‘You’re staying then.’ She’s not asking a question, yet her words lack their usual conviction as they tickle my ear.
I breathe out slowly. ‘Yeah.’
Even just saying it makes me feel better. Eases something. Lightens the weight. Because I’ve made the decision: I’m not leaving her.
Not now. Not ever. I’ll keep her safe.
She breathes out softly too, breath warm against my skin. ‘I thought you said I couldn’t make you stay.’
I lean on my forearms and look into her eyes. ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t know you were going to get naked, did I, little Twist?’
The corner of her lip tugs upward. ‘So that’s all it takes?’
I shake my head. ‘That’s not the reason.’
Her face darkens as she registers my expression.
‘I know.’ She says the words hurriedly. As if she doesn’t want me to say it, why I stayed. And that’s fine by me. I don’t want to say it either. I don’t want to admit it was the plea I heard in her voice—the vulnerability, the panic in the way her hands clung to my face and her lips moved against mine—that crumbled my resolve against doing the right thing.
Or maybe it’s just that I’m a selfish bastard. Maybe it’s just that I didn’t want to leave her. And I don’t want to say that either.
Hurt her if I stay. Hurt her if I go.
I’m fucked anyway, so I may as well do what I want. Even though it’ll probably destroy us both in the end.
My eyes drop to her lips. They’re red and swollen. I shift my hand and run my thumb along them. She looks at me a moment longer. Then she shuffles beneath me.
‘You haven’t asked me what I found in the library,’ she says. ‘The story in my father’s section of the Book of Truth.’
I roll onto my back to release her, planting my feet on the cold tiles. She props herself up on her elbow.
‘Yeah, well, I was a bit busy between your legs.’
I focus on a spot of damp on the ceiling. I don’t want to know about the message from her father. Not anymore. Not now I know who he was. I don’t want to hear about him. I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to think about him. I want him out of my mind.
I grab my jeans and pull them on. She pushes a book onto my lap and then gets dressed. She looks at me expectantly.
I exhale and pick it up. ‘What’s this then?’
She flips it open about halfway through. There’s a dead flower wedged into the spine.
‘Let me guess. A dandelion.’
Her amber eyes are bright against her flushed skin. I should have left. Course I should. But I like that I did that to her—the pinkened skin, the sheen of sweat, the flush on her neck. I smell myself on her as she stands in front of me, her sweat mingled with mine.
She smiles. ‘Read it.’ She nods at the pages. ‘Read the story.’
I scratch the back of my neck. ‘I . . . er . . . I can’t read, little Twist.’
Her cheeks flush. ‘Oh, right. Course. Sorry.’ I see the pity in her face.
‘We don’t all have the privilege of a Creator father, do we, little Twist?’ My voice comes out rougher than I meant it to, but she doesn’t flinch. What am I doing bringing up her father anyway?
‘I can teach you, if you like,’ she says. ‘I taught Raven. Kind of. And some of the kids at the Circus.’
‘No.’
She takes the book out of my hands. ‘Okay. Suit yourself.’
I let out a hot breath. ‘Go on then. Let’s get this over with. What does it say?’
A smile tickles her lips. And she starts to read.
‘Once, there was a world. And the world was grey.’
I watch her as she tells the story—the way her face animates, her eyebrows moving with each intonation of her voice. I don’t know if she thinks this story means something or if she’s just happy because her father wrote it.
But as I start to understand the words she’s repeating, I am glad I stayed.
Because they’re dangerous. They’re going to add fuel to her stupid ideas about revolution and overthrowing the Creators.
‘As time went by, they grew and revised and amended their story. They made themselves gods. They reinforced their story with Ink to give it power. And then they hid the Ink so no one else could use it. Because they knew a truth many had forgotten.’ Her eyes meet mine. ‘Whoever controls the Ink controls the Story. Whoever controls the Story controls the world.’
She smiles expectantly. ‘Don’t you see what this means?’
‘I think it means you’re going to get yourself into trouble, little Twist.’
She shakes her head then taps the page. ‘It means the world wasn’t always this way. It means the Creators aren’t special. And it means the Creators didn’t create the world; they stole it. This story changes everything!’
I exhale and shake my head. ‘It doesn’t, little Twist.’
‘Course it does.’
‘How? Are you going to tell people this story? Do you really think they’re going to believe you?’
Her smile falters just for a moment before she shakes her head. ‘You’re missing something. The power doesn’t belong to them. They just monopolised it.’
‘So?’
She rolls her eyes and then pats my arm. ‘Come on, put your top on. I want to show the others.’
With that, she turns on her heel and heads to the door.
‘Ink!’ she says. ‘It’s all about ink! Come on.’
I rub my face. I don’t want to go out there. I don’t want to have to face Sylvia again.
‘No. Not now,’ I say.
She looks over her shoulder at me, and her brow furrows with uncharacteristic worry.
I sigh. ‘Look, I told you I’m staying. I’m not leaving. I just. . . I’ll be out in a minute.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Okay?’
She releases a breath then nods. ‘Okay. I’ll see you out there.’ She heads out of the room with an irritating skip in her step. She’s got the book nestled beneath her arm that will most likely be the end of us all.
Chapter Forty-Three
Elle
‘Whoever controls the Story controls the world,’ I say.
Tom thought he heard news about Raven and Lucy, so headed out to find them, leaving Mary, Anita, Rami, and Sylvia behind in the council room. The Circus ringleader frowns.
‘So we all had the power of stories once, huh? Back in the day? Guess that somewhat ruins the little chosen-one complex you’ve got going on, doesn’t it, sweetie?’ She exhales and shakes her head. ‘I don’t know why you’re looking so pleased. It doesn’t change anything.’
‘Of course it does.’
Sylvia gestures to the book, and I slide it over the table. She grabs it.
‘It’s not just the story that changes everything,’ I say. ‘The bit about the Ink . . .’
‘And then they hid the Ink.’ Sylvia shrugs. ‘No shit. They forbade ink, didn’t they? That’s not new informa—’
‘There’s more to it than that.’ I slam my palms on the table, and Rami flinches beside me. ‘Do you know how Blotters are made?’
‘Made?’ Mary leans forwards on her elbows.
‘Yes. They’re not born with ink in their veins. And they’re not created by the Creators either. They’re made that—’ My breath catches in my throat as his heat washes over me. My skin hums at his presence. He smells hot and masculine, like sex. My pulse quickens.
Sylvia looks over my shoulder and raises an eyebrow. ‘Elle was just telling us how you were made a Blotter.’
He breathes out slowly through his nose. I catch the movement of his arm out of the corner of my eye and hear the scrape of his hand against his stubble as he runs it across his mouth.
‘Right.’ The word comes out hard. I tense as I recall his reluctance in telling me about his Blotter Ceremony in the first place. ‘She was, was she?’ Jay sits down, throwing his arm over the back of his chair, and looks up at me.
‘Not abou
t you specifically,’ I say. ‘I wanted to tell them about the ink. You said there was a pool of ink in the Citadel.’
He visibly tenses. ‘So?’
‘They hid the ink,’ says Mary. ‘Whoever controls the ink controls the story . . .’ She chews her lip, and I see the cogs turning behind her eyes. ‘You think it’s related? You think Jay’s pool of ink is the ink they hid?’
‘Maybe.’
Anita leans back, her long black hair sweeping over the back of her chair. ‘What? You think they have some kind of pool of magic ink?’
‘I’ve always been able to create. I was doing it as a child, but my stories would always get away from me. I’d lose control of them or struggle to get people to believe. That story says the Creators used Ink to reinforce their story. What if that’s what I’ve been missing? What if that’s why their story is so powerful? The Ink.’
‘Hmm,’ says Sylvia.
I run my fingers through my tangled hair. I know this is important. I know I’m right. Sylvia continues to look through the book.
‘What’s this?’ she says.
‘What?’
She slides the book back over the table but is looking at Jay. It’s open on the cover page—the one with thirteen concentric circles drawn on it, with the thirteen lines cutting from the centre. It’s similar to the symbol Jay has tattooed on his arm. He cracks his knuckles then takes the book.
‘Your map, right, Blotter?’ she says.
‘Yeah. But . . .’
I reach for his arm and brush my fingertips across the black symbol tattooed onto his skin with the other. Thirteen concentric circles, but without the lines coming from the centre.
His eyes burn into mine.
‘The circles?’ I say.
‘Each of the Drafts exists within one of the circles. The Final City is in the middle.’ He pulls his arm gently out of my grasp and turns back to the page.
‘But the lines?’
His brow furrows. ‘Lines of ink,’ he says softly. He looks lost in thought, and I touch his shoulder.
‘What is it?’
He shakes his head, looking down at the table. ‘Reminds me of something. Something I overheard as a boy. About lines of ink beneath the world.’
‘What about them?’
He shakes his head. ‘I dunno, little Twist.’
I run my fingertip across one of the lines as it joins the black dot in the centre. ‘Lines of ink that join in the centre, in the Final City.’ I look up at the others. ‘When we swam across the river, something attacked us, grabbed Jay’s leg.’
‘There are monsters in the rivers,’ says Sylvia. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘It was ink.’
‘Sweetie . . .’
‘No. Listen. What if . . . what if there are lines of this Ink running beneath the world?’ My words tumble out fast and breathless. ‘Whoever controls the Ink controls the Story.’ I tap the book. ‘What if one of the Creators caught wind of where we were and somehow controlled the Ink? Used it to create a hand? To grab Jay?’
Sylvia, Anita, and Rami stare at me blankly. Mary seems pensive. Jay just looks confused.
‘So what if that were true?’ says Sylvia finally. ‘It just makes everything worse. If the Creators can literally manipulate this Ink, what’s to stop them from manipulating it into—I don’t know, something to kill us?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But you’re missing the point. If they get their power from these lines of Ink and the main source of it is in the Citadel, maybe we could take that power away from them.’
‘Power can’t be taken from men like that, sweetie.’ Sylvia sighs and rubs the dark smudges beneath her eyes. ‘Maybe there’s something in what you’re saying. Maybe this Ink is real, and maybe there’s power in it. But people believe in the Creators’ stories. They live by them. They spread them. They enforce them. And they die by them. Maybe once, the Creators needed the Ink, but I don’t think they need it anymore.’
‘But if we can get a hold of it, we can use it. Why else would they have hidden it? I can create, but it’s harder out here. It took me almost a month to plant the seeds for the hurricane, and that was in Draft One. When we get to the Inner Drafts, when we get to the Final City—’
‘We’re not going to the Final City,’ Jay and Sylvia speak at the same time.
‘—it’ll be harder still. Maybe the Ink would help. Whoever controls the Ink controls the Story. That’s what my father said.’
‘Sweetie . . .’
‘It’s worth looking into, Sylv.’ Mary smiles, and I nod gratefully. ‘We can—’
Urgent footsteps approach, and we all turn to the door as Tom bursts into the room wearing his Teller robes. Seconds later, Lucy, the fifteen-year-old from the Circus, stumbles into the room after him. Something hardens inside of me. Blood streams from her nose, her eyes are black and bruised, and her dirty blonde hair is matted.
Sylvia gets to her feet, and I cross the room.
‘Lucy . . . what happened?’ I ask as I grab her arms.
She’s trembling. ‘They caught us. I got away, but—’ She swallows. ‘They’ve got Raven. They’re taking her to one of the killing blocks. They’re going to execute her.’ Her bloodshot eyes lock onto mine, and she looks lost. ‘Tonight.’
Chapter Forty-Four
Jay
I tap my fingers against the table as chaos erupts around me.
Elle’s face drains of colour as she hurries the teenager to a chair. Tom heads back through the door. The others pace the room, barking questions and raising their voices.
It’s exhausting. And it’s pointless.
They want to save Raven. They won’t save her. It’s already too late.
The thought of her being killed is heavier than I expect it to be. Why would I care if another Darling is Cut by the Creators? I’ve killed enough myself.
‘Quiet!’ Sylvia slams her cane against the table, and everyone shuts up. Her lips are hard with tension, and she takes a couple of deep breaths before swallowing. ‘Who caught her? Blotters?’
‘No. Just . . . just people. From the Draft.’ Lucy narrows her eyes. ‘Bastards.’
Elle’s face whitens. ‘It wasn’t Blotters who did this?’
Tom comes back into the room and places a radio on the table. He fiddles with the dial, and a male voice comes from the speaker.
‘. . . plot coordinated by Darlings who have twisted from the One True Story. So filled with hate are they, so lacking in thanks for all the Creators have done, they seek only to destroy—’
Elle’s jaw sets. ‘How can people believe—?’
‘Shh!’ Sylvia hisses.
‘Today, the Blotters rounded up these abominations. They will be Cut from the One True Story at midnight by the Black Sea Bridge. Come join us as they—’
Noise erupts as Tom turns off the radio. Rami and Elle are yapping about heading to the Bridge. Anita is comforting the kid. Mary’s saying something to her brother. Only Sylvia remains quiet. She meets my eyes, and for a moment, it’s as if we’re the only people in the room.
‘It’s a trap,’ I say.
‘Yes. You’re probably right, Blotter.’
Silence falls, and the others turn to look at us. I hold Sylvia’s gaze. I don’t know what she wants from me. I don’t like it. She knows what I did. She knows the shadow that lives inside of me.
Elle glares at us both then shakes her head. ‘No. I know what you’re going to say, but we’re not leaving Raven to die.’
Sylvia closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her expression has shifted; become harder. ‘I’m not risking any more lives.’
Elle spins around to face her. ‘I’m bringing her back.’
‘No. You’re not.’
‘Yes—’
Sylvia slams her hand on the table. ‘I was made the leader of our little group, honey, and that means making the difficult choices sometimes.’
‘Difficult choice? This is Raven we’re talking about.�
� She sucks in a breath then lets it out slowly. ‘Look, we’re wasting time arguing when we should be coming up with a plan. Mary—you know where the Black Sea is . . .’
I rub the bridge of my nose, blocking out her voice as she fumbles for some bullshit plan. It won’t work. There’s no way a group of Darlings can stop this. We’re talking about Blotters here, and Creators, and a Draft Four high-security area. The Creators obviously expect us to go to the bridge—why else would there be a broadcast about it on the radio? They’ve written our deaths. It’ll be on the skins of every Blotter in the area. They won’t fuck up again.
I run a hand over my mouth. ‘I’ll go.’
Everyone looks at me.
Some of the weight that’s been crushing my chest lightens. The Twist won’t give this up; she won’t allow the Darlings to do nothing. So I’ll go. And if I die, then I die. And then what I did dies with me. And that’ll be that.
I won’t survive this anyway.
‘They’ll be keeping her in a holding cell near the killing block,’ I say. ‘I know where it is. They’re all laid out the same. If I can get in there before midnight, I can break her out.’
Elle raises her eyebrow. ‘You’d do that for Raven?’
‘No. I’d do that for you.’
Something shifts in the air, becomes uncomfortable.
‘How would you get in?’ says Elle. ‘They’ll kill you.’
‘I’m a Blotter. I’ll walk in. I’m the only one here who can.’
‘They’re looking for you.’
‘You said they were looking for a fake Blotter. I’m not fake.’
She bites her cheek, and I can tell she’s thinking about it. ‘They wouldn’t be expecting it. Raven’s death is written at midnight. I presume that’s when they’ll have written our deaths too. If it’s a trap.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
‘It’s just . . . if they catch you.’
‘I’ll kill them.’
‘It’s not safe.’
‘Nothing’s safe.’
‘I’ll come with you. You can say I’m a prisoner.’
‘Unnecessary risk.’
‘I know. It’s just—’ She’s breathing quickly, as if her chest contains one of her tornados. ‘No—’
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