CHAPTER 3 // LIOR

I’ve taken only what we couldn’t spare, dividing it between the two backpacks that I’ve chosen to carry. Coby has offered several times to take one of them—insisted, actually—but he needs his strength for walking. Even then, without a burden to weigh him down, we’re stopping every thirty minutes or so for him to catch his breath. It slows us down, but I do all that I can to not to make him aware of this. As if he isn’t aware of it himself already.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pausing to rest on a plastic crate. His feather brown hair flutters in the soft breeze that channels between the buildings, lifting it away so I can see the worry on his face. We’ve stopped in an alleyway, doing most of our travelling by night if only because most people are asleep at this hour. There’s no such thing as the cover of darkness this far into the Furrow. Being so close to the force field generator, everything is bathed in a deep red-orange glow. Even the shadows aren’t black, but a bruised deep purple.

“Have I ever told you you apologize too much?” I say, watching him intently. Coby slumps against his knees, cheeks squashed by the upward pressure of his fists. I flash him a smile when he turns to look at me, acknowledging what I’ve said but making no motion to reply. It’s the best I can do to raise both of our spirits. He offers back a small grin. That, too, is tinged with sadness.

Overhead the electric thrum of the force field is louder than ever. We’ve trekked to the outskirts of the precinct, following the curvature of the perimeter wall. I’ve never been this far out, and for good reason. It’s a certain kind of people that live in these parts, a kind we would do best to avoid if at all possible.

The buildings here are lower and more decrepit. For the few souls I’ve seen in this forsaken place, they might as well be ghosts or demons. Several times I’ve felt eyes on us, if not for the sole reason that we’re two parentless kids in a place we shouldn’t be. Had we gone the opposite direction, toward the precinct center, our chances of getting caught would have been much greater. More people live toward the precinct center, so that is where the Corvant occupation will be heaviest.

I’m still not sure if leaving was the right choice, but it’s the one I made. It was only a matter of time before the Corvants invaded our neighborhood. I expect they’ll be doing a full sweep of the city. Outrunning them may be near to impossible, but at least if we continue moving we’ll make for harder targets. I have zero certainty my plan will work, but it’s better than taking a stand. Not to mention, as Krull warned in his broadcast, all citizens resisting examination will be dealt with accordingly. There are only two possible outcomes to that—capture or death—and I like neither option.

Seeing that Coby isn’t quite ready to move on, I take the moment for a little reprieve myself. I set the backpacks down on the ground beside me, perhaps a little too haphazardly. I hear metal and glass clank against each other within. In finding things to take, I was certain to pack as much of the medical equipment as possible and what was left of the Amaranthus. I still haven’t had the chance to procure any more. My effort to do so was interrupted by the Archon. I can only hope that what I have can hold Coby over should he have another attack.

Using the second backpack as a cushion—it’s mostly filled with clothes—I take a seat beside him. I rub the meaty party of my shoulder where the muscle has grown stiff from the excessive weight. We both look up at the force field arcing high above. The light offers a little bit of warmth and it almost feels like what I imagine sitting in the sun must be like. Somewhere, not too far from where we sit, I can hear the current of water that passes beneath us—the steady, calming sound of a river. I suppose if you close your eyes in the deep quiet of night, and you’re able to tune out the ambient misery, Enoch could seem a more peaceful, happier place.

“Lior?” Coby calls from his perch on the crate.

“Hmm?” I turn to look at him, his face bathed in the tangerine glow. It’s a terrible thought, and I try to cast it out of my head the moment it pops in, but it almost makes him appear healthier than he is.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Fourth,” I say, turning away from Coby to stare down the long stretch of shadowed road as if able to see our destination from here. I haven’t a real answer. Not truly. All I can offer is, “To somewhere safe.”

I wait for him to ask me where that is. To share my plan for finding this safe haven. As we have that unspoken promise to each other not to lie, I would answer if he asks. Although my response would be, I don’t know.

But he doesn’t ask, instead Coby just seems to mull the words over in his mind. His silence stands as testament to how much he trusts me. More than the backpacks, I feel the weight of this burden. The hope he places in me isn’t something I can easily take off or set down for awhile, though at times I wish it was.

Truth is, I don’t know what awaits us in the Fourth, or if it is any safer than where we are now. What I do know is that we can’t stay here, and I’d rather risk trying than fail because of inaction. I’m not sure this journey I’ve set us on will be a short one, but wherever that somewhere safe is, I’ll get us there.

In the distance, the wall that divides the Fourth and Fifth precincts looms above the buildings like a massive black curtain, connecting to the force field generator we now sit beneath. Somewhere along that wall is the Causeway, a series of external stairways that bridge the two sections of the city. That is, if the Causeway even exists. Some years ago, there was an operative by our former Archon, Malister Ruehl, to shutdown all transference between precincts. The supposed cause was to prevent an imbalance of development throughout the city; an attempt to level out the economy by keeping jobs local to the market. Needless to say, people felt Ruehl’s Preservation Act was just a glorified death sentence, the Causeway being destroyed in the process.

If the Causeway does exist, and we do make it there, it won’t be an easy task. For many reasons. It’s likely to be heavily guarded, especially now with the city under an even tighter watch. And Coby is likely to have great difficulty with all the physical effort. I’ll carry him if I must, leaving behind every earthly possession as long as I’ve got him with me. Yet, all of these are details to be ironed out later. First is the mission of getting there.

Looking at Coby, he’s shifted so that he’s slumped forward, hands placed delicately on each of his knees. I get the impression of someone who’s been waiting half an eternity for a train that may never come. But I can see he’s weighted down with by something, something that’s causing the confused and pained look on his face. Whatever it is, I realize we all have our crosses to bear.

I’m about to ask him what’s troubling him, when he seems to sense my concern. Turning to look up at me, Coby asks in the simplest voice, “It’s because they’re looking for me, isn’t it?”

The question draws me up short, my breath catching in my throat. For a moment, it seems I’ve lost all faculty of speech—my response anything but eloquent.

“What?” I say, despite having heard him quite plainly.

Coby thinks about what he’s said, as if grasping for specificity. “Well, the people like me.”

“Coby—” I try to interject. To dismiss away his claims or quell whatever fears are brewing beneath those ocean blue eyes. When we left our home, I told him it was because we were no longer safe there. And that was true. I didn’t lie, but it was selective honesty. I only told him what I felt he needed to know. Just as he does now, Coby trusted me without hesitation.

“Don’t. Please.” He looks at me with a heavy sincerity. For the first time I feel as though I’m the younger, smaller one.

I deflate with a heavy sigh. This is it. The first conversation Coby and I have ever had about him being a Carrier. Part of me—the naïve little girl—thought that if we never said it aloud, it couldn’t possibly be true. Even though the signs are there, even though our lives have been dramatically altered because of it. Hopelessly, I believed if we never gave it words that it would never carry weight. But the harrowing truth was always there whether we acknowledged it or not. All we’ve ever had is the choice of how to deal with it.

“Yes,” I say finally, albeit reluctant to do so. “The Archon believes the virus is back…That it somehow made its way into the city.” I look down between my boots at the broken, pocked cement. “So, they’re looking for…people they think might have it.”

I avoid using the word Carrier. Somehow it feels dirty. Derogatory. Insensitive.

“How?” Coby asks.

“By making everyone report to ReGen. I guess they administer some kind of test, I’m not sure.” I can’t even bear to think about what sort of horrid methods they must use. “But we’re also never going to find out. They’re not going to catch us. We won’t let them—Got it?” I look up at him with renewed vigor, my eyes flitting back and forth between his.

It takes him a second, but I see the same determination blossom in his eyes. If only for this moment—the only moment we truly have—he’s with me.

“Got it,” he says with a firm nod.

“Good.” I scour the alleyway, as if our newly formed pact somehow managed to draw unwanted attention. Fortunately, the area seems just as deserted as before. There’s the occasional thrum of the train passing in the distance or the tear of a motorcycle a few streets away, but for now it remains just Coby and I.

“Shall we?” I ask, slapping both of my knees and looking at him with lighter spirits. He nods, and I stand to offer him a hand. Coby takes it—if only to be polite—and slides off the plastic crate until his feet are firm on the ground. Crouching to collect the bags, I sling them back over my shoulder. The straps find the grooves they’ve created in my shoulders like wheels to a track. Though he doesn’t say it, I know Coby’s hoping for an easy walk. I, too, am praying it won’t be much farther. Staring at the looming wall ahead and the tangle of buildings and streets beneath, I strongly doubt either of us will be getting what we wish for.

We stretch onward through the neon red of night. The landscape of the precinct changes around us, the buildings dipping lower, becoming squatter and squarer. Establishments stacked one atop the other as if to compensate for the tighter, lack of space. Apartments are linked by old, rusting fire escapes. Some of them look as if they’re barely attached to the brick and concrete walls. Boarded windows and graffiti set the tone, both indicative of the despair that’s taken residence in this section of the precinct.

As we round the corner of a wider street into an alley, Coby and I are met by a terrifying image of the Archon. Krull’s head—skull-like in its appearance—dominates a large, corrugated metal door. His typically expressionless eyes artistically rendered as open, sightless wounds. Blood seeping from the empty sockets. A long, serpentine tongue protrudes from his unnaturally extended mouth, a legion of uniformed Corvants marching along its unsettlingly red surface. Above the image, written in imperfect text, is the phrase: Science destroys the weak.

            I stop to look at the graffiti, intrigued by its message.

            “Why are the Corvants coming out of his mouth?” Coby asks, coming to my side and craning his neck to look at the artwork.

            “I don’t know.” I stare at the Corvants in the artwork. They look so real, vividly painted in accurate detail. A chill runs down my spine the more I take it in. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

            As we stretch further into the Furrow, Coby and I do our best to keep to what shadows there are, not wanting to pull unwanted attention. It’s busier here. The streets are livelier. It must be well past midnight, which means anyone awake at this hour has no good reason to be up.

            We come upon what feels like a much smaller, more condensed version of the Trade District. As if all of the vendors that line the central promenade have been crammed lengthwise into a hub of suspect, nighttime activity. The tight stretch of road abuts a small cluster of buildings, winding endlessly on until the alley fades into darkness. Channels of steam and smoke rise up from crevices in the pavement. Electrical wires hang from above, zigzagging back and forth between the roofs. People—shadowed figures—mill about through the sour-smelling mist.

A slew of brightly colored store signs illuminate the otherwise shadowed path, each indicating a different service. Pawn shops, greasy food joints, booths for people who claim to have psychic ability. Then there are the more nefarious ones. Places such as The Diamond House, Violet Rhapsody, and the more obvious Club Electra, where several barely-clad men and women catcall down to the passersby below. Their presence makes me feel uncomfortable, if only because I’m hoping to avoid unwanted attention.

“Are we going the right way?” Coby asks, looking up at the people in the windows above Club Electra.

“Someone’s got a curious eye!” One of the women calls down in her slumspeak accent and making a lewd gesture in our direction. I scowl at her, taking my annoyance out on Coby by forcibly turning him away.

“Don’t listen to her,” I say, the disgust clear in my voice. We draw to a stop as I take into consideration Coby’s question. Are we going the right way? A map would have been helpful, but it was an oversight on my part in our haste to leave. Then again, I’m not certain how helpful a map would have been when there’s no knowing the place we’re looking for even exists.

From where we stand in the street, the generator is still visible. If not closer than it was before. That alone is worth something. My eyes trail along the large structure until I find the equally massive wall. A thin, dotted line of blinking lights work their way up the vast silhouette—a feature I hadn’t noticed before. I suddenly find myself preoccupied with what those lights could mean.   

            “Summin’ you kids need help with?” A man approaches us from behind. I jump at the unexpected voice, instinctively pulling Coby closer. The stranger laughs at my reaction, taking pleasure in our discomfort. I know we’re not the usual type he sees down here, and so he’s prying where he can.

            “No,” I say, a little more defensively than I’d like.

            “Meanin’ no offense, girl. Just offering ya help, is all.” The man holds both his hands up, as if to imply his innocence. A cloud of rancid, tar-soaked breath bites at my nose when he talks. It takes a good deal of restraint not to turn away and cough.

            “Thank you, but we’re fine,” I say, doing nothing to soften my temperament. He smiles, clearly amused with himself. Or perhaps it’s refusal to partake in his games. I watch as his watery eyes slide from me to Coby and back again.

“If it ain’t help ya need, best be on your way. And be careful. Quite a few lads ‘round here who’d like t’get they’re greasy hands on a prize like you.” His gaze lingers on me for a moment too long, the whites of his eyes soured yellow. As if by a trick of the light, his demeanor changes and he offers Coby a wink, the gesture falling something short of playful.

            I grab Coby by the arm and we turn away from him. In my hurried efforts to get away, I realize I’ve brought us deeper into the alley. Soon, we’re engulfed by the marketplace as the stacked buildings rise up around us, giving the illusion of a dark-lipped mouth hungry for desperate souls. If the man we recently encountered was seedy, there are dozens more just like him. I’m thankful we don’t draw further attention. Most everyone else seems to be preoccupied with his or her own dealings. Coby and I keep tight to the shadows, hoping to stay out of sight and remain inconspicuous.

            We weave around the plumes of sour-smelling steam that rise up through the street, take solace beneath the very few awnings, and dodge small clusters of strangers all while keeping the generator in plain sight. After another hour or so of walking, I can feel my body shifting focusing to all the other areas that need attention. Tiredness is beginning to set in, and my hands and muscles ache beneath the weight of the backpacks. Giving Coby a headlong glance, I can see his strength is running its course. Every now and then a shiver will run up his spine and he’ll assure me that it’s only just the chill. I know better.

            We stop for a moment on the street. I assess how far we’ve come and how far we still have yet to go. The generator is closer now, much more so than it was before. The electric hum is louder and the light brighter, more vivid. But if we continue to move at this waning pace, it could be several hours before we reach our destination. And then there’s getting up the Causeway.

            I look down at Coby, small and placid beside me. He deserves so much more than this. More than a life of illness and constant fear. I will find it for him. Someday. But today we must do what we have to in order to find that place.

            “What’s wrong?” He asks. I know the concern is plain on my face. I’ve never been good at hiding it.

            “Nothing,” I say. “But I think we should probably stop for the night.”

            My words bring him relief. I can see it in the way his shoulders rise ever so slightly, as if a weight has been lifted from his back. I smile, if only because I can give him this temporary satisfaction.

As if an answer to our prayers, I look across the alleyway to find a neon sign for Scylla’s Den. Just below the vivid red script are the words: ROOMS AVAILABLE.

            “Come on,” I say, picking up the bags and crossing the street. Coby follows close behind, occasionally throwing a glance over his shoulder. He’s been just as cautious as I.

            If it weren’t for the blaring neon sign, Scylla’s Den would be nothing more than a battered, unmarked door surreptitiously hidden within the concrete. I should know better than walking into a place neither of us knows, especially without being able to formulate any judgment based off our inability to see inside. But the later it gets, the more we’re getting tired. I have half the mind to find an area on the street for us to sleep, but I wonder how much rest we’d really get out in the open.

            As if to help solidify my decision, a man comes shuffling down the street. He uses the wall as a guide, clearly drunk. His face looks swollen and red, but I can’t decipher how much of that is because of the force field light. “Hey!” He calls to us, flailing one arm into the air. “Hey, c’mere!”

            I look at the man warily. “Let’s go.” I seize Coby’s hand in mine and, without further thought, we make our way across the alley.

            The door to Scylla’s Den opens onto a dark staircase that descends further underground. A cloud of perfume and smoke wafts up from the basement coupled with the stifled sounds of people in conversation. Carefully, we make our way down the uneven steps, closing the door just in time as something thuds against it from the outside.

            Coming to the landing at the bottom, I peel back the thick black curtain that separates the entrance. Coby and I are instantly met with several stares. Men and women sit languidly around a dingy, underground lounge. Many of them, more so the women, are in various states of undress. Each of their faces cast in ghastly red glow from the ropes of neon that line the perimeter of the cellar, throwing spectrums of crimson light along the grungy, stone walls. It’s just enough light to set an atmosphere, but there’s still plenty enough darkness to keep secrets.

            The place is by no means crowded, though I’m unsure whether or not it’s a stroke of good luck. Even if it were packed, Coby and I stand out. Not only because of our age, but also the way we’re dressed. We clearly look like travellers, kids who’ve runaway from the inner precinct. Which is exactly what we are. Looking around the room, I realize everyone here hides little in the way of truth.

Towards the back, set within a stone enclave, a group of men and one woman sit around a table, engaged in some sort of game. They each take turns throwing cards and suspicious glances our way. A few other patrons sit several stools apart at a bar, their thoughts lost in their glasses. Soft music plays overhead lending a dreamy quality to the place. There are no lyrics. It’s just a lilting instrumental melody, though I wouldn’t exactly describe it as comforting. Now that I hear it, I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard music beyond the blaring of Enoch’s anthem.

There’s a rouse of laughter from the people at the table, and I turn to see the sole woman rise from her seat, chair legs scraping along the floor as she stands. Everything about her is elegant, from her pale blue gown to the enervated way she walks. Metallic earrings catch the dim light, winking like stars beneath a mane of dusty lavender hair. Blue designs glow from the right side of her scalp, tracing the curvature of her ear where the hair has been shaved away. Electric tattoos—a rare sight in the Furrow as they’re generally more expensive than what most of us can afford.

“Something I can help you with?” She asks, stopping a few feet from where Coby and I stand. With her now so close, I’m uncertain of her sex. She’s tall, thin yet muscular, and her face appears in perfect, mirrored symmetry. Some things about her are soft and shapely like a woman, and others are angular and stern like a man. It’s as if the dim light hides the truth of her features.

            There’s no denying she used to this sort of puzzlement over her appearance. The annoyance is evident in her striking eyes, which are as pallid and colorless as her skin. I watch as she sizes me up and then evaluates Coby, perhaps just as puzzled why the two of us are here. However, whatever thoughts she has, she’s far better than me at disguising them. Without even needing to ask, I know who she is. Her name adorns the sign outside. Scylla.

“It says you have rooms available,” I say, gesturing back towards the curtain that partitions the basement establishment from the outside world.

“I do,” she says in response, and I take her for someone who doesn’t mince words. Searching her eyes, I try to see what she’s thinking, but her gaze is unyielding.

“We’d like to rent one,” I say, as if the purpose of my inquiry weren’t obvious.

Her translucent eyes, which I just now notice are the faintest shade of purple, flick from Coby to me, narrowing at the pair of us. One slender eyebrow inches its away up her smooth forehead. “This isn’t an orphanage.”

My blood sets to boiling at her comment, and I can feel my fists clench around the straps of the backpacks still on my shoulders. How dare she be so cutting and inconsiderate? There’s so much I want to say to her, to cuss her out, and tell her how much Coby and I have survived on our own, but I know it’s pointless. A woman that would say something like that has little reason to care.

“We’re not looking for a home,” I say, mimicking her flippant tone. “We’re looking for a room.” Coby elicits a cough, breaking the tension between us. Both Scylla and I turn our attention to him.

“What’s wrong with him?” She asks as if Coby weren’t standing there beside us, eyes raking him over with heavy scrutiny. When I don’t answer her question, Scylla takes it upon herself to ask Coby directly. “What’s wrong with you?”

He looks at her, diminished by her gaze. “Nothing,” he says meekly. Heat rises in my cheeks, her callousness putting me on edge. Were it not for the backpacks I’m holding onto, I’d be tempted to swing. Though, I’ve got to remind myself that drawing attention would defeat the purpose. I’m not prepared to gamble our safety.

“Look,” I say, doing little to restrain my annoyance. “We’re tired and cold. Do you have a room for us or not?”

After a long, drawn out moment she finally responds. “Thirty cogs.”

“Thirty!” I stare at her, incredulous. Thirty cogs could buy you a week’s worth of food and then some in the Trade District. There’s no way a room in her dirty old basement is worth that much. Maybe in the Eighth or Capital Precincts, but not way out here in the Furrow. “There’s no way,” I say, challenging her. “Five cogs at the most.”

Scylla’s lips curl back into a smile, revealing shimmering white teeth. “You’re welcome to sleep on the street. That might be more within your price range. Now do you want a room or not?” She says, relishing the opportunity to turn my words back on me.

I look over at Coby, wondering if we truly need this room. If dealing with this beast of a woman and forfeiting thirty cogs is worth it. His eyes fight to stay open, the combination of his tiredness and the virus weighing him down. The answer is obvious. Glowering at Scylla, I hate her for having the upper hand. She’s only doing this because she knows she can.

“Twenty,” I say. She laughs.

“Mother’s Mercy!” There’s a loud thump from across the lounge. “What’s taking so damn long?” One of the men calls from the circle of gamblers in the corner. He’s heavyset, and occupies more than half of a large red booth. Rings glisten on each of his meaty hands, which rest casually on the tabletop. Scylla turns and regards him with a murderous look.

“Twenty-five cogs,” Scylla says with finality, putting an end to the negotiation. The disdain is clear in her eyes. “And not a bolt less.”

Scylla walks away from Coby and I, returning to her seat.

With no opportunity to argue, I search through the pockets of one of the backpacks. Getting her down to twenty cogs was a shot in the dark. I pull out enough coins to amount to twenty-five: two silvers and a bronze. I hesitate, holding them in my hand as though they’ve suddenly become sentimental. I hate to part with them, knowing we could buy so much more, but a good night’s rest will see us through to the Causeway. Right now, our biggest priority is getting out of the Fifth.

“Lior,” Coby says, once again expertly intuiting my feelings. “We don’t have to stay.”

“No,” I say, catching his gaze. “You need to rest.” I immediately regret the words the moment they’ve left my mouth, because of how pointed and one-sided they sound. But if they affect Coby the way I feel they should, he makes no motion of it.

Not giving myself the opportunity to change my mind, I find Scylla sitting amidst her cohorts. Being so close to them all makes my skin tighten, their negative energy palpable. My eyes find the stash of money and cards at the center of the table. All kinds of coins—gold, platinum, nickel—glimmer beneath the only chandelier. There are currency notes in denominations I didn’t know existed, each adorned with Krull’s expressionless face. I wonder what sort of crooked dealings they must be a part of to have earned all this money when, atop the pile and obscured slightly by a pair of cards, I spot two small vials of cadmium red liquid.

Amaranthus.

My pulse quickens when I see the drug, immediately formulating ways to procure it. Two vials would be enough to last us a month. Maybe more.

“See something you like, girl?” The heavyset man asks, and my heart seizes up into the base of my throat. I make quick eye contact with him, doing my best to mask my fear as fleeting annoyance before addressing Scylla.

“Twenty-five cogs,” I say, extending my hand across the table to where she sits cozily beside a man, one hand draped atop his thigh. He’s dark-featured with very angular structure, though half of his face is lost from the light. He’s closer to her age than mine, and pays me little mind when I interrupt the conversation between them. It’s amazing how quickly her mood goes from honey to venom and back again.

She meets my reach halfway, hand unfurling like a pale, alien flower. Dropping the money in her palm, her spindly fingers clasp shut over the coins as if my opportunity to take them back vanished once they were out of sight.

“Where’s our room?” I ask, the impatience clear in my voice. I’ve got her suitor’s attention now as well, but he’s not worth my time.

“Upstairs,” Scylla says with little obligation to elaborate, sliding a cylindrical black cartridge from off the table in front of her. It reminds me of an elongated bullet made of sleek, dark metal. She brings the thing up to the necklace wrapped tightly around her throat, pressing it to the base of her neck, as if into the center of the jewel, and clicks the button on the underside of the cartridge. There’s the sound of an injection, a little puff of pressurized air, and Scylla’s lungs swell with a dose of vaporized tar. After a moment, smoke leaks from between her pale, parted lips in thin, ghostly tendrils. Her pallid lilac gaze finds me, saturated with indifference. “Sleep tight,” she says with a humorless smile. The men around her snicker at our expense.

I look at the round of them, yet no one in particular; each of their faces inciting within me a growing rage. The longer I stay in their presence, the less likely I am to contain myself. “Let’s go, Coby,” I say annoyed, though this has nothing to do with him.

We find the staircase at the back of the ground floor, not far from where Scylla and her band of men gamble away their sins. The landing opens to a long, narrow corridor, doors on either side leading to several private rooms. Some of the doors are closed, but they do not prevent the muffled sounds from slipping into the hallway. I can hear grunts and groans, the occasional laugh; speech too garbled to discern.

As we come across the first open room, I peer inside. A young woman dressed in a soft pink shift is seated at the edge of a neatly made, white bed. Her body looks weak—battered, but there are no bruises. I gather the wounds she must have are the kind you cannot see. The girl must be no older than I—seventeen, if only just. For a fleeting moment our eyes connect, and in them I can see her hopelessness. The story of a childhood cut short. It dawns on me that the room she occupies is not what is for rent.

A shiver works the length of my spine. What scares me is knowing that in a different life I could have been her—a parentless child given to the wrong end of fate. Who is she? How did she get here? What horrors has she endured? So many questions run through my mind before I realize I haven’t looked away.

Coming back to myself, I notice she sees that I’m staring and I immediately break my gaze. Sudden heat rises along my neck and creeps into my cheeks. If only that door had been closed. But if it were, what terrors would lay beyond? I can’t help but think that every time that door is open, it’s a reprieve for the girl who waits within.

“Your room’s this way.” My head snaps in the direction of the unexpected voice. Standing at the end of the corridor is the shrunken form of another young woman. Around her wrist is an old rusted keychain. She’s older than the other girl, the girl in the room, but I doubt by much. Where Scylla is exquisite, this new girl is plain. Wheat blonde hair—paper-thin—falls in untidy wisps about her shoulders. Smudges of dirt blot her otherwise unblemished face. There’s a meekness about her in the way she’s unable to hold eye contact, more often finding comfort in the floor. Her shoulders are ever so slightly pinched, drawn in protectively, as if she’s constantly waiting to be hit.

Scylla’s slave. And I realize now she’s one of many. But while the others are used for more unspeakable things, this apparition of a girl must be responsible for the inn keeping.

My stomach twists. I want to grab Coby and leave. I want to demand our money back and carry on to the Causeway, safely knowing we had no part in this. The impulse doesn’t last long, fading rather quickly when I see the way Coby looks so drained of energy and reminding me of the reason we are here.

I release the tension in my back, unaware I was holding it. A thought drops into my head, though it does little in the way of relief. Sometimes you have to do a small act of evil to support the greater good. It’s a lesson I already know, stealing when Coby and I are desperate for medicine or something to eat. But this is different. There’s someone else suffering at of our expense.

“Thank you,” I say to the innkeeper as she leads us to our room. I try to offer her a smile though it doesn’t quite reach my lips. She says nothing, unable to look at me, and only slides the key ring off her arm to unlock the nearest door. Once her task is complete, she’s gone—vanished down the hall before I can say anything more. Turning back to door she’s just unlocked, Coby and I peer inside.

The room is bare. In fact, it doesn’t at all feel like it’s connected to Scylla’s establishment. There are no traces of the warm sultry appeal. Instead, the walls are a dingy white and the floor a stained hardwood, which groans beneath our footsteps. A single window opens to nothing but the blank, dead grey of adjacent buildings where, down below, I can see the narrow stretch of alley we took to get here. Tucked into the corner are an old desk and chair, both neglected from care and use. Finally, to top it all, pushed up against the far wall is a single bed, barely big enough for one.

Scylla was certain to make sure we got our money’s worth. Her idea of a joke.

I cuss the woman under my breath.

Tired of fighting, tired of being angry and scared and slighted, I fold under my own exhaustion. All the pent up emotion flushes out of me in a heavy, apathetic sigh.

“What’s that?” I ask, noticing Coby pick something up from the desk. After setting down our bags, I come up beside him to see what’s in his hands. It’s a picture of the young innkeeper and who must be her father—maybe an older brother—with the same crop of blond hair. She’s younger here, probably the same age as Coby is now, and seated on the man’s lap. Her head rests in the crook of his shoulder, a genuine smile on her face. Whenever this was, she was much happier then.

“What do you think happened to him?” Coby asks, still looking at picture. Leaning over his shoulder, I catch our reflections in the glass, muted and faded like two ghosts that can’t bear to haunt the place they’re in. The way our image transposes the one in the frame frightens me.

“I don’t know.” I take the picture from Coby’s hands and set it face down on the desk. The second half of that thought rattles around in my head. But it wasn’t anything good. “It’s late,” I say. “We should rest.”

“But… Are we both going to fit?” Coby looks discouragingly at the bed, knowing full well that only one of us will be able to take it.

“You’re going to be in the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” Coby’s lips part and he’s about to protest. “It’s only for the night,” I say, interrupting him before he even has the chance. “Tomorrow we move on.”

He sits reluctantly on the edge of the bed, which creaks and sags beneath his insignificant weight. A faint cloud of dust erupts from the ratty blankets and wafts into the air. How does Scylla force that poor girl to live here? And here we are taking her room from her. I recognize the longing in Coby’s face, knowing it from mine. If only we were home. But this isn’t our home, and we didn’t come for the hospitality.

Coby settles into bed, laying on his side to look out the window. I tug the blankets loose from where they are tucked between the mattress and bedframe, draping them over his small form. “Get some sleep,” I say, kissing his forehead, my directive unnecessary. His eyes are closed before I step away.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, riffling through the contents of our bags to ensure that we have everything we need. My fingers brush against the smooth glass of the Amaranthus vial, and I pull the tiny bottle out to look at it. Holding it up to the light, the amount of liquid left is equal to the width of my pinky finger. Barely a full injection. And then I remember the two vials Scylla and her friends were using as collateral. If only I could get my hands on that whole stash, money and all. But I won’t be stealing anything while the lot of them is still awake.

Resolving to get some rest, I put the vial back into a pocket of the backpack and snap it shut. Kneading the bag of clothes, I shape it into a makeshift pillow and settle down on the hardwood floor. My eyes are barely closed when my body, overcome with exhaustion, gives into the sweet temptation of sleep.

I must’ve been asleep no longer than forty minutes when I’m awoken by a commotion in the hallway. Sounds and shadows slip through the crevice beneath the door. I lift my head from the backpack I’ve been using as a pillow, feeling the impression of the straps indented upon my cheek. I strain against the silence, trying to hear what’s going on.

            “Please.” I hear the raspy, muffled cry of a girl. “No, please. Don’t.”

Whoever she is, she is terrified. I can’t tell if she’s being quiet so as not to wake anyone or if it’s fear that has caused her to lose her voice. There’s a stifled yell, as though the sound has been trapped beneath a hand. Someone—a man—shushes her, his tone everything short of comforting. A door slams and the voices disappear.

            I roll onto my side to look over at Coby, wondering if he’s been awakened by the noise. He lays formless on the bed beneath a heap of blankets given life by the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still asleep, drugged by fatigue. A small pang of envy washes over me as more sounds filter into the hallway. How can he sleep so easily? I clench my eyes shut, trying to drown it out with the blackness.

The crying becomes louder, the exchange dire and more frequent, incapable of being contained by closed doors. Whatever is happening to this girl, her assailant isn’t relenting, provoked by her fits and starts. Unable to bear it any longer, I sit bolt upright and rub the thin film of sleep from my eyes. Fumbling through the darkness, I struggle to find the knob on the door.

Stepping into the dimly lit hallway, one of the floorboards groans beneath my feet. I freeze, waiting for someone to emerge from one of the neighboring doors, but in my silence I can only hear the sound of the girl’s struggle growing louder. I move cautiously down the narrow corridor, unsure of what I’m doing or what has even drawn me from my bed. Bravery? Annoyance? Just when I think I should stop and turn back, I find her.

The door to the room is ajar, probably having ricocheted off the threshold when it was slammed. Inside I see the young girl—me in another life—coiled in the corner against a backdrop of sheer curtain. Her baby pink dress is shredded at the shoulders and blots of deep red mottle the fabric. Dark tears track the length of her pale cheeks. A man stands across from her, but I can only make out the inky black of the back of his head. There’s fear in her eyes. It’s the kind of look that recognizes death, like prey that understands this fight could very well be the last.

I’m about to turn away, not wanting to make this girl’s business my own, when I see the two vials of Amaranthus on a dresser at the far end of the bed. Indecision takes hold of my body like a constricting fist. Do I try and steal them or walk away? Do I help this girl? Battling with my own morality, I shove all judgment out of my head and decide to make a move.

Gently pushing the door open, I make an attempt to quietly step into the room. All I need to do is be silent. Two or three small steps and I can grab the vials without being noticed. But as soon as I have one foot beyond the threshold, the young girl’s gaze finds me, our eyes connecting like two opposing magnets. The message in them is clear and succinct. Help.

Suddenly laden with shame, I change my mind. I want to retreat, exit the room, and forget what it is I’ve seen. I’m never afforded the chance. The dark-haired man follows the girl’s gaze, leading him straight to me. An icy, constricting feeling works its way around my stomach and my pulse livens in my throat. I should be terrified that I’ve been discovered, but what scares me is something else entirely.

Just below the man’s left eye is a red sickle that dominates the side of his face; framing the lower lid, looping twice in on itself, and ending in a curved point on the cheek. It’s a faint red, which gives the impression that it may be irritated skin, but there’s no denying it’s a tattoo—a branding assigned upon initiation. That tattoo means only one thing. It’s the mark of a Corvant.

I try to escape before he can stop me, but the Corvant is quicker. He leaps from the bed, filling the narrow gap between me and the door. Now with his face in full light, I recognize the man. He was the one Scylla had been entertaining in the lounge downstairs, the gambler she had cuddled up to after our initial encounter.

“Well, look who it is,” he says with a smug look on his face as though satisfied by his fortune. Red light gleams off his sweaty, tanned torso almost giving it the impression that it’s smeared with blood. He’s broad, and no doubt strong. Built like a soldier. Sinewy muscle working beneath taught skin as he breathes.

How could I have been so blind? Here I am trying to lead Coby and I to safety and I’ve walked us right into danger. Anger wells up within in me at my own shortsightedness. I want to sprint down the hall and grab Coby, to get us as far away from this place as I can—to correct the damage I’ve done.

“Somebody likes to watch, huh?” The Corvant steps in toward me, and I retract out of instinct, stepping further into the room than I care to. He smiles, dark eyes lit with fire and pupils constricted to the size of pinpricks. He’s high on Amaranthus. All too familiar with the symptoms, I can recognize them in seconds.

“Why don’t you join us?” His voice is slick like oil, and just as palatable. One hand reaches forward, taking a strand of my hair between his fingers, fingertips examining its texture. I swallow hard, trying to keep down the bile that inches up my throat. My eyes find the door, formulating a plan as to how I can make it out.

The Corvant knows what I want. He can see it in my eyes. A grin twists his face as he stares at me, one hand finding the back of the door, ready to press it shut. Attempting to duck beneath his arm, I try to make my way out of the room, having the smallest bit of faith that it just might work.

“Ah,” he makes a sudden sound, crossing in front of me, blocking my way. My eyes come to his chest, and I’m forced to look up to meet his gaze. It’s hollow, like Krull’s, where the tiny pupils don’t reflect emotion but vacuum it away. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Excuse me,” I say. I don’t falter. I may be afraid, but he doesn’t need to know it. I make another attempt to slide past him.

“I asked you a question.” His hand slams against the door, barring my way.

“And I said ‘excuse me.’” My defiance irritates him. I can see it slide under his skin like the blade of a paring knife. I have dealt with scum like him before.

“Don’t.” I hear the nameless girl say from across the room. She means to warn me against antagonizing him. I pay her just as much mind as I do his arrogance.

“You should take her advice,” the Corvant interjects. He takes a step closer to me, his shadow eclipsing the light from the hallway. “Don’t want to wind up like her, do you?” My eyes find the girl and the bruises that are now blossoming on her ashy skin.

“Is this how you get all the girls? You won’t pay for them, so you beat them up? Make them do what you say?” I want to say something about him finding a woman more his age, but the comment is slapped from my mouth. The rusty taste of blood trickles over my tongue. I fight the urge to touch my cheek where he hit me, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“Please! Don’t!” The girl cries again. I’m wondering if they are the only two words she knows. Then again, now having a little understanding of the life she lives, I can see how please and don’t would dominate her vocabulary.

My eyes catch the two vials of Amaranthus on the dresser, now planted halfway between the Corvant and myself. If only I could grab them and find a way past him. “Otho was right. Got ourselves a little addict.” I look up at the Corvant where that cocky smile seems permanently etched onto his face. Connecting the dots, I link the name Otho with the heavyset man who was also gambling in the lounge.

In a split second where impulse eclipses all rational thought, I lunge, hoping to be quicker than him this time. My hand never quite makes it to the pair of vials, fingertips barely brushing the curvature of the glass. The Corvant intercepts me, seizing my wrist with a vice-like grip and causes one of the vials to roll off the dresser. It shatters on the floor in a spray of deep vermillion. Before I can react, I’m vaulted into the air. The Corvant slings me over his shoulder, his thick arm cinching around my knees. The door slams shut and the next thing I know, I’m being thrown onto the bed.

I land face down, the air punched from my lungs as the bedframe slams into my chest through the thin mattresses. Lights pop before my eyes and it takes me a few moments to find my bearings. Looking up, I find the girl huddled in the corner. She begins to weep, drawing the remains of her dress up around her chin. If I have to fight for my life—as it seems that I do—I refuse to be her. I will not cry at my misfortune. If I am to die, then so be it. I will take him with me if I can.

Cold, damp hands breach the hem of my pants, inciting sudden fear and panic. “Don’t touch me!” I say, kicking back hard against the Corvant’s thigh, inches shy of hitting him in the groin.

“Feisty little bitch, aren’t you?” The Corvant’s arms close around my waist, drawing me up against him. I can feel the hardness of his muscles and the clamminess of his skin. I writhe within his grip, repulsed by his body touching mine.

“Let go!” I yell, my voice not the whisper that woke me. I will rage against him and wake this whole forsaken place if I must. A crushing hand clamps over my mouth, making me choke on my own air.

“Shut up!” He says in a low growl, his lips pressed next to my ear. The bristle of his stubble chafes against the base of my neck. “Shut the hell up or I will kill you and that little infected freak.” My eyes burst wide and I fall slack against his chest.

Coby. How does he know about Coby?

“I saw the two of you come in here. Anyone can see that kid’s a Carrier. Walking around like a time bomb ready to kill us all.”

I struggle to breathe against the hand still covering my mouth, nauseated by the tangy scent of his sweat. The truth is, even if the Corvant was only playing at Coby’s condition—egging me on to see if his suspicions were correct—I’ve given him the answer.

“I should have put a bullet in him when I first saw the pair of you. Bunch of urchin kids coming in here. What do you say? Should I kill him? The kid doesn’t look like he’s got much life left in him anyway.” He pauses, as though leaving that morsel of thought in my head like a corrupt seed capable of growing into a wicked garden. “Just think. I’d be doing you a favor.”

I try biting his hand, but he holds it too tightly against my mouth that I can barely part my lips. I gag against the blood and saliva welling in my throat.

“How’s that sound?” He continues, delighted by my discomfort. “I do you a favor and you do me one.” His free hand slithers down over my stomach, but before it finds its intended destination, I stop him.

This time I don’t miss. I draw my leg up and drive my heel back into his groin as hard as I can. The release is sudden, as if I’ve pressed an emergency button. I crumple onto the bed as the Revear collapses back against the wall. “Fucking slag!” he growls, hands recoiling to clutch between his legs.

Seizing the moment of freedom, I make a break for the door. I’ve only just cleared the bed when I feel a hand close around my ankle. The room tilts at an extreme angle and I find myself falling hard against the floor. My skull ricochets off the hardwood, and I see a flash of black. When my bearings return, I see the Corvant crawling toward me.

His weight is crushing. He must be well over two hundred pounds, and with all his force thrown into his arms, I’m pinned to the ground. I splutter and flail as his grip finds my throat, constricting like a tourniquet. Fire fills my esophagus as I fight for air, my lungs threatening to burst.

My vision blurs in and out of focus, blackness creeping in at the edges. I claw at the Corvant’s arms, fingernails grating against corded skin. An image of Coby appears in the razor-thin twilight that exists at the edge of consciousness. A coy smile on his boyish face. Blue eyes filled with laughter and elation. The way he was before the sickness. I reach for him, straining outward to touch his face. I can’t fail him now, not with the Corvant knowing what he knows.

I have to protect him. It’s what I’m in this world to do.

As the vision of Coby fades away and is replaced by the savage face of the Corvant hovering above me, the need to survive burns within my blood. One hand finds the bottom of the Corvant’s jaw, pressing hard against bone and flesh. Enraged by my desperate struggle to overcome his incredible strength, I channel all of my anger, willing to push him away with all of my might.

There’s an explosion of light as something transfers between us. At first I think one of us has been shot, or that someone else has intervened. Perhaps that weeping mess of a girl. His grip unhinges and I gasp for air, the pressure in my throat giving way to a piercing, throbbing pain. It hurts to breathe, but at least I can. Mother’s Mercy, I can breathe. Water brims at my eyes, and I try to blink it away, causing hot tears to spill over my cheeks.

I scramble backward away from the Corvant in the moment’s reprieve. I crash into the dresser behind me, the loose nobs rattling against their hinges. Something falls, striking my softly on the thigh. I look down to see the small bottle of Amaranthus resting innocently in the crease of my lap. For a moment I stare at it, as though unsure of what it is. Swiping away the tears from my cheeks, I pick the vial up between forefinger and thumb before wrapping it within my fist and pressing it against my chest.

Sobbing fills the room, and at first I think it’s my own. When I look up, however, I realize it’s the forgotten girl cowering in the corner. She stares at the wall across from me, fat tears leaking over her quivering open lips. Following her gaze, I see why it is she’s crying.

The Corvant is slumped against the wall, his exposed torso just now revealing a slew of surface wounds. Scratch marks glow red on his body in jagged lines where my nails rent his skin. Face, arms, chest. Even a few bruises begin to show themselves beneath the light. But what gives me pause is the way he lays completely still. Rivulets of blood trickle from his both sides of his nose, meeting like strands of a larger river where they unite along the sides of his mouth. Cold understanding ripples throughout my body as though I’ve been submerged in a sea of icy water.

He’s dead.

Confusion settles onto my face, drawing my eyebrows together. I can’t make sense of how this happened. No one else has come into the room. No one shot him. No one saved me. I look over to the girl still huddled in the corner, the fear still in her eyes. I want to assure her she doesn’t need to be afraid anymore. That all of this is over and there’s no need to cry. But when I part my lips to speak, I realize it’s no longer the Corvant she’s afraid of.

What frightens her is me.