by Anna Day
Nate squeezes my hand, his eyes moist. “Balls of steel,” he whispers.
“Like Katniss, like Tris, like Rose,” I whisper back.
And before his tears start to fall, before Ash receives another beating, I slip the vial of sleeping draught up my sleeve and begin to walk down the alley into the unknown.
I EMERGE FROM THE alley and get my bearings. To my right lies an arterial road, a straight stretch toward the Coliseum, and to my left lie rows upon rows of terraced houses. I recognize the pink glow that falls from a distant window, and I know that distant thump of drums. It’s the same as the Meat House from canon—several nondescript terraced houses linked together on the inside, filled with cerise light and futuristic music.
Carefully, silently, I tiptoe down the pavement, the drums gathering strength. I try to swallow, but my body has diverted all its moisture to my sweat glands. The door appears before me. My finger connects with the frayed plastic of the bell, my brain frantically sifting through information, searching for a plan. I have no idea what Saskia said to the guards. The canon showed this scene from Rose’s point of view, peering around the corner of the alley, waiting for an opportunity to flee.
I hear the creak of metal sliding across metal, the groan of the wood as the door parts from its frame. My gut knots. A guard stands in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the light.
He cocks his rifle. “What do you want?”
I try to speak, but the sight of his weapon dries my mouth even further.
“Well?” he shouts.
“I—I were told I could make a few Gem coins—extra if I smile.” I put on my best Imp accent and force my eyes to his face. All angles and symmetry—typical Gem.
“And who told you that?”
The click of the safety hits my ears. Adrenaline hones my thoughts, an idea takes shape. “I work at the Harper estate. I served at Master Harper’s Gallows Ball. There were a gentleman who asked me to attend tonight.”
He narrows his eyes. “OK, then, slave. What did this gentleman look like?”
“Tall, with all this curly blond hair. He said he were related to someone very important.” I try to look demure rather than terrified. “Howard something.”
He nods, a little too hurriedly. “Howard Stoneback. OK, then. But any trouble and you get a bullet between those tits of yours.” He shoves the nose of the gun into my sternum.
“No trouble, I promise,” I say.
He gestures for me to enter. I slip past him, my chest still aching with the imprint of his gun. The scent of incense and stale sweat fills my nose, and I find myself hankering for the stink of rotting bird. He locks the door and leads me down a corridor. The pulse of the drums grows more insistent and the bulbs cast the walls in a fuchsia glow.
He looks me up and down. “So, Howard Stoneback took a shine to you? I bet you think you’re really lucky. Well, the last slave he was left alone with didn’t look too pretty after he’d finished.”
My face must fill with fear.
He laughs. “Too late now.”
I begin to wish I was just following blindly in Rose’s footsteps. Right now, I’d be running for freedom, not waiting to be molested by a genetically enhanced pervert.
The guard opens a door into a small waiting area—no windows, crimson walls, another cerise bulb that flickers out of time with the drums. Four Imps wait in line in front of a plain white door. I join the back of the queue. They turn and study me for a moment. Three girls and one boy. But something strikes me as unusual about each of them. An angry scar extends from either side of the boy’s lips; a Chelsea smile, I think Dad called it once. A large burn covers the back of one of the girls, her dark hair tied up and her smock cut to show the shiny, tight skin. The other girl has one eye that is gummed up like a slit on a tree trunk—she reminds me of Baba and I can’t help but stare. She notices me and opens her mouth in a giant yawn, revealing a tangle of scars where her tongue should be. I look away.
It’s as though the Gems have grown tired of the blandness of perfection, and this awful place is some sort of warped tonic. Or perhaps it’s even more basic than that, perhaps humanity needs imperfection—craves it—because without flaws, humanity ceases to be. But still, the sick bastards could just embrace a unibrow.
I glance at the girl directly in front of me. She’s the only one here—except for me—who lacks any kind of scar. She looks younger, maybe only fifteen, and wears a beige smock, handstitched from burlap, darted to fit her body. Her red hair falls over one shoulder, a sheet of fire beneath the raspberry light. She reminds me of Katie, and I feel sick just thinking about what the Gems will do to her.
She catches my eye and smiles. “First time?” she whispers.
I nod. “What’s happening?”
The door opens. A surge of music. The boy with the Chelsea smile disappears into the room. The door slams shut and the line shuffles forward.
“So, we’re waiting to go into the display room. That’s where the Gems bid for us. The highest bidder gets to take you upstairs.” She glances at my overalls. “Try and look, you know, desirable … you want them to want you. No bids is very, very bad.”
“What happens?”
Her amber eyes grow wide. “A bullet … if you’re lucky.”
“They kill us?”
“They can do whatever they want, so long as they pay.”
The door opens. The girl with the burns disappears.
“Can’t you tell someone?” I ask, but even as the words leave my mouth I realize how naive I sound. I can almost hear Ash’s voice. You really are from another universe, aren’t you?
“And risk getting killed? Anyway, nobody could do anything. We’re just Imps.” Her eyes lower, shame disturbing the lines of her face. “And some of them are good tippers. I can’t exactly work in the Pastures anymore.” She holds up her hands—but there are no hands, only skin, unevenly stretched over the nubs of her wrists. “And they pay extra for a freak.”
The image of Nate kneeling in the market bursts into my mind, followed by the floating, legless Dupe. I want to reassure her, to tell her help is on the way. But the fewer people who know, the better. I feel the vial pushed against my wrist and inhale. “I’m sorry.”
I notice that the girl with no tongue has disappeared.
The girl with red hair stares at the door. “I’m next.”
“It’ll be OK.” I reach for her hand, finding only the puckered skin of her stumps.
She shrugs. “Yeah. So long as I don’t get that blond creep again … Howard something.”
An almighty shudder spreads up my body. Howard Stoneback. Of course he’s here. I feel so stupid for not thinking through my earlier lie. The fear and anxiety must have clouded my brain. The guard who let me in will expect Howard to bid for me, maybe even address me directly. My only hope is that the rebels arrive before my lie is revealed. And I still have no idea how I’m going to drug the Gems.
The door swings open and she pulls away from me, her red hair replaced by the blank white door. I stand alone in the crimson room, surprised that it should be loneliness rather than fear that threatens to immobilize my trembling, bowing legs. Tentatively, I rest my ear against the door in search of voices. They call out numbers in distant tones. 5,000, 7,000, 8,000. I don’t notice the young Imp boy enter the waiting area, but I hear him clear his throat. I spin around like I’ve been caught out.
“Sorry …” I begin.
He smiles and moves toward the door. And that’s when I notice he’s clutching a bottle of champagne. He’s a serving boy, not a prostitute. My first response is relief because he just looks so young. But my second reaction is to come up with a plan as the vial pushes into my skin—cold and insistent.
I block his path. “Hang on, you’ve got a smudge”—I point to his cheek—“right here.” I maneuver the vial so I can unscrew the lid.
He scrunches up his button nose and mumbles something indistinguishable under his breath.
&
nbsp; “Here.” I take the bottle from him.
“Thanks.” He spits on his tunic and frantically rubs it against his face. He doesn’t see me tipping the contents of the vial into the smoking neck of the bottle.
“Is that better?” His cheek looks red and sore.
“Much.”
The door opens. I fix my mouth into a shy smile and order my legs to carry me forward, my skin dappled with sweat. I enter a large living room—several smaller rooms knocked into one. The walls look typically Imp—cracked and sagging and waiting to collapse—but the furniture looks Gem, a series of armchairs and stylish leather sofas lining the walls. Several customers remain, sipping champagne and smoking cigars, and several guards stand at the doors. They all hold a drink.
My eyes settle on Howard Stoneback. I recognize him from the Gallows Ball. Same floppy blond curls, but he wears a pinstripe suit and a perverted leer. I try to swallow, but my earlier lie blocks my throat like a lump of half-chewed gristle. At least the guard from the front door isn’t here to rat me out.
A male Gem leans forward. “Come on, ape. Let’s see if you’re covered in hair under those clothes.”
I stumble into the middle of the room to the sound of laughter. Their eyes move up and down my overalls, skimming my features, the shape of my breasts. My stomach turns. But above the drums, I hear the fizz of fresh champagne hitting glass.
A female Gem throws a cigar at me. It bounces off my collarbone, a shower of sparks landing at my feet. She turns to a guard. “If I wanted a bog-standard slave, I would have stayed at home.”
The Imp boy fills the final glass and silently leaves the room. I just need to buy a little more time. I reach toward my chest and clutch my zip with sweaty, trembling fingers. Even though I’m fully clothed, I’ve never felt so naked. I feel like I’m back in the decontamination block, a moth pinned behind glass.
“Come on, show us the goods,” a guard shouts.
“Stick a bullet in her,” another woman shouts, her beautiful mouth drawn into this ugly snarl.
A guard aims his rifle at me and the room seems to shift a foot to the right. “Wait,” Howard says. “I know this ape. She’s from the Harper estate. This is marvelous—I love playing with Jeremy’s toys.” He sucks the champagne over his teeth, waving his hand for me to continue.
Slowly, purposefully, I lower the zip, inching my shoulders out of the material. My skin looks almost blue against the pink of the walls, and I become painfully aware of every bruise and graze collected since my arrival in this world, my vest speckled with filth and sweat stains so that I resemble a piebald pony. My cheeks feel hot with the expectation of tears.
“This is embarrassing,” Ugly Snarl says.
Howard laughs. “It’s hilarious, darling. Let’s see if we can’t make her cry.”
I slowly turn, angry with my tears for betraying me, angry with myself for taking so much longer than Saskia, and, above everything, angry at the bastards who humiliate me. But the champagne is nearly gone, so I just grit my teeth and continue to rotate.
A man with muscular hands leans toward me. “Are you hiding a wooden leg under there?” He reaches for my thigh.
A gasp escapes my mouth and I shake him off.
Howard chuckles. “No handling the meat without a bid. You know the rules.” He moves to set his empty glass down, but his hand slips and he ends up smashing it into the table.
Muscular Hands slouches back in his chair. “There are no rules, that’s the bloody point …” His voice trails away and his eyes roll back in their sockets.
“Albert? Are you OK?” Howard asks, but his voice wavers. He grabs the back of a chair, grinding it across the floor.
One of the guards attempts to raise his weapon. It barely reaches his thigh before he sags into the wall. I survey the room—every single one of my tormentors has wilted, their tongues slopping from their mouths.
I ram my zip up. “Bunch of perverts.”
The door opens. I expect to see Thorn’s face, but instead I see the guard from the front door. Of course he didn’t drink any of the poisoned champagne. I could kick myself for making what could literally be a fatal error.
“What the hell?” He aims his gun at me for the second time that night.
“Please, I don’t know …” I flatten my body against the wall, wishing I could somehow sink into the bricks, become the plaster.
Never dropping his aim, he picks up a nearby glass and sniffs it. He looks at me, his jutting cheekbones highlighted by the overhead lamp. “You sneaky little brat.”
I want to slam my hand against the light switch, signaling to Saskia, but I freeze. He smiles in slow motion and aims straight at my chest. I hear the sound of cracking bone. He crumples to the floor, his finger depressing the trigger. Plasterboard sprays my face as the bullet lodges an inch or so from my head.
Thorn steps through the doorway, bat raised for another swipe. “You OK?”
I nod.
He surveys the room and smiles. “That’s my girl.”
I feel an unexpected surge of pride, but it quickly fades at the staccato beat of gunfire and the sound of wood shattering. The rebels arrive, carrying weapons and rope, shouting instructions.
Thorn races across the room to the door that leads upstairs, the rebels close behind.
“The ones upstairs aren’t drugged,” I shout after him.
He laughs. “I love a moving target.”
They disappear as quickly as they arrived. This is my chance to turn around. To just run and run into the night, never looking back. The need to feel safe pulls against the need to help the Imps. I feel like a Russian doll. Layers of different Violets reducing in size, each one constructed from a different set of memories and emotions. Violet the girl, blowing bubbles in the family garden. Violet the teenager, mooning over Russell Jones. Violet as Rose, desperate to go home. Violet the Imp, repressed, assaulted, and full of rage. I’m not sure who I am anymore.
As if to remind me, someone shouts my name. “Violet!”
I turn to see Ash. He holds a small pistol a little awkwardly, but the smile lodged on his face is as big as ever. He rushes toward me and we embrace. The warmth of his neck against my cheek, the smell of his hair—wood smoke and hay—makes my earlier humiliation evaporate.
“Nate?” I ask.
“He’s fine, Saskia and Matthew are watching him. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
But something deep-rooted propels me forward. That angry Russian doll, which still feels the pressure of those Gem eyes all over her. “Wait. There’s this girl I have to help.”
“You can’t be serious. We can wait outside where it’s safe.”
Baba’s question echoes in my head again: If you were stuck here, here in our world, how would you live your life? What kind of an Imp would you become?
I take Ash’s hands in my own and gaze into his beautiful eyes. “I have to do this,” I say.
HE LOOKS AT me, the blue of his eyes blissfully cool after what feels like a lifetime of blinking into magenta lights, then he sighs and lifts the pistol. “I’ve never shot one before.”
“Hopefully, you won’t have to.”
We cross the display room and steal up the stairs—backs pressed into the wall. Upstairs is a warren of corridors. We pass several entrances, each revealing its own tale; rebels rounding up Gems, foot soldiers bound and gagged, young Imps looking disheveled. Door after door, tale after tale … no girl with red hair.
We creep up a second, smaller flight of stairs. Sweat dribbles down my neck and beads between my breasts, and the beat of the drums exactly mirrors my pulse, making me feel invaded, like the house has somehow wormed its way into my arteries. A long corridor sweeps away from us, cast in the light of a dying apricot bulb. We must be in the attic, the ceilings sloped and low. I suddenly feel thankful for the continual thump of the drums, sure our steps fall heavily against the boards as our desperation climbs.
I notice that these doors remain closed and und
isturbed.
“There’s nobody here,” Ash whispers.
We’re turning to leave when a squeal catches my attention. My eyes pivot to a nearby door. I press my ear against the wood and hear a young girl sobbing. I glance at Ash. He cocks his pistol, and with no further thought, we barge into the room.
We enter a darkened chamber. A purple net hangs from the ceiling, surrounding a four-poster bed. Candles glimmer on the walls, the air laced with oil and sweat. The girl with red hair sits on the bed. The neck of her dress has been slashed, revealing the sphere of her shoulder, and I can’t help but notice the tremor of her bottom lip. The nose of a shotgun presses into the side of her head. At the end of the shotgun sits a Gem—shirt unbuttoned.
His gaze locks onto Ash. “Something’s going on, I can hear the gunfire. Let me go, or I shoot the Imp.”
Ash raises his gun. “Where are you going to go? The house is teeming with rebels, and they’re seriously pissed.”
I step closer to the Gem. “Give us the girl or he’ll put a bullet between your eyes.” My voice remains strong. He doesn’t see that beneath my clothes, my skin is coarse with goose bumps.
Ash glances at the girl. His eyes momentarily dip to the space where her hands should be, and his aim wavers. The Gem seizes his opportunity, turning his gun so it points at my chest. But this time, I don’t freeze. This time, I’m filled with rage. My body responds before my brain. I knock the gun from the Gem’s hand. The sudden movement must startle Ash, because he fires, the noise fracturing the air. The Gem yelps and clutches his shoulder.
I clasp the girl’s arm, no thicker than a bird’s leg. “Follow me.”
We dash downstairs, scanning the empty rooms—furniture tipped over, carpets glittering with glass fragments, bedsheets stained with blood. No signs of life—Imp or Gem. We stumble into the display room. Again, only ghosts remain.
“Go home,” I say to the girl.
She nods, tears gathering in her eyes. “Thank you.” She scuttles from the room.
Ash and I stand alone, listening to the music and the sound of our own breath. His hands tremble and the gun knocks rhythmically against his thigh.