Cage of Glass
Cage of Glass Series Book 1
Genevieve Crownson
Dreamspire Publishing
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
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About the Author
Also by Genevieve Crownson
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For anyone who felt like they never fit in. This one’s for you.
Chapter 1
My entire life had been determined by an intricate eye scan, sealing me into a Pandora’s box of terrifying nightmares.
I was sixteen years old and already knew my place in this world. There were no dreams, no hopes for the future. That die had been cast before my first birthday.
I suppose that is how I found myself with a hollow belly and a terrible thirst as I strolled through the marketplace of W1 Nova, my hometown.
I scanned the crowd. Today’s errand had become routine, but it still left me with sweaty palms and a roaring in my eardrums. Despite the tight knot in my stomach, the raging storm that ripped through my veins spurred me on, empowering me to keep going. I thought of my brothers and sisters, their sunken faces raw with hunger; I couldn’t come home empty-handed.
The government ruling implemented years ago claimed the threads in the eye revealed personality, ideal occupation, and social standing. When born, you were taken from your birth parents to a temporary facility where a scan divulged your appropriate placement in this world. That way, those of like kind would stay together. Apparently, our eyes betrayed us, and my siblings and I found ourselves at the bottom of the fishbowl, scrambling to survive. The so-called windows to the soul left me with only burdens and heartache. I gritted my teeth and squared my shoulders, determined to see this through. Wallowing in self-pity would accomplish nothing.
Standing in the shadows cast by the late day sun, my oversized, green-hooded sweatshirt hid my raven black hair and pale skin. I’d done this so many times before—observing the masses—seeking out the foolish and the rich. And I was always faster and smarter.
I spotted my first victim almost immediately, pushing his way through the crowded square. He was a tall man with a slicked back blonde mop revealing a sharp widow’s peak. He wore a tailored tight-fitting suit you just knew was designed especially for him, and a solid gold ring glinted on his pinky finger. He oozed wealth—a definite oddity in this God forsaken place.
I narrowed in on him, moving silently alongside the periphery of the old brick building. It housed the now non-existent bank, which folded a few years back when cash became an outdated form of currency. The new system used microchips implanted in your hand, much more efficient. At least, that is what the government had assured the people. They told everyone they would never again be caught in a situation where they would be without funds. That is, assuming you had any to begin with.
I gripped the stone cold brick in anticipation, waiting for the perfect moment, receding even further back under the crumbling archway. Nobody would notice me here, and it was the ideal place to scope out the playing field.
As the gentleman grew near, the smell of food from his takeout made my mouth water. I stepped out, enveloping myself in the most congested part of the horde, never taking my eyes off the expensively dressed man. The jostling of warm bodies and the odd bodily smells were familiar, and I granted my muscles permission to relax, as I stepped closer to my target. I opened my palms, letting my arms hang limp, giving the appearance nothing was amiss, and then I brushed by him, just one of many in this pushy throng, and silently lifted a single container from his bag. I allowed the tide of people to take me down toward Main Street, but slowed my steps allowing space between me and my mark. The guy hadn’t spotted me. Not that he ever would. I’d learned to blend in years ago. It was necessary for survival.
As the monied man got further and further away, unaware he was missing half his dinner, I peeked inside the box. Chinese noodles. I forced myself not to steal even one noodle, abruptly closing the container. My siblings needed this first. They were younger.
I continued to wind my way through town, past a lone café and a seedy bar where a few men who couldn’t afford to drink milled around outside. They leered through the window at the patrons who had ample cash credits to purchase their wine and whiskey. Which, to be honest, weren’t many.
I reached the end of the stalls just as the vendors began to close up shop, evening rolling in, their tired shoulders slumped over and weary. Every day was a battle, a hope that that they’d sold enough to keep their families going and would not be cast out into the street. They were so preoccupied they didn’t even notice when I pinched some produce—a couple of apples here, a potato or two there.
It was too easy.
As it turned to dusk, I came to the edge of the main drag of town. It parted into two roads, one leading back home and the other to the nicer side of the borough where the mayor lived in all his finery. My mouth grew metallic just thinking about it. But my mind never left the game, remaining hidden in the now dwindling group of people.
It only took a few more paces to find myself at the entrance of the local grocer that stood smack in the middle of the fork in the road. It was a government owned building run by a man named Harold. He was an easy target; always too busy flirting with Amara, the pretty checkout girl, to notice anything. He never even realized I was inside his shop; I was that quick. Grabbing a small box of chocolates, a loaf of bread and medicine, I slipped past them like a whisper on the wind and grinned, proud of my haul. My siblings would have plenty to eat tonight.
Laden down with as much as I could carry, I headed home, my pockets bulging with my prizes. To comfort myself, and keep my attention off my numb toes in my threadbare shoes, I counted the number of trees I passed, the way I often did. It kept my thoughts from going haywire with worry about everything else going on in my life.
The aroma of the fresh bread I’d hidden under my hoodie made my stomach growl. Instead of caving to my hunger, I grabbed some semi-clean snow from a low hanging branch and stuffed it in my mouth, to attempt to appease my aching belly.
But it only drove my teeth to chatter.
I picked up the pace, noting the sun setting over the horizon. If I was out after dark, I would get mugged. Or maybe something worse.
Poverty and hunger brought out the worst in people.
It was my job to keep my family safe. Nothing could happen to me. Their lives depended on it.
Chapter 2
Despite the moon rising in the night sky and the shadows
edging their way in, I decided to take the risk and stop in at Mrs. Peters’. She was one of the oldest people living in Nova, since most here died long before old age set in—usually much too young, claimed by sickness or starvation.
But Mrs. Peters was sick, barely surviving in fact, due to a heart condition. To make things worse, her medicine was ridiculously expensive. I’d known Mrs. Peters my whole life, and she’d always showed me kindness. That’s why I didn’t think twice about stealing a few doses of her meds while in town—enough to last until next week. I was all she had. Her only living relative had died in a smallpox epidemic the previous winter.
I knocked on the door. One. Two. Three. Four. It was an even number. I couldn’t stand an uneven sum of knocks. I waited a beat, then heard the slow familiar shuffle of Mrs. Peter’s worn slippers as she made her way across the rough stone floor.
“Who’s there?” A tired old voice croaked from the other side of the battered door.
“It’s only me, Mrs. Peters. Luna? From down the road?”
The bolt released, and there she stood, draped in a threadbare gown, her hair hanging damp and limp around her now sallow face. Her green eyes were alert today, much less cloudy than yesterday; I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I brought you more medicine. This should last you for a little while.”
She took the bottle of pills from my outstretched hand and ushered me in. “Thank you, my dear. You’re too good to me. Now come in out of the cold, child. You’ll catch your death.”
I stepped inside, pushing my hoodie down off my head, but soon realized I’d acted too hastily, the place wasn’t much warmer than outside. The little house reeked of rotting wet wood, and mold clung to the thin timbered walls. I worried how that would affect her health. The freezing floor penetrated through my threadbare shoes to the soles of my feet, and I shivered. I crossed the sparse but clean living room and bent over to poke the flames dwindling in the hearth. “It sure is cold in here, Mrs. Peters.”
“I told you to call me Dara,” she said irritably.
I hid a grin, my back still turned to the fire. Glad to see she hadn’t lost her snarky spirit. “Sorry, Dara. Force of habit. I’ve called you that so long, it’s kind of stuck in my brain.” I picked a log from the basket and tossed it into the flames, making a mental note to cut her more wood tomorrow. She barely had enough to get her through the night.
Mrs. Peters tsk tsk’d under her breath and shuffled to the kitchen which only occupied a small corner of her one-room living space. Her mattress, in the opposite recess, lay rumpled and unmade. “We’ve been through too much together to have you calling me Mrs. Peters. Makes me sound like an old schoolmarm.”
Satisfied with the now blazing fire, I turned to adjust her bed, ignoring her slew of complaints. Mrs. Peters always made a mountain out of a molehill. But I loved her just the same.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing Luna?” she warned.
“Helping you tidy up a bit.”
“Lord knows your Mama has you doing enough of that. Come sit at the table and have some soup; you’re probably run through with cold.”
“No, Dara, I don’t—”
“Sit!”
I dropped the tattered sheets mid-tuck and obeyed, not wanting to upset her. The truth was, Mrs. Peters didn’t have enough food for herself, let alone me. I didn’t want to take it from her. Still, I risked her wrath once more, and gave the bed one last smooth down with my hand, unable to stand the mussed quilting.
“I managed to get some bread today; let me share it with you, Dara,” I said, distracting her.
Mrs. Peters shook her head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I’m not taking sustenance from your young babes’ mouths. I know that’s for your siblings. Now sit down while it’s hot.” She fussed, agitated as she ladled the steaming liquid into cracked earthenware bowls—two of the few dishes in the little shack.
I sank down on the floor beside an archaic wood crate she used for a table. She set the soup in front of me and I inhaled its fragrance. It didn’t smell like much of anything, except maybe dirty old socks. I waited for Dara to ease herself down and then straightened the dish so it lined up with the edge of the makeshift table, burning myself on the bowl in the process. I quickly put my thumb to my mouth to cool the stinging and to stop myself from cursing in Mrs. Peters’ presence.
I picked up the chipped wooden spoon and dipped it into the hot broth. There wasn’t much to this soup. I plucked out the lone carrot from the thin greyish liquid and brought it to my lips. The water had some flavor, a sort of feeble chicken taste. I couldn’t complain; it filled a small void, and I could pretend I was full. Besides, it was more palatable than snow. I devoured the meager offering, ignoring the permanent stomach rumbles inside me.
Satisfied I was eating, Mrs. Peters started in on her own meal. After only one bite she dropped her spoon in disgust and scowled. “You can’t call this soup, Luna. I’m sorry I even made you eat it. To tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to my death; I hope to forget this place.”
I put a hand over hers. It felt cold as ice. “It’s perfectly fine Mrs. Peters. It stops the ache a little. And you shouldn’t talk like that. Don’t give in to them; that’s what they want. We have to be strong.”
Dara wiped her tears with a shaking finger. “It’s just not good enough. Ever since that rebel leader Roy Ball Red came into power no one has cared about our agriculture. How are we going to survive if we can’t even grow food in this God-forsaken place? His keep what you kill motto is meaningless. All it will do is straight up kill us. Literally.”
“I know. But what can we do, Dara? Our lives were mapped out for us before we even spoke our first words. Sometimes, I wish I could just rip my eyes out and replace them with ones that wouldn’t leave me and my family with such empty bellies. But since that isn’t an option, we do what we can.”
Mrs. Peters snorted. “It’s all a farce. I remember Roy Ball Red said he would free our society. But in reality, we’ve gone back to the old Viking motto. Be fearless or be conquered. It doesn’t help the poor and downtrodden.” She paused, her tired green eyes looking kindly at me. “You’re fearless, Luna. That’s how I know you’ll be okay. Just don’t let them take you, all right?” she whispered.
I was startled by Dara’s quick turn from outrage to concern for me—worried she might be going a bit senile. That was the third warning she’d given me about someone taking me in a matter of days. But what information could Dara possibly obtain in her remote corner of the world? She rarely left her house now. Perhaps it was only her fears affecting her good sense. God knows this place was full of everyone’s trepidation.
“Of course I won’t, Dara. I’ll always be here for you and make sure you’re okay.” I knotted my hands together so tightly my knuckles turned white. My blood boiled in anger over all the innocent souls suffering. People like Dara deserved the best care, not to be cast off to die. Hell, we all deserved better. How dare they decide based on our eyes who we should be and how we should be treated?
Mrs. Peters, blind to my inner turmoil, smiled and picked up her spoon again as if satisfied. “Good, I’m glad you agree. I can feel better about going when it’s my time, knowing you can take care of yourself. Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that Dara?”
“Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll always seek the truth. Nothing is as it seems, Luna. Remember that.”
Puzzled and not knowing what else to say, I replied, “I promise.”
Mrs. Peters gave me a nod, and I pushed my empty bowl aside, her ominous words hanging in the air between us.
Chapter 3
By the time I left Dara’s, the menacing shadows of the evening had turned into a blanket of darkness. The acrid odor of burning fires in the shacks I passed on the way home filled my nostrils, and I coughed as the hazy smoke traveled down to my lungs.
There had been no electricity in this neighborhood for over ten years,
leaving the run-down town without light, save for a few candles glowing in the windows. So when I turned the corner to my street and saw my home lit up like a Christmas tree, my heart leapt in my throat.
Something was wrong.
My hunger pangs were instantly replaced with acid bile. Every hair on my body pricked up. I picked up the pace and rushed the few yards home.
We’d lived here as long as I could remember. Mama complained incessantly about our old run-down cottage, but in truth, it was the only home I’d ever known.
It was bigger than Mrs. Peters’ place—we actually had a couple of rooms—but it was drafty and cold. And no matter how much you cleaned up—the dirt and the dust always found its way back in through the broken slats. I pushed hard against the warped door. It required an exact amount of pressure to open due to the swelling wood.
As I passed through the entryway, I grabbed a burning candle sitting on the sideboard and crossed the misshapen floorboards to follow the bright light permeating from the living room. I discovered all five of my siblings huddled together on the rickety couch. Their faces, reflected in the soft glow of the lantern, looked pale and drawn, their eyes big as saucers. I made a mental note to steal more food next trip to town; they obviously weren’t eating enough.
Cage of Glass (Cage of Glass Trilogy Book 1) Page 1