black tiger (Black Tiger Series Book 1)

by Sara Baysinger

  “Huh.” Rain crosses his arms and skates his thumb along his lower lip. “You’re from the Community Garden, yes? How old are you?”

  What is this, some sort of small talk? From a Patrician?

  “Why the sudden interest?” I ask, suddenly annoyed at the personal level this conversation has taken. “Do all Patricians enjoy antagonizing criminals just before they die?”

  I shove past him, but he grabs my arm and spins me around. “Just tell me your age, Ember Carter.”

  I jerk my arm from his grip, then glance around. Defenders are watching. Better not cause a scene or they’ll sic the black tiger on me.

  “Sixteen.” I practically spit the word out.

  “What was her name?”

  “Who’s name?”

  “Your mother’s.”

  Why does he care? And why should I stand here and take this antagonizing from him? And then I think, these are my last hours to spend, not his. And I don’t want to spend them talking about how Mom died. My death is set in stone, and I have no obligation to answer his questions.

  “Aren’t you a Patrician?” I snap. “Don’t you have access to the execution records? Why don’t you go look it up yourself if you’re so interested?”

  He lifts his hands in mock defense. “Okay, okay. Just trying to make small talk. No need to get all defensive. Holy Crawford. Just one more thing.” He reaches over and slips the Resurgence paper from my fingers. “I’ll be keeping this.” He grins. “Good luck, little orchardist.” He takes another drink from his flask, then bows mockingly. “I look forward to watching you die very, very soon.”

  He whirls around and heads back toward the gate. He wouldn’t let me walk away, but he’s allowed to just leave? What an arrogant jackal.

  “Wait,” I say.

  He pauses, turns to look at me. I stride up and grab the flask from his hands, tilt my head back and drink deeply. The whiskey BURNS as it pours into my stomach like hot lava and my body wants to convulse, regurgitate the liquor out of my system, but pride is a strong little thing, and I brace myself until I drain every last drop from the flask. Then I shove it back into Rain’s hands.

  “Thanks,” I say with a cough-wheeze. “I needed that more than you think.”

  He stares at me, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then closes it.

  My eyes watering, I spin on my heel and continue my jog around the arena, trying hard not to think about the burning liquid sloshing around in my stomach, threatening to resurface and turn me into a volcano.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The whiskey worked. After we were called back into the dungeon, I felt…great. Fantastic. Even though it’s the night before my execution.

  But then I start thinking about Leaf. Innocent, harmless Leaf. Dead because for once—for once in his shoddy life—he actually decided to stand up for himself. He was bullied all throughout elementary school and did nothing about it, but come Career Day, he suddenly has a backbone. And look where it got him.

  I don’t think Leaf’s mom intended for him to get bullied in elementary. I think if she knew he was going to have the paper-thin profile of a leaf, she wouldn’t have named him that. But she did. And he did. And kids made fun of him at school. They told him not to let the wind blow him away. They said things that made the frail, small boy look even more frail and small. And I always felt terribly bad for him. I always wondered why he wouldn’t just tell them to shod off, and then I thought, maybe he was as shy as me. Maybe, like me, he was too afraid to speak out for himself.

  It was in the fifth grade that I finally got the balls to stand up for him. The bullies were picking on him, sizing him up. Leaf was standing against the wall, small and frail, yet impossibly brave. Chin held high, eyes defiant while the wind ruffled his dark hair. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t all just get along. And just before the bully punched him, I darted between his fist and Leaf’s eye and I shouted, “Stop!”

  And he did. I was so surprised that I kept going. “All of you need to stop bullying Leaf. In fact,” I said, “stop bullying each other. Let’s just get along!”

  And we did. School was much easier for me after that. Teachers called me the peacemaker. If there was an argument, I would settle it. I don’t know why the other kids listened to me. I guess because my mom died just a couple years before and they felt sorry for me.

  Leaf stuck by my side like a lost puppy after that. And because the kids at school liked me so much, they did pretty much whatever I asked. Even the teachers, sometimes, would let me slide by the rules. I can’t lie, I’ve had a pretty easy childhood. I’ve always gotten along with everyone, and never experienced tension with anybody.

  Until now.

  Because for some reason, Patricians are difficult to get along with. They’re not easy going. There’s nothing simple about them. They’re complicated and difficult. Everything is about drama and tension and heated dialogue and one-upping.

  And I hate it. I hate that I can’t just settle things with a few words like I could in the Community Garden. I hate how Rain instigates me, and I can’t simply tell him to shod off.

  Once the alcohol finally wears off, I can’t help but curse the day I was born. My body wretches and I puke on the stone floor. Some of the others groan in disgust. I wipe the acidic saliva off my mouth, then crawl to the wall, like some pathetic dying rat. My head is pounding. My stomach feels like it’s literally twisting itself inside-out. And the fear of death tomorrow isn’t helping any. Because in less than twenty-four hours, I’m going to be burned to death on the Rebels Circle. I’m going be fried alive. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

  I swallow the sour bile down my throat, close my eyes, and lean my head back. What I’d give for a glass of water right now.

  “You finally sober?”

  “Getting there.” I crack an eyelid open and look at Judah. “My head hurts.”

  “Who the shoddy blazes gave you a drink, anyway?”

  I sigh. “Rain.”

  “Rain?”

  “The arrogant Patrician walking around the arena like a peacock. Capital C on the cock.”

  “You spoke to Rain?”

  “Yes.” I frown. “Do you know him?”

  “No—no.” He says the words almost too quickly. “Of course not. I just know he’s a politician’s son, is all.”

  I didn’t know he was the son of a politician. Makes sense, though.

  “I bet that was some expensive stuff you drank, then.” He chuckles. “What, with the politicians making profit somewhere in the millions.”

  I shoot upright, and immediately regret doing so when the stabbing pain shoots into my head. I groan. “They get paid?” Holy Crawford. Money is used only for luxury items like alcohol and extra blankets anything else that isn’t absolutely necessary. And the only way anyone makes money is by the Coins of Good Service, which they only get when they do some extravagant form of good service. Or if they turn in a criminal, they could get a good ten Coins. But I don't get it. “Why do politicians get paid? They’re just doing their work, like the rest of the country is doing theirs.”

  Judah snorts. “Don’t you know? They believe that since they’re running the country, they’re somehow better than us. That every hour they put in is some form of community service. They live in mansions, own fancy vehicles, eat fresh food for every meal all day long.”

  “You’re kidding.” I vaguely remember Forest saying something about how they get paid for keeping the country in line. But eating food all day long? Come on. Our country has been running low on food for decades. “Are you…are you sure? About the food?”

  Judah nods. Leans his head back. “Patricians, like that boy who gave you whiskey, live like kings, Ember. And they have unlimited access to food.”

  That would mean Dad was right.

  “But, how? Where does it come from?”

  He shrugs. “Your little Garden, maybe. Possible survivors from the outside world, perhaps. Who kn
ows? The point is, they get it, and they keep it in Frankfort.”

  Survivors?

  “I don’t understand.” I stare at the concrete ground, tinted blue from the dim light above the panel, and I think about the food, the little food we receive and how it’s always late and how I somehow thought maybe everyone was suffering, everyone was hungry. I thought that maybe I was sort of spoiled for living in the Garden and having a little extra food when our rations ran out. I felt guilty for it. But the Patricians, according to Judah, don’t have that problem. Neither the hunger problem, nor the guilty problem.

  A Defender walks into the room. “Come with me.” He lets down my shield, leads me out of the dungeon, through the halls, and into the comfortable room where Forest is waiting. And despite Judah’s warning, I feel a great measure of relief. I guess Forest didn’t forget about me, after all. But now I’m a bit more guarded. Because Judah says Forest is just milking me for information. Judah says the Patricians and politicians don’t care about us Proletariats. And right now, Judah’s my closest friend.

  I’m sitting on the leather couch across from Forest. He’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, chin in hands, two fingers pressed together on his pursed lips. And two cobalt eyes looking at me.

  “You look—terrible,” he finally says.

  I stare at him. Forest is usually pretty polite, and that was possibly the rudest thing anyone’s said to me all day.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Rain,” I find myself saying. “Rain happened to me. He gave me whiskey.”

  “Rain?” His brows flicker. “Gave you…whiskey?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  He releases a small laugh. “Jackal.”

  I briefly wonder how he knows Rain, but then realize the Patrician community is quite small, really. Kind of like our Community Garden. Everyone seems to know everyone.

  “If I look terrible,” I say. “It’s due to the fact that I’m dying tomorrow. And that, as of the past few days, that fact is all I’ve been able to think about, being locked up in a tiny cell with nothing to distract me.”

  “Look,” he says. “I’m trying to get you out.” A deep sadness fills his eyes that I don’t quite understand. I mean, I barely know him. And he looks devastated that I’m going to die tomorrow. “What you should know is that I spoke to Titus.”

  “You did?” I sit up straighter, a sudden thrill coursing through me.

  Forest nods. “He came to see you for himself today, to see if you were maybe worth saving.”

  “Wait. So, Titus was in the arena? Today?”

  He nods.

  Wow. The chief was in the arena. To watch me. I guess I didn’t notice with all the Patricians looking the same with all their fancy clothes. The only Patrician I noticed in the arena was Rain. And that’s only because he grabbed me. He stopped me from running away. But Titus was there. I suddenly feel self-conscious, wondering if I made a good impression. I mean, if I’d known the chief was there to decide the fate of my life, I might have been on my best behavior.

  “So?” I ask, trying to fight down my growing hope. “What…what did he think?”

  Forest’s forehead pinches and he narrows his eyes. “Miss Carter, have you been plotting an escape? With rebels?”

  Oh, shoddy rot. The wind is knocked out of me by the blow of utter disappointment, because Judah told me. He told me there were cameras and mics wired all throughout the prison, and we still planned our escape. But, of course. Of course everyone heard us plotting and that’s why it didn’t work out. That’s why Rain grabbed me by the arms and stopped me and stalled me just long enough until the shoddy door slammed in my face.

  “Ember?” Forest’s voice is a husky whisper now.

  “Yes.” I nod once and look at him. “Yes. Judah and I— we—we wanted to get out of here.”

  Forest straightens. He leans back. He drags both hands through his golden hair and releases an exasperated sigh. “Why?” His voice is full of so much emotion that I almost feel sorry for him. “I told you—” His voice cuts off and his lips disappear completely as he presses them together. He takes a deep breath and says more calmly this time, “I told you I would help you, but by conspiring with rebels, you just proved yourself guilty.”

  “Just by talking to them?”

  “Yes. Merely by associating with them. By planning with them. By agreeing to work with them to go against the system.”

  “To escape to freedom!” I bolt to my feet and begin pacing, suddenly angry. Angry at Forest. Angry at myself. “No offense, Forest, but when it comes down to life or death, I’m not going to just go with the law. I’ll do everything in my power to choose life.”

  “And by doing so you just dug your own grave.”

  I stare at him, any words I might have said too shocked to exit my mouth.

  He utters a curse. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He stands, and to my astonishment, draws me into his arms. “Please, don’t listen to what I just said.”

  I forgot how incredibly therapeutic a simple hug could be. And I melt. I melt in his arms and all my resolve dissipates. I wrap my arms around his waist, realizing for the first time just how lean and firm his body is. He cradles my head against his chest, and a tear slips. And slides down the bridge of my nose.

  Forget what Judah said. I believe Forest really wants to help me. Because he hasn’t asked me any questions about the Resurgence or my family or Leaf’s family and he’s holding me like it’s the only thing he wants to do right now.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I—I didn’t know—I didn’t think—” I swallow. “So many days went by, I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  “Ember.” He pulls away just enough to search my eyes. “How in the world could I ever forget about you? You’re fire and sparks and unforgettable. And I’m not giving up. I’m meeting with Titus first thing in the morning. I’ll get you out of here. You have nothing to worry about. Nothing to fear. You’re going to be just fine.”

  “Why do you want so badly to help me?”

  He cups my face, looks at me with so much certainty I want to believe every word he says.

  “Because,” he says. “I know the system is broken, and I want to fix it. And after our conversation at The Tap, after seeing your passion, your strong belief in a better way, I’ve been wanting to recruit you to work with me. I want your help to change the government.”

  “You want my…help?”

  What would Judah have to say to this? To a politician wanting change? To Forest touching me like this? He would say it’s all a lie. I take a step back and Forest drops his hand.

  “Get me out of here,” I say, breathless because his touch does strange things to me. “And I’ll think about helping you.”

  I’m led back to the prison pit and I step into my cell. The electric shield goes up, and I’m once again left wondering if Forest will actually go through with his promise, or if he even can go through with it. I sink down against the wall, lean my head back on the rough concrete.

  “What kind of information did he try to drag out of you this time?” Judah asks.

  I turn my head to look at him. “He said I shouldn’t have tried to plot an escape. He said Titus was there to watch me, to decide if I was worth saving, and that, basically, our attempt to escape only confirmed my guiltiness.”

  And Judah bursts out laughing. He laughs and laughs and laughs and says, “I seriously hope you’re smart enough to see right through this Turner guy.”

  “He—he didn’t try to drag anything from me, Judah,” I say. “I mean, he just said he was going to try again. To get me out of here. He was going to talk to Titus in the morning. He didn’t ask me any questions about the Resurgence or Leaf or anything like that.” I don’t bother telling Judah that Forest wants me to work with him to better the government. I can’t handle any more of his mockery right now.

  “But he got mad at you for trying to escape?” Judah asks. “For trying to save your own life?”<
br />
  “Because I undid what he was trying to do.”

  He snorts. Shakes his head. Leans his head back and says, “You know what? Keep thinking that. Keep imagining this handsome Congressman as some hero who really cares deeply about you. Maybe it’ll be your last sweet thought before you burn to death.”

  I stare at him, shocked that he could be so—so mean. Then I look at the ceiling. And I wonder if Judah’s right or if Forest is right and who’s on my side and who’s against me and why it even matters, since I’m going to die soon. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow, when my death is carried out. If I’m rescued, I’ll know Forest really does care for me. If I’m not rescued, I’ll be too dead to care whose side he’s on.

  A roar echoes through the tunnels and goosebumps flesh out across my skin. Then screaming. Screaming that makes my arm hairs stand on end. Then the scream is silenced.

  “Judah?” I ask, looking at him.

  “Hm?” He doesn't open his eyes but leans his head back against the wall.

  “Why do the tigers roar like that? Like they’re suddenly angry? And—and where’s that screaming coming from?”

  He cracks an eyelid open and looks at me. “The tigers are feeding.”

  “On… what?”

  He opens both eyes now. “On the other criminals.”

  My heart stops. “What?”

  “The tigers have to eat. Haven’t you wondered what happens to the other criminals? The ones who aren’t rebels like us, but who still go against the law by stealing a bit of food? The black tigers are trained to scout out criminals and hunt down rebels. And what better way to train them than to use an underground maze and criminals for them to hunt? Besides, the tigers have to eat somehow.” He closes his eyes, leans his head back again. “Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

  Now I know I’m going to puke. The devastation makes my stomach turn and writhe and my body is suddenly trembling, my hands are clammy, and I curl up by the wall, try not to think about tomorrow or the screams echoing through the prison.