by Rachel West
JAXON PRAYER
Rachel West
Copyright 2013 Rachel West
Kindle Edition
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Acknowledgements
To Bethany and Laura for helping me push forward
And to my family for always putting up with me
Cover design by Michelle Gayowski
http://www.michellegayowski.com/
CHAPTER I
The mist fills the evening air with ever shifting shadows that play tricks on my mind. The night is cool, with autumn just setting in and making itself at home. I keep my eyes wide, wary, as I hurry across the streets. Growing up in the Westwick Slums I know well enough what could be hiding down narrowed alleyways, or crouching behind the trash barrels tipped over and spreading their filth across the ground.
In my hands I attempt to protect the most precious thing I’ve had in months. A cupcake, still warm from the baker’s oven, its bright yellow frosting like a beacon in the night. I know it’s foolish to spend what little I have on something so frivolous but I couldn’t help myself.
I stride quickly down the street. My footsteps echo out around me then disappear into the night like some great, hungry beast follows behind devouring them. For seventeen years I have lived here in the Westwick Slums. The narrow streets and cramped alleyways are as familiar to me as my small apartment.
When I glance at my cupcake I can’t fight the rumble in my stomach or the grin pulling at my lips. I’d hoarded away my money for a month; orange and blue chips scoured from their abandoned place on the ground. I should have bought one of the large, tasteless loaves of bread that could feed me for a week. Or one of the small bottles of vitamins that can prevent you from starving to death even when your belly is hollow and aching.
Frivolous. I think of the look my younger sister Annie would have given me if I walked in with this bright yellow cupcake. I remember how on her tenth birthday my mother bought her half a dozen cookies. How she cried and laughed and invited all our neighbors over to take part in the bounty. The greatest present we could have ever bought her.
I try not to remember the way her face crumpled when the Praetor slammed his baton against her skull less than a week later. How our mother jumped to Annie’s defense and fell broken and dead before the power of the Praetors. They took Annie away then, leaving me alone in our little apartment. With no one left to share with but myself.
I push the thoughts away. Nothing can change the past. I ignore the bitter memories that threaten to overwhelm and instead glue my eyes on my bright, beautiful cupcake.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a flickering screen. One of the giant billboards flashes propaganda towards the residents of the Westwick Slums. A reminder it’s past curfew. That anyone caught out will be rounded up and sent to the work prisons. I scoff at the message. The cameras in this neighborhood have long been broken or blacked out. Even the Praetors are wary in the slums after dark.
Footsteps from behind draw my attention. I curl my arms around the pastry, protecting it from sight. Only three blocks until I reach my home. I stumble into a half jog; if a Praetor finds me out….
No, what I hear isn’t the steady click click click of the Praetor’s leather boots against the ground. It’s some fool, walking around, making all the noise in the world, careless of the danger he faces on the streets. It’s a man, I can tell from the stature of his body and the swagger in his step. A hood is pulled low across his head, covering his face from sight. Idiot, I shake my head. He’s going to get killed or caught with all the attention he draws upon himself.
I duck into a shadowed doorway. Better to let him pass by. With all the clamor he’s making the risk of getting caught up in his trouble is too great. I crouch down, making myself as small and unnoticeable as possible.
Two shadows dart out behind the man; trailing him in absolute silence. I’m tempted to close my eyes. I’ve seen enough of the dead and dying in this neighborhood. No need to watch as another gets his due. I recognize the two stalking the hooded man. Tim and Tom, twin brothers who live only a few blocks over from me. Thieves, scoundrels. Although, who am I to judge, when I make my own living in less than legal ways.
One of them, Tim or Tom, I couldn’t say, pulls a baton from beneath his coat. I stifle the growl in my throat. What is he doing with one of the Praetor’s weapons? Seeing it, I can’t help but remember Annie and my mother.
Dammit.
I step out from the doorway, placing my cupcake carefully on the ground. The man in the hooded cloak startles as I materialize next to him. He jumps back, pulling his hand up to his mouth with a muffled grunt.
“What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” I demand.
“What--Who are you?”
I turn around and point to Tim and Tom, who have given up on their silent hunt and now stand illuminated by a streetlight. “Don’t you think it’s a little more important to wonder who they are? Here’s a hint. They’re the ones about to knock your idiot head in.”
The man turns to look at the two thieves only a few feet away from us. His face is too shadowed for me to see his reaction, but his shoulders stiffen and he reaches to his belt.
“Don’t bother,” I say. Tim and Tom, they could take almost anyone in a fight. They move together, each knowing exactly where the other is like their minds are synched.
“Go home Evie,” says Tim. Up close the twins are easy to tell apart. Tim has a long, snaking scar running down his chin and into the collar of his shirt from an incident as a child. The brothers never speak of it, but rumor says the two weren’t always so close.
“Piss off, Tim,” I stick my tongue out, “Go bother someone else tonight.”
“What are you doing protecting him? Look at him.” Tom makes a rude gesture towards the man. “He doesn’t even belong here. He ain’t one of us.”
I pause, turning to examine the man I am stupid enough to try protecting. Tom is right, he doesn’t belong here. Soft leather boots wrap his legs from toe to knee. His hands peek out from the ends of his sleeves, pale and delicate looking. And his jacket? Black as true midnight, and fitted so perfectly it can only be tailored.
I roll my eyes. Who’s really the fool in this situation? But I’ve already made my stand, and if there is one thing I’ll never do, it’s back down. I ease forward, placing my body between the twins and the newcomer.
“He’s a guest,” I say with my sweetest smile, “For my birthday party.” I point over to the doorstep where my cupcake sits innocuously. Tom’s eyes widen with awe.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Harden’s” I respond, referencing the bakery that sits between the Westwick Slums and the Artist’s Quarter. Harden is one of the few decent shopkeeps who won’t kick anyone out, even if they wander in wearing the rags of the slums. The Artist’s Quarter is a fluid, constantly-changing neighborhood but Harden’s has kept his little shop there for as long as I remember.
“Let’s make a trade,” I say. My stomach rumbles in protest. A cupcake for a life, it should be an easy trade. But goddamn that cupcake is the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years.
“Seriously?” Tim asks.
I nod my agreement. Tim smirks at the audible sound my stomach makes. “Seriously,” I say out loud, more to convince myself than anything.
“Whatever,” Tom says with a dismissive look, �
�you’re just gonna get yourself caught by the Praetors dragging him around.”
I roll my shoulders casually as if the Praetors are no threat to me; but Tom is right, already I can feel the clock ticking down. “Come on,” I grab the wrist of the man next to me and drag him away. I look behind only once and growl under my breath as I see my bright yellow cupcake being torn apart by Tim and Tom’s grubby hands.
“Where are we going?” The man interrupts my silent seething.
I drop his wrist, turning around to face him, and shove him hard into the wall behind us. “You can go wherever the hell you want.”
There is a sickening thump as his head slams back into the wall. The hood of his jacket offers little protection against hard stone. His legs collapse out beneath him and he falls sprawling to the ground. I wince as guilt twists in my gut but I squash the feeling. Better a cracked head than a knife to the throat. Who does he think he is? Stomping through the city like he wanted to draw every thief and cutthroat to his side. Forcing me to give up the one present I’d bought myself in years. The man reaches up to probe delicately at the back of his head, knocking his hood askew.
Time stops.
My heart pounds in my chest. Each beat the desperate flutter of a caged bird. My legs tremble and threaten to give out. It’s impossible. Impossible that one of them could be here. Impossible, but here he is sitting on the ground in front of me.
I back away in short, jerky steps, wondering how far I’ll get before the executioner comes for me.
CHAPTER 2
I try to speak. I try to excuse my actions. I try to apologize. But all the words are caught in my throat. All I can do is stare and wonder how they will execute me. Hanging? Beheading? Firing squad? No, the last is only reserved for traitors and turncoats.
The man looks up at me through woozy green eyes. Black tattoos, intricate as the facets of a snowflake, swoop down the side of his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His black hair is silky and shiny even in this dim light and gelled back in perfect order, not a single strand out of alignment. If his presence didn’t mean my death I’d say he was beautiful, in a dangerous, predatory way. He scrambles to pull his hood back up. But it’s too late. What is seen cannot be undone.
He is a Millennial.
What is he doing in the Westwick Slums?
He reaches up a hand and brushes at his cheek, as if he could rub away his tattoos. He averts his eyes for a moment but then brings them back up to meet my own. Proud. Defiant. Daring me into confrontation.
Does he think I am going to hurt him? Even I, stubborn and thoughtless as I can be, would never lay hand on a Millennial. Life is hard in the slums, but I certainly don’t have any damn deathwish. To hurt a Millennial would be…I shake my head. Impossible. Unfathomable.
The Millennials rule our city, led by the Great Uniter. Three hundred years ago our land was chaos. War and death. Until the Great Uniter came and put a stop to it. With powerful technology and even greater weapons he was able and to piece our broken land back together.
Now we live, in a twisted sort of harmony in the megatropolis that is Haven. The Millennials, our rulers live on Crescent City; the giant, floating landmass that hovers above the rest of Haven, shaped like an early season moon. The rest of us, the norms, struggling through in their shadows.
“A-Are you okay,” I finally manage to get past my frozen tongue.
“I’m fine,” he responds shortly. His head weaves slightly from side to side, like he can’t quite focus on my face. He’s not fine.
Should I leave him here? Maybe his injury is bad enough that he’ll forget my face by the time he gets out of here. He looks strong, like he can take care of himself. I’m sure he doesn’t need my help. Besides what could I offer him? A man that could call a legion of Praetors with a single cry for help.
But what if he is hurt? If I leave him here? There are those in the Westwick Slums who don’t have the same compunctions I do. They would take pleasure in hurting one of our rulers. Killing him, if he’s lucky. I can think of a hundred twisted things that could be done where death would be the better option.
No, this isn’t something I should get wrapped up in. I have enough trouble in my life already. I can’t go inviting in more. But as I walk away, I can’t help but look back one more time. He’s sitting there. In his bright, shiny jacket, with his bright, shiny green eyes and he reminds me a little of my lost cupcake. Something new. Something different. Something that doesn’t bear the layer of filth and hopelessness that smothers everything else around me.
“Well, come on then,” I snap, sounding exasperated.
He tilts his head to the side, confused by my words.
“We need to get your head checked out,” I speak slowly and point to my own head. And here I thought Millennials were supposed to be smarter than the rest of us.
He pushes himself to his feet with little effort, but then has to rest a hand against the wall to hold himself up. Three short steps and I’m back at his side.
“My name is Jaxon,” he places his hand out for me to shake, “I thank you for your assistance.”
“Evie,” I say, ignoring his outstretched hand.
He smirks, about to say something, but then manages to restrain whatever impulse he has. Good. The less talking the better.
I steer him towards my apartment. Down darkened alleyways lit only by the colossal billboards high in the sky, coloring the streets in muted hues. Buildings, dozens of stories high and blackened by the darkness, thrust up into the sky, towering over us. We keep mostly to narrow alleyways, only a few paces wide and littered with refuse. Even with the covering darkness, better to stick to the shadows and back ways than risk a run-in with the Praetors.
Haven is a cramped, overcrowded place. In the distance, spotted only through the small holes left between buildings, giant watchtowers sprout from the ground like overhung mushrooms. The Praetors have their watchtower-like Presidios spread evenly through the city, one in each neighborhood. Emerald and purple lights rim their edges like poison, warning all to stay away.
I look back to see Jaxon trailing a few steps behind me. His eyes are wide as he takes in the Westwick Slums. I try to see it as he must -- as someone used to the beauty of Crescent City.
No, impossible to imagine any place other than the slums where I have spent my entire life.
“Pull your hood up,” I snap. Just in time, as we pass a brothel with its red lights. A tall call girl, with curly brown hair giggles and gestures towards us with one finger. For me or Jaxon it’s impossible to tell. Probably Jaxon, he carries himself like one with money. Easy prey, in this part of town.
Two more corners and a short jog down a tiny alley and we’ve reached my building. I crawl on top of a tipped trash barrel to reach the fire escape. The front entrance to my building had the lock broken months back, and rather than replace it, the landlord boarded over the door. My downstairs neighbors still have their back door to enter through. Living on the second floor, my only option is to crawl up the rusty ladder of the fire escape. I don’t really mind though, it makes me feel safer.
I jump, and pull myself up to where the ladder is jammed in place. I reach a hand down to help Jaxon. He looks up at me with a mixture of doubt and concern on his face but then shrugs and reaches up.
I can feel the strength in his hand. How I ever thought it looked delicate, I don’t know. He pulls himself up easily with little help from me. I lead him up the metal stairs until we reach the large window looking into my living room. I check the small thread I have stretched across the bottom of the window but it hasn’t moved. No unexpected visitors while I was out.
Not that I expected any. My only friend around here is Red, and he’s disappeared as of late. I think he’s found a new girl to keep himself busy.
“Well, come on,” I say to Jaxon after I’ve crawled through the window. He gives a doubtful frown to the piles of dust growing in the corners of the windowsill. “You can stay out here i
f you’d rather,” I say. Jaxon reaches out and collects a thin layer of dust and rubs it between finger and thumb with a hesitant look. I roll my eyes, even a Millennial must have encountered dust before.
Jaxon blows the dust from his fingers and elegantly shrugs away his concerns. He crawls through the half open window and into my home.
As his foot steps down into my apartment the air changes. Electrifies. Like in that simple gesture Jaxon somehow took my apartment and made it his own. Like I am the invader, not him. His formal clothes and stiff posture look so out of place it’s comical -- or it would be if it didn’t also mean my death. But even still – somehow it’s like he fits better than I.
I brush some imaginary lint off my sleeves, pretending I don’t notice his judgment. But I see the way he looks at my faded purple couch that dips down on one side. The bed shoved into the far corner, with the blankets all bunched up at the bottom. A small, half-wall shows my rundown kitchen; the refrigerator at least forty years out of date and an oven with only one working burner.
It may not seem like much to him, but to me, it’s everything. I’ve worked hard to support myself. To have my own apartment where I could live my life in peace. When my mother died, and they took Annie away, I couldn’t afford to live in the larger, two bedroom apartment we’d rented. I spent two years living in the Hollows, the deep caverns under the city that will welcome any who can’t afford to live in the light.
It was dangerous down there, crime more common than courtesy and it took a long time for me to dig myself out of that hole and into this little apartment.
I continue ignoring Jaxon, and instead make myself busy pulling out my first aid kit from the bathroom. When I open it, I cringe at what I see. Gauze and some painkillers, not exactly the doctor’s office Jaxon is probably used to. I grab it anyway and toss it on to the table next to Jaxon.
“Sit,” I order. He complies without a word, dropping gracefully into the little wooden chair like it’s a throne.