The Last City Box Set

by Logan Keys

  A very sad being too beautiful to ever be truly a part of this place.

  The aloneness, the futility—that was the truth. We still float in space, the black void.

  Mercenaries of death.

  Suffering with no more light.

  “My name is Dallas,” I say, drying my eyes.

  “Where will you go?” she asks.

  “To Tommy,” I reply, but somehow I know this is untrue.

  Still, she nods at the lie.

  “Why haven’t you tried?” I ask.

  “There are those who’d use me, both for the war and for his own personal vendetta. Even against Tommy. Some have the ability to make you do things you don’t want to, and with us, it’s hard enough.” She glares in the direction of LA. “He’s become stronger.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Liza

  I wake to find a note on my pillow: Meet me.

  Tommy’s been here, and this thought makes all of my anger and doubt shift to the back of the line. He’s come back, and he’ll tell me the reason behind all of the secrecy and separation. He’ll make things right.

  The way to the gate is longer than I remember. Alone, I realize, even more than usual, that foes are around every corner. Then, as if my negative thoughts summon those who’d I’d least like to see, Bradford appears. His arm’s healed, probably by the same machines the doctor had used to help both Tommy and me recover more swiftly than through simple biology.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to sneak into the enlisted quarters, now would you?” he asks.

  I attempt to move past him, but he blocks me. “No, I was looking for someone.”

  “Council keeps you on a shorter leash than you realize, Liza. They watch your every move, and as soon as you take a wrong step, I’ll be there.”

  I cross my arms. “I love this clichéd conversation. After all, who doesn’t like vague threats? But I really need to go.”

  Again, I try to move around Bradford, but he grabs my arm. “So, it’s like that,” he says. “You two, meeting in the middle of the night; a secret rendezvous?”

  “Let me go.”

  Bradford’s thumb rubs the inside of my elbow. “Guess I can’t blame him, especially when the Authority uses such an—enticing—little lady to do their dirty work.” His mouth moves closer to my face, and I smell alcohol. “Kill you,” he murmurs. “Don’t kill you. I wish they’d make up their damned minds.”

  “Who is ‘they’?” I ask, embarrassed at the tremor in my voice. “Simon?”

  Smiling, Bradford crowds me against the wall, while his other hand grazes my cheek, making my pulse jump.

  “Tell me, Liza, if I were to crack open that pretty little skull of yours, just how many secrets would come tumbling out?”

  I yank on my arm, but he squeezes it tight enough to make it throb. I don’t think; I just react. One minute, Bradford’s a breath away; the next, he’s flat on his back, holding his face.

  He jumps to his feet, blood leaking out between his fingers. “You broke my nose, you little whore!”

  “That looks like a gusher.”

  We both turn toward Captain Prince, who’s sauntered out of the shadows.

  Bradford leaps to attention, blood flowing unchecked down his chin. “Captain.”

  “Liza,” Cory drawls, “say the word, and the Sergeant here will have a headache for the rest of his pathetic life.”

  Bradford’s eyes bulge as his face strains. Something’s happening that I can’t see.

  I shake my head once, and the Captain says, “Leave.”

  Bradford runs like his life depends upon it.

  “What were you doing to him?” I ask.

  “Just a bit of reorganizing. He won’t bother you again.”

  “The note,” I say, crestfallen. “It was you.”

  “Yes.” Cory approaches, looking sheepish, hands in pockets.

  So Tommy hadn’t wanted to see me, after all.

  “Aw,” the captain says. “Cheer up. The big lug’s just busy. Besides, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, but I’m not sure—”

  He smiles, and I give into the masculine transformation of his face.

  “Please, call me Cory.” He winks. “You’re no slouch yourself there, gorgeous. Although, I’ve yet to see your smile.”

  I blink up at him, taking his offered arm. “Mind reading. How fascinating.”

  I wonder if…

  “Yes,” he says, to my half-thought. “But you’ll have to wait and see.”

  Cory guides us opposite the gate, and I leave it with a backwards glance as we walk until we reach the podium where Tommy had been awarded. It’s empty now, eerie in the darkness.

  Another block away stands a large building, but before Cory enters, he asks me to close my eyes. I shake my head, and he shrugs, opening the door.

  First thing I see are cathedral ceilings and a skylight that gives the moon and the stars their entrance into the room, painting it in an ethereal glow. Tables and chairs have been arranged as if some sort of gathering is supposed to happen here soon.

  My gaze catches on the grand piano at the front.

  “What do you think?” he asks. It’s obvious it matters to him.

  “It’s like a dream. This place, the piano—it feels like…”

  “Home? A memory, perhaps? Come on.”

  We walk across the dance floor, which is inlaid with gold filigree, and the chandeliers appear ghostly, unlit.

  “Have you listened to the song yet?” Cory asks.

  “Yes. I found a player for it. It’s beautiful, haunting. My father wrote it?”

  “Do you want to know, Liza? Truly?”

  “Yes.” I sit at the piano, petting the keys, waiting.

  “The answer to your question before: I can see your memories, and I’ll tell you what I can, but the perception isn’t yours; I see them as an outsider. Things I get wrong, or if they’re old memories tinged with nostalgia, I’ll see them plainly, objectively. You might have had them as a little girl, but I’ll see them unfiltered, as an adult, which may change them. I hope that’s all right.”

  I sit still, merely breathing, staring at this man who’s a stranger, and one whom Tommy doesn’t like. “First,” I say, “since this will be quite personal. Tell me what it is between the two of you.”

  Cory leans on the piano top. “Hatter and I, you mean? You should ask him that, but I will say one thing, despite our differences, I’ve learned to admire him. I hope someday he’ll let go of the past and we can be friends. We were new soldiers, made mistakes. Someone got hurt, died, but I hope he’ll see I’ve changed. I feel like he has, too. He met you, and you’ve been some impression on him.”

  He sounds heartfelt, real. “Okay.”

  “You ready?” he asks, and before I can answer, something warm and enticing enters my brain, and then it’s gone as quickly as it came.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, flexing his hand. “Where shall we begin?”

  “My father.”

  “He loved you very much. That song was written for you. While he was a composer of this age, he worried you’d be even better.”

  “Worried?”

  Cory smiles. “Yes. Fame, especially in that day and age, was a dangerous thing. At age eleven, you had the ability to play anything after hearing it only a few times.”

  I frown, knowing it can’t be good, but I ask anyway. “What happened to him?”

  “He got sick, passed when you were still young.”

  I nod, accepting it. The pang in my heart matches how I should feel, yet my mind’s still a blank. “And my mother?”

  “The prima ballerina.”

  “A dancer?”

  “Not just any dancer,” Cory says. “Your mother was English, but—well, you wouldn’t remember when Russia was destabilized. She chose to stay at Fredericksburg and train anyway. Quite a risk with the war. Ballet rose once again and became a metaphor of hope in dark times. Any gir
l, no matter how bad things got, could see herself as the princess—the Prima Ballerina. Your mother danced a delusion for the world, Liza, and your father wrote them songs to make them forget while she danced.”

  “No,” I say, sensing the edge of a memory. “That part you got wrong. My father made songs for them to remember, for … me to remember?”

  Cory nods emphatically. “Very good. That would be your perception, and probably more correct.” His blue eyes darken. “You were on the Island before, you know, not just this time. As a child, you were imprisoned for many years. You were sick, close to dying.” He shivers. “Scared … alone.” These last words, he barely whispers.

  I nod. “The cancer.”

  Cory looks afraid to go on, so I change the subject.

  “How did I get to Anthem?”

  A headache starts between my eyes, and Cory’s gaze softens when he senses my pain. “That’s enough for now,” he says. “I’m brushing along softly, and trust me, that’s all you want. If I do any more, you’ll feel sick for a few days, and I wouldn’t want to ruin your ball.”

  Ball?

  He gestures to the piano. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

  Anxiety strikes, and I table the other question for now, feeling a sudden, driving urge, like I’ll explode if I don’t touch the instrument. “What if I can’t remember?”

  “You probably won’t, but your fingers might.”

  I sit and stare, not knowing where to begin.

  Cory sits next to me on the bench. “May I? Though I’m not very good. I had lessons a long time ago.”

  He plays a few notes. Seems quite good to me.

  “I meant compared to you and your father,” he says, answering my thought.

  Strange how he can read my mind so easily.

  “Oh, it’s not easy, but it’s quite nice and gentle. You have a very kind mind, Liza. Some I’ve visited…” He shakes his head.

  After a time, Cory lays his hand over mine, showing me the keys. He speaks softly, “Stop thinking.”

  Only then do I realize he’d not spoken aloud, but whispered the thought to my mind.

  My fingers find their way, and soon, they’re dancing along, playing with ease. Cory disappears, the room disappears—I close my eyes and let go.

  I play and play, and it feels like it’s been hours, but when I open my eyes again, Cory’s still there, listening, with his eyes closed, too.

  He looks at me. The blue has cleared from a darker aqua to a crystal pacific. “You calm me,” he says.

  “What’s it like?” I ask.

  “Chaos. Every unfiltered thought barrages through. I pray for storms; the electricity drowns out all of the chatter.”

  I fight the urge to comfort him. Beneath his charming exterior, Cory seems rather weary.

  “I am,” he says, talking to the side of my face. “Of the fighting, the dying, the constant wonder if we’ll ever have a home again. I’m exhausted by other people’s doubt affecting my thoughts, or their depression and anxiety putting me on edge.”

  Since he’s been in my head all night, he’s giving me back what he’s taken to make us square.

  I hug the little pieces of myself together, trying to make them mine once again, as I say, “Thank you.”

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Dallas

  I want to go to Tommy. No, scratch that. The old me wants to go to Tommy. The new me hesitates as I bide my time, wandering the black woods that beckon each night. Funny thing about feeling eternal: you have all the time in the world, and you loiter until hunger strikes painfully, and you test your ability to fight it, before your all-too powerful body falters in the deep shadows, and then you feebly sway and stumble until you happen upon the poor thing that feeds your demand.

  You watch the stars move across the sky, because you can do it for the first time without fear. No place is too dark, not for you. No monsters lurk; nothing can compare to your own lurking. And lurk you must, because you seek out prey.

  You’d think I’d crave direction from my new friend, but Joelle leaves me be. She understands all things about us, because she invented them. Our kind wants solitude for thinking; our thoughts are so loud and so deep; we can think them forever. And starved though we may be, we shall never die without wood in our hearts or fire that burns us until we become ash.

  We can no longer easily understand the world as we knew it, but we can comprehend this new life, like stretching a single train of thought out for a millennia, then back again—a mind taffy.

  Still, there’s one chink in my new armor, one blip in my solace of the quiet night: Pike.

  My connection to Joelle is like being wired to him; she senses his destruction back at town, and in a strange echo, it pings from her to me, at times becoming so fierce, I grip my head and curse the ground to feel the misery he spreads.

  My own anger arises from being connected at all.

  I should stop him.

  Yet, I linger. For unknown reasons, I find the edge of the wood-line near town, and I watch and wait.

  I was a guardian of Ironwood before. Now suddenly, inexplicably, I am one again.

  Chapter Eighty

  Liza

  Turns out, the hall had been set up for a Military ball. Over the course of two days, I expected Tommy to visit. Maybe even a small part of me hoped he’d invite me to come. Instead, when he never showed, I focused on planning my escape.

  During the ball would be a perfect time to leave. I’d already told Phillip I’d go with him. Leo would join us, too, so I’d know at least two people in the group.

  I didn’t know which was worse: saying goodbye to Tommy, or not saying goodbye.

  On the day of the ball, only select outsiders were invited, while the internationals ate, and drank, merrily down the block.

  I can’t find a merry bone in my body.

  I’ve written Tommy a short letter and left it on my pillow. I have one small pack—a few more memories to take with me—but otherwise, I’m ready to become a vagabond. A citizen of nowhere. Phillip assures me there are people in Anthem who know me, truly. I need to find out who I am.

  When the sun sets, a knock at my door has me shouldering my pack, then giving a long sigh and one last look at my place.

  Instead of Phillip, however, Baby stands there in the most gorgeous yellow chiffon dress. It’s like something out of a fairytale.

  I shove the vile, jealous part of me into a closet before I say, truthfully, “You look lovely.”

  She spies my pack, then raises her brows. “And where do you think you’re going? Well… ? Put that down. I’m your fairy godmother tonight.” In her hands, Baby holds several dresses. “Your secret admirer has pulled some strings to get you onto the list, last minute.”

  I shake my head.

  Baby shoves a hand onto her hip. “Liza, pick a dress. You’re coming with me, if I have to drag you.”

  My eyes are drawn to the light blue one. It’ll be a bit clingy but, well— “No, I can’t, Baby. I’m sorry. These are beautiful, and it was sweet of you to come, but truth is—”

  “Stop right there.” She sighs, looking sad, and sets down the gowns, except for the one I’d had my eye on. “How about you just try them on and see?”

  Her pleading look makes me relent a tad, and she’s fighting tears by the time I reach forward and feel the gown, my fingers finding the smoothest silk. What could it hurt?

  “Fine,” I say, “but only to try it. Then I have to say goodbye.”

  Baby claps, then drags my clothes off of me. Immediately, I sense my mistake. The dress is spectacular, settling at my waist, which has thickened over time since my coma. A loose, flowy collar of folded silk ruffles down the front to my belly button, hiding my lack of bosom, while the back is open clear down to my rear into a point. How it moves is like wearing water.

  Baby gasps, eyes twinkling. “Hair up,” she demands.

  “Baby, this is lovely, but—”

  “Just—just, let me do th
is one thing.” She makes a choked sound.

  Baby knows I’m leaving, and she’s desperate to pretend it’s untrue. My heart aches. At least, someone will miss me.

  Eyes misty, I let her do my hair, and after hundreds of pins, she manages somehow to give me an updo. I let her put some mascara and lipstick on me, as well, fighting the tears that’ll wash it all off.

  She pulls me over to the mirror, shoving me forward to face myself. When I don’t move, or even breathe, she whispers into my ear, “It’s okay to feel pretty, Liza. Yes, even now, at the end of it, you can rock the world.”

  I open my mouth, then close it, and open it again.

  Mirrors aren’t objective. They do show the truth, but only if the looker seeks it.

  I swish my dress from side to side, smiling at the image, hoping what I see is true. I’m radiant.

  With a long sigh of contentment, I face facts. “It’s wonderful,” I say. “But I can’t go. I have to do this.”