Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  I arch a brow at him. “It’s none of your business.”

  I can’t tell him the truth. It’ll give him too much satisfaction. The lunch hall is off-limits to me because of him and Blaze. It would take them seconds to concoct a dozen different ways to humiliate me in front of everyone.

  I like the steps just fine.

  He advances on me, and places his hands on either side of my head. The arm-cage makes me feel even smaller before him, but I will myself to keep the fear from showing in my eyes.

  “Move.” My voice is steadier than I expect it to be. “I have somewhere to be—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he whispers dangerously.

  I clench my teeth together as his nose brushes against my cheek.

  “What do you want?” I grit out.

  Blaze catches my gaze and I know the turn this is about to take interests him—he pockets the apple and folds his arms over his chest, gaze watchful.

  “Many things,” he breathes over my cheek.

  I turn my head to face him, my lashes lowered into a glower.

  His fierce grey eyes don’t blink. He stares right at me and I stare back.

  “You call me a dreg,” I seethe at him, “you throw me against walls, hurt me, intimidate me, but you’re obsessed. You can’t seem to just leave me alone, can you? Every time I look at you in class, you’re staring at me. When I’m in study hall, you’re watching me. I turn a corner, and there you are, finding any excuse to talk to me, to be near me touch me. Some people might get the wrong idea, Drake.”

  “That’s quite the conclusion,” he purrs. The smirk stays in place, but no humor shines in his darkening eyes.

  It’s clear he’s studying me, mulling over my words.

  Before I can speak, he pulls back and holds one of my artbooks in his hand. Not the private one I realize with a breath of relief. Still, I need it for homework.

  “This,” he says, waving the book in the air, “I will return for a price.”

  “That’s not yours to take.”

  “You want to know what I want with you,” he teases. “So take my deal, and you’ll find out.”

  My wary eyes are fixed on the book. Out the corner of my eye, I see Blaze standing stiff and tall. He’s on edge. So is Drake. They wait, tense, for my answer.

  “I can replace it,” I say with a shrug.

  Coldly, Blaze is the one to speak; “Meet us at the ruins of the Trim tomorrow night.”

  I swerve my alarmed stare to him. “Not a chance.”

  “You’ll change your mind,” Drake says confidently, and tucks my artbook under his arm. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Why do you want to meet me?”

  To bury me in the rubble? Kill me and hide the evidence, or make it look like an accident? Shove me through the small gap in the wall yet to be fixed, and feed me to the beasts?

  They both answer at the same time. “A date.”

  I blink. Startled, it takes a moment for a laugh to burst out from me. “A date?” I echo. “Am I meant to believe that?”

  Drake shrugs. “A date on Valentine’s Day.”

  Blake says, “Believe what you want, but there are two things we have that belong to you. I have your secret; Drake has your precious book. If you want to keep both, then you’ll meet us at the Trim at midnight, tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, ‘cause that doesn’t sound like a murder scene.”

  I barge past Drake, leaving my book and secret behind, and march down the corridor. They don’t follow me. And when I look back over my shoulder, they’re gone.

  10

  I finally get to use my key today.

  I wrangle it into the lock and push open the door with too much might. Sometimes, it gets stuck. The heat swells the wood, and it sits at an odd angle, jolted out of place from the last bombs that struck the city.

  It used to be a huge city, filled to the brim with people of all kinds. But now it’s a hollow, bleak spot in the world, the last of its kind. Shame it had to be remade in the image of hate. That’s what got everyone into this mess in the first place. Hate led to wars, hate led to resources dwindling, then the final war, and now we’re repeating our mistakes all over again.

  I can’t say that aloud, though.

  These things aren’t taught at Stonewall. I learned it from books found in the rubble that fringe the Trim. History books—true history. Not the fluffed up ‘it’s-for-your-own-good’ shit we get in school.

  Not even mum knows I have these books hidden under the loose floorboard beneath the couch. It’s not a crime to have them, but it’s trouble. And trouble to us, the Blancs, is a death sentence.

  I drop my bag onto the round table in the kitchenette, and turn on the radio. It’s always debates within the government, or three-hour long speeches, and some lies about the Blancs. I just like the noise, it makes me feel like someone’s home with me when mum’s away.

  As I unpack my bag, I listen to the debate coming from the radio speaker-box. My dad.

  A small grim smile tugs my lips as I realize who he’s debating against. Edward, Drake’s dad.

  I fall into a seat and drag my sketchbook closer to myself. As I flip it open to find Blaze’s page, a piece of paper slips out and onto my lap.

  I frown and, delicately, lift it to under the gas lantern light.

  It’s a letter, for me.

  Well, I assume it’s for me since it was in my sketchbook.

  I FIND MYSELF WONDERING two things.

  What will happen when the city finds out whose daughter you are?

  Will Stonewall close its doors on you once the secret is broadcast on the radio?

  There’s a way to buy back your secret.

  Be at the Trim ruins tomorrow, midnight. We won’t ask again.

  I LET THE LETTER CRUMPLE in my fist.

  Bloody Drake. Or Blaze? The letter sounds like Blaze. There’s an edge of politeness even when he’s blackmailing me.

  As much as my alarm bells are screaming, I can’t risk it. If anyone does find out about who my dad is, his entire campaign will fall apart, and then that leaves me and my kind in a dangerous place.

  I’ll lose Stonewall. I’ll lose my mum to scandal, she’ll be fired. And I’ll lose my life when Edward wins the campaign and marches on the Blancs.

  I don’t have a choice. Not really.

  But I doubt meeting them will bring me too much favor. Either way, I’ll be facing a horrible fate.

  11

  I take the day off school, but I lie and tell my mum I’ll just go late.

  Mum fights me on it, but I insist on helping her. She’s one conductor down on the train, no one to mark the register in the cab nearest the conductor room, and mum can’t drive the train and count passengers at the same time.

  But that’s not the true reason I take the day off.

  I can’t face them. I can’t see Drake and Blaze, and battle myself over the coming night.

  So after I count all thirteen passengers in cabin one, I hop off the train, wave bye to the conductor window that’s blacked-out, then I head to the heart of the city.

  I want one of those creamy, cocoa coffees my dad had last night. And with the few notes I pinched from the stash I gave to mum, I have enough for a cappuccino, a piece of cake, and some new art supplies.

  Best to go when most of the nobles are at work, school, and the Blancs are at the quarry.

  As I wander through the narrow, cobblestone lanes of the city, mind on art books and new charcoal sticks, my mind wanders to the slaves at the quarry. Isn’t that what they are? Slaves, shoved into hard labor to build the two walls that separate Stonewall from the beasts roaming wild outside.

  The first, largest wall is built already. Has been for years. Now, the second wall is a few days from being finished. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that in only a few days, the elections take place and we, the serfs, the Blancs, can’t vote.

  I mean, neither can the nobles. Only the cabinet can vote, and they’re made up solely
of wealthy noble men. Always men.

  I read in one of my hidden history books that a few women sometimes ruled. Prime Ministers, Queens, and a President.

  Now, it’s men and the rich and the nobles deciding my future. My heart feels heavy when I push through the door to the quiet art shop.

  The shop owner rolls his eyes when he sees me. He doesn’t like serving me, and there’s a NO BLANCS sign on the window, faded by the sun and a little dusty. But with me, I come so often and bring frequent business, so he tends to just look the other way.

  That’s what he does as I roam the aisle of small paint tubs and charcoal pencils. I’m picking through shades of blue when it hits—a thunderous rumble that rattles the whole shop, like an earthquake.

  Boxes fall off shelves. My balance is rattled, and I fall down with a pile of pencils and land on my side. I hear the shop owner shout right after a crunch. He goes silent.

  I curl up on my side, arms over my head, and clench my eyes shut. The thunder comes from the earth. Everything is shaking, and soon, my whimpers turn into screams.

  Over the rumbles, I faintly hear blasts coming from far outside. Far, quiet, but as clear as crystals.

  Explosions.

  THE EARTH HAS STOPPED shuddering.

  The art shop is in a complete state. The shelves are toppled over like dominos, and the shopkeeper is nowhere to be seen.

  I’m buried under piles of boxes and art books.

  I wriggle my legs to loosen up my trap, then start to push things off of my body. With a grunt, I climb to my feet. Unsteady, I plod through the mess and make my way over to the cashier desk.

  It was made from glass. Was. Now, it’s shattered to pieces, and the floor is covered in glittering winks of shards. I peer over the mess.

  Smothered in a broken till and a mound of glass, the shopkeeper is curled up into a ball, the way I’d been during the explosion.

  I nudge him with my boot. He swipes at me, instinct or pride, I don’t know.

  He seems to come to, realize the tremors have stopped, and he climbs out of the mess. One look around the remains of his shop, his face pales and he tells me to get out.

  I rush back over to my bag.

  As I pull it out from under the debris, I stuff some new supplies into my bag. I’m not ashamed of stealing. I came here for art supplies, and the shopkeeper doesn't seem to be in a selling mood. I won’t push my luck.

  Zipping up my bag, I run out of the shop and let the door slam shut behind me.

  The city looks unharmed. Some bins are toppled over, open doors reveal shops whose shelves are broken and supplies all over the floors. But the buildings still stand tall and intact.

  The explosion came from out of the city, beyond the stone walls. I can see the ribbon of smoke in the distance.

  Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I lunge into a sprint through Stonewall. My heart punches against my ribs, every hit more painful than the last. My throat is dry, like debris clings to it, and every breath feels like it’s scraping down sandpaper.

  I don’t stop until I’m staggering onto the only train station in Stonewall. A small crowd has blossomed here. By the time I reach the station, about a dozen nobles cluster at the mouth of the train tunnel and stare through the iron gate that bars it shut.

  I shove my way through the crowd. Some mutter insults my way, dreg, Blanc, tramp, whatever they call me, I’m immune to it. Because once I reach the iron bars and grip onto them so tightly my knuckles turn white, I know what exploded.

  The train.

  And my scream reaches all corners of Stonewall.

  12

  I can’t see the thick smog of smoke anymore, not through the tears burning my eyes. I’ve dropped to my knees at the tunnel’s mouth, my hands loose on the bars, and I sob.

  My cries have turned hoarse, the kind that rips out your insides and strangles you.

  I can hardly breathe.

  Slumped at the bars, my eyes refuse to tear away from what remains of the train. A Force team has marched on the station, and they’re telling everyone to get back to their homes.

  An incident at the quarry.

  That’s all I can hear them say, over and over, lies and lies.

  I can see it with my own eyes. Everyone can.

  But I’m the only one who won’t eat the shit they’re feeding us. I turn my wet, dangerous eyes on the Force member trying to get me to stand.

  “It was no fucking accident,” I seethe at him. My voice shivers with my trembling body and, slowly, I use the bars to help myself stand. “That train was blown up.”

  And everyone was in it.

  Over seventy Blancs, just on their way to the quarry.

  My mum was on the train. She was driving it. Now, as the train lays in pieces in the distance, I know she’s dead.

  I snap. “You fucking monsters!”

  I lunge at the Force officer and tackle him to the ground. My fist comes down on his face before he can blink. The hit crunches his cheekbone, then, in a heartbeat, I’m lifted off him.

  Another Force officer has his arms hooked around mine, pinning my back to his chest. The one I attacked is quick on his feet. With a malicious sneer, he looks at me a moment, then crunch.

  He socks me right across the jaw.

  A wild scream rips through me. I lift up my legs and kick out at him. My boots connect with his face, and more blood floods down his face. The officer holding me shoves me up against the metal bars and shifts his hold on me. One of his hands pins me to the gate by the nape of my neck and the other—fists right onto my back.

  A cry strangles me. The pain explodes in my lungs, searing up my back as he punches me again.

  My legs buckle. I can’t breathe.

  And before the third hit can come, the officer is torn away from me. I sink to the ground, wheezing, hard.

  People are moving all around me, some are shouting at the officers, others cheering the train’s death.

  I see a pair of shiny black shoes at my head before the blur turns to darkness seedling in at the edges. The stranger crouches in front of me.

  Blaze. Then another kneels at my side.

  Drake.

  I shove myself up to my feet. Drake reaches out to help me. I cry out at him and swat his hand away. I must look wild. They back off one step, two steps, and watch me.

  Everyone’s watching me. A whole crowd. Eyes glittering.

  I choke on a sob and push my way through the crowd.

  I stagger home.

  ICE PACKS ARE STRAPPED to my back.

  I slouch forward on the round dining table in the tiny kitchen, but the flat now seems large. Too big for me.

  I listen to the radio. All day and evening they’ve been talking about the quarry. First, it was an explosion on sight. Second, it was the train losing the tracks. Then, it was a radical protest.

  Now, it’s confirmed sixty-eight dead.

  My head is buried in my arms as I listen to the radio presenter give the names of the confirmed dead.

  Annabelle.

  Mum’s name comes up.

  I knew it would. I saw the fragmented train with my own eyes. But still, I hoped not to hear her name come from the little speaker box.

  And once I hear it, a fresh wave of sobs run over me.

  By the time my sobs quieten to something numb and silent, the radio has moved on to the debate. I hear my dad’s voice on the radio and wonder how the hell he can talk about the train explosion like it’s some political piece in a game, and not as though the woman he once had feelings for, the woman who he shared a child with, was murdered by whoever planned the explosion.

  It won’t be long now, either.

  I attacked a Force Officer.

  And my mum is gone.

  Force will be at my door before dawn. They’ll drag me to the stockade to make an example of me. No one, no one, gets away with arguing with the Force, never mind attacking one.

  Even my dad can’t get me out of this one.

  E
very muscle in my body feels numb, but I push up from the round table and drag myself to the bedroom.

  I drop a duffel bag on the foot of the mattress and pack a few things of mum’s. Things that smell like her. An unwashed jumper. Her winter gloves. The lavender pouch she kept tucked under the pillow and said helped her sleep.

  I pack as much as I can before I top off the bag with my own things. Then all that’s left is the portable radio, my backpack, and all the food in the house. It’s not much, but it’ll last me a couple of days.

  I have to leave.

  I won’t face the stockades. I won’t be beaten bloody in front of the whole city, then hanged while people throw things at me.

  I don't have my mum to anchor me here anymore. I’ll take my chances with the beasts outside.

  And I have to do it now, before they fill the small hole in the stone wall. They wouldn’t have gotten rid of so many Blancs if the hole can’t be fixed within days.

  And that’s only the second wall. The first, the largest one, has a tunnel that goes under it. Helps stop flooding.

  I’ll escape Stonewall, and I’ll use the holes and tunnels to do it. I have nothing here anymore.

  The most dangerous beasts live in Stonewall.

  Blaze and Drake

  Two Weeks Before

  Blaze crouched down beside the fireplace and tended to the small flames licking along a black log. The lounge was quiet.

  It was early in the morn, Drake and Blaze were two of the first at school. Sometimes, they spent the night in the lounge.

  Their homes were deep into the city center, a far walk to tackle every day, and not to mention that at home, there were parents to deal with.

  That morn, it was so early that the sun hadn’t risen yet. The windows dripped with condensation.

  Blaze stretched his bare arms above his head. Drake emerged from the attached washroom, rubbing a damp towel against his soaked hair. It’d been one of those drunken lounge nights that they ended up sleeping on the couches.

  “Get that fire going?” asked Drake. His tone matched the iciness of his eyes, as well as Blaze’s chilled skin.