think I catch the words “open” and “deep” and “gate.”
Open deep gate? What does that mean?
I’m thinking about asking Stan when a woman near me stumbles, cries out, and then falls to the ground, facedown in the dirt. I move as quickly as I can to her side—which, considering my state of exhaustion, is not what I’d call speedy. When I turn her over, her mouth lolls open; she’s barely conscious.
Stan hurries over, too. “Don’t let them see,” he whispers urgently. “They’ll take her.”
I’m guessing he doesn’t mean to the hospital.
Together we drag her toward the mouth of a tunnel and prop her up against the cold rocks. There’s a deep gash on her forehead, which I clean with a cloth from the kit I brought. My hands are shaking with exhaustion, but I manage to steady them enough to place bandages on the wound. The woman’s eyes flutter open, then fall closed again. Stan begins shoveling right in front of her,
blocking her from the Horsemen’s view.
Behind us, the nearby workers are still digging. But they’re watching us, too, and I swear I can see a spark of hope in their eyes. I can imagine what they’re thinking: What if we worked together—if we didn’t just leave the weak and injured to their fate? Might there be a way to survive this?
I know the guards can’t see me right now, so I’m not afraid to speak. “We’re going to watch out for one another,” I tell them. “If you’re hurt, come to me. If I can’t help you, I’ll help hide you. Okay? We’re going to get through this. We stand together.”
They nod, slowly, and my spirits lift. This small, quiet moment could be the first step toward an uprising.
For a little while longer, I dig with renewed energy. But then I hear the screaming.
All of us look over to the bent figure of a woman. Behind her stands a Horseman, his whip raised. He brings it down hard across her back, and I see the skin open up and the blood run down. He does this three more times, while the woman’s shrieks seem to shatter the air. When it’s over, she collapses in the dirt, silent. And then the Horseman holds out a pitcher of water, and he pours it over her back.
And the screaming begins again.
“Salt water,” Stan says, turning away in disgust. “That’s how they do it around here.”
I feel sick to my stomach. This is so much worse than I ever could have imagined. I know that the minute the Horseman leaves, I’m going to go help that woman—but for now, I’m just useless.
“We stand together,” I remind the people around me. “Together, we are strong.”
But I don’t sound as convincing this time.
A tall, wild-eyed woman reaches out and grabs my arm. “There’s nothing to be done, new boy. You know what we’re digging here, don’t you?” She jabs a finger at my chest. “Graves,” she says. She kicks at a rock and curses. “For ourselves.”
Chapter 46
Wisty
IF THERE WERE a prize for stupid decisions, then surely my brother would win it: that’s what I’m thinking as I gaze down into the enormous pit of Work Site #1. He’s somewhere inside that hellhole, and I’ve got to get him out.
Dig, dig, dig: Darrius and Bloom must be trying to work these people to death—that’s the only explanation I can come up with. But I’m not going to let anyone else kill my brother, because that’s my prerogative. (Metaphorically, I mean. In reality, I’ll only kick his ass a little bit for being so insufferably good-hearted and principled and idiotic. I mean, what sort of person voluntarily enters a muddy pit teeming with slaves? I’m seriously doubting his capacity to make sane decisions now.)
I walk slowly along the upper lip of the pit, from one end to the other, looking for a pair of familiar muscled shoulders and a shock of too-long blond hair. But there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people down there. They’re covered in dirt from head to toe, too, which makes it hard to tell them apart.
Me, I’m disguised as an old woman—just a bit of magic, plus some clothes from my old dress-up trunk—so I assume I’m safe from being collared by Horsemen and handed a shovel.
Except, as it turns out, I’m not. I’ve just caught what I think is a glimpse of Whit when I’m grabbed roughly by the arm, spun around, and then held face-to-face by a huge and hideously ugly Horseman.
“Why aren’t you working?” he yells.
His breath’s so bad I momentarily choke. “Sir,” I manage, “I’m a grandmother—surely you don’t—”
But he’s already dragging me toward the ladders at the entrance to the pit. I claw madly at his arms, but I might as well be a kitten for all he notices. “Let me go,” I shriek. “You ugly, stinking barbarian!”
A handful of other Horsemen come over to watch and laugh at this spitting, cursing old woman. I can feel the burn inside my skin, like I’m going to combust. But I don’t want to blow my cover right now—and even ringed by flames, I don’t know if I’m a match for half a dozen of these thugs.
Still yelling and scratching, I’m taken down into the muddy earthen maw, and there they clap some band around my wrist and then let me go. Someone pushes a shovel into my hands—a shovel so heavy that, if I were as old as I look, I wouldn’t even be able to lift it.
I can’t help it: I spit on the ground at a Horseman’s feet. He cuffs me across the cheek so hard I see stars. “Dig, old woman,” he barks. Then he shoves me toward the other slaves.
As I hobble my way across the pit to where I think I saw Whit, I wonder if I might also win a prize for stupid decisions.
It’s so much worse than I could have imagined down here: a seething, stinking mass of brutalized humanity, wordlessly ripping the earth to shreds. For a minute, I consider shape-shifting into a bird and getting the hell out of here. But then I tell myself that I came here for a reason. A reason named Whit.
“Hello, Whitford,” I say when I finally locate my brother. I say it brightly—to hide the nervousness that’s quickly turning to dread.
He turns around and gives me a blank look. He’s filthy and sweating, and there’s a big cut on his shoulder.
“Don’t you recognize your own sister?” I ask.
His eyes go wide, and then he grabs my arm and drags me halfway into the mouth of a tunnel. “Don’t let them see you talk,” he whispers fiercely. “Wisty, is that really you? What are you doing here?”
“I came here to ask you the same question,” I say. “Well, not exactly—I actually came here to break you out. But that didn’t quite work.”
“Obviously,” he says. Then he startles me by slamming his fist into the rock. “Wisty, this place is a death trap,” he nearly shouts. “Do you know how many people I’ve seen carted away? The answer is: you don’t want to know. And they’re not coming back!”
I shake his hand off. “Hey, I can escape this dump. All I have to do is duck into a corner and poof! I’m a cat! Even the Horsemen can’t make a cat dig.”
Whit shakes his head. “Your powers won’t work in the pit, Wisty,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I demand.
He gestures to the bracelet the Horsemen gave me. “That blocks magic,” he says.
I look at it—it’s so small and innocent looking. It’s almost pretty. Whit’s obviously wrong about it. “How come I still look old, then?” I counter.
“Why don’t you see what else you can do,” Whit says flatly.
“Fine.” I point my finger at a small pile of rubble, and I can feel the M begin to spark and flow. But then, instead of releasing, it keeps swirling around inside me, like my body’s a cage it’s locked inside. I focus with everything I’ve got, and a tiny blue flame shoots from my fingertip. The ends of my hair begin to smoke, and a few curls spark. But that’s it.
It’s definitely not enough magic to bust us out of here.
“Uh-oh,” I whisper.
“Yeah, and that’s not all,” Whit says. “If you leave the site early, or fail to report to work on time, it shocks you. Just little shocks at first, like tiny bee stings. But they get worse. Stay away too long, sister, and you’ll get cooked—from the inside out.”
I can feel myself grow pale. “What?”
Whit nods. “It happened to Stan’s brother. Ask him if you want details. But personally, I wouldn’t recommend it.” And then he turns his back on me and starts digging.
He can’t be right—can he? If he is, I’m in deeper trouble than I thought.
A finger is gently tapping my arm. “You better start working, ma’am,” a woman tells me. “The guards are on patrol now, and they’ll beat even you.”
Unsure of what else to do, I pick up my shovel. Within minutes, my shoulders are screaming in pain. My forearms feel like sticks of fire. And for hours it goes on like this.
When it seems like I can’t even stand up for another second, a red-bearded man comes over and takes my shovel away. “You rest,” he whispers. “I’ll cover for you.”
“Who’re you?” I ask.
He shakes his head, as if it doesn’t matter. “We stand together,” he says. He nods toward Whit. “He leads us. Soon we will rise up.”
Well, I’ll be damned, I think, looking at Whit with new eyes. Maybe my brother’s not quite as idiotic as I thought.
Maybe.
Chapter 47
Whit
WE WERE FINALLY released after fourteen hours of labor, but now there’s a Horseman patrol marching up and down our street—back and forth, back and forth, like some kind of lethal parade.
Wisty curses because the bracelet’s still preventing her from shape-shifting. Now she knows what it feels like to be me, I think.
We wait in the shadows for a long time, until there’s a momentary break in the patrol, and then we scurry around to the back door of our parents’ house.
It’s locked.
“Seriously?” Wisty hisses.
I’m about to shoulder my way through it when it swings open, and my mom stands there, backlit, with a look of shock on her face. At first I think she’s going to turn me away. But then she gives a little cry and flings her arms around my filthy neck.
“Oh, Whit,” she cries, “I’m so glad you’re home.”
Wisty gives my mom a quick hello and heads straight for the refrigerator. I could eat every scrap of food in the house, too, up to and including whatever’s in the compost bin, but first I stop and lock eyes with my dad.
I’m surprised to see that his are moist.
“Son,” he says quietly. He reaches for my callused hand and shakes it. “It’s good to see you.”
I search his face for any sign of doubt. “You sure about that?” I ask.
He nods emphatically. “I made a mistake,” he says. “I can only say I’m sorry. So very sorry.”
I pull him toward me in a hug. “It’s okay,” I tell him.
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