“Wha-what?” My voice croaks. My mouth is dry. And my temples pound. “Lifting a hand to my head, I use the heel of my palm to rub my eyes before I rake it through my hair. “Why’re you guys staring at me like that?
“You look…different.” Ara arches one eyebrow, a smirk lighting her features.
Reyna covers her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Huh? What do you mean?” I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, lowering my chin to my chest and smoothing my hair with both hands. The movement makes the room spin. Gripping my head and feeling a wave of nausea wash over me, I mumble, “Whoa. I don’t feel so good.” I try to stand then immediately sit back down. “What happened?” I don’t remember returning to our room last night or going to sleep. In fact, the last memory I have is of the small, crowded place Garan took us to last night.
“Well, you had several of those drinks Garan likes.” Ara’s voice seems louder than normal.
“I can hear you, sis. You don’t have to yell,” I whine.
Ara trades glances with Reyna and Pike. “Okayyyy.” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. In a lower voice she says, “You had very little until after the boy was killed, then you guzzled what was left in your cup and had two more.”
“I did?” My tongue feels thick and my limbs feel heavy. But flashes of the evening flicker in my mind. Images, their sharp edges fuzzy and dulled, are ephemeral wisps I grasp at but cannot seem to reach. A boy getting killed…I remember that. I remember how I felt. Horrified. Outraged. Those are the first two emotions that come roaring back.
The bell tolls again, startling me and causing the pain in my head to throb more intensely.
“What is that?” I stand, pushing past the sensation that the floor beneath my feet just tilted. Speaking of my feet, I look down and see that my boots and socks are gone. “And why are my feet bare?”
“Oh, your wife took them off for you. She said you’d rest better that way.” Pike smiles.
“My wife?” My gaze instantly finds Reyna. The reflexive act causes my cheeks to heat and flush.
With bands of pink streaking her cheeks, she says, “Don’t panic. We didn’t get married or anything.”
“No, no. I wasn’t panicking. Not about marrying you. That’d be great, actually,” I ramble. Somewhere, a part of me knows I should shut up, that I’m making a fool of myself and sound like a big dope as I prattle on, but I don’t. “Thanks for taking my boots and socks off for me. For being so considerate. That’s a nice thing a wife would do. Though I’ve never had one and know it’s not a wife’s job or anything. I—”
“Oh my gosh, Luc!” Ara hides her face with her covers. I think I hear her say, “Stop talking,” but her voice is muffled by the blanket,
“What?” I turn toward her and ask. “Why’re you hiding?”
“Because it’s hard to watch.” Pike covers his face with one hand, peeking out at me between his fingers. “That’s why.”
My face, red before, feels as if it’s an unhealthy shade of magenta and is likely to burst into flames. “I-I,” I try to come up with something clever to say that’ll make me look less ridiculous but come up empty. Resigned and completely humiliated, I can’t believe I yammered on. “I guess I’ll go wash up,” I lower my head and mumble, no longer focused on how dizzy and nauseated I feel.
“Wait, Lucas.” Reyna grabs my arm as I pass. Her silvery-blue eyes hold me, stopping me from taking another step. “I didn’t think it was hard to watch. In fact, I thought it was sweet.” She places a light kiss on my cheek and my stomach flip-flops. Pure happiness fills me. I smile at her, inwardly and outwardly. I don’t say a word. I’m too nervous. I contemplate hugging her, but in the split second that passes, a knock sounds at the door. I cross the room and open it. Garan fills the doorframe.
“Get ready. We need to go.” No greeting this time. No “good morning”. Just instructions. Grave expression and with dark circles beneath his eyes that look like crescent-shaped bruises, Garan looks awful.
“Why?” I ask.
“Public trials.” Garan says the words as if I already know what that means.
“What’re public trials?” I ask but, judging from Garan’s face, a part of me doesn’t want to know the answer.
“It’s when people who’re accused of crimes have punishments handed down to them.” His eyes are hard when they meet mine.
I pause, his words echoing through me before settling in the pit of my stomach. “Who hands down the punishments?”
“Come on. We have to go.” Garan ignores my question.
“Garan, who hands down the punishments?” I ask again, but I know who already.
“Volac,” Garan confirms. “Volac runs Sinsity. He hands down the punishments.”
My head snaps in Reyna’s direction. I see a sight unfamiliar to me. Her shoulders roll forward. She stares at her hands as she wrings them. When she looks up and her gaze connects with mine, I see fear in her eyes. Her fear sparks a blazing fire of rage within me. It burns anew. Up until yesterday, I’d never seen Reyna fearful of anyone or anything. Knowing that Volac evokes this from her makes me loathe him all the more.
Seeing the wordless exchange between Reyna and me, Garan lowers his voice, softening when he says, “We need to go.” He steps out into the hall and I close the door behind him. We quickly ready ourselves and meet Garan, following him out of the building.
The sun is blinding and the heat blistering despite the early hour. As we descend the steps, I see hordes of people crowding the roads and side streets, crushing together so that it’s hard to discern one face from the next. They’re a sea of bodies, heads bobbing in the distance like a great tide. The roar of excited chatter crashes like a deafening wave. As soon as we join them on the street, we’re swept up in the current, carried along until we reach a spot with a view of the same platform on which Volac stood less than a day ago.
“This must be everyone from Sinsity,” Ara shouts above the voices around us.
“Does everyone in Sinsity come to this?” I lean in and ask Garan, practically yelling to be heard.
“Yes, they have to,” he replies.
Four rows of people stand between us and a clearing that encircles Volac’s stand. The area is empty. Neither he nor his wives are present. Yet. But as soon as I see the ebb of heads begin to flow, I know they’re kneeling. Kneeling means one thing: Volac his arrived. Biting back the bitterness rising in my throat, I reluctantly follow suit, dropping to one knee. Keeping my eyes raised, I watch as Volac steps into view. Silence, stifling and so complete it rings in my ears claims the whole of the crowd. He walks cockily to the center of his stage, eyeing the people of Sinsity, eyes lingering in Reyna’s direction longer than they should.
Shirtless still, the markings on his tan skin are more pronounced this close. They assume a life of their own the way they move in time with every breath he takes, like live serpents. He pauses, head tilted back as if savoring the sun and the glory of the moment, then lifts his arms high. The crowd surges to their feet. A tidal wave of cheers erupts. Thunderous applause and cries of adoration boom from every direction.
“Citizens of Sinsity!” Volac bellows in a voice as deep as Kai’s. Though the pitch is the same the effect is far different. “We are gathered here today to hand out punishment to those who have broken the laws of our city.” Suffocating silence smothers the crowd. Not a single person so much as whispers as Volac eyes his audience, as if examining each person’s mind one at a time. “Let what happens today be a lesson to all who do not follow our rules.” Behind him on the stage, an ornate chair is placed. Resembling a throne, the fabric of the cushions is a deep, dark red. The frame is metal and what appears to be innumerable swords, melted and melded together, forms the upper portion of the backrest. Volac sits. His posture is straight as he peers out into the crowd once more, but he is far from regal in appearance. His black pants appear to be made of leather and fit him like second skin. Scuffed and dusty from the dry dir
t that swirls around ceaselessly in Sinsity, his black boots match his pants. Fitted and laced to the middle of his calves, they look better suited for battle than conducting business related to running a city. Naked from the waist up and revealing serpentine drawings that span from his navel to his neck, he looks anything but official. Still, he presides. “Who’s first?” His voice is a clap of thunder.
One of his guards, dressed identically to Volac, stands to the side of the stage. He reads a name from a piece of paper. In a loud, clear voice, he says the name, “John Lauder!”
A commotion sounds from the crowd as people part, allowing two guards to pass. The guards manhandle a small body as they half drag it onto the stage. The head of the person they drag is covered with a sack. As soon as they’re on the stage and stand before Volac, the sack is yanked off revealing a boy who’s no more than twelve.
“What are the charges?” Volac demands.
The guard to the boy’s left says, “He was caught stealing from the market.”
Volac stares long and hard at the boy, drilling him with a gaze that’s as condemning as it is intimidating. After several moments, Volac asks, “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
John’s voice crack and tears fill his eyes. “My lord, I didn’t want to steal. But I had no choice. My mother is sick. She isn’t getting better. She hasn’t been able to work. My little brothers weren’t eating. They hadn’t eaten in days.” The tears that welled in his eyes stream down his face.
Volac rises, glowering at the boy as he towers over him. “That’s no excuse!” His voice booms and makes John jump. “You’re not allowed to take what you want just because you think you need it!”
John’s head sags, his chin touching his chest. Sobs rack his small frame. When he finally looks up, his eyes are red and puffy and his nose runs. “My brothers needed to eat, my lord,” he says, his voice little more than a whisper.
Volac continues to glare then sits. “The punishment for thievery is clear in the laws of our city. There’s no deviating from it. Not for you. Not for anyone!” he shouts the last sentence, spitting the words as a threat to the crowd. Then to John, he says, “I’m sure you’re well aware of the punishment you’ll receive.”
“P-please! Lord Volac! Please!” John looks directly at Volac, imploring him for mercy. But Volac is unaffected by it. His expression, a sinister mask of power, remains unfazed. The boy continues as a wooden block, shaped to accept a neck—or any limb—is brought out. Standing about three feet off the ground, it’s stained with blood that varies in shade from black to rust to scarlet. A rope dangles beneath the dip. The rope is lifted by one guard while another holds John’s arm in place. A simple knot is tied just above the boy’s wrist. “No, please,” John whimpers. Tears carve through the dirt on his cheeks, streaking them with pale channels. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Lord Volac! It’ll never happen again! Please!” He cries and begs. His fear is palpable. I shift my weight, looking between onlookers and gauging how long it would take me to reach the stage if I sprint. But within the space of a breath, a third guard appears beside John, an ax resting against his shoulder. He grips the handle, hands spaced wide, and touches the razor sharp blade to John’s wrist. Marking it. “Please! Don’t! Please!” Panicked pleas are made. The boy’s chest rises and falls fast.
“No,” I hear myself say as I pant in time with John. My muscles twitch. I press forward just in time to see the metal blade of the ax glinting, reflecting the sun for a split second off the shiny metal surface, before is chops the air, hacking through flesh and bone and severing the boy’s hand.
“Noooooo!” My cry is drowned by the howl of pain that echoes from John and absorbed by the wild cheers of the crowd.
“Remove him! Remove John! Get him out of my sight!” Volac roars over the roar of the people. “Take him to the doctor to make sure he lives!”
John, pale and barely able to stand as shudders of agony ripple through his body, is dragged off of the stage. Volac stands. He walks to the bloody block of wood, examining it, then continues beyond it, as if he’s looking for something. He freezes, eyes widening and bends at the waist. “Ahh, here it is!” He straightens, smiles wickedly and claps his hand together in front of his chest. “Just what I was looking for!” He squats and picks up the small, severed hand. The sick smile he wears vanishes, replaced with an expression that’s pure malice. “This is what happens when you steal in my city,” he shouts then launches the hand out into the crowd. Applause and shouts of approval hail from every direction.
I feel a hand grip my forearm. Turning, I see Reyna. Her features are drawn, her expression haunted. “I-I can’t believe this,” she rises up onto her tiptoes and says into my ear. Her voice is tremulous. “I don’t want to stay here. This is awful. This place is awful. Volac is awful. ”
Grateful to look away from Volac, whose features are contorted into a cruel half smirk, I place my hand atop hers, trying to impart some kind of comfort. But I don’t even know that comfort exists for what we’ve just witnessed. For what goes on here. “I know,” I reply. “We can’t live like this.”
Her grip tightens. I slip my arm around her shoulders and bring her close. With her head against my chest, I peek at Ara. Face set and chin tipped defiantly, she wages war against the tears that threaten. She catches me looking at her. I offer her a weak smile, a look of knowing. It’s a pathetic attempt on my part. I curse myself silently for bringing her to yet another place where she’s witnessed atrocities.
“Who’s next?” Volac’s voice tears my attention from my sister. He sits in his throne-like seat and demands to know who will be punished next.
The guard who read John’s name calls out two more. “Ryan Sterling and Peter Yates. They’re charged with forcing themselves on a woman, taking turns with her while the other held her down.” Gasps sound from the crowd.
Volac’s eyes narrow to deadly slits. He presses his palms together, touching his fingertips to his mouth briefly before he rockets to his feet. “This is quite a crime isn’t it?” The word “yes” echoes from the audience in unison. Volac opens his arms wide, stepping forward theatrically. “What should the punishment be? I’ll let you decide!”
Several people shout answers. One cries, “Kill them, my lord!” Another yells, “Cut off their manhood, my lord!” A final voice, a female one, rings out over the others. “The wheel,” she says clearly. “Let the wheel decide, my lord.”
Volac’s eyes search the crowd. They train on a woman to my right. Chestnut hair and eyes is all I catch a glimpse of. My gaze returns to Volac. From the stage, he beams at her, causing the streets to explode with the word “Wheel” until it is a single, united voice chanting it over and over again. A malevolent smile carves the bronze skin of his face. “As you wish.” He bows dramatically. “I am here to serve you.” Elated cries erupt in an ear-splitting clamor. A large circle, divided evenly into sections painted every shade of the rainbow and with words scrawled on each is mounted to a column. The base of the column is bolted to a flat square of metal with rollers beneath it. It’s pushed out onto the stage by the same guard who read all three names. Volac strides to the wheel. Prongs jut from every section and a triangular slab of wood rests at the top. Resting between two prongs, the triangle prevents the wheel from turning. Volac grips the closest prong, looking to the crowd first with an exaggerated impish expression. Using all of his weight, he forces the wheel downward, causing it to spin. The colors blend dizzyingly as the prongs hit the triangle with a rhythmic click. Gradually, the spinning slows until finally, it stops. From where I stand, I can’t make out what’s written on the section upon which it landed.
“Can you see what it says?” I ask Reyna.
She shakes her head. “No.”
My question is answered, however, when Volac calls out, “Oh, now that’s interesting.” One hand flies to his chin as though he’s considering the fate determined by the wheel. Sinsity is his stage. Its citizens are his audience. “It appea
rs as though the wheel stopped at ‘Face Our Leader’. Oh my.” He cover his mouth again. Wild cheers and thunderous applause shake the very ground upon which I stand. He smiles and gestures with mock bashfulness.
When the cheering calms, the guard who read the names shouts, “There are two to face you, my lord. Shall they go one at a time?”
“Absolutely not.” Volac demeanor changes suddenly as his head whips in the direction of his guard. No longer playing to the crowd and entertaining, his expression is fierce, his stance that of a warrior. “Bring them to me. And bring me my sword.”
The guard disappears. Within seconds, two men, bound at their wrists, are shoved on to the stage. Volac scowls at them, his eyes shimmering with pure venom. The ropes tying their hands are cut and they’re handed swords. Volac is handed his. They men cower in his presence. Volac not only stares at them with concentrated hate but he also stands at least a foot taller than them. He must be seven feet tall. Volac is handed his sword, a long blade polished to a high shine. “Begin!” he shouts.
The men before him startle, fumbling with their weapons as if they’ve never held something so heavy and so lethal before. Their odd mishandlings are quickly remedied, however, when Volac takes a leisurely step toward them. In the blink of an eye, the ruse ends and they grip their swords with assurance, with comfort. Not strangers to wielding weapons or attacking two against one, they fan out, flanking Volac. Volac regards them with disinterest. They charge simultaneously. Volac sidesteps each swipe with so much speed and dexterity, Ryan and Peter are left to look as though they’re swinging blindly. Setting their faces in stone, they redouble their efforts. Still, Volac dodges, bobbing and weaving so gracefully he looks like he’s dancing rather than fighting. Ryan and Peter’s chests heave. Panting, their swings get sloppier and sloppier. Sweat gathers under their arms, at their chests and at their back, soaking their shirts. Wheezing. Ryan stumbles. And that’s when I see it. The bored look in Volac eye’s transforms. The glide of his feet as he pranced and avoided clumsy strikes is replaced with the rapaciousness of a skilled predator. Extending his arm with a firm grip on the sword’s hilt, he lunges forward, driving his blade through Ryan’s midsection until it protrudes from his back. He retrieves it immediately, slicing the air in a single, horizontal motion and lopping off the man’s head. His blade, sharper than any I’ve ever held, doesn’t meet with resistance from bone or cartilage. Instead, it carves straight through. The sharpness, combined with Volac’s strength and speed, makes the act of beheading look easy. Too easy. Ryan’s head lands against the stage with a thump and the crowd becomes frenzied. Feverish screams and howls of approval echo all around me.
Sin City Page 15
