The Dark Sky Collection: The Dark Sky Collection

by Amy Braun

  “Well, I can’t speak for Sawyer. Wouldn’t be worth his pouting,” he said with a grin. “But he desperately wants to rebuild this ship,” Nash flicked his eyes around the dark room, “and he can’t do it alone. I wasn’t a marauder before The Storm. I don’t know a damn thing about keeping it from falling apart. He needs more help, but he’s too stubborn to accept it.”

  Right then, I knew what the answer was going to be. Sawyer would never abandon the Dauntless Wanderer, for whatever reason, and Nash had given his loyalty. The sympathetic look in his eyes confirmed it. I couldn’t convince them by asking nicely. Even if I went to Sawyer and argued exactly what Nash said––that it took more than two people to run a ship––I knew Sawyer would refuse. He didn’t trust or like me, and I hadn’t done anything to earn it in his eyes. Not like Nash had.

  I sighed and ran my hands through my hair. This was going to get a lot more complicated.

  “Gemma?”

  I grabbed the blanket and started unfolding it. The fabric was big enough that I could wrap my entire body in it. Between that and Nash’s dry clothes, I might actually be able to stay warm.

  “Gemma, what’s wrong?” He sounded closer than before. I continued setting up my blankets.

  Everything. “Nothing.”

  A gentle hand curled over my shoulder. I froze in place. I was glad he couldn’t see my face. I was fighting to get control again, to remember how to be strong. It didn’t seem to work around him.

  “Those guys…” Nash said quietly. “It wasn’t the first time they harassed you, was it?”

  “How do you know?”

  “My friend Sonya would get the same look you did after someone hurt her. You just told me you were trying to find a family.” He gently squeezed my shoulder. “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

  This time, I didn’t see the point in lying. “Yes.”

  Silence passed through the air around us. For a moment, I wanted to let go. Fall into Nash’s arms, have him hold me and tell me it would be all right. I knew he would. No matter how tough he looked, Nash had a bendable heart. He couldn’t sit back and let someone suffer if he thought he could do something about it.

  He was falling straight into my trap.

  I heard him take a breath, ready to offer his help the way all knights in shining armor did.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said before he could speak. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a while now. I just… I just need to catch my breath.”

  Nash’s hand lingered for another moment, then moved away.

  “Okay. I’ll let you get some rest.”

  I nodded my thanks, instantly missing his presence when he stood up, took his lantern, and walked for the door. Before he reached it, he turned back to me. The heartfelt look in his eyes crushed me.

  “You aren’t alone, Gemma. Not while you’re here.”

  I nodded as though I was grateful. Nash’s eyes sparkled before he walked away.

  He bought it.

  I heard a door close softly over my head. I flopped onto the blanket and grabbed the fabric with my fists and teeth. The cloth muffled my outraged scream.

  Damn my brothers for pushing me to the breaking point. Damn Fletcher for using me so easily. Damn Nash for all his kindness and promises.

  Damn me for wanting to believe them.

  Chapter 6

  Sawyer’s surly attitude was unchanged in the morning as the rain poured over the city outside in buckets.

  His wanting to go to a Junkyard for scrap metal didn’t surprise me. His asking me to come with them did.

  Apparently, I couldn’t be trusted to stay alone and watch the Dauntless––a smart move, because I couldn’t be––but if I intended to stay with them, I had to do some heavy lifting.

  I had no problem with that. In fact, I welcomed it and the distraction.

  The Junkyard that Sawyer and Nash chose to steal from was a small one near the industrial district. The Junkers who lived in the Junkyards were clusters of men and women who had no problem taking advantage of any situation in their path. They mostly dealt with Electricians, often watching them as they took parts for their equipment in exchange for some kind of hand-made device. Even marauders were careful around them. The Junkers lived on scraps and never left their garbage piles. That made food scarce for them, since most smart survivors hoarded whatever food they could find.

  It was rumored that the Junkers had turned into cannibals.

  So why Sawyer elected to steal from them was beyond me.

  When I asked him, he gave me a wicked, mischievous look.

  “Because they have every part I can think of, and if the theft goes badly, we have a thousand places to run.”

  That much was true. In its prime, the industrial district was a hive of pipelines, smokestacks, and towering buildings. Half a dozen buildings were erected in the district, each one centralizing in some kind of heavy machinery or hard product. From the oil and gas sector, thousand of barrels of gasoline were sent daily to the Trade Board where they would be distributed throughout Aon and its meager provinces. The watering sector pumped fresh water from the ground and filtered it until it was drinkable for Westraven. They were also responsible for taking care of the dirty water we used.

  But the metalworking sector was the largest in the district. Westraven was famous for its engineers and their tools, as well as for the Sky Guard and their weaponry.

  When the Hellions came in The Storm, it was one of their first targets.

  Bombs turned the smokestacks and pipes into charred black sticks. Central buildings and warehouses were imploded, as though a mighty fist had punched them down to the earth. Piles of shrapnel and rippling sheet metal were strewn around the ground. Electric wires dangled out of the warehouse windows and over the doors. The entire district was encased in gnarled barbed wire, the spiky clumps of metal attempting to warn us away.

  I gazed at the stocky, haunted looking factory standing erect in front of the ruins, through the shadows lingering beyond its cracked windows. I half expected a pack of Hellions to burst into sight and tear us to pieces.

  Sawyer strolled through a torn gap in the fence without missing a stride.

  I was a little more cautious and a lot more grateful that Nash convinced Sawyer to let me have my knives back. I had a feeling that he was the reason Sawyer let me come at all.

  As we treaded past the fence to the heart of the metalworking factory, I swept rain soaked hair off my face and zipped my jacket up until the collar jutted against my chin.

  “Where are the Junkers?” I asked as the rain pounded down around me. I’d only been to Junkyards a couple times, but I figured they all enjoyed the same style of living––towering piles of useless crap that was too rusted to save.

  “Probably inside here,” Sawyer stated, pointing at the door we were about to walk through.

  I glared at him. “Do you always walk into dark buildings owned by possibly cannibalistic hoarders?”

  Sawyer glanced at me, and even offered me a small grin. “Marauder, remember?”

  I scowled, but followed him inside. Mentally, I made the excuse that I wanted to get out of the rain before it froze me. Truthfully, I felt a lot more comfortable with Nash at my back.

  Once we were inside, Sawyer turned to the left. We quickly followed him into a vast, empty room.

  There was nothing––no machines, tables, or equipment– to tell us what had once been in here. The two hundred foot space was gutted, the hard concrete floor coated in thick layers of dust and dirt. Rain pattered on the curved plate glass roof canopying over our heads.

  But the light that illuminated the tarnished metal walls didn’t come from the stormy sky. In front of us was a set of double doors propped open, a beckoning orange glow spilling out into the hollowed room. Mechanical noises groaned from within it.

  Sawyer took out his flintlock pistol and held it at his side. He didn’t stop walking.

  “We need to move fast,” he said in a
quiet voice. “I want to walk out of here with something for the Hove-porter. Take some scrap if you can manage to carry it, but the Dauntless needs to get off the streets. After that, we can think about fully restoring it.”

  “Can I know where you’re planning to take it yet?” I asked half seriously, since I didn’t expect him to answer me.

  Sawyer hesitated, narrowing his eyes suspiciously from over his shoulder as he walked through the desolate room. He turned away and fell silent. I didn’t expect him to answer me.

  “The ports.”

  “The ports?” I repeated, shocked that he’d answered me. “As in the ones owned by the Trade Board? The ones that everyone stopped raiding because they’re supposed to be cursed?”

  “The same.”

  “They were never cursed,” Nash rumbled. His voice was close to my back. “Just a lot of bad luck. The Hellions haven’t passed by them in years, and nothing outside suggests there are any other survivors hiding in them.”

  Which made sense, since the ports were all but bombed to oblivion when the Hellions attacked. Hundreds fled to the large air hangars in hopes of finding shelter, only to be picked off easily by the much faster, stronger, smarter Hellions.

  “Besides,” Sawyer commented, his voice echoing slightly as we approached the fiery light, “where else are we going to hide something as big as the Dauntless?”

  Sawyer slowed his pace as he came to the exit of the massive hall. He stalked to the door and tucked into cover by its frame. Nash and I followed him. We peered around the corner where the glowing orange light and heavy clicking and grinding noises were coming from. The room beyond was a cavernous space with hundred foot high ceilings and a network of catwalks. Lining the far wall was a row of towering kilns pouring white-hot molten metal into ten- foot wide, cast iron funnels. Steam raced out of the funnel tops and large gears on either side of the funnels clicked and rotated, the machine probably signaling water to be pumped into its cooling area. The contraption hissed as it moved through the base of the cooling box, which looked like another giant kiln. At the very bottom, a sliding door clicked open like a yawning mouth, and spat out a distorted metal sheet.

  I frowned at the casting machines. All six of them were battered and producing warped products. I turned my head to the right, squinting through the thick steam and shadows. I thought I could make out the edges of a control panel, but I wasn’t sure.

  Doubting I would have use for the control panel, I turned my attention to the most glaring item in the room––the giant pile of junk.

  Sitting in the center of the casting chamber was a towering mountain of scrap metal, cogs, pipes, and gears. Other than that, the room was empty.

  “Why are they running the casters?” I whispered.

  “Could be forming the metal to make parts for trade. Some people still might still remember their jobs from before The Storm,” Nash whispered at my back. I shivered at the feel of his voice against my neck, though I didn’t mind the sensation.

  “Doesn’t change who they are,” Sawyer grumbled. “They’re not generous folk. We run into them, we knock them out.”

  “Not exactly a friendly negotiating,” I muttered.

  He shrugged. “If you want to be skewered and roasted on a spit, then by all means, try to reason with them.”

  I scowled at Sawyer, but couldn’t come up with an argument. I suppose I should have been glad he didn’t immediately say we should kill them. I was a thief, not an assassin.

  Turning his back to me and drawing his cutlass and pistol, Sawyer stepped into the casting chamber. I followed, putting my hand on the hilt of my knife. Nash strode up to my side, his hands balled into fists.

  Sawyer moved in a circle as he approached the junk pile, his tawny eyes scanning for hidden enemies. He holstered his cutlass when he reached the metal mountain, though his pistol remained in his hand and his eyes never stopped moving.

  “Nash, Gemma, start collecting.”

  Nash nodded and began scaling the pile. I looked at Sawyer. “I don’t know what to look for. I’ll watch the ground. You collect what you need.”

  Sawyer looked at me for a moment, then nodded and holstered his pistol. He turned and climbed the pile of scrap.

  I turned my back to them and curled my hand around my knife hilts. I watched the corners and the shadows, felt the heat flaring from the casting machines as the molten metal poured from the kilns. Over my head, Sawyer and Nash worked through the pile, speaking in hushed tones and gently pushing aside pieces of metal they didn’t want. With the sizzling sounds coming from the funnels and cooling boxes, I didn’t think anyone would hear us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that angry eyes were watching us.

  I paced around the sides of the junk pile, each step tenser than the last. I scrutinized the shadows and waited for our enemies to get impatient.

  Still nothing.

  “You boys gonna be much longer?” I asked, keeping my gaze on the dark corners.

  “Hard to say,” Sawyer remarked. “Why, do you see something?”

  “Not down here––”

  As I was talking, I was turning to the scrap mountain. I froze in mid-sentence, my eyes widening as I watched the Junkers rappelling from the catwalks on thick ropes. They brandished knives and raised them to strike at Nash and Sawyer. The marauders didn’t see or hear them.

  “Sawyer!”

  He snapped his head in my direction, saw my upturned finger and wide eyes. His flintlock was out of its holster before he ever saw the threat. He leaned back and tilted up his head up. When he saw the man descending over his head, he startled. But he fired a shot nonetheless.

  The bullet struck the rope the Junker was using to descend. He let out a surprised yelp when the line snapped. The sound was cut short when his head smacked straight onto the top of the metal mountain. His neck bent at an awkward angle, his body flopping awkwardly between Nash and Sawyer. The two men raised their heads, seeing the same thing I was.

  Two more Junkers flipping around on their ropes and sliding down to attack.

  I watched Sawyer fired another round at the descending Junkers before I was driven into the ground.

  I was so busy worrying about Nash and Sawyer that I didn’t watch my own surroundings. I didn’t think that other attackers might have been hiding in the shadows that I thought were watching me, each one of them waiting for the perfect chance to pounce.

  The right side of my body slammed against the concrete with jarring force. I scrabbled against my attacker, both of us trying to get the upper hand.

  I lost.

  A lanky Junker straddled me, the edges of his dented, homemade, scrap-metal armor digging into my hips and thighs. Oily dreadlocks dangled from his head like fat spider-legs. I swung my fist at his chin. He grabbed my wrists with one hand and pulled them away from my body. His other hand struck me square in the face.

  Stars burst behind my eyes from the punch, but I didn’t black out from it. Or from the second one, though I came close. My head filled with pain, each movement becoming a ruthless spike jabbing into my skull.

  I wouldn’t beat him with physical strength. Speed was my only chance.

  Pooling strength into my lower body, I bucked my hips and pitched to the right. It was like moving a ton of bricks off my stomach, but I managed to tip the Junker off balance and toss him onto the ground. The gangly man roared and lashed his boot at my face. I grabbed his ankle and pulled it away from my body. With my free hand, I grabbed a knife and jabbed it into the back of his knee.