black tiger (Black Tiger Series Book 1)

by Sara Baysinger

  “But Chief Whitcomb doesn’t care about charm,” Forest says. “You think you’ve won him over, but…” He rubs the back of his neck and looks away.

  “But what?”

  He studies me. “You think it’s really that easy? Resurgence spies were seen in Frankfort last night. They were last seen close to the Frankfort Hotel.”

  My heart pounds. “And?”

  “And your cameras were reported as dysfunctional around that same time.”

  Oh. Right. I bite my lip and look away.

  “Do you know anything about that, Ember?” he asks. “Did you speak to anyone? Did you…have any visitors last night?”

  I stare at the ground. And I’m wondering if I can trust Forest, if I can tell him everything and believe he’s going to just keep it a secret from Titus, but then I remember how he said he and Titus were friends and he’s known Titus far longer than he’s known me, so, no. Of course I can’t trust him.

  “I…didn’t have any…visitors.” I look at him now; the lie comes easier with every word that tumbles out of my mouth. “If anyone visited my apartment, I slept right through it.”

  “And when you woke up, there wasn’t any evidence that someone had broken into your apartment?”

  “Um…”

  “I’m asking you, because right now, at this very moment, Defenders are scouting out your room. And if they find evidence that someone was there—other than you—this is your chance to come clean. Tell me right now exactly what happened.”

  What a mess what a mess what a mess. “The window was open when I woke up. I thought the wind blew it open.” That part, at least, is true. Mostly.

  Forest stares at me a moment longer than necessary, then sighs and says. “I believe you.”

  Guilt might be even worse than the feeling of disappointment.

  “But I’m not entirely sure Whitcomb will believe you,” he says. “You see, the whole thing looks suspicious. And I don’t think Whitcomb is just going to let you go after last night.”

  “But…the cab. He sent this cab. So he must be okay with it.”

  “Yes.” Forest nods. “He had the cab scheduled to pick you up before spies were found in the city. I don’t know how far you’ll get before he stops you, though. But if he lets you go home, that might be worse. Because that would mean he’s automatically pegging you a criminal. And Titus is very good at making bad things looks like accidents.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, something bad might happen to you, and no one will even suspect it was Chief Whitcomb who made it happen.”

  “And you know this because…?”

  “I’m a part of his…inner circle.”

  “And you’ve done nothing to stop these bad things from happening.”

  His mouth clamps shut, and I have my answer, though it’s not the answer I wanted. If he’s a part of Titus’s inner circle, then he is most likely working for Titus. Nope nope nope. I definitely can’t trust him at all. Why is he trying to convince me to hang around?

  “I’m sorry, Forest,” I say. “But Patrician or not, I’m not Frankfort material, and I couldn’t take another day here if I were ordered to. You should go back to your fiancée and forget about me. I’m not staying here. I don’t want to get in the middle of––” I wave my hand in the air. “Whatever is going on between Whitcomb and the Resurgence.” I sigh and look away. “I just want to go home and live life the way it was before.”

  “That’s just the thing, Ember.” He steps closer and brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear, then his warm fingers slide down my neck, and I have to catch my breath because the heady scent of cinnamon fills the space between us. “Your life will never be the same,” he whispers. “Not if you leave now.” He tips my chin up and I’m drowning in the ocean of his blue eyes. “But if you stay until after they figure everything out— long enough for Titus to trust you—you may have a chance to have your old life back.”

  His hand lingers on my chin. I close my eyes and take a shaky breath, try to focus. He seems so honest, so caring, and maybe it’s because he’s been my one constant since leaving the Garden, but I feel so safe in his presence.

  But he’s engaged. To Olivia.

  I swat his hand away. “So long, Congressman Turner.” I offer a brittle smile, then add the formal “May you live a good, prosperous life” in a neat, Patrician accent, and I enter the vehicle, slamming the door behind me.

  The jeep veers down the street. Time to move on with my life, leave Forest with his beloved Olivia, who is way more fit to be with him than I will ever be.

  And I think of home. Of Elijah and Dad waiting for me. Has the first week of winter been kind? I imagine the apple orchard with a fresh layer of snow covering the field.

  We whir through the city, through the tall, glorious buildings stretching hundreds of stories high. The palm trees billow in the breeze. The jeep takes a series of turns until we’re finally out of the confining skyscrapers. Ahead, I see life on the other side of the cupola. A white layer of snow blankets the ground, but I couldn’t imagine a warmer welcome from this lukewarm inferno I’ve been living in.

  The jeep slows at the edge of the cupola and stops at the gate. The driver rolls down the window as a Defender walks toward us. I recognize him. Tall, muscular, dark skin. Young. Captain Mcallister. Worms coil in the pit of my stomach.

  “The city has been shut down,” Mcallister says to the driver. “There will be no traffic through the cupola for another day or two."

  “Shut down?” I ask from the back seat. I roll down my window, which only goes down a few inches, and look at Mcallister. Patrician. Act the role of Patrician, I can almost hear Rain say.

  I lift a Patrician brow. “And why has it been shut down, Mcallister?”

  He looks at me, his dark eyes holding a hint of amusement. Then he locks his arms behind his back and steps closer to my window, bends down so we’re eye level, and now my heart is beating a bit too fast for comfort.

  “Rebels have been spotted inside the cupola.”

  My heart rate skyrockets. “Oh.” Feign surprise. “That is terrible news.”

  He narrow his eyes, straightens, then looks at the driver. “You’ve orders to return the princess back to her quarters.”

  I roll my eyes at his mocking tone.

  “Yes sir,” the driver says.

  “But Mcallister—”

  Mcallister holds up his hand, cutting me off. “Consider this an extended welcome from the chief.” He smiles, then he turns and marches back to his vehicle by the gate.

  Oh, rot. I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back. I try opening the door, but it’s locked. Of course it is. The driver continues down the street and makes a U-turn back to the hotel. I grit my teeth and lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. I should have known Titus wouldn’t be that lenient. Forest warned me. I clench my hands into fists. This was not supposed to happen. I don’t care about the festive celebrations. I don’t care why or how I became Patrician. And why do I have to pay for the price of the Resurgencies? I’m clearly not one of them, so why can’t they just let me out?

  The answer forms in my head before I finish the question. It’s because the rebels came into my apartment. It’s because they shot out my cameras.

  It’s because I didn’t sound the alarm when I should have.

  Now, no thanks to Jonah Walker and his posse of rebels, I’m in worse trouble than I was before.

  We arrive at the hotel, and two Defenders escort me back to my room. “We will stay outside the door, miss.” They close the door behind them as they walk out.

  Well, rot. I was this close to going home, and now…now I’m a prisoner again. Thanks, Walker. Thanks a lot. You saved my life, I saved yours, and now you owe me one.

  Pacing back and forth, I try to think of another escape. I could sneak out the window, but I don’t have the tools Walker had to scale a hundred-story building. I can’t ask for any help–– Forest is too loyal to Titus,
and Rain would laugh in my face.

  Think think think.

  I stop pacing and take a deep breath, glancing around my room for the first time since I returned. Someone has cleaned it while I was gone, made the bed, opened the drapes, wiped off the table where I ate breakfast. Sunlight streams into the living room. I walk to the large window and survey the city. Even if I did somehow manage to escape the hotel, it would take a full day just to get out of Frankfort and another full day to travel to the Community Garden. I wouldn’t get far before the Defenders caught me.

  This toga is uncomfortable, so I strip it off and put on the familiar farmers uniform from my satchel, only these are new, the fabric still stiff, the wool scratchy. Not as comfortable as I’d anticipated, but I keep them on anyway out of pure rebellion. Then I sit on the couch, pull my knees to my chin, and chew my thumbnail while I think some more.

  Someone knocks at the door, then opens it before I have a chance to cross the room. Captain James Mcallister walks in, six Defenders on his heels.

  I leap to my feet. “Are you going to let me go?”

  He looks at me and offers a no-nonsense smile. “Miss Carter, we have a few questions for you, if you have the time.”

  My heart plummets into my gut. “Time? That’s all I’ve got in this shoddy place.”

  Mcallister nods at his men, and they take their places around the living room. I wonder how Mcallister could have such a commanding presence when he’s twenty years younger than the Defenders he’s ordering.

  “Please,” Mcallister says, gesturing toward the couch. “Have a seat.”

  I cross the room and plop into the couch. “What’s the problem?”

  “Like I already informed you, revolutionary spies were found in the city last night.” His lips tip down in a deep frown. “They were last seen nearing Frankfort Hotel.”

  “Oh.” This again. I begin to roll my eyes, then see the look on Mcallister’s face. So I straighten and feign shock. “That’s terrible. Are they still on the run?”

  He regards me through narrowed eyes. “Your cameras were shot out last night.”

  Heat rushes to my face, and I glance away. “I…I didn’t notice.” I look at the place where the cameras used to be. Didn’t notice? Who couldn’t notice two gaping black holes in their ceilings?

  Mcallister seems to be thinking the same thing as he studies me carefully. “So…you claim to have nothing to do with their escape?”

  “Correct.” I stick to the lie I told Forest. “That…that is correct.”

  “Very good.” He heaves out a heavy sigh, then slaps his hands on his knees and rises. “I’ll let Chief Whitcomb know. Until then, two Defenders are ordered to stay by your side. No leaving Frankfort city limits, understand?”

  “Never?”

  “Not until your name is cleared.” He snaps his fingers and the other Defenders follow. “After more investigation, Miss Carter, we’ll decide for sure whether you’re innocent, or working with revolutionaries.”

  He strides out, closing the door behind him. Well, at least I don’t have to go to prison. I’d rather spend my captivity in this plush hotel than in the dungeon. Still, captivity is captivity. I sink back into the couch and drag my hand across my face. I was so close to getting home.

  So close.

  What am I supposed to do the rest of the day?

  I pick the celebration schedule of the week off the coffee table. A lunch is supposed to take place in the Commons. Wherever that is. I don’t want to see anyone. Especially not Forest or Rain. How they would laugh at me now. Poor little farmer couldn’t go home because she helped the resurgencies escape.

  Tossing the schedule back onto the table, I stand, walk to the window, and look once more at the city. The tall buildings make me claustrophobic. I miss the wide open spaces, the fresh air, the whipping wind and the giant sun. The real sun. My heart stirs with longing, and I do the only thing I can think of that will make me feel closer to home. I pull out a fresh, large canvas and paint my home the way I remember it.

  A little cabin on the brown dirt road, a rundown wooden mailbox, leaning ever so slightly at the entrance pathway, weeds growing all around the base. Apple trees rise behind the cabin, hills and hills of them. Lush red apples grow from the shimmering green leaves. And in the background, way, way far back, stand the tiny buildings of Ky. Far enough away that I feel safe.

  And the sky. A sea of blue stretching high above the Community Garden, vast, broad, and real. Nothing like the fake sky and fake weather controlled by Frankfort.

  This orchard is my home. This is where I belong. Once all this Patrician and spy stuff has blown over, I will go back.

  I will.

  And THAT is what keeps me going.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Not long after I finish the painting, someone knocks at the door.

  “Come in.”

  I brace myself, ready for more Defenders to march in for questioning, but Rain steps in.

  “Oh. It’s you.” I remember the club last night and turn back to my painting, wishing he would leave.

  “Don’t sound so excited,” Rain says.

  Ignoring him, I dip my brush into the paint.

  “Heard you couldn’t get back to Kansas.”

  “Kansas?” I look at him. “What’s that?”

  “Inside joke.”

  “Inside. Like something only you Patricians would understand.” I grit my teeth. Rain is full of strange idioms.

  “You’re Patrician now.” He steps up to the window, blocking my view of the city. “It’s time you learn everything we know. For example, Titus not letting you go home so easily.”

  Oh, so he came here to gloat. I keep my eyes fixed on my painting and fill in the soft, blue color of the sky.

  “Hate to say I told you so,” he continues.

  Hmm. I think I should use a darker shade for the sky.

  “What? You’re ignoring me now?”

  “Unless you have something worthwhile to say.”

  He sighs. “If this is about the club last night, I’m sorry. I was hoping you’d get a chance to enjoy yourself for once, but I see I was wrong. You’re too stiff to enjoy anything.”

  “Enjoy myself?” I look at him now. “Girls, like me, who had no other choice but to follow their degrading career, were viewed as nothing more than decorative objects to be used!”

  His Adam’s apple bobs in a hard swallow. “I’m sorry.” He says the words so quietly, I’m not sure he really spoke them. He looks at the floor, juts his jaw out, then looks at me again. And his eyes aren’t mocking. There’s nothing arrogant in his expression. “I really, truly am sorry, Ember.” His voice is gentle, almost sincere. And the way he says my name chips at the walls around my heart a little. “And just for the record, that girl is safe now.”

  “How?”

  “She just is. That’s all you need to know.”

  I don’t know why, but I somehow believe him. I look down at my hands. “Why are you here?”

  “I came here to escort you to lunch.”

  The thought of surrounding myself with Patricians again makes my stomach squeeze. “I don’t want to go to lunch.”

  He smirks, all forms of regret and compassion vanishing from his features. “You’ll go.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  “Have you already forgotten? Chief Whitcomb will be insulted if you refuse to attend the holiday picnic.”

  Chief Whitcomb. Everything is about Chief Whitcomb. And since he stopped me from going home, I’m beginning to hate him again.

  “I’m not going.” I stare at Rain, determined to hold my ground.

  His eyes harden and he suddenly looks angry, and Angry Rain is not a species to cross. He steps toward me and I automatically flinch.

  “Ember Carter,” he says quietly, as to a child. “You’ll go to lunch, if I have to carry you out of here myself.”

  The look in his eyes tells me he means every word, and I break.

  “I�
��I’m not ready,” I squeak.

  His eyes roam down my farmers uniform, then linger on my paint-stained hands. He frowns, as though just now realizing what I’m doing, then steps around and looks at my painting. “I didn’t know you painted.” All form of anger has left his voice, replaced with genuine curiosity. “Where did you learn to paint?”

  Heat rises to my cheeks, because I know I’m not very good. I haven’t had private lessons like the elite painters I’ve seen. “I’ll go clean up.”

  I wonder why River and LeighAnn haven't come to prepare me, but then I figure it’s another one of Titus’s ways to get back at me. No matter. I’d rather get ready on my own. I just wish they were here for moral support against Rain.

  After scrubbing my hands, I hurry into my room and strip off my farmers uniform, then I open the closet full of gowns. So many gowns and togas. Some for the ballroom dances like last night, others for evening dinners. But which one is appropriate for a picnic? I leaf through them. Maybe I should put my green toga back on. It’s fancy enough, but not as fancy as the evening gowns.

  I pull on the toga, run my fingers through my hair, and exit the room.

  “You’re wearing that?” Rain asks.

  “Um, yes?”

  He scrunches his nose, then shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” Taking my arm, he practically drags me back into the bedroom. “Where are your maids?”

  “LeighAnn and River think I’ve left for home.”

  “Figures.” When we enter the bedroom, he releases me and walks to the closet. It doesn’t take long for him to pull out a pretty yellow dress with simple shoulder straps. It flares out slightly at the waist and has a white braided belt. Nothing like a dress to wear in winter time, but then, it’s never winter in Frankfort. “This will do for the picnic. Now take that ridiculous toga off and put on something more fitting for a late summer lunch.” He tosses me the dress and stalks out of the room.

  I pull the simple dress over my head and slip my arms through each strap, but when I reach back to do the buttons, I only get halfway up my back. No wonder LeighAnn always insisted on helping me. These dresses are impossible.