The Raging Ones

by Krista Ritchie

  Head raised, I swear crudely at the gods.

  Franny glares. “That’ll bring us worse luck.”

  “What can be worse?” I extend my arms, ready for the gods to smite me. No Influentials have cold-blooded creatures tattooed on their bodies. Court has said so every day for the past month.

  “Dying,” Franny hisses under her breath. “Dying is worse and I’m out of my mind for even thinking it.”

  “We’re not dying today,” Court snaps.

  Franny marches over his curt tone. Though both often bite at each other. Harmless, like little pups fighting to leap ahead in deep snow. “Then what’s your plan, Court?”

  “Yeh—Yeah,” I correct quickly. “What’s this plan, Court?”

  Court is quiet, his haunted gaze upon ours. “I need you two. Badly. It can’t work without you, Franny, and you, Mykal. I can’t do everything by myself—I just can’t.” At first glance, most people mistake Court’s poise and dominance for arrogance.

  But he’ll be the first to tell you he’s not good enough.

  And I’ll be the first to remind him that he is.

  Franny asks, “What do you need from me?”

  “How much is Juggernaut?” Court whispers.

  “Jugger-what?” I swing my head between them.

  “It depends how much you want to buy,” she says, both of them tuning out my bewilderment. Juggernaut. Sounds like a strange sort of animal.

  “Enough to knock out a boy the size of Mykal.”

  My jaw tenses. “What’s this about?” No one is knocking me out.

  “Four pills, maybe.” Franny skims the length of my sturdy build. “Five could be better.”

  Gods bless. “Heya.” I point between them. “Someone best be telling me what the hells this Jugger-business is.”

  “Drugs,” Court says flatly, his gaze boring into Franny’s.

  Hers just as daggered on his. “Remember how Court called me common?”

  Pleasure-seekers, I recall one of the attributes. Common Fast-Trackers do drugs, then. I don’t understand these kinds of recreational pills, but if it’s of use now, I’m glad for her knowledge.

  “You are common,” Court says without breaking hold of her pierced gaze. “If you find the truth insulting, that’s your problem.”

  Franny boils. “I only find it insulting because you see it as something to be ashamed of.”

  He groans shortly. “I never said that.”

  “It irritates you,” she points out. “I feel it.”

  As do I, but this back-and-forth is no use to us. “All right you two—”

  “I’m irritated,” Court cuts me off, “because I’d rather be linked to an Influential than to you. It’d be easier. Just as it’d be easier if we were all never linked.”

  “Fine,” she forces out the word. “I’ll buy us the Juggernaut because I’m common.” She flattens her palm to me. “Just thirty bills.”

  I fish out bills from my pocket and do a poor job of counting. Franny helps, more used to handling money. “So you mean to drug him?” I ask Court before Franny leaves our sides.

  “Not me.” Court pauses. “You have to do it, Mykal. Just before he’s finished with our tattoos, put the smashed pills into his ale. And don’t let him see you.”

  * * *

  Inside the nearly empty, damp room, I grunt at the sight of the Fast-Tracker tattooist. His thick fingers rummage through a tin box.

  Franny squats beside him, sterilizing the needle pieces with my makeshift lighter.

  As soon as Franny bought Juggernaut, we slipped through the ugly door and the tattooist said, “You want the needles clean, you do the work.”

  Court argued with the boy, but Franny went ahead and started disinfecting the metal. “It’s easier to just do it ourselves than complain about it,” Franny told Court, which shut him up.

  A boy the size of Mykal, I remember Court’s description of the Fast-Tracker, and so I examine him up and down.

  A boy the size of Mykal.

  He’s no older than nineteen years, his unnatural vibrant red hair hangs ratty around his surly face. Sideburns extend oddly to his wide jawline.

  To Court, I mumble lowly, “We’re nothing alike, him and me.”

  Standing close, my friend unbuckles his belt, his coat and shirt already shed and tucked beneath my arm. “You’re the same height,” Court rebuts, our talk quiet enough for only us to hear, “and you have his brawn.”

  I grunt again. “He has my brawn.”

  Court’s lip twitches, wishing to rise, but he still hasn’t smiled in a long while.

  Facing him, I point at his bare chest. “I’m more chiseled. Tell the story right or not at all.”

  Court whips his belt off and meticulously coils the leather. “Then I’ll leave the storytelling to you.”

  “And what will you be doing?” I question as he passes me the belt. “Standing there and looking pretty?” Anyone with eyes can see that Court is the kind of refined handsome made for paintings and portraits. Too striking to be forgotten. Too stunning to be anything but immortalized.

  Leaning strictly toward me, he breathes, “In what world is this pretty?” I follow his stern eyes that graze the gnarled scars above his heart and down his abdomen.

  “My world,” I say easily. “In my world, you’re still rightfully beautiful, but don’t let it swell your head.” He rolls his eyes. Predictable. I continue, “You’re already sullen enough, can’t have you cocky too.” I tap his cheek twice.

  Where Franny would smack my hand away, Court stays unmoving. Like nothing transpired. Then he unbuttons his slacks and tugs them to his ankles. “You and your naïve fantasies.”

  “You and your wretched realities,” I combat with a crooked smile.

  He shoves his slacks to my chest—and pauses for a strained moment, not letting go of the fabric. I hold on too, our gloved fingers tangled, and the heavy beat of his heart drums inside of mine.

  The same instant as him, I flinch—my forefinger burning for no reason. Metal clatters to the floorboards.

  Our heads swing to that tin box. Needle piece and lighter dropped, Franny winces and sucks her scalding finger. She stays crouched, narrowed eyes flitting once to us, and then spouts “Mayday” at the lighter.

  Court grimaces.

  “Let her be. We’re in a black market, no one gives two shits what we say here,” I tell him, watching as she determinedly picks up the needle piece again. She must’ve taken off her gloves to protect the pricey garment over her own skin.

  Court’s stringent body tenses my shoulders. Left in black underwear, he folds the fabric higher, revealing an array of abstract tattoos with dragonflies inked on each thigh.

  “I sensed her before, Mykal,” he suddenly says beneath his breath.

  I cock my head. “Is that supposed to surprise me?” We can’t shut off our link.

  “Before the lighter.” He swallows hard, his irritations gripping his muscles and neck. Taller than I, he drops his head a fraction. “Outside, she bought seven pills but only gave you five. Then she kept two in her coat pocket.”

  I remember that exchange and feeling the extra pills in her soft palm. I didn’t think much of it, but maybe I should’ve. “And you’re worried about what exactly?”

  “She was excited by the drug. Her heart flipped with glee.”

  “So?”

  He stands sternly. “She’s impulsive.”

  “She’s spirited,” I counter. “Look, Court, she may react hastily but she’s here with us. If you want to know whether she’s the sort of person who needs these pills like I need to hunt, then ask.”

  “It’s not like when you hunt,” he whispers. “If she takes Juggernaut, we’ll feel the effects like we’ve taken the drug.”

  “Then remind her of that. But in a semi-decent way. Don’t go about it like an ass.”

  His nose flares, restraining deeper feelings. “I am an ass. So you should be the one to ask Franny.” He’s about to step aroun
d me, but I catch his shoulder.

  He doesn’t turn. So I edge closer to his back, my lips behind his ear.

  “Be afraid of people all you like, Court, but you have no reason to fear her.” The more he shuts down on Franny, the more he drives a glacier between us all.

  Court rotates his head, enough that our cheeks brush. “I’m not scared.” He’s frozen stone. “You can add ‘understanding my emotions’ to the never-ending list of things you’re horrific at.”

  My jaw tics, my gaze growing coarse. So he wishes to push me away now? That’s his mighty fine plan? “Insult me again, Court. You don’t care what anyone thinks about you, so go ahead, do it again.”

  He can’t even look me in the eyes as he says, “You’re just a brute.”

  I growl in his ear, “And for someone so smart, you act so dumb.” I throw his neatly folded clothes at his boots and leave his side.

  His stomach twists while mine inflames.

  Franny rises as I approach her, needles cleaned. “Should I even ask?” Her gaze darts between us, our bodies taut and enraged.

  “I have a short temper.” I eye the Fast-Tracker who finishes sorting through his ink. “Court knows how to set me off.” This is what he wished. I’d like to stop feeding into his hand, but I’d also like to stay mad.

  Air thin, Court stands in the middle of the room alone. I feel badly not being by his side, but not badly enough to douse my anger. Ribs constricted, he contains hot breath in his lungs.

  Usually I try to sigh away his discomfort. Even if my sighing just agitates him further. But instead of sighing, I find myself growling.

  Franny rubs her collarbone, not sparing her glares toward us. “I hate when you two fight.”

  I don’t recall the origin of our last feud, but with StarDust enrollment looming, our fuses have been cut plenty short.

  “As do I,” I mutter. While the tattooist nears Court, I concentrate on the one person here I don’t trust.

  The tattooist inspects my friend’s height. His little chuckle at Court’s inked thighs hoists my loathing.

  Observant beside me, Franny crosses her arms, scowl returned.

  I reach into my wool coat for my serrated hunting knife, a mountain peak discreetly etched in the rosy hilt. Grenpale’s emblem.

  “Maaaydaaay,” the Fast-Tracker whistles. “Someone did you bad.” He waves to Court’s scars, the ones snarled with the inked snake. Right over his heart.

  We all go rigid. I don’t bother trying to discern whose joints locked first.

  “Heya.” I aim the tip of my blade at the Fast-Tracker’s thick neck, my threat clear. “You be careful with him.”

  He smirks at my knife. Then at me. As though no fatal harm can reach him.

  Right. We’re the only ones afraid of death. In the entire damned world.

  “Why do you care if I hurt him?” the tattooist asks, casually strolling around my friend.

  “No questions,” Court interjects, voice crisp. “That was the deal.”

  After the Fast-Tracker finishes assessing Court’s tattoos, he picks up the clean needle and black ink. “I can make the crocodile on your back into a botched-looking snow leopard.”

  Court nods. “Fine.”

  “You said you wanted all warm-blooded creatures?”

  “Yes.” Court is firm.

  I tilt my head at the silver needle piece in that tattooist’s hand. Odd thing.

  “Why do you want our toes?” Franny asks bluntly, reminding me that she’s been surrounded by Fast-Trackers like him all her life.

  “I collect them.” He kneels and braces his hand on Court’s thigh. “I plan to reach a thousand before my deathday. Yours will be eight hundred forty-three.” He nods to her foot.

  I step forward, my strong build partially blocking hers. The tattooist catches sight of my advance and smirks again. Go ahead and smirk, you little bastard.

  “Gods.” Franny bristles. “Of all the hobbies in the world, you’ve chosen toe-collecting. Really?”

  “No one needs every fykking toe,” he rebuts, the needle buzzing. As he concentrates on Court’s tattoos, we quiet.

  Court shuts his eyes.

  The needle nears the golden-brown flesh of his thigh. The sharp tip presses light, tickling. Then much, much deeper. Court grinds his teeth. Pain shoots up my knee and I recoil, more so than either Court or Franny.

  Never did I dream of ink on my body. Nor experiencing the process through someone else.

  Court opens one eye, scrutinizing me while I curse and shake my head repeatedly. We’ve just begun and the stabbing radiates to my hip and ribs—no, his hip and ribs.

  I can’t thwart his senses that easily. Distance wouldn’t solve a thing. So I try focusing on the leaky ceiling, the rotting floorboards, on Franny’s measured breaths. But my bludgeoned mind circles to Court.

  Like I need to check up on him. Almost hoping to sense relief instead.

  Franny rubs her eyes, mostly. Knowing she can’t reach the itch that needs scratching.

  I find myself squatting and breathing heavily. I hate feeling his torment.

  I hate it all.

  Agonizing hours tick by. Sweat caking our skin. Warm, Franny discards her fur coat and shirt, and is in nothing but slacks.

  Whether out of spite or indifference, the tattooist is anything but careful. He scratches harsh jagged lines into Court’s arm and tender ribs. Blood bubbling to the surface. After a while, I stop watching, but I never stop feeling.

  Franny tells me that his scorpion is now a snowy owl. “Not as botched as you would think,” she whispers. The spider along his ribs is a wolf, and the twisted snake has become an off-kilter Altian star: eight crossed lines.

  Toward the end, I no longer sense his pain. I think it’s over and I look up. But the Fast-Tracker still digs the needle along Court’s shoulders.

  I no longer sense pain because Court has cemented himself in a trance. His pinpointed, unblinking eyes burn holes into the floor. Though I can’t read his mind, I understand why he chose this—not because he can’t stomach the pain.

  Because he can.

  Because I can’t stomach feeling him this way.

  Franny experiences all that I do. All that we do. I touch my brows, thinking they’ve knotted, but they’re in a scruffy line. Hers are bunched together.

  I nudge her arm.

  Her gaze lifts to mine. “He’s more complicated than he lets on,” she whispers. “I wish I could ask, but I’m just waiting.” I hear the unspoken finish: for Court to explain himself.

  “You’re not the only one,” I murmur lowly.

  Surprise jumps her cinched brows. “I thought you knew everything about each other.”

  I shake my head. “We don’t.”

  Truth being, Court has never spoken his full history to me. I know bits and pieces, somewhat more than Franny. Like how he spent five years in Vorkter Prison. But Court rarely speaks about his life there. He prefers sharing the flesh of his story, never the bones or the heart.

  “I don’t pry for the same reason you keep quiet,” I whisper, “the same reason you keep waiting.”

  Our heads slowly turn toward Court.

  Unblinking. Unwavering. His eyes like knives impaling the floor.

  Stoic exterior aside and disregard the authority and whatever dominance he wears as armor, we sense fragility. Fragility encased delicately around his heart. To jab profusely at Court, to ask questions that may touch the glass casing, could shatter him completely.

  “So we wait,” Franny says softly.

  We wait.

  The tattooist takes a step back and admires his abrasive handiwork. Surprising no one, he smirks.

  “You ready for your turn?” I ask Franny.

  She takes a deep breath that fills my lungs. Or at least, it feels that way. She nods. “Ready.”

  I follow her wandering gaze to the mug of ale and I remember what has to be done.

  Soon, I must be ready too.

  THIRTEEN<
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  Franny

  Court can call me common as often as he wants, but not all Fast-Trackers are the same. Just like not all Influentials and Babes are. We can box one another up and stamp labels on our foreheads.

  Reckless Fast-Trackers.

  Snooty Influentials.

  Useless Babes.

  Some will fit, but the differences between us matter just as much as the likenesses.

  Every now and then, I revert back to Court’s perceptions of people while the tattooist rips at my sensitive flesh. The needle burrows deep into the blade of my shoulder, scratching at nerves that wail for this to end.

  I stifle a wince and my whole body twitches.

  The tattooist snickers behind me. Like I’m not tough enough to be inked. Why should I have to act tough for him? Or for anyone, for that matter.

  My scowl sours.

  Court called the tattooist a common Fast-Tracker too, but we are not the same. If I inked a person, I’d practice a small measure of kindness. I’m not asking to be fanned or given a break. Just don’t etch my skin to the bone and gloat about it.

  As though you take pleasure in my pain.

  I have trouble staring at the freshly covered tattoo on my hip. No more little eight-legged spider. The new design is nothing I’d choose for myself. He carved a furry hare with a warped ear and bent tail.

  For life. I wear this ugly, mangled hare for life, and even worse I’m not sure how long my life will be. Getting to know Court in these past weeks, I can guess his rebuttal to my peeved thoughts.

  “You can’t be a Fast-Tracker anymore, Franny, so you need a tattoo that you’d never choose. That’s the point.”

  It’s why I don’t argue, but I’m allowed to be sad about the hare—and whatever else the Fast-Tracker inks on my shoulder. Even being linked to two boys, this is still my body. My skin.

  I’m trying to hang on to who I am. And to remember that how I lived and saw the world made me a Fast-Tracker, not just the tattoos I wear. I’m trying.

  Court currently rests on the floorboards, his forearms propped on each bent knee. Blood shrouds most of his newly inked designs. If I saw him on the street, I’d think he lost a knife fight.

  I wince.

  The tattooist snickers.