by Sarah Fine
The Mazikin horde slammed her shuddering body to the cobblestones. Ibram stepped back, wearing an amused smile as his demonic brothers and sisters leapt on top of her, tearing her clothes with their teeth and claws. Something cold welled inside her, and it took a few moments to recognize it because she hadn’t felt it in so long: fear. But with every second, it swelled, along with a horrible certainty: she wasn’t going to make it out of this fight. Even if Malachi could get to her, he’d never be able to carry her back to the station in time. Countless Mazikin were on her, crushing her. Teeth ripped into her thigh. Her belly. Her hip. Her arm. Her shoulder. Fingers burrowed into her knife wound, tearing her apart from the inside. She could smell her own blood. She could taste it.
Either she’d die right here or the Mazikin would take her and possess her, and between those two options, the choice was simple. She drew in a stuttering breath and screamed, “Throw, Malachi, throw!” He could end this right now. All he had to do was hurl a grenade. “Do it!”
Ibram waved his arms and the Mazikin dragged her from the ground, blood streaming from her wounds. Ana let her head hang back, taking in the upside down world she was leaving behind. Her Guard partner was running toward her, but there were too many Mazikin for him to fight alone. “Throw, Malachi, now! Don’t let them take me!” And don’t risk yourself.
It had been many, many years since she’d wanted to die again. But there was no other path for her now. “Throw!” she shrieked with the last of her strength. “Please,” she breathed.
Her vision blurred and the darkness broke over her. Her ears rang fiercely, but even so, she heard Malachi’s shout of rage. I’m so sorry, she thought. This isn’t how I wanted it to go.
It was too much to ask of him, really. He wore his control like armor, but his heart was soft, and always had been, no matter how cold and hard he seemed to be. Buried beneath his surface was a longing, a wistfulness he didn’t want anyone to see. Lela had awakened that part of him when she arrived in the city, making him feel more than he wanted to, more than was safe. He’d never wanted to kill, but Ana knew it hurt more now than it ever had, because Lela had made him want something else and made him believe it was possible to have.
And now Ana was asking him to destroy her.
The world split apart with a roar as he complied with her wishes, then all was silence and heat and pain. The ground caught her as the stench of burned flesh suffocated her. She couldn’t open her eyes no matter how hard she tried. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Ana!” shrieked a voice.
Lela. She felt the girl brush up against her side and fought to stay conscious as the pain threatened to drag her under. “Did we get him?” Ana whispered.
“Malachi is fighting him now. It looks like Ibram’s the only one who survived.” Lela had never sounded so scared. It was probably because she was looking down at Ana’s bleeding, charred body.
Ana tried for humor, chuckling wetly. “It’s all right, Lela. I can’t feel a thing.”
“I don’t know how to thank you. Nadia’s all right. I’m all right,” Lela choked out.
“No you’re not,” Ana rasped. “I can hear it in your voice.”
Warm fingers touched Ana’s hand. “I’m going to be fine. I kicked some ass, Ana. You would have been proud.”
“Good girl. Now listen to me. Where’s Malachi?” Ana had never let the words come out, and now she was losing her chance.
“He’ll come as soon as he can.”
Hot, metallic blood gurgled in Ana’s throat, and she coughed. It felt like someone was sitting on her chest. And Malachi was not here, was not coming. So this girl would be her messenger. “You have to tell him. Tell him I loved him. I always have. Tell him he was my true brother. Tell him thank you a thousand times for saving me, for keeping me myself. He was the only one who understood.” It wasn’t half of what she wanted to tell him, but it would have to do.
“I’ll tell him,” Lela replied.
“Thank you. And—I need you to do something else for me.”
“Anything.”
“Make sure he gets out of the city. He deserves to get out of here. He needs it. Please, no matter what it takes, make sure.” Lela was strong. Ana hoped she was strong enough.
Lela squeezed her hand, but her voice came to Ana from a distance. “I will. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Love him, Ana tried to say. Love him enough to let him go. Love him enough to help him make his way to peace. But she couldn’t get the words out. The weight lifted from her chest, and suddenly she was light as air. Her thoughts skimmed over Malachi, wishing him well, letting him go, and turned to Takeshi, just… wishing. Malachi had been her brother, but Takeshi was her only love. His face was her heaven, his arms her sanctuary, his body her shelter, and she clung to all her memories of him, waiting for them to be torn away, knowing that she would soon appear in front of the Suicide Gates to be led back in again.
To start over. Those were the rules. There was no escape.
You can’t make me forget Takeshi, Ana’s thoughts screamed. She would not lose herself again. She would not let the city claim her as its own. She’d fought too long and hard. She would come through the Gates. She would fight her way to the Sanctum. She would not wait another forty years to see him. She would—
Her face smacked against something cold and granite-hard as light blazed on the other side of her closed eyelids. And to her surprise, she found she could open them again. Blinking, she squinted into the harsh, white light, her palms spread across butter-smooth stone. This… was not the Suicide Gates. No shrieking hinges, no shouting Gate Guards, only silence. Slowly, she raised her head, trying to bring the only dark spot in the room into focus.
It was a woman. Earth-brown skin, deeply wrinkled cheeks and crinkling laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She looked like Ana’s grandmother. Except it wasn’t her grandmother, and she knew that by the woman’s pure black eyes, staring at her with curiosity and humor.
“Hello, Ana. It’s good to see you again.” said the Judge, grinning. “Let’s get this hearing started.”
Libertine: A Guard’s Tale from Jim’s Perspective
Chapter One
Jim knew the fun was over even before the splinters of light penetrated his closed eyelids. He’d been pulled from a restless sleep by the damp, chilled sheets. And the smell. He slapped his hand over his eyes. It felt like an axe had been buried in his skull.
From a few feet away, the girl snuffled and snorted in her sleep. What was her name? He dug deep into his hazy memories of the night; at some point after the white powder and before the gin, she’d told him her name.
Carrie, maybe?
Yeah. Carrie. Definitely.
He widened the space between his fingers, allowing himself to adjust to the piercing light. Carrie had thick curtains. She must have paid a lot for them. Either that or she was an excellent thief. But they still didn’t block out all the light of the city. Nothing could.
When the pain in his eyeballs had dropped from agonizing to barely tolerable, he removed his hand from his face and blinked. Last night, this room had seemed like paradise, lush and soft, bright and tempting. He’d wanted to dive into it, wrap his arms around it, devour it and let it devour him. And he had, and it had, but now…
The sheets were stained yellow and brown, and the scent told him he hadn’t been the first to join Carrie here. How had he managed to ignore that last night? Slowly, he rose up on an elbow. By the rusty, rickety bed, a lamp sat on a plastic crate. Carrie was lucky there was only one—he’d been in some rooms where a dozen lamps had gradually accumulated over time, appearing one by one at random moments, their sole purpose to kill the shadows and make it impossible to hide. The bare light bulb sent a blade of pain through his head, but he didn’t bother to reach for a switch to turn it off, because there wasn’t one. He could throw the lamp against the wall or stomp the bulb with his boot—he’d tried both many times—but it would never break. He could t
oss a blanket over it, but the heat would burn straight through the fabric in a second or two. He could hurl it out the window, but another would materialize in the exact same spot instantly—and it would probably bring a friend.
In the Blinding City, there was no escape from the light.
He rubbed his eyes and peeled the musty sheet away from his body, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He gasped as his feet hit the sticky floor. He was reaching for his pants when she spoke.
“You can come back if you bring me more.” She coughed, and he winced as the loose phlegm rattled in her throat.
“Maybe. Thanks.” He shoved his legs into his fatigues.
“Maybe?” The bed creaked as she crawled over and laid her clammy palm on his bare shoulder.
He forced himself not to shudder. “I have a lot to do. I don’t want to make any promises.” If he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to vomit.
“But you said…”
He was sure he’d said a lot. He made lots of promises when he was high. He’d probably said he’d use his status as a city Guard to get her a better apartment, make sure she had good food, make sure she had all the drugs and diamonds she could ever crave. He’d definitely told her she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. He even remembered believing it. On the off chance he’d been right, he turned around to face her.
And couldn’t hide his grimace. The sores around her mouth turned his stomach. They hadn’t been there last night, when her mouth had been all over him, when her lips had been on his… had they? Those circles under her eyes, the dandruff in her hair, the sag in her skin—none of that had been there.
Carrie sat back on her knees, looking a little disappointed herself. “You said you’d come back.” But she looked like she’d lost some of her enthusiasm for it.
He looked down at himself, wondering what she saw, wondering if it was the same thing he saw. He’d been in the Blinding City long enough to know he couldn’t fully trust his own eyes. Maybe his body and face were just one more self-delusion. Whenever he looked in a mirror, he saw the same thing he’d seen reflected back in the streams and lakes of his former home. There were no lines on his face, no marks of age. He wasn’t sure exactly how old he was, though he knew he didn’t look older than eighteen or so. Definitely not old enough to be doing the things he’d done.
“Carrie, like I said, I’ll try.” He turned back around and reached for his shirt.
“It’s Kelly,” she snapped.
“Sorry, Kelly,” he murmured, jamming his feet into his boots. “Take care.” He scrounged his discarded baton from under the bed, wiped it on the sheets, and clipped it to his belt.
He strode through the apartment, keeping his eyes on the door, trying not to notice how run down and decrepit the place looked. Last night, it had been this luxury palace, and he’d been certain this was it: everything he’d been looking for. Everything he’d been missing, everything he wanted. The hunger in his belly, in his chest, in his soul… he’d been seconds away from filling it up completely.
At least, he’d thought so.
Obviously, he’d been wrong.
Again.
He opened the door and walked out into the hall. Looking back was the one temptation he didn’t have to deal with.
He took the stairs, passing by a few folks who had slept where they’d dropped. One guy was hunched in a corner, a bottle still pressed to his lips. Jim scooted by him as quietly as possible—the guy would wake up puking, guaranteed, and Jim didn’t want to bear witness.
As he reached ground level, his own stomach started to churn. But not with sickness. He’d gotten that out of his system sometime in the night. That had been part of the smell in Carrie-Kelly’s apartment. He hoped he hadn’t left too much of a mess for her to clean up. If she ever cleaned that kind of thing up. Most people in the city didn’t. They just covered it with perfume. Jim put a hand to his stomach as it growled. No, he wasn’t sick. He was hungry.
He was always hungry.
He clenched his jaw. He’d be fine, ready to go, if only he could get rid of this hunger.
The neon lights outside pierced through the cracks in the door. The noises from the street reached him, engines, music, voices. All calling, groping, grasping, taking. Devouring.
Everyone in the Blinding City was hungry. Starving, in fact.
He shoved the door open and stepped onto the sidewalk, blinking furiously as the brightness crushed him, split his head open. He clapped his hands over his eyes as several cars raced by, shining and sleek and reflecting the light. Stolen, all of them. Owning a car was a fleeting pleasure at best, because everyone here wanted what everyone else had and would take it at the first opportunity. The wanting was intense—and always better than the actual having, which usually ended up having painful consequences—but it didn’t stop anyone, including Jim. Because maybe the next time, the next high, the next car, the next lay, the next heist… maybe it would be enough. Maybe it would kill the hunger. They were all existing for that possibility.
He rubbed his eyes and began to walk. The sun beat down from its position directly over the city, a fat, cruel ball of fire that had the sweat leaking from his pores within seconds. Not that it would be better when it set. Night brought no relief, because the blazing spotlights perched in rows atop every single building quickly compensated for the sun’s brief absence, aided by millions of streetlamps and neon billboards. Always on. Always flashing and flickering, always blinding.
Before coming to the city, he liked the light. He appreciated the sun. But that was when there had been a dark night to balance it, when there had been a breeze to drive the heat from his skin, when there had been trees to offer some shade.
Now there was no escaping it.
Jim trudged down the sidewalk, almost smiling as the residents of the city stepped aside to give him room. He didn’t think he’d been here very long, but people seemed to recognize him. Or maybe it was just the Guard uniform. And the baton.
With the hunger gnawing a hole through the walls of his stomach, he made his way to the Station, past the enormous, steel-and-mirror apartment buildings, the neon-coated food dens, the whorehouses, the drug pits, the car dealerships, the malls. Block after block of brightly lit luxury and vice.
It made his mouth water.
He paused outside a storefront that glittered with jewels, rubies and sapphires and amethysts, gems as big as plums, dripping from gold dishes and cups, looking almost edible. God, so beautiful. Gorgeous. Before he could stop himself, his palm was against the glass. He ripped it away a second later and stared at his hand, where blood had already started to well from dozens of tiny cuts. He cursed and wiped his hand on his pants, then gave the jewels one last look before turning away.
He had a patrol today, and he needed to get back.
The Station was the plainest building on the block. In this whole section of the city. Squat and ugly, plain brick and windowless. His home. He might not mind it so much, but he remembered a time when he’d slept under stars. He rubbed his chest, shoving the memories away. After all, he’d wanted to leave the forests and fields and meadows, all full of smiling, happy people. He’d been bored. Restless. He’d chosen this place. And it was fine. Here, he could get what he wanted. That was why he’d come.
He opened the main doors in time to let out four of the enormous, inhuman Guards. Each of them was at least nine-feet tall, vaguely bovine in appearance, and clad in heavy armor. The first one to notice him there nodded his giant, bulbous head. His glowing, emerald eyes, just visible beneath his jutting brow, held a gentle humor. “Corporal,” he grunted. “The Captain was looking for you. He was considering sending a patrol to find you.”
“Thanks, Tamim. I’ll find him.”
Tamim let out a rumbling laugh. “Good luck.”
He and the other Guards thumped down the steps, lowering their visors to block out the light. A few people on the sidewalk looked at them enviously, as if wondering if
it was possible to club them to the ground and steal those visors. Some had actually tried, a move of desperation since the helmets were way too heavy for a normal human to wear. You could buy sunglasses at some of the shops along the street, but they melted in your hands as soon as you set foot outside.
Jim wanted to head for the shower room and sponge Carrie from his skin before his patrol, but he figured he should let the Captain know he’d returned. He’d just turned down the long hallway toward the central meeting room when the voice called out from behind him.
“You are two hours late, Corporal.”
Jim pivoted on his heel. A thick-limbed man marched up the corridor toward him, wearing sweat-drenched fatigues. For all the steely gray hair at his temples, Carlos, the Captain of the Guards of the Blinding City, was far from decrepit. He’d kicked Jim’s ass on many an occasion. But he’d taught him a lot, too. And there was something brutally satisfying about using his fists and baton, about the slap and thud of weapons on flesh, about the pain of losing a well-fought battle. It was the only time Jim felt even remotely satisfied, those moments after hitting the mat, when his muscles were screaming and his nose was gushing blood.
Jim jerked to attention and saluted, his movements sharp and precise. He knew better than to be defiant. “Apologies, Captain. I got lost.”
Carlos stepped up close, his nostrils flaring. “Yes. I have some sense of what you got lost in, meu querido amigo.” He stepped back and sighed, crossing his arms over his stocky chest. “You’re only hurting yourself, Jim.”
Jim nearly winced at the pitying tone from the Captain. “Trying to cut back, sir.”
“I’m wondering if you need some time in the Quiet Chamber, to help you shake some of this off.”
Cold sweat prickled on Jim’s upper lip, but he forced a relaxed smile onto his face. If his fear showed, he was guaranteed a trip to the Quiet Chamber. “I think a shower might do the trick, sir.” Dammit, his voice was shaking.