“Love what you’ve done with the place,” I say.
This earns me another flip of the bird.
My eye catches sight of a small glass phial of Haze partially hidden under his bed.
“What in the hell are you doing with this?” I say, picking it up.
He scratches his tangled hair, not meeting my eyes.
“Did you get this from Linus?” I demand, referring to the punk-ass dealer who’s been trying to steal my clients.
He gives a faint nod.
I toss the phial out the small cabin window, too furious to say anything. I’ve spent months trying to wean Beetle off Haze; now he goes and does this. Given his dilated pupils, it’s a safe bet he’s still high.
“You look like crap,” I say.
His hair is all over the place, he’s skinny as a worm, and I can smell him from here. It’s not his fault; his aunt Roach isn’t interested in raising a kid. All she cares about is Humans for Unity.
“You don’t look so hot yourself,” Beetle says.
He has a point. I’ve been up all night expecting the Sentry guards to bang down my door and arrest me, but they never showed. It could only mean one thing: that Sentry brat Natalie didn’t tell anyone about me. Good. My threat must’ve gotten through her stupid blond head. I light up a cigarette and take a long drag. Fragging Sentry. The world would be a better place without them in it, but I can’t see that happening any day soon.
“Ash?” Beetle’s voice comes back into focus.
I blink. Has he asked me a question?
“How did it go last night?” he asks for a second time.
I flash him an angry look. “Where were you?”
He points to a bunch of freshly painted placards stacked up against the wall. “My aunt kept me at Humans for Unity all night painting those.”
I tilt my head to read the upside-down words: ONE CITY UNITED! and NO BOUNDARIES! and SAY NO TO ROSE’S LAW!
Rose’s Law. Just the thought of it makes my fangs pulse with venom. It’s a law the Sentry government’s trying to pass to keep Darklings and humans permanently segregated. The Emissaries of the nine megastates have been tasked with persuading the citizens of their respective states to vote for Rose’s Law in the referendum later this month. If it gets a majority vote, it will become federal law. When you consider that every major city has a Darkling ghetto, just like the one we have here in Black City, the impact will be enormous. Darklings will never be free again.
Of course the Emissaries are making a show of acting like the Darklings have any say over their fates by holding boundary negotiations with them next week to discuss moving the wall and giving the Darklings more space. Anyone with two brain cells can see it’s just a PR stunt to stop the Darklings from causing trouble in the lead-up to the ballot, in the desperate hope they might expand their territory. It’s their last opportunity, and they know it.
I point to the placards. “I’m guessing these are for the boundary negotiations next week?”
“Right on, they are. Those Sentry bastards can’t keep the Darklings stuck behind the Boundary Wall. It has to come down, period. If we tell Rose where to shove his segregation laws, maybe the other cities will rise up as well.”
I grunt a response. I’m not interested in lost causes.
He stretches like a cat, and his blanket slips down below his waist.
“Are you allergic to clothes?” I say, looking away.
“It’s how Mother Nature intended us to be, man.”
I shake my head. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”
He quickly pulls on his crumpled uniform, and we walk to school. Beetle doesn’t say anything as I cut across Bleak Street, over the streetcar tracks, and turn down City End, even though it’s going to add an extra five minutes to our journey. He understands. We stroll the length of the Boundary Wall, sneaking in another smoke before school. I hand him the roll-up and drag my fingers over the rough concrete wall, trying to picture what life’s like on the other side. An unexpected bubble of hope rises in me at the thought that maybe, just maybe, the wall will come down one day, but it quickly bursts. I need to stop chasing dreams. I’m alone in this city—why can’t I just accept that?
The digital screens on top of the buildings around us flicker as a new ad plays. It shows a beautiful woman with blue eyes and glossy red lips.
“Citizens! Need an ID bracelet for your Darkling domestic help? Then come to Smithers, Smythe and Sons, the best jewelers in town. Don’t delay, they’re selling out fast!”
Text across the bottom of the screen reads Darklings found without an ID bracelet will be executed.
“Can you believe it, bro?” Beetle says, shaking his head. “Before you know it, they’ll be making every Darkling wear them, even you. It’s disgusting.”
I subconsciously rub the copper band around my wrist, hidden beneath my shirt.
“Yeah . . . it’s terrible,” I mutter.
I don’t want to tell him about the bracelet. He’ll just use it as another reason I should join their stupid protest next week.
I sense someone moving about on the Boundary Wall above me. A Legion guard stares down at me with sparkling, curious eyes. He’s dressed head to toe in black robes, his pale face hidden behind black cloth to protect him from the sun. I know why he’s looking. I’m quite the celebrity in the Darkling world, thanks to my mom.
A steam-powered streetcar rattles along the tracks beside us, billowing black smoke into the charcoal sky. Most vehicles these days are steam-powered or horse-drawn, because of gas shortages. Only the Sentry guard is allowed gas for their trucks and tanks. Workers are crammed into the streetcar like cattle, dressed in their simple gray overalls and leather work boots. They turn their dull, distrustful eyes on me.
One of the workers, a man with a shaved head and a rose tattoo above his left ear, smacks me with a murderous look. “Hey! Go back to where you belong, nipper!” He spits at me as the streetcar passes by. It splats on my boot.
“Fragg!” I mutter, wiping my boot against the dirt.
“Forget it. Those Purity types are pathetic,” Beetle says.
Disciples of the Purity, the new religion that’s sweeping the nation, led by Purian Rose, all shave their heads and get a rose tattoo above their ears to prove their love, faith and loyalty to him. As if it weren’t enough for Purian Rose to be the leader of our country, he now has to be our messiah too. It’s not the law to follow the faith yet, but I bet it’ll be in the cards soon enough.
“Come on, we’re late,” I say irritably.
We round the bend. I smell them before I see them: three dead figures hanging silently from the wall, their heads drooped against their chests, their bodies naked, their hands bound. They look like grotesque scarecrows, which is what they are: a warning to any Darkling or human who tries to get over either side of the wall. One of the scarecrows is a human; the words race traitor are carved into his flesh. The other two are Darklings, their skin yellowed and gangrenous, signs they had the Wrath just like Mom. I scrunch my nose as we pass, blocking out the worst of the smell.
“How’s your mom?” Beetle asks quietly.
He’s the only person I’ve told about her being back with us.
“I don’t think she’s got long left.” My voice cracks as I speak.
He suddenly stops.
“What?” I say.
He points to a poster on the wall. There’s a photo of a teenage boy on it, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Above his photo are the words WANTED: TRAITOR.
“That’s Tom,” he whispers. “He went AWOL from Humans for Unity a few weeks ago. We think he left the city.”
“It’s probably best if he has.” I wonder what he did to get on the Sentry government’s Most Wanted list.
We walk the rest of the way to school in silence, both knowing Tom’s probably already dead.
We slow down as we approach Black City’s only surviving secondary school. Something isn’t right. There are camera crews and Sentry guards everywhere—it’s like a circus. But that isn’t what’s caught my attention. In the far corner of the plaza, a group of workmen are erecting three imposing wooden crosses.
“What are those for?” Beetle asks quietly.
I shrug, but it can’t be good.
Near us, a red-haired reporter dressed in a corset-blouse and skintight patchwork leather pants argues with one of the Sentry guards, waving her press pass in his face. I recognize her as Juno Jones from Black City News.
“I’m allowed to be here. Since I last checked, I still have the right to free speech!”
The guard shoves her, and I catch her before she falls. Her eyes widen when she sees me, but she quickly composes herself.
“Thanks,” she says. “Nice to know chivalry isn’t completely dead in this city.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“The Emissary’s making a big announcement.”
“Move it along,” the guard snaps.
Juno rushes off in a different direction before she can tell me any more about it, no doubt looking for a more sympathetic guard she can charm.
When Beetle’s distracted, I show my ID bracelet to the Sentry guard, then we join the rest of the school in the town square, standing at attention in a sea of black and red uniforms. To the east and west of us are the skeletal remains of burned-out buildings. I stand in their jagged shadows, staying out of the direct sunlight, although my skin still prickles like red ants are crawling all over it. Flakes of ash peel off the buildings’ scorched walls and rain down on us like black snow.
Just one soot-encrusted building remains to the north of the square, the old town hall that’s been converted into the Black City Secondary School. It was only opened last year, after the war ended. Shame it didn’t burn down too. Three Gothic spires twist out of the school’s gray slate roof, the tallest of which contains a tarnished copper clock that chimes the hour with a low, melancholy sound.
I risk a look behind me at the Boundary Wall running along the south side of the plaza, trying to imagine what the town square would look like if it weren’t there. I can’t picture it. The wall’s been here too long; I barely remember a time without it.
In the center of the wall are the massive iron-armored gates, the only safe passage in and out of the Legion ghetto. Guarding the gates are dozens of Sentry guards, while on the wall itself stand rows of Legion guards. No one gets in or out without their permission, not that many people try. You need top-level clearance to move freely between the two sides of the wall, and only a handful of government workers and the Sentry guard have that sort of access. If you want to get over the wall, you have to climb it and just pray you don’t get caught.
I think about the scarecrows hanging on the wall and shudder. I could’ve been hanging up there with them if the Sentry girl, Natalie, had told on me last night . . . My chest cramps, the sudden pain making me inhale sharply.
“You all right?” Beetle asks.
“Heartburn,” I say, unable to think of another explanation.
“I didn’t realize you got that. What with your heart not working . . .” He trails off when he sees my expression. “Must be that cheap Synth-O-Blood the Sentry’s trying to pass off as food. The fascists probably engineered it that way.”
“I don’t think heartburn’s at the top of their Agenda of Evil.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them. Phase One of their diabolical plans for world domination. When was the last time you had any real blood?”
“I had a drop last night from that Hazer girl, but I spat most of that up. Otherwise, it’s been a while.” You can only buy human blood from the black market traders in Chantilly Lane, but I don’t have that sort of money to splash about. “Why? You offering?”
Beetle chuckles. “Only if you buy me dinner first.”
There’s a sharp whip against my leg.
“Ouch, mother—”
I turn to see Gregory Thompson, the head Prefect, sneering up at me, cane in hand. The Prefects are a group of students who have the authority to discipline the rest of us. He’s short for his age, barely reaching my chest, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in arrogance. He flicks his lank hair out of his watery, deep-set eyes.
“Why aren’t you wearing your beret, nipper?” he says in a nasally voice.
I take the crumpled scarlet beret out of my pocket and put it on. It immediately falls off. Hats and Darklings really don’t mix. My hair’s alive, always moving, searching the air around me for traces of blood. There’s blood everywhere, if you’re looking for it. A shaving cut on a girl’s leg, a grazed knee, a split lip. It’s overwhelming here.
Behind Gregory is his fraternal twin brother, Chris, who follows Gregory everywhere like a shadow . . . a very tall, sickeningly attractive shadow. When it comes to genes, Chris certainly got the lion’s share. Gregory is small, mean and aloof, while Chris is athletic and approachable and always has a smile on his face—but that’s probably because he’s high as a kite most of the time. He’s one of my best clients. The only similarity between Gregory and Chris is the bright hazel color of their eyes.
Chris languidly picks up my beret, passing it to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Chris gives me a nonchalant nod, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
Gregory eyes me angrily.
“What’s your problem?” I ask.
“You’re my problem, nipper.” He jabs at me with his cane, and I grab it, pulling him toward me.
“Back off. You’re not a Tracker yet.” I snap the cane in half with a flick of my hand.