by Sally Green
I’m pushed down. “Your knees!” Kieran shouts.
Clay has gone. Tamsin and Megan are by the cab of the van. Kieran is standing to the side of me and I squint up at him. His nose is swollen and he has one black eye.
“Your healing’s a bit slow, Kieran.”
His boot flies at my face, but I roll out of its way and up to my feet.
Tamsin laughs. “He’s fast, Kieran.”
Kieran feigns disinterest and says, “He’s their problem now.”
I look around as the two guards reach me, grab my arms, and drag me off without a word.
They take me into the Council building through a wooden door, along a corridor, then right and left and past an internal courtyard, through another door to the left. Then I am in the corridor I recognize and sitting on the bench outside the room where they do the assessments.
I heal the various scrapes and bruises.
It’s almost like old times. I have to wait, of course. My hands are still cuffed behind me. I stare at my knees and at the stone floor.
A long time passes and I’m still waiting. The door at the far end of the corridor opens; there’re footsteps but I don’t look up. And then the footsteps stop and a man’s voice says, “Go back the other way.”
I look up and then I stand up.
Annalise’s voice is quiet. “Nathan?”
The man she’s with must be her father, and he’s pushing her back through the door. The door shuts and that’s it.
The guard stands in my way, blocking the view. I know he wants me to sit, and I hesitate but I do it, and the corridor is the same as it always is.
But Annalise was here. She looked different: older, paler, taller. She was wearing jeans and a light blue shirt and brown boots. And I replay it over in my head: the footsteps, “Go back the other way,” seeing her, our eyes meeting and her eyes are pleased, and she says my name softly, “Nathan?” and the way she says it she isn’t sure, like she can’t believe it, and then her father pushes her back, she resists, he pushes and blocks the way, she looks around his arm, our eyes meet again, then the door shuts. The door blocks all noise out; footsteps and voices on the other side can’t be heard.
I replay it all again, and again. I think it was real. I think it happened.
* * *
They take the handcuffs off to weigh, measure, and photograph me. It’s the same as before an assessment, but it’s not my birthday for months so I’m not sure if I’m going to be assessed or what. I ask the man in the lab coat, but the guard who stands watching it all tells me to shut up, and the man doesn’t answer me. The guard puts the cuffs back on, and I am back in the corridor, and there is more waiting.
When I’m taken in it’s Soul O’Brien sitting in the center seat this time. I’m not surprised. The woman Councilor is back on the right, and Mr. Wallend is sitting on the left. At least Clay isn’t here.
They start asking me questions like the ones in my assessment. I’m uncooperative, in a silent sort of way. Soul is his usual bored self, but I’m more convinced than ever that it’s an act. Everything about him is an act. He asks each question twice and doesn’t comment on my lack of response, but they soon give up and don’t even seem that bothered. After his last question, Soul whispers to the woman and then to Mr. Wallend.
Then he speaks to me.
“Nathan.”
Nathan! That’s a first.
“It is less than three months until your seventeenth birthday. An important day in your life.” He looks at his nails and then up at me again. “And an important day in mine. I’m hoping that I will be able to give you three gifts on that day.”
What?
“Yes, that may seem a little surprising, but it’s something I’ve been considering for many years, something I would be . . . interested in doing. However, before I can give you three gifts I must—we all must—be sure that you are truly on the side of White Witches. I have the power to choose your Designation Code, Nathan. I suggest that it is in your interest that you are designated as a White Witch.”
And I used to want that, used to think it was the solution, but now I know for sure that I don’t.
“Nathan, you are half White Witch by birth. Your mother was from a strong and honorable family of White Witches. We at the Council respect her family. Some of her ancestors were Hunters and your half-sister is now a Hunter too. You have a proud and respectable heritage on your mother’s side. And there is much of your mother in you, Nathan. Much. Your healing ability is a sign of that.”
And I’m not sure if he’s talking a load of bollocks, because I’m convinced my father is pretty good at healing too.
* * *
“Do you know the difference between Black Witches and White Witches, Nathan?”
I don’t reply. Waiting for the usual good-versus-evil argument.
“It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Something I’ve often pondered.” Soul O’Brien looks at his nails and then at me. “White Witches use their Gifts for good. And that is how you can show us that you are White, Nathan. Use your Gift for good. Work with the Council, the Hunters, White Witches the world over. Help us and . . .” He leans back in his chair. “Life will be a lot easier for you.” His eyes seem to glow silver as he says, “And longer too.”
“I’ve been kept in a cage for nearly two years. I’ve been beaten and tortured and kept from my family, my family of White Witches. Tell me which bit of that is ‘good.’”
“We are concerned for the good of White Witches. If you are designated White—”
“Then you’ll give me a nice bed to sleep in? Oh, yes, of course, as long as I kill my father.”
“We all have to make compromises, Nathan.”
“I won’t kill my father.”
He admires his nails again and says, “Well, I’d be disappointed if you agreed readily, Nathan. I’ve watched you with interest every year since we first met, and you rarely disappoint me.”
I swear at him.
“And in a way I’m glad you haven’t done so now. However, one way or another you will do as we require. Mr. Wallend will ensure that.”
I’m not given a chance to reply, because Soul nods at the guards and they come up to me and take an arm each.
As I’m hauled out of the room and along the corridors I try to keep track of the directions—the lefts, the rights, the benches, windows, and doors—but it’s too complex and I’m soon in a part of the building where the corridors are less straight, and this one is descending until it becomes so narrow that one guard is in front of me and one behind. Stone steps take us farther down. It’s cold. There’s a row of metal doors on the left.
The guard ahead stops by the third door, which is painted blue, though the paint is scratched off in places to show gray beneath. It’s not a door to fill anyone with hope. He slides it open and the guard behind me pushes me through.
I’m standing in a cell. The only light is from the corridor. The cell is empty except for a chain attached to the wall, which the guard is now shackling to my ankle. Then he’s out of the door, turning the lock and slamming a bolt.
Complete blackness.
I’m still handcuffed. I step forward and make my way around the room, feeling the uneven stone walls with my toes, my body, and my cheek. Three paces to the left of where the chain is attached is the corner and then two paces farther I run out of chain. It’s the same on the right. The short chain stops me from getting near the door.
The floor is cold and hard but dry. I sit with my back against the wall. Four stone walls, one door, a length of chain and me.
But soon nausea and fear join us.
The moon is halfway through its cycle, so things are bad but not really bad. I’ve not been inside at night for a long time, though. I jiggle my feet. Then I jiggle my body. This helps the panicky feeling but not the nausea. I roll on to my side but kee
p jiggling and crawl into the corner and push my head into it. Some of the time I jiggle, some of the time I don’t.
I bring up watery vomit, but there’s not much of it. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but my stomach retches repeatedly. There’s nothing to come out, but it clenches and turns, and I’m coughing up nothing, but still my stomach wants to get rid of something.
Then the noises start. I hear hissing and banging, but I’m not sure if I’m imagining them or if they’re real noises. The hissing is horrible, persistent; the bangs make me jump, they’re so loud. I try to anticipate them but I can’t. All I can do to help is to shout. Shouting drowns out the noises, but I can’t keep it up all night. I’m sick again, and I lie with my head pressed into the corner, and I hum and jiggle and shout back at the noises from time to time when they make me jump.
* * *
It’s dawn. The cell is still dark, but the nausea and noises leave as quickly as they arrived.
No one comes.
I should make a plan but I’m too exhausted to think of one.
Still no one comes.
I try to rest. I’m hungry. My mouth tastes disgusting. Will they bring food and water? Or will they forget about me and leave me here to die?
* * *
They have remembered me. They have brought water but not remembered that I need to eat as well. They have forgotten my name too.
I can’t seem to remember it either.
“I’ll ask you once more to state your name.” The young witch has stopped saying please.
I’m going with my usual plan, the one where I say nothing. It’s not the most sophisticated plan; it’s bound to cause irritation, and it’s not likely to have a profound effect on anything that will ultimately happen. But at least it’s a plan.
I stare back at her, taking in her appearance from the top of her neatly brushed, mousy hair, past her small, pale blue eyes, perfectly applied mascara, smooth, thin coating of foundation, and precisely painted, pink lipstick. Her narrow frame is well dressed in a beige suit, tights, black patent shoes. She looks like she’s made an effort, and she looks like she’s had a decent night’s sleep. She is even wearing perfume, which is floral.
And the more I look, the more overcome I am by her appearance, her prettiness, and her basic, cruel stupidity. She is dressed for some business meeting, and I’ve been kept in a cell.
And I now have a new plan. I slouch on one hip and leaning forward slightly toward her I say, “My name is Ivan. Ivan Shukhov.”
The woman looks a little confused and irritated. She’s probably trying to work out if it’s some sort of rhyming slang.
“No, you are Nathan Byrn. Son of Cora Byrn and Marcus Edge.”
I lean back and try to sound casual. “Nah, I’m Ivan. You must be after the guy in the next cell.”
“There isn’t anyone in the next cell.”
“You mean he’s escaped?”
She pulls her lipsticked lips into a smile, perhaps to show she has a sense of humor.
“We just need to ensure that you are aware of what is happening.”
“Course I’m aware of what is happening.” That wasn’t at all casual, and I have to recover my tone. “I’ve been treated like a king by the wonderful Council of White Witches. Fed the best food, given the best bed and”—I lean forward again—“been introduced to the most charming, fresh- smelling White Witches.” The guard pulls me back by one arm. “My name is Ivan Shukhov, and I am aware of what is happening. Are you?”
“You are not Ivan Something-or-other. You are Nathan Byrn and you are going to be codified.”
“I’ve no idea what that means.”
Her eyes are cold, fixed on me, pale blue shimmers glacially in pale blue.
“It doesn’t sound too good,” I say. “I kind of feel sorry for this Nathan guy.”
“You are Nathan.”
“What does codified mean? I’d like to tell Nathan if I see him.”
“It’s a sophisticated tattoo.”
“I can’t imagine you think any tattoos are sophisticated.”
She smiles. “This one is. Mr. Wallend has been working on the potion for some time.”
“What is the tattoo?”
“It’s your code, of course.”
I lean forward and the guards grab my arms and hold them back. “A brand, you mean.”
She opens the pink lips on her beautifully made-up face to speak again and I spit at them. The gob lands perfectly.
She screams and splutters, rubbing at her mouth. The guards hold me back.
The woman has backed away a pace; her makeup is not so immaculate as she wipes it with her handkerchief. She holds the handkerchief to her mouth as she says, “You are Nathan Byrn. You have a mother who was a White Witch and a father who is a Black Witch. You are a Half Code and as such you are to be codified.”
This time my spit lands on the hem of her skirt. She staggers back as if I’ve hit her. The guards still keep hold of me.
“Take him to Room 2C.”
The guards shuffle through the cell door, dragging me out, and in the narrow corridor they have to go sideways, which is better for me as I can climb the walls with my legs, even though one guard has me by the neck. They get me in front of a green metal door with 2C painted on it. It slides open and I stop struggling for a second.
Room 2C contains what looks like an operating table with lots of black plastic straps. Again I start struggling and shouting.
In the end they have to knock me out with a punch to the side of my head.
* * *
I wake and begin to gag and choke. There’s something in my mouth. I can’t spit it out. It’s rubber and metal.
The woman is standing beside me, looking down at me. She smiles and says, “Ah, awake at last.”
I squirm and squeal, but it’s pathetic so I stop. Room 2C has painted white walls and the ceiling is bare except for a light and what looks like a camera nestled in the far corner. That’s all I know about Room 2C because I can’t move to see anything else. I’m lying down, my body strapped to a table. My hands are no longer handcuffed, but they are secured, and I can feel with my fingertips that the table has a thin layer of padding under a sheet. My head is strapped by my forehead and rests in a sort of hollow in the table. It feels like there are straps over my body, arms, legs, and ankles.
I’m trying not to think of Retribution. I don’t want to think of the powder Kieran put on my back. But I have a clamp in my mouth. Is codified another word for Retribution?
The door rattles and then I hear it slide open and there is the sound of something metal being dragged over the floor. A light is shone so bright that even with my eyes closed I see a red glare. There is the sound of more dragging and the clink of delicate metal objects.
“Nathan. Look at me.”
It’s Mr. Wallend. He has very dark blue eyes with white flecks in them. He’s wearing a lab coat.
“You’re here for codification. I’m going to carry out the procedure. It may be a little uncomfortable, but I’d like you to be as still as possible. Try to relax.”
I start to squirm again.
“It’s a bit like a tattoo, only a much quicker and easier process. We’ll do the ones on your finger first. Give you the feel of it. You’re left-handed, aren’t you?”
He can’t possibly make sense of my squirming and squealing.
He pushes a metal ring over the little finger of my right hand and tightens it.
“Okay. So this is simple. Just relax. It’ll be over—”
I scream into the gag as a needle pierces into the bone of my finger.
It is drawn out.
Mr. Wallend loosens the ring and moves it up my finger. “Next one.”
I scream and curse him and move my finger as much as I can but the ring tightens and the n
eedle goes into me again.
As it comes out I’m sweating.
He moves on to the top of my finger, over the fingernail. The needle goes through again.
I bite on the gag and stare at him, tears streaming out of my eyes.
It stops.
My heart is thudding.
That was not a tattoo.
Mr. Wallend is undoing the ring and taking it off. He and the woman peer at my finger.
“Excellent. Excellent. There’s hardly any swelling. Your body is exceptional, Nathan. Exceptional.”
Mr. Wallend walks round the table to my left hand.
“Now for the bigger tattoos. These might feel a bit more intense.”
I feel cold metal on the top of my left hand, along the line of my middle finger. I stare at him and curse into the gag.
Mr. Wallend ignores all that and gets on with his job so that all I can see of him is the top of his head. Dark brown wavy hair.
“Try to relax.”
Yes, of course, easy. Something is scraping against the inside of my hand, on my bone.
Mr. Wallend’s hair is wavy and still. I’m still too.
When the scraping stops I feel sick, dizzy.
Mr. Wallend looks up. “Not too bad, hey? Now, the thing to remember is that it won’t come off. Ever. It’s inside you now. If you try to remove it with scarring of the skin, say, it will reappear. So there really is no point in trying.”
He looks at my hand again, smoothes it over with his finger. It feels bruised and tender. “The code looks very good. Very good indeed.”
He’s moving down the bed.
“Now the ankle. Try to relax. It’ll just be a few seconds.”
I can’t help but try to pull away, however feebly. It seems more than a few seconds that it’s scraping into my bone and through into my marrow. The gag’s in my mouth and I know I mustn’t be sick.
“It takes longer on the bigger bones,” he says. “Just the last one now.”
He moves the machine round the table, disappearing from sight and reappearing on my right side.
He puts the machine on my neck.
Oh no . . . no . . . no . . .
“Try to calm yourself.” He leans forward, his face close. “It may feel a bit strange here.”