True North

by L. E. Sterling

  “Sorry, kid.”

  Serena sighs. “The streets have gone blank.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Carl breaks in with his gravelly voice, “all the preacher’s mice have scurried away to their little hidey-holes and won’t come out.” He waggles his fingers.

  “Where? You mean the old tunnels?”

  Carl shrugs. “Could be the subways. Who knows? Maybe they’ve found their way in with the rats.”

  “Can’t be,” I say. “Those have been sealed off for years now.” Carl’s sharp look tells me I’m wrong.

  Disappointment ripples through me. Father Wes has played a major hand in my current fate. If you count bringing an army of Lasters to my family home and destroying it with magic bombs, that is. I reckon he’ll have yet a bigger part to play in the days to come, if my instincts ring true. It’s not just my life he’s made miserable, either. Serena’s mother was once in the hands of this preacher man. It was she who told Father Wes a fortune-teller’s tale about twin girls who would save Dominion from the Plague.

  Serena’s mother was never seen or heard from again.

  My voice turns tight and coarse. “We have to do something.”

  I might have gone on if my own personal shadow didn’t saunter into the room at that second, in that particularly feline way of his, and lean up against the door. I used to think Jared was a slob, casual and detached in his sandals and ripped trousers and funny T-shirts.

  I know better now.

  “We are doing something.” His words are casual but his shoulders are tight, his eyes glittering almost to green so I know he’s on edge. “We’re keeping you away from him, Princess. When you do your part.”

  “It’s the funniest thing,” I throw back. “From where I’m standing it looks like you’re sitting on your thumbs and throwing orders around.”

  Jared grins wide. “I think of it more as a casual toss.”

  I groan and glare at him, not completely over this morning’s disagreement. “You’re impossible.”

  “Glad you think so, Princess.”

  “Oh, stuff it, Price.” Serena snorts. “As if any of this is Lu’s fault.”

  “Do I really need to go through security protocols with you, too, Serena?”

  Carl hisses low in his throat. “Do I really need to make you eat a fur ball, kitty?”

  “Ripe coming from you.”

  Fur standing on end, Carl rises. He may not be very tall, but he’s thick, a wall of marmalade muscle and fur. But Jared is deadly. When he uncrosses his arms, I know there will be trouble. I cross the room to stand in front of Jared. As I near, his nostrils flare and his eyes flash. I watch as he blinks, my nearness temporarily short-circuiting him. I take advantage of this and quickly push Jared into the hallway, shutting the door behind us.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  A shine of green parades across those beautiful eyes of his. A subtle shift crawls across his face. I become aware that my hands still press on his chest when I feel the heavy thread of his heart beneath my fingers. I start to say his name, to try to get us beyond this awkwardness, but he stretches a finger across my lips.

  “Don’t ruin it,” he says with something darker speaking through his eyes.

  “Ruin wha—”

  I’m shushed when his lips brush down over mine, just light enough to electrify every square inch of my flesh. He presses his forehead to mine. Then breathes deeply, as though he’s run a race, and stretches his hand lightly across my mouth. But he says nothing more. Just holds me there, as though it’s the most exquisite torture. Which it is, for me. Jared has gone out of his way not to touch me, not to get too close, since the day I came to live in Storm’s keep. His kiss feels like a drug I’ve long been denied. And whether I admit it or not, I am addicted to Jared Price.

  My heart pounds a drumbeat against his chest, and my head spins with confusion. Up close I can see lines of strain around Jared’s eyes. The fine lines striating his perfect, slightly parted lips. A small scar near the side of his mouth from a long-ago encounter. I can smell his skin: baked heat from the day mixed with that scent of his, cinnamon and forest.

  Jared licks his lips. “You need to listen to me, Lu. For your own safety. Not because I’m telling you to. Do you get that?”

  I nod, but truth be told, my brain has been taken offline. Under his fingers my mouth grows parched, my body an electrical wire. I start to say something in reply. Jared’s eyes, which had gone vague and faraway, sharpen tightly on me as though I’ve pulled a gun.

  A moment later, he spins away and disappears down the hall. My body revolts from the loss of him. I slump down the wall and wait for my legs to grow bones again.

  The shadow that has eclipsed my heart has run away from me once more. I want to be angry with him. I want to chase him down the hall. I want to scream at him to never touch me like that again. I’m not the type of girl who becomes obsessed with men who ignore her, and I don’t intend to start now. I used to pity those girls, Margot among them. But this feeling—the one I get every time he looks at me and touches me or says my name—it isn’t rational, it isn’t logical. And as much as he tries to suppress it to focus on his job, I know Jared feels it, too.

  3

  I haven’t been back to my former school, Grayguard Academy, since everything happened. Haven’t seen or spoken to anyone from the school in weeks. Still, I find myself crossing paths with that old life more times than I care to.

  I’m making a difference, I remind myself as I stare into the beefy jowls of Colonel Deakins. I’ve known the colonel since I was a baby. His son, Robbie, is—was—one of my oldest friends. Had everything not gone as it did, I believe that my father might have eventually agreed to let Robbie court Margot, though perhaps not marry.

  We’re in the living room that the colonel is fond of telling people is an exact replica of the house in Africa his ancestors owned. An antlered deer stares moodily down at me from its perch on the wall, resting beside a stuffed and mounted zebra that tosses its decapitated head in perpetual dismay. It reminds me so much of Mohawk that I wonder why it doesn’t buck loose and go on a rampage. Here and there are long-limbed wooden figurines that look smooth as silk. Two Zulu spears cross over a shield on the far wall, just next to a tartan plaid and an oil painting of a bald, rotund man with a monocle in Victorian British fatigues. How much did it cost the Deakinses to remodel their history? Even the air smells like a British colonial house: dead animal and cigar smoke and that strange, crepe-like smell of age and the stench of unholy power.

  I reckon my mother would know.

  Colonel Deakins has gone all out for our visit; he’s donned his black and scarlet military uniform for the occasion, the bright gold braid woven tightly around his inflated shoulders. Robbie let it slip one day that the padding is extra thick. The colonel had a bout of the Plague when we kids were still in Primary. It chewed through his shoulder and a good part of his chest before the Splicing took hold.

  Beside him, perched on a gilt and zebra-hide colonial chair, is Robbie’s mother. Margot and I haven’t met her more than once or twice. They say the colonel likes to leave her at home as often as he can.

  “Can I get you something else, dear?” she asks in a friendly enough voice. Fiona Deakins’s eyes are large and blue and faraway. Her skin sits like parchment across her bones, dotted here and there with early liver spots. They say she’s been ill, though they didn’t say what of. Now that I’m seeing her again—and despite the bulk of her gold and cream receiving dress—I can tell it was more than bad manners that had Colonel Deakins leaving her at home.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Deakins, no.” I smile and indicate the half-drunk cup of lemonade perched in my lap. “Mr. Storm should be returning in just a moment.”

  I’m dangled in front of them, my good manners and better breeding on display like a rare animal in a zoo, with nothing but my bodyguard behind me. Granted, I can feel the sizzling heat of Jared’s
eyes as he mercilessly sweeps the room crowded with hunting trophies.

  It’s all part of the plan, of course. And the Deakinses fall headfirst into the trap.

  “Your man seems a right-trained Personal.” The colonel takes the bait, nodding at Jared as though my True Born defender is both deaf and blind.

  He may be as smart as cardboard when it comes to people, but the colonel can read training. Robbie’s dad spent a lifetime in the military before settling down with a wife and an important position in Dominion’s defense cabinet. Though until now I have always wondered why they bothered to spend money on armies when the real enemy is within us, ticking away our lives with all the power of a doomsday clock.

  My smile widens as I indicate with a finger the man behind me. “Oh, Jared? I almost forgot he was there; he’s so quiet,” I confess in appallingly high tones. I add a giggle for good measure, just in case they aren’t getting the message. “I don’t know much about mercs,” I prevaricate. “Our father kept us away from them as much as possible.” I throw in a stern look, showing them in no uncertain terms this is the best way, the only way, to raise proper young Dominion ladies. “But these True Borns do seem rather frightening.” I shiver delicately before placing the crystal cup on a side table and grasping my elbows as if the cold has seeped into my bones.

  It’s not all an act. Storm had me dress for the occasion of our visit, meaning I’m wearing an evening gown with a low-cut bias and no back—and a harassed-looking servant took my wrap at the door. Dominion has been unusually cold since the last Flux storm, with more bouts of rain and even sleet than usual, especially for the spring. Save the giantess in Heaven Square, none of the remaining few trees have begun to sprout, turning the world starker.

  “Oh, you dear!” exclaims Mrs. Deakins, who pops up to call in a servant. The servant casts a short look at Jared’s impressive build before scurrying over to whip up the fire.

  In the larger houses, there’s still wood to be had for fires, though it leaves you with a mark like Cain’s.

  “Aren’t you afraid of attracting…the wrong kind of attention?” I say the words delicately. My gloved fingers curl over my lips as though it’s too much to bear. I don’t call them by name, but the colonel knows exactly who I’m talking about. The Upper Circle has been in a tizzy since the insurrection at my family’s gates, led by the preacher men and followed by hundreds of desperate, hungry Lasters.

  Behind the colonel, Fiona Deakins tuts and shakes her head in commiseration. “Poor darling,” she coos. The colonel kicks back, crossing and uncrossing his skinny legs as though he’s about to tell a good story.

  “Oh, those. Don’t worry about those people.” He says it as though it’s a secret he’s sharing. One Upper Circler to another.

  I make my eyes go wide and guileless. “Why not?”

  His fist bangs the armrest of his high-backed chair. “We’ve routed those godless bastards,” he says smugly. I’m surely not the only one who catches Fiona Deakins’s sidelong glance of disgust at her husband. But even I’m a bit shocked at the casual way he blasphemes the holy ones.

  “George,” Mrs. Deakins warns in a low voice, but I busily paper over it.

  “Please, Colonel. While my parents are out of town I just don’t— If you know something…” I let my voice trail off like wisps of smoke from the funeral pyres.

  The colonel trains a pair of watery, triumphant eyes on me. I suddenly notice how much he has aged in the past few months since I last saw him, though if he’s been heading to the Splicer Clinic, I haven’t heard.

  “My dear, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about the preachers and their ilk for a long while to come. We’ve issued warrants for them all. Shaking in their boots, they are, the whole miserable lot.”

  “Warrants,” I manage to get out. “On all the preacher men?” I am genuinely flummoxed.

  The colonel sits back in his chair and preens while Fiona busies herself with something on the mantel. So, not a popular decision in the Deakins household. Then again, Fiona Deakins wasn’t born to the Upper Circle.

  Fiona Deakins was born Laster.

  Half an hour later, I breathe a heavy sigh and strip off my hot cotton gloves outside the Deakinses’ large colonial home.

  Jared taps his ear and murmurs, “Get what you needed?”

  Storm’s white teeth gleam in the darkness. “We make a good team.” He grins easily and hands me into the black-windowed van that pulls up. Mohawk sits behind the wheel, showing us her sharp teeth and exotic hair. Today she’s even added white stripes to the complicated mess of zigzagged lines shaved into her head, topped off by a swath of longish hair that sports the odd braid here and there.

  I slip into the backseat, boneless and tired. It takes only moments for Jared to vent his ire.

  “It was a stupid plan. Can I kill him? Please? I’ll do all the dishes for a month.”

  “It was an acceptable risk,” Storm argues reasonably, “and it worked.” There’s no mistaking the note of finality in Storm’s voice. Then again, listening is really just not in Jared’s skill set.

  “It was not an acceptable risk,” Jared growls. “Clients stay out of the line of fire. Period.”

  “She’s not a client any longer, Jared.”

  “So what, we’re just going to throw her to those wolves?” The growl in Jared’s voice ramps up, along with my ire.

  “She is right here,” I break in, crisp as apples. It does the trick, bringing two pairs of unnatural eyes to heel. “Don’t speak about me as though I’m not present. I can handle a meeting in an old friend’s living room, Jared, I’m not fine china… But you know, I think you raise an excellent point,” I continue in what Margot calls my boarding-school voice, turning toward Nolan. “What exactly am I to you, Mr. Storm? A pawn? A tool?” I’m getting fed up working without results. This little spider may soon bite back.

  “A friend. A ward.” He says it quickly, surely, with all the confidence of the lord of the jungle behind it. But of course, Nolan Storm has no natural enemies.

  I hear Jared murmur from the darkness of the backseat, “Friends don’t make friends play in the Upper Circle.”

  I chuckle and wonder to myself whether Jared has a T-shirt with that slogan. I think about the other lord of the jungle I grew up with, the king of the Upper Circle—my father. What would he say of this particular juncture? Probably something like: Opportunities should be snatched like the last piece of meat on a Laster’s block. I calm myself. Now is not the time to show my hand.

  “Another good point,” I say after a moment. “So now that we know the government is handling the preacher men, we can think about where we go next. Right?”

  A hand brushing across his chin, Storm nods slowly. “You think the colonel can be trusted?”

  “I think…I think he believes what he says.”

  “Good,” Storm says, though this can be taken in a number of ways. “I think you’re right.”

  “You think it’s not true, then?”

  “No.” Storm turns the full force of his attention on me. I fight not to squirm in my seat like a little girl. “I think you’re right that he believes what he says.”

  “Then you agree—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “He’s a fairly minor player in the cabinet, Lucy. There may be people in the government plotting against the preachers, but it’s sure as hell not the colonel. The right question to ask is why? Why go after the preachers now? It’s been months since the insurrection.”

  Storm has a point. I sink back into the upholstery, disappointment sapping me, and meet Jared’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Not hostile or mocking, as I’d anticipated. He just looks curious, absorbed. I look away as quickly as I can.

  “But why wouldn’t he be telling the truth? And if it’s true, then maybe we can move on to the next objective…” I don’t finish my thought.

  Storm knows what I’m not saying. He knows what I
want. I want my sister. And the fact that he doesn’t answer is as good as any answer. If there’s anything I’ve learned from all these years in the Upper Circle, it’s that people will rarely admit an inconvenient truth. I hear more of my father’s words, raising a shiver down my back. When they stop filling the air with bullshit, your deal is finished. Then you walk away.

  I clear my throat slowly, sitting forward until the light from nearby houses catches my face. The words are mild, but I throw a little Fox behind them. I want Nolan Storm to know that I’m serious.

  “So that’s how it is, is it? I reckon we’ve got some renegotiating to do, Mr. Storm.”

  It’s only later, in the relative safety and darkness of my room in Storm’s soaring sky-rise tower, that I realize the enormity of what I’ve locked myself into. I’ve been helping Storm with his agenda for weeks now. Somehow it didn’t feel as official as it does now. Maybe it would have been better to take my chances with the Upper Circle, I muse before erasing the thought.

  Outside my bedroom window, Dominion City looks as though it’s resting in peace. The odd house still has power. A few months ago—feels like years already—the Lasters took out the power station in Dominion’s north end. From my room I can see the ocean of blackness stretching out before me, the occasional high-rise cresting the darkness.

  Storm’s bunker perches on the top floors of a massive apartment building. The elevator still works, as do the lights, which means it’s one of the premium buildings in Dominion. It also means Storm pays a pretty penny for utilities. Most of the sky creepers, as they’re more affectionately called, stand empty in an emptied core. The ones that are unguarded see their furniture stolen, wood paneling and tiles stripped and pocketed for fuel and black market trades. In Dominion, you’re taught at an early age to watch above you. Sometimes they punch the heavier desks through the windows, only to get stuck. We’ve heard stories of the unsuspecting having their heads lopped off when the heavy objects are finally blown loose during a Flux storm and hurl down from the heavens like a blast of holy Plague fire.