New Bloods Boxset

by Michelle Bryan

  I give him a withering, sideways glare. That is his definition of easy? But I don't say nuthin'. I'm happy enough to be quitting early since there’s someplace I need to be, so I don't wanna say anything to make him change his mind. I leave without even so much as a goodbye.

  I make my way slowly through the long, white hallway of Sanctuary. My body protests with each step I take, and my arm throbs something fierce. But considering that I’d thrown Mack across the room and nearly choked him to death, well, I guess I got the lesser of it today.

  Now that the shock at what happened back there has worn off, I’m left with a mixed bag of emotions. What I’d done to Mack pleases me in some twisted way, but it also scares me shiteless. Every time my Chi shows itself, it seems bigger and more terrifying. And what I’d done today, well, that’s the most terrifying of all. I’d actually used my Chi on a friend, an ally. What if the next time it happened, it was to Tater or Lily or Finn? What if I cain't stop it the next time? Regardless of what the others believe, I still don't think this curse of mine is controllable at all.

  It’s moments like this that I question what I’m doing here with this bunch of rebels. I ain't a rebel or a fighter. And even after all Mack has taught me, I still feel utterly useless. Like what they expect of me is impossible and that deep down, I’m still that scared little girl who just wants to run and hide. But it’s the thought of Ben at the mercy of the Prezedant that keeps me going. So like yesterday and the day before that, I will do it all over again tomorrow. Lily and Mack and Finn—they believe in me. Now if only I can believe in myself.

  As if thinking of Finn conjures him up, he and Cat come barreling around the corner of the long hall and distract me from my thoughts. Both boy and beast are heading away from the kitchen, scrambling like there’s a starved wolfling on their heels. Since Zoe and I had snuck the black devil cat into Littlepass weeks ago, much to Finn's delight, it’s not an uncommon sight to see the two of them running through the great halls or yard of Sanctuary. But this time, something don't seem quite right about their mad dash.

  I notice Finn’s carrying a couple of those orange ball things that, I’ve come to understand, are actually called oranges. Go figure. He has one in each hand, and Cat has something hanging outta her mouth. I cain't quite figure out what it is, but its drippings are left down the entire length of the hallway. I look closer. Is that a rabbit? The boy’s looking nervously over his shoulder but draws up short at seeing me.

  "Hey, Tara. We ain't doin' nuthin', I swear!" he says, still glancing over his shoulder.

  "I didn't say you were, now did I?" I drawl. "Though I wouldn't exactly call that rabbit hangin' outta Cat's mouth nuthin'. I gotta bad feelin' that’s supposed to be part of tonight's supper. I'd be willin' to bet Cook ain't gonna be happy 'bout that." And then as if on cue, I hear the outraged bellow coming from the kitchen.

  "BOY! I know this is your doing, boy. You and that gods’ dang cat."

  Finn's face instantly drains of color at the angry scream, and his eyes dart back and forth with the frantic look of a trapped animal.

  "I swear, Tara I didn't mean for this to happen. I was so hungry, and I went to the kitchen to get one of these." He holds up the orange. "They're just so dang good. And the rabbit was just sittin' there fresh cooked and all, and it smelled so good. I figured just a little bite, but then Cat, well, she figured she could have a bite too, and the next thing I knew she has the whole thing in her mouth, and then we hear Cook comin' back, and we ran and …," he finally stops to breathe and looks up at me with pleading eyes. "Cook's gonna kill me," he moans.

  I nod, trying seriously hard not to laugh at his paralyzing fear.

  "Aye, he's crazy enough, that's for sure." I hear the heavy thud of footsteps coming dangerously close, and I jerk my thumb upward.

  "You'd best go hide up in the loft," I say, feeling bad enough for him to give him a way out. The loft above the sanctuary is huge. All of my Rivercross kin could have lived there easily with room to spare. It’s probably Finn and Cat's safest place to hide in right now.

  "Marcel cain't make it up those steep steps. It's your best bet."

  "Thanks, Tara," he blurts, his face filled with gratitude as he starts running in the opposite direction of the approaching mad man. He ain't outta sight long before Marcel's massive bulk comes lumbering around the corner. He stands in the long hall and his head swings back and forth on his wide shoulders like some mad dog 'til his anger-filled eyes come to rest on me. He stomps toward me, and I swear I can feel the floor shake underneath me with each step he takes.

  "Where is he?" he wheezes, his nostrils flaring with each word.

  I look up at him with all the wide-eyed innocence I can muster. "Who?"

  His already narrow eyes shrink to mere slits. "Don't play dumb with me, girl. That dang boy and his damn beast. Where did they go?"

  "You talkin' 'bout Finn? I ain't seen him all day. I've been trainin' with Mack, ain't seen no sign of Finn," I shrug my shoulders at him.

  "Is that so?" He scoffs and I get the feeling he don’t believe me. "And I guess that is not the delectable smell of my perfectly cooked rabbit hanging about in the hallway? You’re lying. I know he came this way."

  I shrug again. "All I can smell is me. But if you're sayin' you cooked rabbit for tonight, well, I'm pretty sure I heard Lily mention she wanted wildfowl for tonight's evenin' meal. I could go to the market and get 'em for ya if you like."

  I can tell he don't wanna be taken in by my obvious attempt to distract him, but as angry as he is, he knows I’m Lily's "honored" guest. I swear I even see him biting his own tongue to stop from spewing out what he’s thinking. Instead, he gives me a stiff nod.

  "So be it. Go get them, and make sure to tell the butcher they are for Marcel. He will give you the best he has."

  I nod and start to walk away, but he grabs my arm with his meaty fingers.

  "Give the boy a word of advice. Tell him to keep that damn beast out of my kitchen, or I swear on all that is holy I will serve that cat's head on a roasting platter."

  I watch him stomp away; still muttering under his breath and knowing that he ain’t exaggerating. Not in the least. Finn’s definitely going to have to stay away from the kitchen for a bit, at least 'til Marcel calms down. Lily says the cook's bark is worse than his bite, but that man has a sharp set of chompers, and I don't want Finn finding out otherwise.

  I head to my room to collect my wrapper, the fleeting idea of a shower pushed outta my head as I realize I don't have time. I do take the time to hide my knife in my boot though. Since I cain't very well walk through the market with my iron shooter, the knife is my only source of protection, and I never leave Sanctuary without it.

  As much as Lily hates my trips to the crowded marketplace, it’s necessary for me to go. I always take care not to have anyone notice me, and I make sure to keep the white in my hair covered at all times. The last thing I need is someone tying the telltale white stripes together with the wanted New Blood fugitive. But the trips to the marketplace have an ulterior motive; one that I ain't told her about 'cause I know she won't like it.

  Ever since I’d found out that every middle of the week they sold the captured outlanders there, I make a point of being there. Not that I could ever afford to buy the poor people put on display. As much as I want to just to set 'em free, I ain't got two pieces of iron to rub together. But I go on the off chance that I may come across Jane or young Thomas or at least hear news of my missing kin. As troubling as it is to watch the sordid selling of the young'uns, I force myself to go and study every face in the crowd. I need to understand what kind of people can do this to others and not think twice about it. Oh, not everybody there agrees with what’s happening. I know that. I can see some of the people look away in disgust and anger. Others hold their own young'uns tighter; their relief that it ain't their own children up for sale clearly written on their faces. But they don't say or do nuthin' about it, too terrified to take a stand.

&
nbsp; Then there are the rest. The ones that watch in amusement and excitement, enjoying every bit of the debacle. Hollerin' and hootin' as the bidding goes up. Grading each young'un like they’re livestock instead of people. Buying 'em like they’re buying meat for whatever brutal purpose they have in mind for 'em. Those are the people I truly hate. Those are the people whose hearts I want to rip out and feed to the wild wolflings. But like the cowering villagers, I don't do nuthin'. There ain't nuthin' I can do but add that hatred to the growing pile of shite I already harbor against the Prezedant and his true followers. Maybe someday, I’ll be able to do something about it and make him pay for their suffering. But today ain’t that day.

  I head for the front entrance, content in the knowledge I ain’t gonna run into Finn this time. I reckon Cook had scared him plenty today. He won't come out of hiding for a while yet. My last few trips to the market he’d pleaded to tag along, but I ain't never let him. We cain't be seen together. It’s still too risky even if Tater and Jax are no longer an everyday part of our little group. Tater may have been cleared in the eyes of the Army with his fake betrayal of us, but the rest of us are still wanted fugitives.

  Jax. I still cain't think of the name, of the man himself, without feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt and remorse. The last words I’d said to him was to blame him for Ben's capture. For the deaths of all those innocent prisoners. I know it wasn't his fault, truly. I know that now. But at the time, there’d been so much anger and hurt and pain, and Jax, well, he got the brunt of it.

  I’d looked for him after Mack had brought me back to the Sanctuary. After I’d stewed in my anger and self-pity for days in my room, just hating the world and the gods for allowing this to happen. But I was too late. I was too late to take back the terrible accusations I had thrown at him. He was gone. Back to Gray Valley, back to Sky. It was probably for the best. We were a volatile combination. Him with his hatred of New Bloods, his sarcastic nature, and his unwavering belief that he was always so right. And me … well … just being me.

  I think about him often, wondering how he’s doing. If he and Sky are wedded by now. If they’re already starting a family of their own. A bunch of little Jaxes with those light blue eyes and the black, spiky hair, and that odd little dent in their chins. I don't know why I think about him, but I cain't seem to help it or the sharp pain in my gut that always accompanies my thoughts of him and Sky together. So I do what I always do when I don't want to face something, I push it away. Bury it. If I don't think about it no more, then it cain't hurt me. I'm becoming real good at doing that.

  The afternoon heat wallops me in the face as I step from the cool interior of Sanctuary's stone walls to the outer courtyard. Passing through the graveyard of a garden, I pause for a bit at the massive iron front gate and nod a greeting to Flip. To any passerby, he looked like a simple, filthy beggar sitting against the gate. His head is wrapped in dirty rags and his tunic no cleaner. For the longest time, I’d believed the same. I’d actually felt sorry for him the first couple of times I’d seen him and had proceeded to sneak food from the kitchen to bring to him, much to his delight. He never told me no different. But then I’d finally found out he was actually Lily's top guard and one of her most loyal. He watched the comings and goings of Sanctuary like a hawk. If anything suspicious was going on, Flip would know. It ain't stopped me from sneaking him treats from the kitchen though.

  He nods back and smiles, showing me his broken, yellow teeth.

  "Afternoon, Mistress. You off to the markets again?" he says.

  "Aye. Cook needs some wildfowl for the evenin' meal," I say.

  "And I'd be willing to bet that's your only reason for going, eh? Ain't got nothing to do with the fact that there's some flesh trading going on again today?"

  I stop in my tracks and stare. How did he know what I’d been up to in my time at the market?

  Flip laughs at my undisguised look of surprise.

  "You should know by now, Mistress, that nothing happens in Littlepass without Flip knowing. But don't worry. I won't tell Lily, not as long as you promise to stay unnoticed by the Army."

  "How did you know what I was doin'? Have you been followin' me?" I say, a little put out by this. I ain't noticed anyone following me on my trips to the market. Some sense of awareness I had. If I never noticed Flip, how was I supposed to notice the Army on my tail?

  "I have my little birdies watching out for you, girl. Can't be too careful when it comes to the Army—foul-smellin', black-hearted, lice-ridden bastards that they are."

  I bust a gut laughing at his words.

  "Shizen, Flip. Why don't ya tell me how you really feel?" That’s the thing I like about Flip. He don't beat around the bush. He just says it as he sees it.

  "Aye, and why don't you just get your smartass attitude outta here," he says with a scowl, but I know he's just teasing. I wave goodbye as I head down the hill toward the bustling marketplace.

  It ain't long before my senses are assaulted by the mixed odors of freshly baked goods, animal droppings, and unwashed bodies all rolled into one. The sun-bleached buildings crowding the road to the market soon give way to the dizzying array of colorful market stalls all stuffed to overflowing. It still amazes me at the amount of stuff available here. I was used to scavenging for every meal in the sand lands, yet here in the Prezedant's domain, there’s just so much. Meats and greens and fruits and baubles, all available for the right price. The fact that it’s ill-gotten from the blood and sweat of the outlanders and sandlanders didn't seem to matter much to the crowd flocking happily about in the streets. That or they simply choose to turn a blind eye. Either way, as far as I’m concerned, they’re all just as bad as the Prezedant himself. I keep my eyes downcast, avoiding eye contact so as not to make anyone aware of my obvious disgust.

  The constant barrage of people yelling is like a roar in my ears, so loud you cain't even hear yourself think. I get jostled and shoved about as I fight my way through the crowd, that familiar feeling of panic I feel every time I come here threatening to overwhelm me. But I push the panic down. I need to do this.

  Elbowing my way through the wall of people, I finally reach my destination, which is a massive statue situated in the middle of the town square. The ugly, golden monstrosity is of a robed man sitting on a throne, his subjects kneeling at his feet. It’s supposedly erected in honor of the Prezedant, a benevolent ruler loved and worshiped by his people. What a bunch of hokum. It reminds me more of some threatening master towering over his terrified servants. I hate the very sight of it. Although I do take some pleasure in seeing how the birds have defaced the statue, almost on purpose you would think. Their shite is splattered everywhere over the Prezedant's head and face. It’s fitting.

  I climb the statue, careful to avoid the splatters, and settle out of sight behind the gold throne. I’d figured out on my earlier visits that this is the best spot to overlook the traders and the crowd without being seen. As usual, the flesh trading has attracted a large crowd today. They gather ‘round the raised wooden platform like an audience ‘round a stage. I’d only ever seen flesh trading carried out on the platform, but the rust-stained stone situated in the center of the structure tells me it has another purpose. An executioner's block. I hope I ain't ever around to see it used for that.

  I arrived just in time too. The crowd erupts in a huge roar as today's goods are herded up the platform stairs, some of 'em stumbling as they’re shoved and pushed about by the guards. I hold my breath and count 'em as they’re forced to line up. There are eight of 'em today: six young'uns and two muties. I study their terrified faces but eventually let out my pent-up breath in a big sigh—part disappointment, part relief 'cause not any of 'em are my kin. They’re just eight more poor, innocent souls being sold off like they’re nuthin'. Like they ain't people. Like they don't even matter. They matter to me. As always, I feel my hatred growing. I want to run right up there and put my knife through the hearts of every guard standing there and set the prisoners all f
ree. But I ain't that stupid. I stay on my perch, chewing on my bottom lip in frustration as they bring the first prisoner up front for the bidding.

  He’s a tiny thing, probably no older than Finn. His tunic is ripped from the neck down, and there's a big bruise on his cheek. Looks like he’d put up a fight. Good, I think. I hope the soldier that had done this to him is sporting bruises of his own or at least is unable to walk from a good, swift kick between the legs.

  As tiny and terrified as he must be, he stands with his head held high, refusing to drop his defiant gaze from the mocking crowd. I watch as the soldier leading the trading praises his virtues to the gawkers: good, strong teeth, pox-free skin, scrawny but muscled arms, and used to hard work. A good buy for any house or trade. A good buy.

  How did it come to this? I think. How can people believe that selling young’uns is acceptable? Had the old settlers believed in this, too? Had they once done the same? Or is this evil the Prezedant’s doing? But as usual, I ain't got answers to my own questions.

  The boy's rebellious eyes scan the crowd, and incredibly they seem to stop on me. Did he really spot me sitting here, or is he just eyeing the statue and trying to shut out the crowd? No, it's me he’s staring at no doubt. His eyes bore into mine with a fierce plea. "Save me," he seems to say. "Help me."

  My stomach churns, but I cain't look away from his pleading stare. I watch in horror as he’s looked over by a fat-bellied man in a stained smock, probably from one of the numerous butcher houses or taverns in Littlepass. The boy ignores the man's probing hands, refusing to drop his gaze from me, and I cain't breathe at the intensity of his stare. Help me! The scream echoes in my head, and I jump at the invasion. What the hell new kinda thing is this? The boy's lips ain't even moved. Is he really speaking to me, or am I imagining the whole thing? My eyes scrutinize his shaved head, wondering if there was hair growing there; would it be black as crow feathers and streaked with white?