His kiss was soft and gentle, as I knew it would be. It made me feel safe and warm.
“I know I’m supposed to wait until tomorrow,” he said, holding up something small and shiny. “But tomorrow you’ll have a dozen suitors with gold rings better than this one, they’ll be lining up at your door. So I thought, before you get any ideas about marrying someone smarter, or richer, or better looking… I better make an effort.”
I sighed, letting myself sink into the familiar daydream. Me and Trevor married, raising children in Agrave. A simple, happy life. I wasn’t surprised by his proposal. There nobody else I would seriously consider marrying.
But he didn’t have the right. Not until tomorrow. Not until after the ceremony.
“If I’m still here tomorrow, I promise… to think about it,” I smirked at him.
He kissed me again, but we took it no further.
The laws were strict.
That night I couldn’t sleep.
For months I’d been dreading the Choosing. Even though it meant my family would be taken care of for life, it didn’t seem fair that Trev and I couldn’t just decide to be together.
And from the brief contact I’d had with the elite, they terrified me. I couldn’t imagine living with one. I reached up and brushed my lips with my fingers, remembering Trev’s soft kisses. Suddenly, my mind flashed to a set of mesmerizing, clear blue eyes, wondering would it would be like to kiss the lips they belonged to. I blushed at the thought.
I’d never known an elite like Damien before. Besides being gorgeous, he seemed… kind. It confused my feelings for Trev. I’d known him my whole life, how could I be comparing him against someone I’d only known for a day?
Still, I fell asleep no longer entirely sure I wanted to be overlooked at the Choosing.
Chapter Three
“Over 100 years ago,” a voice boomed over the crowd, “mankind was dying. Their violence and bloodlust had caused centuries of war. Crime was rampant. The environment destroyed. The economy broken, with a few individuals hoarding all the wealth while billions starved. And then came the plagues—new variants of old diseases, that adapted against all vaccines. Until a group of researchers working on experimental method using tiny machines, trying to find a cure, found something else, something much more powerful; an elixir of immortality, a sacred gift of miraculous healing qualities. They had discovered the fountain of youth.”
The speaker was an elite, I could tell even from far away by the way he carried himself. That effortless movement, the fluid confidence. I’d heard this story before, of course, it was repeated practically word for word every Choosing ceremony.
“What they could not foresee, however, was that every gift comes with a price. This elixir caused rapid healing and cellular regeneration, halted the aging process completely, cured disease and even regrew lost limbs, but these little robots demanded fresh blood to complete their simple programming… and the thirst became great.”
“Those treated began to have an insatiable thirst for blood. The blood banks were soon depleted. The black market blossomed and international blood trading knew no bounds, with ever more numbers being sold into slavery or as cattle to feed the thirst. After a certain amount of time with no food, those treated died to their former lives, but continued living as a new kind of human, what we call today, the elites. They were stronger and faster than any human could be, which made them above the common law. They hunted the humans like animals.”
“But the unaffected, common people were desperate for this miracle cure, and there were more of them. They would capture and butcher the elites and drain them of their blood to treat themselves. Governments toppled, powerless to stop the bloodshed, and the Race Wars began. The elites and the commons slaughtered each other for decades. The elites went into hiding, their numbers fewer and fewer, until at last the great King Richard brought all the elites together and won the war decisively. By joining together, the elites massacred the human population, bringing it down to just 1% of what it had been. They could have kept the commons as cattle, as a food source only, but King Richard in his magnificence drafted the Covenant instead, and the Compounds were formed around the great cities.”
“The elites, the Clan, would provide government, organization, law, and structure. The Compounds would provide work, art and craft, manpower. The elite keep you healthy, keep your lives easy and peaceful. Food is plentiful. Your houses are comfortable and you are free to work on the lives you choose, governing yourselves. The Covenant was sealed with the exchange of blood; a weekly Sacrament to the commons is enough to keep you fit, healthy and strong.”
“In return, to cement mutual trust and remind us of the pact, each of our kind, each elite, will choose a life-companion, a human, as mate. To remind us of our humanity, and to quench the rage of our thirst. To promote peace and loyalty. Humanity was once a disease; we let greed and violence corrupt our souls, we destroyed the environment until our entire civilization was at risk. And when we discovered what we hoped was our salvation… the wars, decades of bloodshed and death. Finally, we made peace, and we live together now, in harmony, partners. Two races, complimenting each other, helping each other.”
A stage had been set up near the main gate, and the elite arrived with their vehicles. I’d seen it before of course, but always from the crowd. This time, all the young girls who had turned seventeen that year were called up on stage. Including me. My heart pounded when my name was called. Emily Sharrow.
Only a few would be chosen. There were far more commons than elites, and the elites had twelve other compounds to visit in this region. And they didn’t have to choose this year, they had a ten-year gap to choose from. Because the elites lived so long, they were also allowed to pick a new partner every ten years. There would be a six month trial period, before a formal ceremony in the capital, and then a ten year partnership. After that, they’d either turn their partners into elite, in an ascension ceremony, keep them on as human mates, or send them back to their families.
I stood on the stage feeling self-conscious. My mother had bought a new dress for me and scrubbed me till my skin glowed. I forced myself to remember that she wasn’t trying to get rid of me. She was just doing what she felt was best for my future. As Chosen, I would live in the City of Lights, in luxury and comfort, and never have to work again. She meanwhile, and my brother and sister, would get special treatment and allocation of resources, which would include moving to a larger house.
I didn’t know what I felt. Nervous, scared, certainly. But part of me allowed myself to be excited… Staying here was easy. It’s what I knew. I loved Trev, like a brother maybe, but so what? We would be happy together. It would be a good life.
But what if I did get chosen? What would that be like? I thought again of Damien, and stood on my tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of his blonde hair.
My rosy daydreams were shattered when I saw Nigel on the side of the platform, huddled with his entourage from yesterday. There were about a dozen elites on the stage, but he stood out, with his slicked back hair and dark eyebrows. Our eyes connected and he leered at me.
My heart pounded in my chest. I gagged as I remembered him forcing himself on top of me.
I would rather die than marry him.
My eyes swept over the elites desperately, looking again for Damien. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Prince Hartmann” the announcer called, looking to his left.
“First choice goes to you.”
I gasped as I watched Damien step forward. He’d been sitting in a chair in the back, that’s why I hadn’t seen him before.
He’s a prince?
He stood, wearing a regal red cape that hung to his knees. I tried to catch his eye, I even gave a slight smile, hoping Trev wouldn’t see it. If he recognized me, he gave no indication. He scanned the line of girls, frowning thoughtfully, but then merely waved his hand and turned his back on us.
My heart dropped into my stomach. I tried to hide my disa
ppointment.
Of course he didn’t want me, I consoled myself. He’s an elite. And, the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. And a prince.
I didn’t want to be chosen anyway.
The announcer called the next elite, a man with a long nose and blue paisley shirt.
This one took more time, examining each girl closely, like he was choosing a cut of beef.
I heaved a sigh of relief as he passed me. I relaxed more and more as each elite examined and discarded us. The crowd began to grumble. It would be insulting to our compound’s honor if none of the girls got chosen this year. The fourth elite, however, chose a girl named Mary and the crowd erupted in cheers. Mary was a nice girl, I’d known her for years but was never very close to her. The elite raised Mary’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. She blushed and smiled, while the crowd hooted and clapped.
There were only a few more to go now. Soon this would all be behind me. I’d go back to my family, I’d marry Trev, and we’d get a house of our own. I saw him down in the crowd, holding Loralie up so she could see the stage. I smiled down at them and gave a little wave.
Then suddenly my view was replaced by a sneer and dark, oily hair. Nigel.
He wasn’t bad looking, of course. None of them were. His features were chiseled and strong—he looked like a Greek god. But when he looked at me, slowly drawing his eyes down my body, I felt sick to my stomach.
I stared at my feet, trying to ignore him, but he reached up and lifted my chin, forcing me to look him in the eyes. He smiled, then brushed his fingers across my lips.
No. Please God, No. I screamed inside my head. My knees were trembling, and I was afraid I was going to pass out and fall off the stage. He saw the effect he had on me and smirked.
“This one,” he called loudly, seizing my hand and holding it up to his lips. Then he leaned in close and whispered into my ear, “I can’t wait to get you to my room and tear you to pieces. Then I’ll heal you and do it again.”
He presented me with a red rose, the symbol of his choice. I was supposed to accept it.
But my body was frozen. My life was over. I considered throwing myself off the stage, wondering whether I could break my neck on impact.
I looked down at my family, my eyes were starting to tear up, and I realized this may be their last impression of me. And if I died now, they’d get nothing. If I was going to kill myself, at least I could do it after the ceremony was finished.
I forced a smile and took the rose.
“I invoke my right to claim,” said a calm, but firm voice from the side. It was Damien.
Right to claim? What the hell?
There were murmurs from the crowd and commotion from the other elites.
“It’s too late for that!” Nigel yelled. “You had your chance—and you passed. She’s mine now and I’ll do whatever I like with her.”
“As Crown Prince I can make a selection of any Chosen at any time, before the partnership is consummated, as long as I have the permission of the Chosen in question.”
“Yes, um… that’s right of course, although I don’t think it’s ever been used,” the announcer said nervously.
“Do you consent?” Damien looked at me with those bright blue eyes that cut right through me. But the kindness was gone. He seemed annoyed at me, even angry.
I compared the two choices in my mind. Damien, who at least seemed blessedly disinterested in me, and Nigel, who seemed intent on causing me pain.
I nodded my head slightly.
“I… I consent.” I said, not entirely sure what I was consenting to.
“Then it’s settled, said the announcer, Nigel… do you wish to choose any of the others?
“No, dammit!” Nigel yelled, flustered.
“This isn’t over,” Nigel whispered in my ear, gripping my arm so tightly I was sure it would leave bruises. Then he shoved passed me.
The remaining elites took their turns choosing, and then the ceremony was over.
I had one last night with my friends and family before I would leave for the capital, to join my mate and my new life.
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—ABOUT THE AUTHOR—
Derek Murphy just finished his Ph.D. in Literature, wrote this book while living in a castle in France for nanowrimo, travels full-time and works from his laptop. If you enjoy urban and dark fantasy, scifi and technothriller, postapocalyptic and dystopian fiction, you’ll love his books.
FANTASY
THE CONFECTIONER’S GUILD
Claire Luana
Chapter One
“Tell me about this cupcake,” a cold voice demanded from the storefront.
Sacha froze at the workbench, her ears perked to listen, the cocoa bean she held in her hand forgotten.
“What would you like to know?” came Master Oldrick’s voice, friendly but with a slight edge.
“Everything.”
Sacha set down her husking knife and cocoa bean on the worktable with the rest of the peeled beans, wiping her hands on her streaked apron. She wanted a look at this customer. She crept to the side of the kitchen and slowly slid open one of the doors leading to the display case in the front room. A wave of cold air hit her as she opened the door, the ice that lined the display case chilling her face as well as the chocolates. It was a blessed respite from the stickiness of the kitchen, where the air hung limp with August’s hot breath.
Master Oldrick was babbling about the cupcake now, clearly unsure of the nature of the man’s interest.
“Technically, cupcakes are the territ’ry of the Baker’s Guild, of course I know this, but I’ve some friends in that guild, and they dunna mind us having a little fun with the cupcakes. You see, it’s the frosting that sets our cupcakes apart. Pure confectional art. You see, the frosting on this one looks so a’like a rose that you’d swear you can smell the fragrance. The ladies love these--we can’t keep them on the shelves. They show them off at tea parties and such.”
Sacha recognized the cupcake as one of hers. Only she could pipe the frosting just right, each petal with a tint of rosy hue on its edge, fading to a pale pink towards the center. Master Oldrick’s arthritis was far too bad for him to perform such delicate work, and the other apprentices, Nestor and Kelsey, were alright for rolling truffle balls and stirring caramel but would never have her steady hand with a piping bag. Each of those cupcakes had taken her a quarter-hour to decorate, scrunched on a stool over the countertop as beads of sweat dribbled down her knees and elbows. That was a damn good cupcake.
Master Oldrick was continuing his detailed exposition of the cupcake’s finer features, discussing the third generation ownership of the flour mill they purchased from, the pure cane sugar imported from Aprica, the fresh cream skimmed off the milk of a cow named Plum, who enjoyed only the finest pastureland below the foothills of Mount Luminis.
The customer held up a hand and Master Oldrick fell silent as quickly a snuffed candle wick.
Sacha narrowed her eyes. Who was this man, and what was his interest in the cupcake?
“I desire to know who made the cupcake,” the man said.
“Ahh,” Master Oldrick said nervously. Technically the master of the shop was supposed to make the saleable merchandise, with apprentices only assisting in the process. But Master Oldrick must have seen something in the man’s face that schooled him against any untruths.
“My apprentice Sacha made it,” he said finally, rubbing his neck with a gnarled hand. His eyes flicked to the far display case, where her face peeked from behind the rows of truffles and chocolate chews.
The man turned and his eyes met hers, steely blue above the high collar of his velvet coat.
“I would like to speak to this Sacha,” he said, his eyes locked on hers.
“Of course,” Master Oldrick said. “I’ll fetch her.”
Sacha stood and sl
ammed the door to the display case shut, her mind whirring. Despite the oppressive heat of the late afternoon, she suddenly felt cold.
Master Oldrick’s hands were shaking as he came into the kitchen.
“What does he want with me?” she hissed. “Who is he?”
“I dunna know,” Master Oldrick said. “But he has a stern way about him. Was there something wrong with the cupcake? Could the ingredients have spoiled?”
“No!” she said, affronted. The quality of her work was her only currency in this world. “I would never let such a thing happen, and you know it.”
“Don’t fret,” he sighed. “You’re the best confectioner who’s ever worked under me, woman or no.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’ll stand by your work. Now get out there, don’t keep the man waiting.”
Sacha smoothed her wavy auburn hair (a hopeless task in the summer heat), and tugged at her stained apron. She marched into the front of the shop, back straight, head held high.
“You asked to see me, sir?” she said, getting her first full look at the customer. He was a tall thin man with a long horsey face, topped with thick black brows that threatened to join as one. He had an impressive shock of black hair, brushed to one side in a fashion that managed to look both windswept and carefully manicured. His long slender fingers held her exquisite cupcake before her, as if he were offering her a rose.
His examination of her was as obvious as her own no doubt had been. But from the slight sneer of his lip, it appeared he found her wanting.
“Did you make this cupcake?” That cold voice again.
She shivered involuntarily. “Yes sir,” she said. “May I ask why you would like to know?”
He ignored her question. “You’ll need to come with me.”
“Excuse me?” she asked, taking a step back.
That Moment When: An Anthology of Young Adult Fiction Page 36