black tiger (Black Tiger Series Book 1)

by Sara Baysinger

  And that. THAT is why I shove down my grief, swallow my anger, and force myself to look at Career Day tomorrow as a brand new opportunity full of wonderful possibilities.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After a dinner of baked apples and sliced apples and juiced apples and apple-everything, I take our family I.D. card and head toward the square to pick up our rations. Up ahead, our neighbor Leaf walks toward the square.

  “Leaf,” I call over the wind.

  He turns and grins at me. “Hey, girl.”

  “Wait up.” I race to catch up.

  Leaf is exactly how one would picture a boy named leaf to appear: A paper-thin boy, flapping in the wind with wiry arms and bird legs, and he’s really not any taller than me. His ivory wool shirt is too baggy, and his brown cotton pants are rolled up at the ankles, making him look even more dwarfish than he already is.

  Just as I’m about to catch up, he turns around and starts jogging. “I’ll race ya.”

  “What?” I pant. “I just caught up!”

  But he’s already jogging ahead of me, so I break into a sprint, renewed adrenaline coursing through my veins, and it’s not long before I’m passing him.

  Running. It’s my escape. My heart rate slowly picks up with each step, detoxing the anxiety of tomorrow from my bloodstream. Inhale. Exhale. Replenish bad air for good.

  Everything’s going to be okay.

  But while I run, thoughts of tomorrow weave through my mind the way the wind weaves through my hair. And the fear makes the veins tighten around my heart and I run more quickly, breathe harder, make my blood pump through my veins faster until a calming presence demolishes all my fears. And I know everything’s going to be okay.

  Because sometimes. Sometimes I think there’s something bigger out there. Something—or someone so elusive yet so incredibly present, knowing my deepest thoughts and wildest motives and most terrifying fears and unreachable hopes. I think this, because I feel this overwhelming presence. In the rarest moments, in the quiet, when I’m alone there’s a pull. A whisper of the unknown begging to be known. And I want so badly to reach out and grasp it—but I don’t. I can’t. Because calling out to nothing is certifiably insane, and I’m not crazy.

  So I pull back. I blink away this feeling and push away the presence while clinging to the hope that it will return.

  And maybe…maybe someday I will reach out to this incredible being. I will hold onto this overwhelming power.

  And I won’t let go.

  When I reach the town square I slow to a jog, then hunch over and plant my hands on my knees, drag air into my starving lungs. Leaf trots up behind me, his own breathing as heavy as mine.

  I straighten and grin at him. “Beat ya.”

  “Holy Crawford,” he says between breaths. “Everything’s a competition with you, ain’t it?”

  “Hey, it was your idea to race.”

  “You weren’t s’posed to win, though.”

  “I always win.”

  He laughs and tugs my ponytail. “Don’t get too cocky now, Ember-girl.”

  “Oh come on, Leaf. Let me bask in the glory just a bit longer. Being the fastest girl in the Garden is really the only achievement I have to my name.”

  He chuckles and locks his hands behind his head, dragging in another breath. “You in a hurry to go home tonight?” His brown hair is too shaggy, whipping in the wind that sweeps in from the east.

  “So I can sit in bed and sulk about tomorrow? Yeah, no thanks. Why?”

  “We should hang out at The Tap or something.”

  “What, you don’t think you’ll ever get a free drink again when we’re gone?” I offer a wicked grin.

  “Not me. I’m not nearly as persuasive as you. Just one look at you and Judd fills whatever order you command.” He snorts and shakes his head. “And so does practically everyone else.”

  “Hanging at The Tap actually sounds divine.” Anything sounds better than returning home only to lie in bed wide awake, dreading tomorrow. Honestly, just thinking about Career Day makes me want to puke.

  “So,” Leaf says as we walk toward the courthouse. “You ready to be drafted into the Line of Defenders?”

  “Um, no? Why do you say that?”

  “Because that’s what happens. Every year. Almost everyone’s given a career as a Defender. Last year it was over half the group. Remember?”

  I did notice that last year. “Why would Ky need more Defenders of the Peace? They already have more than they need patrolling every corner. There’s no war going on—”

  “At least not that we’re aware of.” He glances at me and arches a thick brow. “But the government doesn’t really tell us much, now do they?”

  No. They don’t. The only news we receive is posted on the town square board every week, and it’s usually about the upcoming weather so we farmers can prepare. Occasionally it lists the names of notorious criminals scheduled for executions, rebels who verbalize their opinions a bit too loudly, or thieves who succumb to stealing food just before they starve to death. Those of us living in the Community Garden actually have it kind of easy because when our rations run out, we can always slip a bit of food from our own harvest inconspicuously. City folk don’t have that luxury.

  “So,” I say. “You’ve completely resigned yourself to the Line of Defenders?”

  “I don’t know.” Leaf drags his hand down the length of his face. “But I’m screwed if I do.” He looks at me and smirks. “I mean, I’m not gonna let them make me fight for a cause I know nothin’ about. There’s no way.”

  “You won’t really have a choice, though.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll resist them.”

  “Whoa. That’s, um, ballsy.” I let out a choked laugh, but he’s not smiling. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, and if I didn’t know him any better, I would think he was dead serious. Because Leaf is in no condition to resist Defenders. But I know Leaf and I understand his wry humor. “They won’t pick you,” I say, trying to ease the tension.

  “Um. Why not?”

  “Because, look at you.” I look him up and down and lift a mocking brow. “You’d be, like, an apple tree standing among a bunch of great Oaks.”

  His mouth drops open, then he clamps it shut and crosses his skinny little arms over his skinny little chest. “Wow, Ember. What a way to make me feel like a wimp.”

  I cringe. “You’re not a wimp. I mean. I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

  “And a good job you’re doing.”

  Better to just stop talking.

  We have to wait in line to receive our rations. Each of our families gets a large crate that’s supposed to—but doesn’t—last us through the month. We gather our rations, then we head over to The Tap.

  The Tap is really the only place where we can spend our meager Coins of Good Service. It’s funny how food is so scarce in the country, but alcohol flows as freely as rain from the sky. As long as you have the Coins of Good Service to purchase them, you can get as many drinks as you want. I guess it’s the government’s way of patting us on the back and apologizing for our pathetic existence.

  Smoky air hits me as we step inside. The light is dim, and someone plays a loud upbeat melody on the piano. This bar isn’t nearly as nice as The Roaring Lion, the new tavern on the north side of the square. The Roaring Lion has a smooth silver floor and colorful lights hanging from the ceiling and a purifier to clear the smoke out instantly. Instead of an old, out-of-tune piano, music streams in from the city.

  But The Tap matches the farmers’ spirits more. I like the old smoky smell, even though I don’t smoke. The piano has been here all my life, and the out-of-tune music has grown on me. The red tile floor is chipped, and some of the lights flicker, but this place is home.

  “Well, well. If it ain’t some of the finest young folks running this part of the Garden,” a toothless old man says, tipping his straw hat.

  “Hi John,” I say. He raises cows to provide milk and meat for the city. Sometimes he’
s kind enough to slip us some milk in return for some fresh apples. This is just another reason I love The Tap: I know everyone here.

  Well, almost everyone.

  My eyes are drawn to a taller boy sitting on a stool by the bar. His short hair is the color of gold, and his skin has the undertone of butter. He must not live here, because I would immediately recognize features like those. For a moment I wonder if he’s the delegate, but his clothes are rugged and worn, nothing like the neat black slacks and vests delegates and politicians wear.

  I follow Leaf through the crowd toward the bar. We set our boxes on the floor and sit two benches down from the stranger.

  Judd’s unruly beard parts to reveal a yellow-toothed smile when he sees us.

  “Can we have one Viper’s Tongue?” I ask, remembering Leaf’s favorite drink. “And plain old water for me.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I grin. For reasons I still don’t understand—I think because Mom passed away and Judd was fond of her—Judd always gives me exactly what I want, no Coins of Good Service necessary. It’s why Leaf always insists on accompanying me here: free drinks.

  Judd looks at Leaf as he begins to fill the order. “You celebrating ‘fore the big day tomorrow?”

  “Celebrating?” Leaf’s lips twist into a disgusted smirk. “What’s there to celebrate, exactly?”

  Judd shrugs. “Well, don’t drink too much. Don’t want your head pounding the moment you’re called to your career. Want to leave a good impression, y’know?”

  “Don’t worry about us, Judd,” Leaf says. “I think we’re ready for whatever tomorrow smacks us with. But let’s not ruin the fun.” He looks at me, lifts his drink, and grins. “Tonight, we drink.”

  I try to smile back, but my face is broken, the muscles in my lips refusing to be drawn up in a smile when my soul feels completely shattered. The upbeat music fades into the back of my mind at the brutal reminder that I might never see Leaf or the Community Garden or––even worse––my family again.

  Leaf drinks, then strikes up a conversation with Judd about how shoddy our luck will be if we’re all drafted into the Line of Defenders, to which Judd responds that if more Defenders are what the chief wants, then there must be good reason for having them.

  And I have to set my glass down, swallow the tears burning the back of my throat, and stare at the stained bar. Because I really don’t want to be a Defender. And Leaf really really doesn’t want to be a Defender. But neither of us have an option to which career we get. It’s the way the world works—our punishment for overpopulation.

  The White Plague struck. It wiped out every last heartbeat on this continent, and every survivor found their way here––which used to be a slice of what was known as Kentucky. Our tiny country is surrounded by rivers on every side. No one wants to venture across the rivers or even to the edge of the city, which is nothing but a ghost town. No one wants to see what’s left of our ruins. No one wants to risk getting what lingers of the plague when they’re safe here.

  And as a reward for our cowardice, we have to obey the laws of the government. We have to accept our careers with gratitude. It’s not what I want, but it’s the way it has to be to keep the balance of the government.

  Someone clears his throat beside me, snapping me back to the present. The blond boy who sat two benches down has moved beside me, a bottle in hand, and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen focused right on me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I say the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, but they're the only blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Like two buckets filled to the brim with water. Dad told me there used to be people with blue eyes and blond hair and skin white as milk, but they’re creeping to extinction. I thought they were already gone. I mean, when they piled all the un-plagued into this tiny little country, our ancestors interbred, their genes merging until everyone came out olive-skinned with dark brown hair and brown eyes.

  But this guy clearly came out of another gene pool.

  He clears his throat. “Did you… um… pay for that?” He looks at my glass of water.

  Fresh water is a commodity around here, and, no, I didn’t pay for it. And this stranger didn’t miss a thing. Oh, rot. This is usually a safe place. Judd never charges us. But this guy is foreign. With one word, he could have the Defenders on me in an instant. My heart trips over itself, and I quickly try to come up with an excuse or some flirty pick-up line or something to get me out of this mess, but his eyes light with a hint of humor, and he laughs.

  “Don’t worry.” He grins, revealing the straightest, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “I’m not going to smoke you out.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and my heart sort of remembers how to beat. “Holy Crawford,” I breathe. “You—you really scared me.”

  I could go to prison for stealing if the Defenders knew I didn’t pay for this. And people who go to prison NEVER get out. Ky does not tolerate disobedience to the law, no matter how big or small the crime. It’s how they keep complete control.

  The boy takes a drink from his bottle, then holds out his hand. “I’m Forest.”

  I take his long fingers briefly in mine. “Ember.” It’s safer to remain on a first name basis.

  “Ember. You from here?”

  “Yes. My dad owns––oversees––the apple orchard. But you’re obviously not from here.”

  His eyebrows are two slices of gold arching up. “How can you tell?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone with hair that light… or eyes that blue… or…” Stop. I’m rambling. He is really good looking, with a well-defined chin and sculpted lips. I mean, he looks like a picture I want to paint.

  Am staring. Look away.

  He laughs softly and takes another swig from his bottle. “I’m from the city.”

  I figured as much. Besides his foreign looks, his accent is different. More clipped than the farmers’ around here. Of course he’s from the city.

  “What brings you to the Garden?” I ask.

  He sets his bottle down. “I’m, uh, landscaping.”

  I could have guessed he was a builder. His arms are strong and beautifully built, attesting his hard work. “Where are you landscaping?”

  “On the north side of the Community Garden. Miles away by the strawberry fields.”

  “Ah. But the strawberry fields are way up north. Why are you here? Isn’t The Roaring Lion closer to where you work?”

  “Yes, but, you know…” He glances at the ceiling. “Cameras. I would rather not be watched when I’m off the clock, you know?”

  “Oh.” Of course. The Roaring Lion, with all its new technology, would have cameras hooked in every corner of the ceiling. “It won’t be long before they put cameras in here, too.”

  “Yeah… might be a good thing though, yes?” he says.

  “Why?” Why would cameras ever be a good thing?

  “They keep the violence under control.”

  “Well, this place doesn't get very violent.”

  “I can see that.” He leans in closer. “But if there are any criminals about, the government would need to know. How else would they find them unless there are cameras everywhere?”

  I can’t tell if he’s kidding or serious. I’m so used to being around people I know and who know me and who I can trust completely, that I’m stumbling for words around Forest because he’s a stranger. How am I supposed to act around a stranger? Can I trust him? Can I tell him everything I’m thinking and trust him to keep a secret? Or do I shut down?

  “Most criminals aren’t really criminals,” I say, testing the grounds.

  “No? What are they, then?” His eyes are inquiring, but not accusing.

  “Just… people with opinions. People who want to speak their mind instead of bend beneath the will of the government.”

  He jerks his head back, as though this is the first he’s heard such a rebellious statement. Should’ve kept my mouth shut. But the spark leaves his eyes, and he gives a casual shrug befo
re taking another drink from his bottle.

  “So you’re one of those people who thinks the government’s out to get us.” He chuckles and shakes his head like I’m some stupid child.

  My walls of defense come up. “No.”

  “No?” He looks at me, his beautiful blue eyes narrowed.

  I sigh. Time to cover up my tracks before Mr. Loyalist here calls the Defenders on me.

  “I-I’ve just heard other people talk about the conspiracies.” Mainly my dad, but Forest doesn’t need to know that.

  “Conspiracies?” he asks. “What sort of… conspiracies?”

  “You know.” I shrug and stare at the rough wood of the table. “The usual.”

  “The usual?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “And what, exactly, is the… usual?”

  I chew the tip of my tongue and peek at him. His questions seem more like inquiries than accusations. He’s smiling and possibly a bit tipsy from whatever he’s drinking, so maybe he won’t even remember this conversation tomorrow.

  Leaning forward, I rest my elbow on the bar and prop my chin on my fist. “Tell me, Forest the Builder, what would happen if you objected to the career given you?”

  He offers a no-nonsense sort of smile. “I wouldn't do that. I appreciate that the government gives us jobs and food and shelter.”

  Eye-roll. Such a brown-nosing answer that pretty much everyone gives out of sheer fear.

  “But, like, what would happen if you had refused your career?” I suddenly realize I sound entirely too much like Elijah.

  “If I refused my career?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  He sets his jaw. “I’d get arrested.”

  “Exactly.” I straighten, slap the table with my hand, resting my case. “We have to do the work Ky gives us, or we die. Not only that, but we’re paid with meager rations of food that, as of the past year, have been late. Though they sugar-coat our status as Proletariats, those of us with brains know we’re all slaves working away for Chief Whitcomb—”

  “Careful.” Forest cuts me off with a dangerously quiet voice. All humor is gone from his eyes, and I clamp my overly loud mouth shut. Maybe I shouldn’t be speaking so freely to Mr. Builder.