“No, thank y—”
He shoves the flask into my mouth. The metal scrapes against my teeth, and I wince, bracing myself for the burning fire of whiskey to consume my mouth and set my stomach aflame. But the liquid is almost bland on my tongue, carrying with it the faint flavor of…peppermint. I cough as he lowers the canteen.
“What is that?” I say, wiping my mouth.
“Peppermint tea. It helps with the migraines.”
“I didn’t know you got…migraines.”
“Well, it’s not exactly a topic that just flows into conversation.”
“So, what, do you have a migraine every day?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like maybe this was something he’s had to deal with the majority of his life. “Most days.”
That explains his constant irritability.
“But…you’re not always drinking tea,” I say. “I mean, the stuff I tasted in the prison was pure liquor. And the night at the ball, you couldn't stop drinking.”
“Occasionally I need something a bit stronger than tea. Have you met the other Patricians? It’s all drama with no break. Besides, it’s not easy playing the part of a, um, player, surrounded by empty-headed girls.”
“You pretend to be a player?”
“Um, yes.” He smirks and shakes his head. “Do you really think I enjoy surrounding myself with shallow, self-absorbed girls? Puh-lease.”
“Then what’s the shoddy point? Why hang out with them at all? And why do you carry that flask around everywhere you go? Why do you let people make assumptions about your addiction to liquor and your obsession with girls?”
He shrugs. “I have an image to uphold. One that includes looking like a fool to the one person I want to assassinate.”
I stare at him. Could he possibly be telling the truth? But now that I think about it, I’ve only seen him drink real alcohol in public. Never when we were alone. Not only that, but even in public, he rarely reeked of alcohol. He always smelled of peppermint. And when it comes to girls…Cherry said herself that no one’s ever slept with Rain. Considering how free Frankfort culture is, and how popular Rain is among the girls, I guess it’s a wonder he hasn’t slept with anyone.
I cast a sidelong glance at him. Who is this Rain Turner? Where, exactly, does he stand? He takes bets on people’s deaths, yet he doesn’t agree with the executions. He flirts openly and allows people to think he’s a drunk, but he hardly ever drinks and apparently doesn’t give a jackal’s nuts about those girls. He wants to assassinate the chief, but he thinks the Resurgence is made up of a bunch of cold-blooded Neanderthals.
“What about the club?” I ask, trying to dig deeper into who this person is. “Why go there if you don’t agree with the system? And why did you take me there?”
“I go to the most renowned bar because it’s the best place to collect information from tipsy politicians. And I’m not talking about gossip. I’m talking about classified information.”
“Classified information?”
“For my plan.”
“Which includes assassinating Whitcomb and does not include working with the Resurgence?” Just clarifying here.
“That’s right. And I took you to the club because I knew it would piss you off. I wanted you to see the black heart of Frankfort. I wanted to show you how corrupt Patricians could be.”
I roll my eyes. His plan worked. I hate Frankfort more than ever. Still. Rain is a mystery I’m afraid I’ll never unravel.
“What are you thinking, little apple picker?”
“I’m thinking that I don’t understand.”
“Understand what? I tried to be very clear for your simple farmer brain.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t understand why you put so much work into creating such an unlikeable image. Why you let people think that you’re a miserable drunk desperate to get your hands on any girl who lets you.”
“All assumptions.” He looks at me. Something shifts in his eyes. “But what do you think of me, Ember?”
His question takes me aback. Why does he care what I think of him? I swallow hard, thinking of all the times I saw a girl on his arms, all the times he was drinking…except he wasn’t drinking all the time. And he did save me from those explosions.
My silence must confirm his fears, because his lips thin into a tight line and his hands whiten on the wheel. “That’s what I thought.”
A tinge of guilt pricks me, quickly followed by fear. Maybe I’ve gone too far. Rain is as fickle as Titus, his pride easily stung, his actions unpredictable. And my life is in his hands. So I keep my mouth shut the rest of the drive back to the hotel. Thunder rolls overhead, and raindrops splatter on the windshield. When I’m dropped off at the hotel, I hardly have time to close the car door before Rain speeds off.
Why is he angry? Because I offended him? Or because I wouldn’t go with his plan? If he’s so determined to flip the government on its head, why doesn’t he do it?
And then I realize, I never even told him I was leaving in the morning. This was our last conversation, and it ended miserably. How fitting, though. Because our first meeting didn’t go all that well, either. He was leading me to my death.
LeighAnn and River are nowhere in sight when I arrive in my apartment, but I’m glad to be alone. After a hot shower—probably my last hot shower ever—I change into comfortable clothes and curl up in bed, pulling the covers over my head. I should soak up the comfort. Appreciate the soft sheets rubbing against my bare legs and the fluffy pillow beneath my head, because it’ll only be scratchy wool blankets and rock-hard pillows after tonight.
But I can’t sleep. I can’t even get comfortable. Raindrops pound on the window outside, matching the rhythm of my chaotic thoughts. Everything Rain said whirls around in my head like a monsoon until an old poem I learned in school begins to take form.
I opened my eyes…
I squeeze my eyes shut tight. But the poem by Shel Silverstein flits through my mind like an unstoppable train.
I opened my eyes and looked up at the rain….
I cover my head with my pillow.
And it dripped in my head and flowed into my brain…
Plug my ears.
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed….
Don’t finish don’t finish don’t finish—
Is the slishity-slosh
of the rain
in my head.
Rain. It’s not so much rain that’s in my head, as Rain. And his words. His treasonous, suicidal words. They’re all I hear. Assassinate Whitcomb Assassinate Whitcomb Assassinate Whitcomb. His words keep sloshing around in my brain until I’m quite positive I’m going crazy.
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed is the slishity-slosh, the slishity-slosh, the slishity-slosh of the rain, rain, rain, Rain
I throw the covers off my head and sit up. Enough. I will not think of Rain. I will not think of his offer to kill the chief and take the helm as Ky’s leader. I won’t do it. Because I’m not built to lead. I’m not ready to die if this all fails. And I’m not willing to get sucked into politics and drama. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m trying to escape from.
But maybe—I sigh and press my palms on my eyes—maybe I can think up a plan when I get home. When people aren’t breathing down my neck and I have complete silence for like, a week, then maybe I’ll have the balls to stand up to Titus and become chief of Ky.
Me. Chief of Ky. Snort.
But I can’t even think about that right now. Not with all the things that happened in just the past two weeks.
I switch on the light, look for a distraction, and immediately notice the hymnal lying on the floor by my bed. Discarded and forgotten, while Peter Pan sits on my end table half-read. And I feel the pull, the strange silent voice. Picking up the hymnal, I flip through the pages.
“Every hymn in those book alludes to this religion. Every verse speaks a message.”
Does Rain really believe this shoddy stuff? I scan the titles as I flip
through until I reach the familiar title, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” Rain’s favorite hymn, huh?
Flopping onto my stomach, I read the lyrics. I read each verse, each word carefully, trying hard to decipher their meanings. But there are still some foreign words, and I don’t get it. Does Rain like this song because of the words or the melody? What does the melody sound like, anyway?
Picking up the book, I sit at the piano in the living room and dig into my memory of the brief piano lessons I took in music class so long ago. I always thought it was funny, how they don’t allow us Proletariats to own any extravagant things like pianos or pursue extravagant careers like being musicians or artists, but we still had to learn the arts in school. Just an old tradition carried down from our ancestors, I guess.
I place my thumb on middle C, then try to follow the pattern of the notes with my fingers. Once I get used to the rhythm and keys, I look at the verse while playing, and place the words with eerie melody.
O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel
My hairs stand up on end. This haunting hymn stirs something foreign that I usually try to keep locked down. And deep longing for something I don’t fully understand invades my spirit. I play the song over and over, reading each verse, wondering why it tugs at the core of my heart and why this melody, these words, the theme of this song make my eyes burn and my spirit ache. Maybe because Ky is too much like Israel. My country, my people are mourning something from the past. And where is God? Like captive Israel, we have been exiled, and now we’re waiting for the promise of liberation from the chief.
Finally, with my soul raw with emotions and my eyes wet with tears, I flip the book closed, crawl into bed, and succumb to the darkness, wondering if we will ever be free or if God will ever decide that we’re worth rescuing. And I drift off into a light sleep, but even in my dreams, the third verse comes to me, eerie, haunting, yet filling me with anguished, undeniable hope for Emmanuel.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night, and death’s dark shadows put to flight. Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Luck is one of those things that creeps in and out of life like the seasons. You can experience a whole string of luck and then a new strand of misfortune. You could always be lucky or never have luck at all. Is it attitude that gives someone luck? Or is it the decision to be hopeful or despaired? The glass is half-empty or half-full and a person controls which it is by their outlook on life? Or is it God who gives luck? Either way, luck is a simple word that can encompass the difference between life and death. And I realize that right now, in this very moment, I’m favoring on the side of luck.
Because I’m going home today.
Lying in bed, I stretch my legs out to the tip of my toes, stretch my arms above my head, inhale a breath of hope, and grin. I’ll get to see Dad and Elijah today. Does Dad know I’m the chief’s sister? What will he think when he finds out? Will he be disappointed in my choosing to come home instead of claiming my position in the capitol?
So many questions.
I hope he has all the answers I’m looking for. Like why did mom run from Frankfort and why did she take me and not Titus, and why didn’t she ever tell me the truth about where I came from?
I pull on my green toga. I would usually wear the farmers uniform that LeighAnn brought up, but I want to look my best for Forest.
After I finish cramming everything into my satchel—including all the food and the soft sheets I just can’t imagine leaving behind—I look around the room. The room that’s held me captive the past four days. A week ago, I thought I was going to be executed. And now, here I am, sister to the chief and on my way home with any requests at my disposal. I don’t care what Rain said about me not being able to forget what happened here. When I get back, I’m going to try my best not to ever think about this place again. And soon, it will be as if nothing ever happened. The only change will be having a few more luxuries and a bit more food to eat.
And Leaf being gone.
Leaf.
My heart collapses at the mere thought of his name. Between prison and my learning I’m a Patrician and my relationship with Forest and Rain and then finding out I’m related to the chief, I haven’t really had a chance to grieve. And this—this is something that’s going to hit me all over again. Leaf is gone. And I will never see him again. I won’t get to tell him all my newfound secrets, and I won’t get to ask him how he knew so much about the Resurgence.
I let out a shaky sigh. At least I am returning. Gotta focus on the positive.
“Optimism is a good trait, Ember,” I can almost hear Elijah say. “But if you always see the glass as half-full, you'll never have the incentive to change anything.”
I close my eyes as those words sink into my soul like a dagger. Here I have the perfect opportunity to make changes for the better, either working with the Chief like Forest said, or working against him with Rain. What would Elijah have to say about me taking the easy way out? I won’t hear the end of it when he finds out. No doubt about that.
Well. I made sure he could choose his career, and if he still wants to be a politician when he turns sixteen, he’ll have the perfect opportunity. Then he can do whatever he wants to make this country a better place.
I won’t get to see LeighAnn or River before I leave, so I leave a note saying, thank you and goodbye. Then I place it on the counter, gather my satchel and coat, and take one last look at the room. The pictures I painted of the city and the apple orchard prop against the wall by the window. They would be a nice commodity at home, but I want no reminders of this place. Although I’m not sure I could ever forget Frankfort...or this whole experience. But I leave them behind, anyway. If Titus holds true to his word, I’ll have unlimited paints and brushes and canvases to create new pictures.
Forest is already parked by the curb when I step outside, as promised. With the vehicle still running, he gets out of the front seat and opens my door for me.
“Good morning, Miss Carter,” he says with a nod.
And just the look in the ocean of his eyes is enough to make my heart melt. If going home isn’t enough to make me excited, a road trip with Forest definitely tops it off.
“Good morning, Congressman Turner.”
“You sure you want to go home so soon?”
“Absolutely.”
“I wish you would stay.”
I catch my breath, suddenly feeling stupidly hopeful. Like maybe he decided that he doesn’t like Olivia and he likes me instead, so I look at him. “Why? Why do you want me to hang around Frankfort?”
He blinks, like he’s shocked I don’t know the answer. And his lips open, then close, and he looks past me and swallows hard then looks at me again and says, “So we can, you know, try to talk to Titus together. Like we had planned.”
And my heart sinks into my gut like a large bite of food I forgot to chew.
“Oh,” I say, looking away. “That.” That’s why he wants me to stick around. To work as, like, his coworker. To brainstorm on how to make this country a better place. To convince Titus to make some changes. Problem is, Titus doesn't like me very much. That’s obvious. And if he was interested in making changes in Ky, I have reason to believe he would have done that already.
I look at Forest. Offer a smile. Wish that he had the same feelings I have for him. “I’m going home, Forest. I don’t want to stay here and get wrapped up in politics. If you don’t want to take me home, I understand. I could find another way.”
His lifts his hands in mock defense. “Hey, I’ll take you. Hop in.”
I take my place in the passenger seat, he closes the door behind me, and soon we’re off.
“So how does Olivia feel about you taking me home?” I ask.
He winces. “Um.
About that. We kind of…broke up.”
Wait. “What?”
He glances at me, unsure. “I, uh, broke up with Olivia. Last night. We’re not dating anymore.”
I can’t stop my mouth from dropping open, and I seriously hope this has nothing to do with our conversation last night.
“Why?” I ask “I mean, I thought you loved her?”
“She was…tolerable. I never really loved her, though. It was all business.” He shrugs. “But—I don’t know.” He drags his hand through his golden hair and down around the back of his neck. “When I met you, Ember, I felt…a spark. A thrill of excitement. I’m not sure how to explain it exactly. It was the first time I’d ever felt that way around a woman. I craved your presence. And when I saw you were arrested, when Perseus announced your death sentence.” He shakes his head. “I was devastated.”
He glances at me. “You see, I don’t usually go out of my way to rescue criminals. And yes, I know what you did wasn’t intentional, but usually I don’t interfere. Even though it wasn’t me who rescued you from prison, I wish it had been. I wish that escape had never happened so that the next morning, before your execution, it could have been me who saved you. And then you could trust me, Ember. You could understand that…” Words seems to falter him, and he swallows, stares ahead at the street. “That your happiness means more than life to me.”
Holy Crawford. He does care for me. In that way. It’s not all just an act. He’s cared for me this whole time. That kiss wasn’t a pity kiss or a ploy to advance himself as a politician. It’s been real all along. This charged energy between us has been real. And if he broke up with Olivia…what does that mean? Could there maybe be a chance for us?
“Ember, say something.” He looks nervous, his thumbnail biting into the steering wheel.
“Um…I think you made the right decision. I don’t like Olivia.”
He bursts out laughing. I hardly ever see him laugh, and seeing it now makes my heart smile.
“Well, that’s honest,” he says.
His happiness eases my tension and makes me feel like everything really is going to be okay.
black tiger (Black Tiger Series Book 1) Page 31