Green Jack
Page 55
Chapter 55
Saffron
Titus’s war room was just like Caradoc’s: maps and screens and too many mouths moving. Strategy was never her strong suit. She usually jumped in and learned how to swim before the waves dragged her under. Or Killian pulled her out.
“I don’t want the government,” Titus said wearily and Saffron had the impression it wasn’t the first, not even the hundredth time he’d said it.
“Then why do all of this?” She waved at the maps and the screens and the quivers of green-tipped arrows in every corner. She’d always wondered why the rebels bothered doing what they did.
“Someone has to. And if they raise our children to be good little Directorate soldiers and clerks, we’ve lost the City. We’d never get it back.”
“So why not take over completely?” Nico asked.
“They have their job to do and I have mine.”
“Which is?”
“Karma,” Titus replied with a stark smile. “It’s checks and balances. We make sure they don’t go too far.”
“And what do they do for us?” Saffron asked sourly.
“They feed us.” She snorted. He didn’t smile. “How would you feed a City this size?”
She didn’t have an answer for him. Titus and Caradoc mulled over more contingency plans, Nico and Livia argued, and the rebels sharpened their weapons. The Ferals stood against the damp tiled walls on the platform and tried not to breathe the dank air.
“Are you sure about this?” Saffron asked Killian. She’d gotten used to the sky endless and uncluttered above her. The tunnel walls pressed too close. “We used to laugh at the rebels.”
“You laughed at them,” he corrected her.
“I guess.” She was thrilled to see Killian again, but now that the glow was fading, she felt discombobulated. Her skin prickled.
“Come on,” Killian said. “We’re having a feast.”
“A feast?” she echoed, following him to the end of the main platform. There were platters of roasted squirrel meat, star anise tea, a salad of herbs, protein paste cupcakes, and, incredibly, a bowl of tiny strawberries drizzled with real cream. It was an unimaginable luxury. Titus grinned at her over the table. “It’s tradition to feast before you go into battle.”
“So you can at least die with a full stomach?”
“It’s something,” he shrugged.
The rebels were welcoming after the first bottle of wine and downright cuddly after the second. They kept trying to entice Anya to join them on the saggy couches but she only snarled. She ate the strawberries though, and the currant jam. Nobody drank the water. Livia had a surprisingly sweet singing voice, even if her songs were filthy. Nico tried to flirt with Shanti until she poked him in the ass with her spear.
Saffron felt better, full and sleepy and sparkly with wine. She wound her arm through Killian’s. “I kind of love you, you know.”
His smile was crooked. “Have another strawberry to soak up all that wine.”
Roarke watched them over the rim of his glass. Someone offered a toast. Caradoc and Titus were deep in conversation. Anya looked bored and sleepy. More food was brought out, more wine, more strawberries.
Saffron decided to go for a walk to clear her head. The lights were too bright and there were too many voices. Someone grabbed her suddenly, dragging her into a small alcove. It was the kind of dark niche that would have been painted with gold dust and filled with oak leaves and candles to honour the Green Jacks up on the streets. She pressed her dagger to his throat, but Roarke only smiled down at her. He looked as wild-eyed and wine-fuelled as she felt.
“Killian’s going to win, isn’t he? You’re going to choose him.”
“I’m not a prize,” she scoffed. “And neither are you.”
He kissed her or she kissed him; mostly they collided like stars somewhere in the middle. She thought of meteors and comets burning in the sky. Oona had told her once that everyone was made up of star dust, but Saffron only believed it when Roarke was touching her. The thought alone would have embarrassed her, if she’d been capable of thought. But maybe she didn’t want to be star dust after all, maybe she wanted to be earth and roots and moss. Something she could feel in her hands, not write poems about.
Roarke propped his back against the wall and pulled her between his legs, his hands stroking her spine. She arched into the touch, nipping at his bottom lip. Finally, finally, they were using their mouths for something other than talking around a point of strategy.
A while later, they stumbled back to the platform, giggling. Saffron had never felt quite to light, even after drinking greensap whiskey in the Rings. Her head spun. Roarke steadied her, grinning foolishly. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” She pointed to the others, passed out in various awkward positions. “So are they.”
Nico was sliding off the couch. Saffron didn’t see Killian but Caradoc had his head thrown back, mouth open. “I’ve never seen your uncle actually---.”
Too late Saffron remembered Jane’s cryptic warning.
She tasted the strawberries on her tongue. The bowl was empty, except for a bit of wine, dyed with crushed berries, like pink champagne.
“Shit, you said they were all here,” someone said.
Roarke’s hand tightened in hers, but when he turned towards her he was moving too slowly, too strangely. She wanted to tell him to run but her brain didn’t seem to be talking to the rest of her body. Her lips were numb. The leaf mask tucked inside her jacket pressed burrs into her skin, drawing blood. It wasn’t enough. And there was nothing down in the concrete and tile tunnels to respond to her. She couldn’t grow them a bridge to lead them out.
“Never mind, they all ate the strawberries. Look, there she goes.”