True Born

by L. E. Sterling

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Margot turns to Torch with a carefully blank expression. “Our father called to let us know they’ll be home next week.”

  “With company,” I add through gritted teeth.

  “Huh,” Torch says, quickly hiding whatever emotion he might be experiencing.

  A creeping sense of embarrassment washes over me as I look down at my baby blue pajamas. “Well,” I say with fake cheer, “I suppose I’d better get ready for school.”

  I’m only at the second floor landing when I barrel into Jared, who’s leaning against the wall in a classic Jared pose, arms and legs crossed. He grabs my shoulders, preventing me from running away.

  “Whoa. Haven’t we been in this position before?”

  I keep my eyes on his black shirt with its yellow and orange lettering, Bad Kitty. “I’ve got to get ready for school.”

  There’s a teasing note in his voice as he drawls, “Yes, well, I think many a young lad would love it if you showed up in those jammies.”

  A smile creases Jared’s eyes, sky blue this morning. He pulls on one of the thin straps of my top. My skin ignites under his calloused fingers. And maybe he notices, because he pulls back and gulps a deep breath, releasing me.

  “So your mom and dad are on their way home, huh?”

  “How did you—never mind.” I shake my head. I know better than to ask.

  “Hey, did you sleep at all last night?” He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him.

  “Sure. Some.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “Not really.” I glare up at him and pull my chin from his hands. My dreams are my secret, the one thing I don’t even share with Margot.

  But Jared just laughs. “Been dreaming of me, have you? Don’t answer that. Hurry up, though. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

  Besides, I think as I glide past a glaring Jared, the dream is always the same, a variation on the first. Jared and Storm flank me. The blond woman comes forward, her sightless eyes trained on me as though she sees me with some other sense. Margot screams and batters at the glass while wave after wave of bodies shatter against the gate.

  I see the threads, the blond woman murmurs, over and over again. She reaches out to stroke my cheek. But last night, just as her fingers brushed my skin, her mouth opened into a round “o.” She glanced down, surprised. A hook protruded from her chest. A winding river of blood flowed down her chest, trickling from her mouth as she gasped for breath, a fish pulled from water. Storm tilted his head back and roared as though he would tear the world apart.

  If this is what being a True Born is, I think darkly, I would almost rather be a Splicer.

  ...

  I’m testy and out of sorts as we head for gym class across the quad that spans the back of the school. The air is white, as though the sky has been eaten by a cloud, and chilly, too—almost too cold for our short-skirted gym uniforms and calf-high socks. Ten-foot fences topped with barbed wire stretch around each side of the quad, broken only by a single gate guarded by a man in an academy uniform. He holds the standard-issue semi-automatic loosely before him. They don’t post many men around back, since it’s far more difficult to get to and even harder to breach.

  Some of the girls titter as we pass the beefy guard, his muscles flexed tight against the drab navy blue fabric of his uniform. He doesn’t look our way, doesn’t move an inch from his position.

  A month ago Margot would have teased him mercilessly. She would have batted her eyelashes and asked if she could feel his bicep. Today she doesn’t even look his way. The realization of just how much my sister has changed jars me. I take her hand and squeeze. She squeezes back, the bond between us filling and stretching with something infinite and sweet. A second later she presses two fingers into my wrist. We stop. She flicks her other finger to the fence, to a group of buildings just off the school grounds that shades the paved back alley. There stands a boy.

  He’s in dirty, cut-off shorts too cool for this weather. I reckon his shirt used to be white at one point, now permanently grimy, as is his face. I recognize the dark clumps of hair, the bright eyes that pierce us with the hungry, lean look of a young wolf.

  “What’s he doing here?” Margot whispers fiercely.

  I shake my head and tug at my sister’s hand. Dread washes through me, some mine, some Margot’s. I force it down, swallow hard.

  I glance around. The guard is still there but not paying a lick of attention to the boy. Probably thinks he’s just another hungry Laster. Sometimes the kids of people who used to work for one of our families come to the school looking for handouts when things go sour. Security ignores those cases. But this isn’t one of those, and there’s no one outside except us girls, about ten of us in all, sashaying to the far side of the yard for a game of quadball.

  He disappears. Casting my eyes around the courtyard, I see nothing amiss. The guard is still there, lazily snapping at his fingers and staring into space. I try to take a deep breath and relax as my sister and I step up to play with the other girls. But the back of my neck prickles with dread.

  Something isn’t right.

  Not a minute later I’m distracted by the sound of fingers trailing heavily across the metal eyes of the fence with a distinct sound, like a snake’s rattle. It’s the boy, who comes toward us with a gleam in his eye I’d as soon call unfriendly. I move back, pulling Margot with me, but he shadows us. He keeps one hand on the fence the entire time, as though he can touch us through the metal links.

  I hear Margot’s indrawn breath. And a pop of shock courses through me as I stare into the hollow eyes of a dirty, smiling Preacher man.

  Chapter Twenty

  Most Lasters look old before their time, especially if they’re hungry a lot. This one is something else. Preacher man’s face is dissected into lines that frame his mouth and eyes as he grins, slow and lazy. He wears a coarse brown poncho, cinched together with rope, that falls to calf-length. Beneath this pokes faded pants and sneakers that have seen better days. On his head is a faded orange ball cap that hides the thinning hair. But there’s no mistaking this man.

  Preacher men like to set themselves apart. Most go around in Old Timey black suits and white collars. This one is different, but I reckon I’ve known that from the first time he clapped his eyes on us.

  “You know who I am.” It’s a question but not, said in slow, unhurried tones. I reckon we’re struck mute, horrified. The boy bounces his hands off the links of the fence beside the Preacher man, annoyed. But the Preacher ignores his young sidekick to study us. “No? I’m Father Wes. So delighted to meet you ladies.” He rocks back and forth on his feet.

  Frantic, I look behind me. The guard doesn’t move, won’t even look our way. Has he been paid off? The girls are too far away now to be any use to us, too busy with their shrieks and laughs. Margot pulls my hand, a sure sign we should flee. A second later, I see them, too. Tall men. Big men. The burly one wears a white shirt as streaked with dirt as the boy’s. His chest is unusually thick with muscles, his face flushed red under a cap of brown curls. The other is a dark mountain of a man, midnight skin against a brown sweater that strains across his arms and chest. He cracks his knuckles and one side of his mouth ticks up in a smile as they amble toward us…inside the gate.

  “I reckon you want something from us, Preacher,” I say, bold as daylight.

  “Very perceptive of you, Miss Fox. May I call you Margot? Or Lucy?”

  “No, you may not,” I reply sweetly.

  His head tips back to laugh, rocking again on his feet, back, forth. “Oh, I do so enjoy a fiery spirit, Miss Fox. Very well. Shall I tell you a secret?” he says in a stagey whisper and leans in to the gate. Close up I can see bloodshot streaks in his mad eyes. He reeks of corn syrup and pure alcohol and B.O.

  And we’re trapped. We have nowhere to run.

  “How do you know who we are? What do you want from us?”

  Father Wes raises his arms wide. “Same as everybody! I w
ant to evolve, ladies.”

  Evolve or die. The words shiver through me. But now the simple phrase is packed with a whole new significance. “I don’t see how we can help you with that, sir, and we’d like to be on our way.”

  He chuckles for an answer. “Oh, now, you’re going to make me give away my secrets for free. Although, I reckon I’m a bit surprised no one has told you.”

  Margot twitches. Her panic makes it hard for either of us to concentrate. I close my eyes for an all-important second, willing myself to relax before I speak again.

  “Why don’t you say, then?”

  He chuckles again, telegraphing something to the men who halt a foot behind us. “I reckon I owe you that. Before the Plague I used to be a mechanic. Did you know that, Misses Fox? Used to build all sorts of things. Machines to clean things, machines to make life easier. Cars. Engines. Then the Plague came and took my family. My wife, two of my sons. And I fell into despair.” Father Wes bows his head, his fists clenched.

  Beside him, his boy remains unblinking, unmoving. More how I expect one of the lost ones to act. Father Wes, on the other hand, is like one of those preachers you sometimes see on the Feed. Preachers with a crowd of Lasters at their feet, everyone looking for the same miraculous cure the preacher is hocking.

  “Then I was visited by the Almighty,” Father Wes continues. “He came to me in a vision, He did, and He told me to visit a witch, a very special witch who had something important to tell me. So I used up the last of my money to find this witch. I bribed everybody I came across to give her away. Eventually I found her. Sweet little thing. And she did indeed have something to tell me.” Father Wes hooks his fingers through the metal links. His eyes blaze with a ferocious light.

  Fear makes my voice gravelly and odd. “What, then? Since you’ll make us listen anyway.”

  “She told me there were children to be born. Two children, born of one skin, one flesh. A door and its threshold. Special children in a world where children would be special.”

  Margot and I share a sidelong glance. “You mean us.”

  “I do.”

  “What’s so special about us?”

  Preacher man smiles like a crocodile. “These children will be our salvation, the witch says to me. Our way forward out of the Plague that had struck us down. Once the Plague has purged the world of evil men these children would be revealed in the light of the Almighty. Says we can draw a path to the future with their blood. For blood is the answer, blood is the divine holy river, the Flood that shall deliver us.”

  It’s in the blood. Evolve or die.

  “How do you know it’s us?” Margot pipes up. The preacher man scrunches up his face like he’s hearing bird song. She clears her throat and starts again, more loudly. “How do you know this story is about us? There must be hundreds of twins in the world. I reckon it’s a little too easy to think your mystery twins are going to be right here in Dominion, don’t you?” Margot looks to me.

  My head bobs in agreement. “Right. Absolutely.”

  “You’re questioning the workings of the Divine?” Father Wes leans in, his voice rising. “You’re questioning the Almighty?”

  “N-no.” Margot retreats but ends up in the belly of the mountain man. She shrieks and tries to bolt but he grabs her shoulder. His fingers dig into her flesh with one hand, and with the other he circles her neck, cutting off her oxygen.

  “Stop it, you’re hurting her!” I scream. Margot’s face flushes red. I claw at his arms with one hand and pluck at the invisible arm that chokes at my windpipe with the other. Sparks dance across my eyes, the brightness that comes before the darkness. I cling to consciousness by a thread.

  And through the fog I hear the Preacher man’s cackle. “You’re right, of course,” he drawls. “But the Almighty likes it when we try to figure things out for ourselves.”

  A shadow turns the air cold. I barely see the knife as the burly man slashes a long line down my forearm. It takes a second before the stinging takes root, like a nightmare you can’t claw your way out from. Father Wes says something, but I can’t hear him through the blood pounding in my ears. The air stirs with the scent of my blood, which drips carelessly to the ground. Burly man fiddles with a little vial to collect drops. I have enough sense to roll over, using my other hand to put pressure on the wound.

  A low growl shakes the air from behind the two men. Our breath comes back in a rush as mountain man releases Margot and steps away from me. We both sprawl on the ground, which is how I catch a glimpse of the monster behind our would-be captors.

  This time there’s no pretense of the human. They’ve been gone such a long time all I have to go on is half-forgotten books. But Jared is what he is: a panther on human legs. Thick black fur sprouts over ears that lay almost flat back on his head. His face is symmetrical and perfect, the long, flat bridge of his nose ending in a perfect snarl and long whiskers. The unearthly green eyes never leave his prey as he crouches on two legs. His hands are wicked claws, his arms coated in a fine mat of hair that looks soft to the touch. But there’s no doubt: this man-beast, at least seven feet tall, is going to kill today.

  He screams and the air rips to shreds. Jared wouldn’t hurt us intentionally, but it wouldn’t hurt to get out of his way. I reach over and tap Margot’s leg, willing her to run. She stirs, eyes opening with a dreamy expression as she rolls over and takes Jared in.

  One-handed, I drag Margot a foot before she catches on a rock. Something rips, probably her tall sock, and she leaves behind a smear of red. From this vantage point it’s easier to track what’s happening: Jared remains still as a picture in a low crouch. Burly man considers him like he’s an interesting bug. Then mountain man reaches into the waistband of his black pants and pulls out something shiny.

  “Jared, gun!” It’s all I have time to yell before the air crackles with gunfire. I look to see if Jared has been hit, but he’s not there any longer. My head swivels frantically, searching for him even as I yank at Margot’s arm. At least the shot seems to wake her up a bit. Margot grabs at her head and pulls her legs in to her chest. Progress.

  Preacher man and his boy stand there, grim faced, as mountain man waves his pistol around. “You missed, moron,” Preacher man spits. “Did you get the samples?” The guard has vanished from his post. I can’t see the other girls, either.

  In the next heartbeat hell breaks loose. Jared lands on mountain man with a satisfying thwump. They tumble down in a pile of black on black, rolling on top of one another. The gun goes skittering across the pavement. I don’t realize Margot has seen it, too, until she pinches her cheek, and I follow her eyes to the little black object. Would it be so hard? her eyes plead. Burly raises an enormous foot and stomps on the tangled heap of men. A masculine cry is followed by a string of swear words I’ve never heard before. Out of the corner of my eye, Margot shifts and stretches out as though she’s injured. Stretches again.

  I have my eyes on the men, so I am surprised as anyone when a pair of feathered legs appear before me. I blink.

  “Who let you in here?” I slur at the figure I wish I’d never set eyes on again.

  It’s the falcon man from Senator Kain’s party. He stares down at Margot’s body with huge, glassy eyes. In daylight his nose is so narrow and hooked I wonder how he can breathe. He raises his arms. Soft-looking feathered wings trailing beneath skinny biceps that I know are far stronger than they appear. He looks like he’s going to jump. His feathered legs end in electric blue running shoes with fluorescent yellow stripes on the side. In the blink of an eye he cracks one into Burly’s chest, knocking the man a good five feet away. A huge red wet spot appears on Burly’s white shirt. For a moment I think he’s been shot until I take in the shattered glass lying on the pavement. Good, I think to myself. Preacher man will not get his sample today. Burly shakes off the hit and slowly sits up. Blood spurts from a massive gash over his eye, his nose, a cut on his lip. Margot moves again and stops.

  A shadow towers over us. My ey
es travel up the lightweight, severe suit, the unruly ends of non-descript brown hair and a black silk eye patch. Standing with one foot on the gun. And a hair’s breadth from Margot’s fingers.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing?” Richardson says to Margot with a slight upturn of his lip. The falcon man has knocked Burly down again, whose neck now cricks at a sickening angle. Then the birdman turns his attention on Jared and the midnight man. I reckon the Preacher and his boy saw which way the wind was blowing, because they seem to have melted away. Richardson picks up the gun and fires it between his falcon man’s arms and legs.

  He doesn’t care, I realize. He’ll hit them all. Making a split second decision, I rush at Richardson and hang off his other arm, but I’m too late. A grunt, then two, as the gun explodes. Richardson shakes me loose, and I fall. My screams echo through the yard like they’ve come from someone else.

  Falcon man drags the corpse of the human mountain off Jared’s stunned form. I’m preoccupied, watching for the telltale heave of Jared’s chest, so I’m taken by surprise when Richardson grabs my arms and pulls me to my feet.

  “Don’t fight, Miss Fox,” he murmurs hotly in my ear. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

  A burst of light fills my peripheral vision. Richardson and I both turn. Five feet away, Torch melts through the metal links of the fence as though they’re made of ice. As he steps through the burned fence into the melee he shimmers like a mirage in the late afternoon sun. Scorched links poke through his clenched fists like brass knuckles. He swings one of these at the falcon man, who steps back from the black-clad corpse. Torch grabs one of the man’s feathered wings. Falcon man shrieks something inhuman and tries to pull away. The stench of scorched feathers gathers in my nose. A section of falcon man’s wing falls away in Torch’s grasp.