black tiger (Black Tiger Series Book 1)

by Sara Baysinger

  Inconvenient. As if death has ever been a convenience. As if anyone ever thought, hm, I think I’ll just, I don’t know, die to today. I think I’ll just take my life and see what’s on the other side for giggles.

  No. Death is the most terrifying concept next to loneliness. I don’t care how brave and courageous you are, or how unafraid you are of spiders or heights or enclosed spaces, death is the biggest mystery of all and therefore the most terrible fear.

  And I—I am terribly afraid.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rain releases me and begins walking down the hall, his hands shoved into his pockets, and I trot to catch up, careful to stay within the ten-foot, no-shock radius of him.

  “I don’t think I deserve a death on the Rebels Circle.” I look at him, hoping to maybe find some compassion there. “I mean, I didn’t really do anything deliberately against the government.”

  “Of course.” Rain looks at me with limestone eyes—gray and hard and cold. “You’re completely innocent. It was an accident. You did absolutely nothing wrong.”

  I almost feel hopeful, like he believes me and might just vouch for me, but then that mocking grin appears, and my hope deflates.

  “It’s not that bad,” Rain says as we turn down another hall.

  “Getting burned to death?”

  He shrugs. “You’ll most likely pass out by all the smoke before you feel any pain.”

  “Wow.” I force a laugh that sounds more like a choked, strangled cough. “That’s so incredibly reassuring, Rain. Thank you so much for your words of comfort before I die.”

  His lips quirk up into a smile, revealing that dimple—the only thing that makes him look attractive. “Any time, Miss Carter.”

  I cringe at the way he calls me Miss Carter, because that’s what Forest called me.

  Forest, the lying politician.

  Rain gestures a Defender over. “Captain Mcallister.”

  A Defender walks over, chin erect, arms by his side. He is tall and well-built with dark skin, and wears the same red jacket and black slacks of the Defender uniform. He looks surprisingly young. Too young to be wearing so many gold pins.

  “Sir,” he says.

  “Take her to Perseus,” Rain says, taking a thin band off his wrist and handing it to Mcallister. I assume it’s connected to my shock band. “See if he wants to sentence her to the Rebels Circle.”

  Mcallister looks at me now, and apart from Shepherd, he’s the only Defender that’s actually really looked at me. I think I might see a hint of emotion flicker in and out of his eyes, but it’s hard to tell because then he looks back at Rain, once again stoic, and says, “Is she the only one?”

  “The only rebel, yes. The other criminals are headed straight to the black tigers.”

  A shudder rushes down my spine and Rain grins at me.

  “Consider yourself lucky,” he says, his voice almost exuberant. “You get to live a few days longer than the regular criminals.” And with that mocking smirk, he shoves his hands into his pockets and leaves me with Mcallister.

  “Who is that?” I ask, watching Rain as he walks away.

  “He’s one of the highest politician’s sons.” Mcallister leads me down the hall, then up a circular marble stairway. “He has a lot of authority, though he hasn’t chosen a career yet. Too busy getting drunk and having his fun with the girls.”

  Mcallister’s tone drips with disapproval. A Captain answering to someone who doesn’t even have a career yet, just because he is the son of some Big Name, has to be degrading.

  But something else Mcallister says grabs my attention. “He gets to choose his career?”

  “Yes. Patricians have the option to choose.”

  “Well that’s not…really fair.”

  “Life rarely is.”

  His blunt honesty surprises me. He’s nothing like any Defender I’ve ever spoken to, apart from Shepherd. He talks to me like a person instead of a robot. We arrive at the third floor and Mcallister leads me down the hall, showing his I.D. to the Defenders guarding a door.

  “Captain James Mcallister here to see you, sir,” the first Defender says into his white wristband. He presses the earpiece deeper into his ear, then looks at Mcallister and gives a nod. “You may enter.”

  The doors open, and I automatically scan the room. The office is easily two or three times the size of my house. A window runs the length of the opposite wall peering out to the beautiful glass skyscrapers of Frankfort. Two politicians stand behind a black desk, both looking out the window and talking.

  “Congressman Perseus,” Mcallister says as we approach. “We request a moment of your time.”

  The man on the left turns around. He is tall and thin, with coarse white hair and skin that almost looks pink. Brass buttons make their way from his left hip to his right shoulder and his white hair is slicked back.

  He thrusts his arms behind his back and nods at the Defender before sparing a glance at me. “What seems to be the issue, Mcallister?”

  “A rebel, sir,” Mcallister says. “Rain told me to ask you where to put her. Thought she should face her execution on the Rebels Circle.”

  The person standing next to Perseus turns now. Our eyes meet. And my lungs collapse. Because piercing blue eyes pierce through my defenses. And there’s only one person I’ve ever met with hair like gold and eyes like sapphires and he’s standing here and he’s looking right at me.

  And I think—I think I might pass out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I blink, try to clear my focus. But there’s no denying it. The boy standing next to Perseus is Forest.

  Forest the Builder.

  No. Forest the Politician.

  He sure has a knack for being around every time my life takes a turn for the worst. Was our conversation at The Tap only two nights ago? He’d seemed so down to earth, so normal. I would have never guessed him to be a stuck-up politician. But maybe… maybe my knowing him will work to my benefit. A small flame of hope grows in my chest, because maybe he’s different from the others. Maybe he’s better.

  Maybe he’ll help me.

  But where I expect to see a hint of recognition, I only see disappointment. And then he looks away. He masks any confusion he may feel with a stoic expression, and I know he doesn’t want to be associated with me at all. Why would he? I’m a shoddy rebel.

  I scrunch up my nose to fight back the unexpected tears. I guess he isn’t different.

  “What’s her crime?” Congressman Perseus’s voice brings my attention back around to him, back to my current problem, back to the inconvenient dilemma of which death suits me best.

  “Murdered a Defender,” Mcallister says.

  This news earns me an appraising look from Forest.

  Perseus, however, doesn’t offer so much as a glance as he picks up his mug and takes a sip. “Anyone who has the nerve to murder a Defender deserves to die on the Rebels Circle.”

  “B-but I didn't kill him.” All eyes are on me. Knowing I tread on dangerous ground, I bow my head as a sign of respect and ignore the pounding of my heart. “A Defender was about to shoot my friend. I tried to stop him, and he accidentally shot the other Defender. But he was the one with the gun; he’s the one who shot the Defender. Not me.”

  Perseus frowns. “Why, exactly, was this Defender about to shoot your friend?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Forest give a brief shake of his head. I look at him. His eyes hint a warning, so I stop myself. I clamp my mouth shut. I decide to maybe trust this untrustworthy politician one more time.

  “Mcallister?” Perseus says when I don’t respond.

  “Her friend was speaking out against the government,” Mcallister answers.

  And now I know why Forest didn’t want me to speak. Leaf was a rebel. It’s because I mentioned Leaf in my defense against the judges that I got transferred from a regular criminal’s death to a death on the Rebels Circle.

  “Ah.” Congressman Perseus
strokes his full, white beard. “And do you agree with your friend?” he asks me. “Are you a part of the revolutionaries who want to bring this peaceful government down?”

  I stare at the floor. “I-I believe your people have done many good things for us.” I peek at Forest. He offers a brief nod of approval. Why won’t he just turn me in? He knows my honest opinion. If he was any other politician or Defender of the Peace, he wouldn’t hesitate to have me sent to the Rebels Circle. He would’ve smoked me out the night we met.

  But he didn’t.

  And that’s what makes all these thoughts in my head get tangled up into a perfect mess that I can’t quite comprehend.

  Congressman Perseus takes another sip from his mug. “But you attempted to save a rebel, and that’s enough reason to be suspected of working with them.” He looks at Mcallister. “Have her executed on the Rebels Circle.”

  With a faint nod from Perseus, and absolutely no interference from Forest on my behalf, my fate is sealed. Mcallister bows and begins walking out of the office. I risk another glance at Forest, but his eyes are lowered, focused on something on the desk as he fiddles with a pen. He’s avoiding my gaze.

  Again, why should I be surprised?

  I whirl around and stumble behind Mcallister. I force all thoughts of Forest out of my mind and think instead of what exactly might be waiting for me after I die. Because death is a cruel mystery. No one can escape it, and everyone’s terrified of it. It’s fear, it’s dread, it’s despair, and to some, it’s hope. And I’m not really sure which emotion I should cling to because all I’m imagining right now is my corpse, dead and cold and pale, being thrown into an empty grave and buried beneath the dirt.

  And my soul… where will it go? What’s on the other side? Darkness, hunger, and cold loneliness? Hope and light and warmth and a perfect paradise of endless feasting and smiling eyes? I don’t know. But I’m going to find out soon—this week, according to Rain—and that fact alone makes my stomach churn, makes my lungs tight, makes everything inside me twist.

  Stop. Focus. Inhale. Exhale. Replenish bad air for good. Everything’s going to be okay.

  I’m not dead yet.

  We pass a dozen more offices, much like the one we were in. How many people will be executed today? This week? Acts of heroism never did anyone any good in this country. That’s why they advise us to stay under the radar. To remain passive, docile, and plain.

  Maybe that’s my problem. I’m not passive. I’m not docile. And I don’t think I want to be plain anymore.

  We pass a window, looking out to the sand pit below, then arrive at a metal door. Mcallister whips out his I.D. and mumbles something. The Defender opens the door to a set of stairs. Stepping aside, Mcallister gestures me to go down.

  “After you,” he says. I expect to see a mocking grin like the one that was on Rain’s face when he allowed me to step into the courthouse first. Instead, I think I catch a glimpse of sorrow. Maybe a little regret. And guilt? But he straightens and looks away, his throat convulsing in a swallow. I still can’t believe how young he looks. Like, seriously not a whole lot older than me.

  Letting out a breath, I step through the doorway onto the concrete step. The acrid stench of decay and raw sewage fills my nostrils, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from puking.

  This place smells like the crotch-rot of hell.

  Flickering lights line the ceiling. We arrive at the base of the stairs, and Mcallister steps in front of me. To my right, cells run the length of the wall, and inside the cells are prisoners. Beady eyes squint up at me, and I realize that these people aren’t used to the “bright” lights along the walls that Mcallister switched on. They seem to have the life sucked out of them. What were their crimes? Whispering just a little too loudly about the government’s injustice? Refusing a career? Accidentally killing a Defender?

  As we travel deeper into the tunnels, the air becomes cold and damp. Already my skin misses the warmth of the sun, my eyes beg for daylight, and my lungs crave fresh air. We pass the last cell and turn down another tunnel. And another. Even if I turned around now, I don’t think I could find my way back to the gate. This place is a maze. Tunnels branch off the hall we walk down, disappearing into darkness.

  Something loud and terrifying, like a roar, reverberates through the hallways, making the ground shake. And then screaming. Someone is screaming. My body convulses in chills.

  I stumble closer to Mcallister. “What, um, what was that?”

  “Black tiger,” Mcallister says. “If you ever try to run away, you can bet you’ll make a fine meal for one of those beasts.”

  I’ve never seen a black tiger, but judging by the roar, I don’t think I ever want to see one. Another roar makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. Mcallister opens a metal door and leads me in to a circular room. Everything is concrete—the floors, the walls, the ceiling. Fluorescent lights, half of which are working, just barely illuminate the room. More cells wrap around the perimeter of the room, just long and wide enough for a tall person to lie down in.

  The walls of the cells are like glass so everyone can see each other. Each stall has a blue number glowing at the top, one through twenty, and they are all filled up from one through twelve. They burn rebels monthly. Do they really catch that many rebels a month? This month is almost over, and these aren’t even counting the criminals who aren’t rebels. But Ky is so big, and this is how the government keeps control. One wrong word, one sign of resistance, and you’re brought to this hellhole.

  Rough-looking prisoners fill these cells. Another Defender walks up to a metal panel in the center of the room, punches in a code, and gestures me to walk into a stall with the blue number thirteen at the top. I step into the cell. The Defender clicks a button on the panel, and I hear the electric shield come on with a buzz. Then he flips a switch so all the lights, except a blue one above the control panel, go off. And both Defenders walk out, closing the metal door behind them.

  So long, Mcallister. And good riddance. All Defenders, no matter how young or seemingly humane, put me on edge.

  I reach out to touch the shield that separates me from stall number fourteen, just to test the strength of the shock. An electric current zaps through me, numbing my bones, and I’m thrown to the floor. The other prisoners chuckle. I can hear them as though there were no barriers. These electric shields may keep me from going anywhere, but they don’t block sound or sight. Unfortunately. I guess we don’t get the luxury of a few hours of privacy before our deaths. Biting back my annoyance, I study the other prisoners for the first time.

  The man in the stall to my right has pale skin and tattoos mapped across his arms. His sandy hair is cropped short, his jaw broad and clean-shaven. He must not have been here long. I don’t imagine they give criminals the luxury of shaving. Muscles I didn’t even know existed ripple beneath his shirt when he makes the slightest movement. Honestly, if I had met him on the street, I would probably run the opposite direction, because he could obviously crush me with one blow.

  He looks at me and I quickly look away, scoot farther to the other side of my cell, just in case his strength could resist even the shock of the electric shield. There’s an older man in cell four with an earring in his left ear. A girl two cells from mine catches my gaze. She has brown skin and muscles bulging out of her calves and arms. She reminds me of a lioness.

  She stares at me openly, then offers a big grin, revealing big white teeth. And a smile like that is so out of place in a dungeon like this, that I have to look away, I have to fight the warmth her smile brings and remind myself that I’m dying this week.

  Because optimism, according to Dad and Elijah, isn’t the best trait.

  So I scoot against the wall, stretch each leg out in front of me. These people…they’re rebels. How many of them work for Walker? How many have never heard of Walker and still stood up for what they believed in on their own? And how many rebelled by accident, like me?

  It doesn’t matter. You could let one
wrong word slip at the exact wrong moment, or you could be conspiring to kill the chief with your bare hands, it doesn't make a shoddy difference, because it all ends with the same death—burning on the Rebels Circle.

  The room is eerily quiet. And good thing. Because I need some silence to think. Or not to think. Or just to, I don’t know, let my brain shut down for a minute. And, honestly? Maybe it would be better if this day, this entire week leading up to my death, would just shut up. Just end already. Because the anticipation of facing death seems worse than death itself. But hours and hours and hours creep by like sludge, like mud oozing between my fingers, and this is only day one, and how many days, exactly, are left before I die? How many more mud-sludging hours do I have to sit here and think about my impending death?

  Stop. Stop thinking about death. Because spending my last moments thinking about death is ineffective and depressing.

  So I close my eyes. I think of home. Of picking apples with the summer sun warming my skin, and of racing through the corn fields with Elijah. And memories upon memories stake camp in my mind, and as an escape from this place, I grasp one and follow it.

  I’m sitting on the roof of our cabin watching the sunset, Elijah by my side. Crickets make their music, and the smell of humidity and grass and fresh dirt after a rain hangs in the air. Purple and orange hues explode across the sky, and I wish I could capture the sunset and put it on paper. But even if I had the luxury of good paint and a nice, clean canvas, nothing I paint would compare to the real thing.

  “What do you think the rest of Ky is like?” Elijah asks.

  I look down at him. His usually smiling face is serious. His amber eyes nearly glow in the sunlight and his hair tousled by the wind.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Overcrowded and gloomy, probably.”

  “Defender Shepherd says the buildings block out the sun most of the day and the only way to see the sunset is to climb the highest buildings.”

  “It’s a good thing we live in the Garden then, huh?”