The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  I heaved meat and pelts on my back. I descended rock and ice. I did it all.

  And I shared every bit of what I caught.

  With my pa. With my village.

  I imagined their full bellies and their comfort of being filled to the brim. Even the ungrateful snot-nosed goats in my village, I even fed them.

  I—Mykal Kickfall, the little no-good Babe—provided for a village. I had purpose when I was told I had none. Babes, we take up space. We eat your food. We drink your drink. And then we die.

  Not me.

  I had reason to live.

  That pride, I thought maybe, just maybe, it’d fill me up again today. Just this once.

  How wrong I’d been.

  Bills stuffed in my pockets, I exit a ritzy seven-story building, windows shrouded by red velvet fabrics. I refuse to glance back at the painted orange sign bolted to the brick. Spelling out luxury and lounge. I barely even register a silky voice as the door slams behind me.

  One that says “Good day.”

  Dazedly, my boots begin crunching the snow along the cobblestone. I pass every fancy shop and the bundled and finely clothed bodies of ladies and men. They pay more attention to me than I do of them, sidestepping around my broad frame, wary of bumping my shoulder.

  I rarely travel this far into the city.

  The taxing journey would dissuade most everyone, as it takes two hours to hike from the outskirts of Bartholo to city-center. It also calls for breaks at warming outposts every so often where casia burns. Compared to where I’ve lived, this is only a bit of ice and a bit of snow.

  So I never break.

  I hardly trek this far because I start longing for home.

  I prefer the torches that light the night to the wires strung across each narrow road, brightening apartments and shops and streetlamps. I prefer traipsing in ankle-deep snow to the exhaust that gurgles from car to car.

  The city is made of cobblestone and gold, but if asked, I’d give up nearly anything for a sole tree from the winter wood. And I wouldn’t be begging to return to Grenpale. I wouldn’t be dropping to my knees and pleading for the Free Lands.

  I’ll be planting that tree in city-center where Court would want to be. And it’s all I need.

  Just one lonesome tree.

  I distance myself from the city buildings that tear into lilac clouds. Farther and farther away, perfume still scalds my eyes and I taste the sugary, nauseating scent on my tongue.

  I roughly wipe my mouth on my arm, licking my muskox skins. My vision only blurs more. I try to blink away whatever burns, but I can’t rid this sense.

  I just walk. Faster.

  Wind kicks up with my pace and bites my exposed cheeks. I lift my fur hood and find myself taking the long route to my flat. I go ’round busy streets. I go ’round the honking cars. I go ’round all the noise.

  And I wonder if I’ll ever be feeling even a bit of what I did in Grenpale. When I became Winter Warrior.

  What if I never do?

  I only slow at the sight of an abandoned bridge. Iron lattice frames the giant relic. Covered poorly—it was meant for a train to ride on top and cars on bottom. Snow slips through the wooden pallets of the ceiling. And the brick foundation lies unevenly.

  Court said the bridge meant to connect Bartholo to Yamafort and Yamafort to Bartholo. Over the years, no one maintained the damned structure. With focus on agriculture after the freeze, it slowly and surely began to crumble.

  I walk onto the bridge. Wind screeching as it whizzes between the lattice. I scuff up debris and snow with my boot and stare off, clusters of brick buildings in the horizon.

  I tug at my collar. Choked. By this city. By these people. By this damned world. I stop beneath an arched beam and I overturn enough snow to spot the faint yellow line on concrete.

  I sense him.

  Behind me.

  Truth being, I spent the past hour or so concentrating solely on me. Just to desert Court and Franny’s emotions. Whatever they may be.

  His footsteps pound the snow forcefully. I nearly feel the impact beneath my own soles. Not far from me, his boots come to a halt.

  Don’t go sensing him now, Mykal.

  It takes me a long moment. A long, quiet second. To do anything but stand motionless. Then I finally peek over my shoulder. To see him. Instead of just feeling.

  Gusts of wind unsettle his dark brown hair, coat collar high to block it. But he pays no mind to the chill. He just stares firmly. And long. Not wavering. I can’t recall the last time Court ever did.

  “What’d you do, Mykal?” His voice shakes with ire. Pumping into me with each heavy heartbeat.

  I turn fully. To face him.

  The tension condenses too much to push forward.

  “I fixed our problem.” I slip my gloved hand into my pocket and then flash my thick clipped set of bills. Worth more than anything I’ve ever held. I force some kind of smile and say, “Got us a bit extra too.”

  Court grinds his teeth. He steps forward, closing the gap to an arm’s length away. His chin tries to tremble; his gray eyes try to well. He fights it all—I see him screaming at his emotions to just cease.

  I sense it because it’s inside of me.

  “At what cost?” he nearly yells.

  I rigidly return the bills to my pocket. “Nothin’ I can’t live with.” His anger lances me. Ripples through my chest. I let out a slow breath.

  “You didn’t need to do this!” He expels hot air from his nose. “We could have found another way. Any way. Anything but this.”

  I laugh into a pained choke. “Be happy for me, would you? I’ve done something good here.” I need him to be proud of what I’ve done. If I can’t feel it for myself … Please feel it for me.

  He stares off, shaking his head. “Happy?” His features twist in hurt. “Before now, you’ve only been kissed once.”

  By him.

  In my hut within the winter wood. Our lips met for a short moment. Practically smiling against his mouth. But the kiss, our closeness, heightened the link.

  As we parted, I felt the faintest breath leave my lips. His breath. But I wasn’t sure. Maybe, possibly, it was mine.

  I couldn’t make sense of who swallowed—was that me or him? Was my stomach churning or was that really his?

  I was afraid. Of the confusion, of not knowing if my hunger belonged to him or me. Of our linked senses that overpowered everything. We predicted that if we kept kissing, the link wouldn’t ever be faint. It’d forever stay at a heightened peak.

  And so we agreed to never kiss again.

  Court gestures to me. “And you want me to feel happy for selling your second kiss and whatever firsts that went along with it? How can I be happy knowing you hated every second?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I felt you!” he screams, blood rushing to his face. “I felt you, Mykal!” I stare up at the snowfall through the wooden slats while his eyes puncture me cold. “It was one girl. Rich, by the jewelry on her neck, and she wanted you—”

  “Yeah, she wanted me,” I spit back. “For a lot more than you ever thought I’d be worth.” His wrath stings, but I keep going. “Seventeen thousand bills, Court. I did it. Me.” I wipe an angry tear before it falls. “They pay high for first-timers. So go ahead. Keep yammering on about my firsts.”

  If I were crueler, I’d mention how I only thought of the luxury lounge because of him. When he mentioned the place during our fancy Influential dinner with Franny.

  Court silently fumes.

  I point at him. “Don’t act like I’m the boy here, Court. I’m older than you. I’m tougher than you. While you were reading your damned books, I wore the skull of a wolf and speared beasts fiercer and moodier than you.”

  His hurt knots his brows. “You truly believe that I think your virginity makes you naïve and weak? I couldn’t care less!!” He breathes heavily before asking, “Is that why you did this?”

  “No,” I growl through my teeth.

 
Meeting Court two years ago, the solitary life I built changed in an instant—and I thought less about returning to loneliness and I started thinking more about who I’d love and kiss and go to bed with.

  For me, love always came first.

  Still he slings it at my face when I did him a favor, and his glare rips through me. The words behind his eyes are clear: How could you do this?

  Just to spite him, I sneer, “It’s not like you can wait for me. So what do you care?”

  Something stirs in Court. Something he stomps down and my stomach coils—but beneath the intensity, I sense the grind of his teeth. The scrunch of his dark brows.

  The prick of jealousy.

  “I’m not barring you from kissing…” His voice staggers. “Or bedding other people. If that’s what pleases you, then do it.” His throat is nearly swollen closed. Tears brim and he curses, raking the heel of his palm across his eyes to rid them. And he says slowly, as though to convince himself, “I’m upset because you weren’t pleased.”

  “Ignore it then.”

  “I can’t!” he screams.

  His animosity surges into my bones and I growl coarsely until my throat sears. I tug at my hair, claw at my clothes, frustration like a beast on my back.

  “Be gone, will you?!” I yell, spite dripping from my words. “No part of me needs you!”

  I hate this link.

  “Leave me!” I scream.

  His reddened eyes burn hot. And he nears … his fingers on my coat, he brings my chest to his chest.

  Court holds me tight. His hand to the back of my head. “I need you,” he whispers. His rare compassion pours through my veins.

  I go still with him. His hurt is my hurt and my hurt is his hurt. There’s no way around that, and in this silent moment, we both concede.

  Water slips out of my eye, freezing my lashes. I feel the same happening to him, and in our embrace, I’m not sure who’s the true source. Him or me. It could scare me. Usually it does, but for now, I sink into everything but fear.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathes against my cheek. Snow flutters onto his hair and mine. “I’m sorry you had to do that and I will never forget that it was for us. That you made it possible for us to leave.”

  Another tear crystallizes beneath my eye.

  He ends with a very soft “Thank you.”

  His words mean more to me than anyone else’s.

  TWELVE

  Mykal

  Never been much of a liar, so I’ll be saying it straight. If someone tells me flatly to “wait outside”—with no instruction to stalk prey, not even to snare a feeble hare; just wait for them—I struggle to listen.

  After a long while, I stop pacing. I just stand outside an ugly, brass-hinged door in the ugliest part of Bartholo’s city-center. It’s all right—I’m used to ugly.

  Grimy canvas tents canopy the wide street called Graywater Crossing. Whoever thought to construct a black market in plain sight had some pluck. But no Altia Patrol bothers the buyers and sellers here.

  They let them be. Even when the outdoor booths carry strange objects: pelts I’ve never seen, vials of bubbling fluid in every hue, and weapons of all kinds.

  People chatter earsplittingly loud. Animals squeal violently. And noises funnel in the street and echo off crumbling brick shops.

  Not to mention, it stinks.

  I put a cigarette between my lips. Next to me, Franny waits more patiently. Bundled in her black furs. My green wool coat with muskox sleeves warms me, and with both of our hoods drawn, I eye that ugly door.

  Hurry up, Court.

  Cupping a hand around my mouth, I light the cigarette and suck deeply. Embers eat the paper. I half expect Franny to hack up a lung at the sensation. Since she’s been linked to us, I’ve smoked only twice, but not while she stood this close.

  She never balks or flinches or shoots me an indignant look.

  I blow gray smoke upward and then I study her heart-shaped face and toughly set jaw. Like she’d bare her fists if you neared her wrong.

  Franny has some spirit about her. Blazing. Constant faint smiles peeking in the corner of her scowls. While I know only bits and pieces about city Fast-Trackers, she’s more uncommon to me than she is “common” to Court.

  Reaching out, I pass her my lit cigarette, certain now that she’s smoked before. Franny accepts my offer and takes a short drag. Smoke slips down her throat as casually as it glides along mine.

  When she hands the cigarette back, I ask, “So Court taught you about telephones and hologrammies—or whatever the three hells they’re called.” Yesterday, I lugged in wood and overheard her history lessons.

  Since the luxury lounge a week ago, I’ve tried to keep busy by hunting alone, but in doing so, I’ve had no time to speak to Franny without Court in earshot.

  Out of respect, it seems, she’s kept quiet. Lately I’ve missed our talks about sewer rats and mountain goats and how life is as amusing as it is cruel.

  “Telephones,” Franny muses, that little smile emerging from her perpetual scowl. She rolls her head toward me. “I asked Court if telephones were sorcery. He said people could talk from countries away without the use of paper and pen. What else should I’ve thought?”

  “He rolled his eyes at you,” I assume, my lips rising.

  She nods. “He rolled his eyes at me.” Deepening her voice, she mimics Court, “‘Sorcery has never been real, Franny.’”

  I choke on my laughter, cigarette hanging from my mouth. “Heya, I once told him that Grenpalish call lifelong devotees of the gods sorcerers—I thought his eyes would permanently stick to the back of his head.”

  Franny pulls her hood closer to her reddened cheeks. “We call them mystics here.” Her little smile vanishes and she stares off with a heavier frown. “My mother said most old rituals have been lost in time. Mystics would sacrifice cattle at dawn and shake bones for foresight.”

  My mouth stays shut, not wanting to deepen her longing, but Grenpalish haven’t abandoned those practices. Before every hunt, I visited my village sanctuary as a boy. Knelt by a sorcerer, he or she streaked goat’s blood beneath my eyes, chanted incoherently and smacked my forehead with fervor.

  Boldness invigorated my spirit, as though the God of Victory kissed my cold skin.

  “All lost in time…,” Franny ponders further. “Just like telephones, I guess.”

  “Telephones,” I mumble, glad they don’t exist anymore. I remember what Court once said. After the Great Freeze of 2501, Influentials halted studies of technology to pursue agriculture. Food was scarce. Telephones were forgotten and now what’s left—bulky televisions and cameras—exist only in major cities where electricity prospers.

  I think about StarDust. The most technologically advanced place, supposedly. And then space travel, which seems downright impossible to me. I realize wherever we go, it’ll be more suited for Court and Franny than it’ll ever be suited for me.

  Sucking the cigarette deeper, my throat tickles.

  Dammit.

  I cough into my arm the same time a hoarse one leaves Franny’s lips. Beyond that door, Court must be dry heaving, the smoke finally irritating his lungs. I can’t quit everything that ruffles him or her. I’ve already given up enough.

  Facing me, Franny straightens off the brick siding. “About the bills—”

  “I don’t wanna talk about how I got them.” The luxury lounge is behind me and I’ll never be selling my body for bills again. Next time I bed someone, I’ll be enjoying every bit of it.

  Franny says, “But I plan to pay you back for my share—”

  “What?” My cigarette falls out of my limp fingers.

  “I owe you—”

  “Nothing,” I interject again and edge near. My thick-soled boots knock into her high-laced ones. She raises her chin, and even though I tower above, her sweltering spirit equalizes us. “You owe me nothing, Franny Bluecastle. What I did was for all three of us and you needn’t repay me one bit.”

  Franny open
s her mouth to protest.

  Whack.

  We flinch at the sound of a cleaver, two booths away. A shrill scream rings afterward. Wild boar, I distinguish easily enough.

  A drunkard stumbles down the snowy road and bumps into a basket of mittens. The seller hollers and wastes no time clasping a nearby bucket. She dumps its contents, and yellow liquid sloshes onto him. Drenching his dark hair and lanky body.

  The rancid stench floods my nostrils and Franny’s.

  Not recoiling, we simply watch the man stagger toward a dumpster and collapse ass-down.

  In our brief, shared silence, the door creaks open.

  Our stances straighten, but as soon as Court slips outside, he stands taller and graver, his dark mood storming overhead. If the news were good, he’d still carry the same weight on his shoulders.

  The three of us huddle close, no one able to overhear us.

  “And?” Franny asks him.

  Court lowers his voice. “And to tattoo over our designs”—he gestures between his chest and hers—“he wanted a toe. From us both.”

  I growl a curse between gritted teeth and go to charge into the back-alley tattoo shop, but Court clamps a forceful hand on my shoulder. I swing back around. “You’re not giving him your damned toe,” I snarl.

  Franny’s brows scrunch. “What does he want with a toe?”

  “Who in the three hells cares, no one is giving him a toe!” Veins protrude in my neck. “Court.”

  Court raises his hand for me to quiet, cautiously glancing around. But I’m making no more noise than the squealing hogs.

  “Court,” I growl his name again. “I’ll be drawing on you myself; don’t tempt me.” Give me a damned needle piece and some ink. I can fix this before they each lose a toe.

  He raises his black collar higher up his neck. “Calm down, the both of you.”

  Bitter, Franny says, “I am calm, thank you for noticing.”

  “I’m not.” I run my tongue over my teeth, distaste eating me up. “You can’t ask me to be calm when—”

  “I have a plan,” Court interjects.

  I shift my weight. “So you convinced him to take something else then?”

  “No.” Court stares grimly at me. “I couldn’t convince him of anything less than two toes.”