Blackout (Darkness Trilogy)

by Madeleine Henry

  After all of Elektra’s help, the least I could do was help her find a dress. She wears a tight black one with only one sleeve. The dress slants across her chest to leave one arm and shoulder completely bare. I chose it because it’s short. Shows off her legs. It clings to her waist, emphasizing unexpected curves, and then falls loosely to the middle of her thighs. Her heels are tied with black bows around her ankles, and I’m still surprised at how naturally she maneuvers in them. I mean, Star’s spent her life in hiking boots.

  Tinder tidies his gelled hair. He looks bigger now with shoulder pads under his black suit, but the kid is still scrawny as hell. More like a player’s younger brother than a competitor. He pats his sandy hair in place with his fingers, and I have to avert my eyes. I don’t want him to see me feel sorry for him.

  In the lobby, a crowd of players streams toward Tower Two. I search every face for Star, but she’s nowhere. Instead, I see almost fifty DZs made over like Easies. Most of the boys are clean shaven and dressed in shining suits; the girls have their hair swept up into elaborate styles and walk carefully in unfamiliar heels. A couple of DZs who clearly haven’t read the magazines exit an elevator across the lobby and drop their mouths in horror. They look just as shabby as they did in the Dark Zone. One of them starts jamming the DOOR CLOSE button in a panic. I don’t know where I stand yet, but at least I’m better off than them.

  We approach the glass tunnel that connects both towers. Photographers surround us, squirming and pressed against the glass. Their cameras flash blinding white light into my eyes, and I have to look down at the carpet for a second to see anything at all.

  “Say cheese!”

  “Smile!”

  “Give us a kiss!”

  Elektra is unfazed. She bends her knees, rests one hand delicately between her legs, and blows a sensual kiss to the photographers. I wave and fake a smile, but I can’t hold the expression for long. I feel too much like a goddamn hostage to act happy, and staring at these Easies only makes it worse.

  “Elektra!”

  “Tinder!”

  “Phoenix!”

  “We know your secret!”

  My secret? I stop short in the moving crowd, and DZs flow around me. My secret? I’ve hardly seen Star since I got here—we’ve barely touched—they couldn’t possibly know that we’re in love. Elektra’s bare arm reaches back for me and yanks me forward to where she stands with Tinder. She wears light-blue eyeliner and glitter now instead of black charcoal, but she still looks just as fierce.

  “Don’t leave us,” she enunciates in a whisper.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “One of those photographers just said—”

  “Don’t listen to them,” she says. She puts on a smile and we resume walking through the tunnel. She leans next to my ear and whispers, “The paparazzi will say anything to get a rise out of you. When they sell these pictures, they’ll make more money if they get eye contact. Much more money if they catch you getting emotional.”

  Thank God. Relief floods my body, and I wipe a thin layer of sweat off my forehead. Of course the Easies were fishing, looking for a weakness. No one knows about me and Star—hell, even Elektra doesn’t know and she knows almost every goddamn thing. I tell myself I’m safe, Star is safe, and the photographers are just trying to make a buck. I crack my neck and speed up. I won’t let the crowd throw me again.

  We enter the lobby of Tower Two, where photographers can’t see us anymore. I exhale a lungful of tension as a Suit guides the three of us to an elevator. Other DZs have separated into groups of three or four, which I can only guess are other suites. I scrutinize them for weapons: for any bulging pockets, bulky fists, or discreet bags—but I don’t see any. All pockets are flat and all hands are empty. I can’t say I’m surprised: Like Elektra said, no one wants to marry a murderer.

  “We should exchange phone numbers,” Tinder says in the elevator. I hit the PH button.

  “Come again?” I ask.

  Elektra takes my phone and thumbs to CALLS. A grid of numbers 0-9 appears. She points to the corner, where it reads ME: 347-555-0103. Wow. I try to memorize the sequence as we save each other’s numbers, and we finish right before the doors open to the penthouse. Half of the players are already here in a warm wooden waiting room. Two lines of rectangular, brown columns extend forward along the middle of the room, and DZs lean against them under tinted pendant lights. Double doors of gleaming red oak open slowly at the far end, and DZs perk up to file inside. I scan the room for Star—and spot her near the front. At least, I think that’s her. I abandon my suite to get a closer look.

  “Phoenix!” Tinder cries lamely.

  But I can’t slow down. It is Star. She catches my eye and winks once, very subtly. I cross diagonally through the flood of players to get to her. Up close, I barely recognize her. She wears a light-pink gloss on her lips and dark liner around her eyes. Her cheeks are a red I’ve never seen on her before, and her hair’s texture is entirely new. It looks softer and smoother, and I want to feel it in my hands, but not here. Not now. She’s swept her fresh hair into a low and beautiful sideways bun that looks like a flower. Pearl-studded pins hold light wisps in place. She risks a slight smile, and it takes every effort of mine not to melt.

  I don’t take her hand. She doesn’t reach for me either, and her smile fades quickly before anyone sees us. Standing next to each other—but not together—we join the procession of DZs. We pass under the tall oak doorframe and face a rounded black wall where players part in two lines: one curving left and the other curving right. Star and I head right, passing cushioned black seats every two feet that face the rounded wall. The line of players stops suddenly.

  “Take a seat, players,” a voice booms from above.

  Light illuminates an oval-shaped room in front of us. The curved wall has become semitransparent glass, separating us from this new space where two beige armchairs sit facing each other. Star and I take our seats in the surrounding ring of players, ready for our front-row view of whatever is about to come.

  “Welcome to the players’ Box,” the voice announces. “My name is Mr. Chauncer, and I am head of the Connecticut Family. Tonight, four prizes will be interviewed in the room before you. Two eligible sons and two eligible daughters will each be questioned by a Family member of their choosing. They will not be able to see or hear any of you.

  “You may experience intense emotion when you see the prizes. Past players have described being overwhelmed by True Love at First Sight. The amount of joy that some of you will feel may frighten you, especially after a life of suffering in the dark. You may want to share your feelings with the world, but we remind you that this is a private event. Everyone involved in the Carnival is a Family member, and they do not discuss it with civilians. Neither will you. You will not talk to any reporters, and you will not make contact with other Americans. Either violation will result in permanent isolation. Please turn your attention now to the tablet in the right arm of your chair.”

  The arm opens to reveal a shallow compartment. I reach inside and remove a rectangular slab of black glass with a small pen magnetically attached to the side. The black slab illuminates to white.

  “If you would like the interviewers to ask a particular question, write it down on the surface of your tablet,” Mr. Chauncer continues. “As soon as you dot the final question mark, your inquiry will disappear from your tablet and come to me. I, personally, will review the requests, and relay a select few to the interviewers. All of them will be asked anonymously. Remember: This is your chance to get to know the prizes. Think hard about what you want to know, and choose your words carefully.

  “The first prize will now arrive.

  “Gentlemen, I offer you my daughter, Flora Chauncer.”

  11

  Two blonde Easies strut into the protected oval room. They look like twins. Both wear strapless dresses made entirely of glitter: one in silver, and the other in cherry red—but bright cherry red, of course, because Americ
ans make everything bright. The cherry girl stops to wave around the room, and I assume she must be Flora. Her bobbed hair shimmers under the soft chandelier, and one player among us scoffs.

  The Easies take their seats at the same time. Flora sits like a priss, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands on her spoiled lap. She looks weak. Her arms are small and fleshy, like she’s never had to carry anything heavy. Never had a care in the world. Bitterness ties a knot of resentment in my chest, and I grind my fists together in my lap. Mr. Chauncer was right: I am feeling intense emotion right now, but that emotion isn’t love at all. It’s wrath. Glaring at Flora’s baby-blue eyes, I think about how easy it would be to fight her. I could thrust Magic’s butt twice into the glass to shatter it, then walk slowly toward her. She wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Stop it, Phoenix. For God’s sake.

  I massage my forehead to get control of my mind. I might have to make this girl love me. Love me. I can’t be thinking of ways to kill her. There has to be another way to think about all of this—a way that lets me look at the prizes without wanting to destroy them. But maybe that’s it. Maybe I should let myself destroy them. I lift my head up, and a smile plays on my lips. I could think of the Carnival as a hunt. One Easy will be my prey. I’m the best hunter in Dark DC, I should be able to hunt a little, privileged girl. Yes, this is perfect. These Easies are already animals to me. Pretending to hunt one won’t be too much of a stretch.

  I relax and lean back in my chair. The first step to hunting is to know your prey. If you’re going to outsmart an animal, you have to understand it completely. Know it as well as you know yourself. I rest my chin on my clenched fist and gaze at Flora the way I’ve studied deer, learning how they moved, what they liked, and where they were weak.

  “Hi, everyone,” the silver girl says. Her expression is serene and somewhat older than Flora’s. “I’m Clementine, and I’m here to interview my darling little sister, Flora.”

  “Thank you, Clemmy,” Flora says in a high-pitched voice. She tucks a strand of clean blonde hair behind her ear and earnestly purses her lips. You can tell she takes this seriously, and her sincerity reminds me of Tinder.

  “As the first interviewer tonight, it is my honor to give a brief history of the Carnival,” Clementine says, smiling. “Not an official history, but a personal one.” She pauses to take a preparatory breath. “Ten years ago, Daddy wanted to give back to DZs, and he was thinking of the best way to do it. He wanted to give you something really special that could help make up for what you’ve suffered. On his and Mama’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, the idea came to him: true love. He could help DZs find true love. Daddy came up with this contest himself, and he named it the Carnival because that’s where he met Mama.

  “I met my husband, Flash, here three years ago, and by all accounts, the Carnival has been an undeniable success. The Families don’t spend much time with ordinary Americans, so we don’t meet that many new people. And what that means is: The Carnival matters a lot to us, too. We find true love here, just like you do. You will see, it’s really an incredible process, and Flora has been looking forward to this for a while now.

  “So, with that said,” Clementine says, running her hands eagerly over the surface of a tablet in her lap, “are you ready, Flora?”

  Flora nods.

  “Then let us begin,” Clementine says. “Flora Marie Chauncer, how old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” Flora says. She enunciates the number to reveal two rows of straight white teeth. “My birthday’s in March.”

  Birthday?

  “Where do you call home?” Clementine asks.

  “Connecticut,” Flora says. “I’m the youngest in the Connecticut Family.”

  “And, to get right to it, what are you looking for in a husband?” Clementine asks.

  “Hm, that is the question,” Flora says thoughtfully, but she doesn’t look surprised. She must have been preparing for this question for weeks. Months. Years, even. “I’m looking for someone with a kind heart and good, positive energy. Someone who will hold my hand and take this journey with me.”

  Clementine nods attentively.

  “Someone who cares about how I feel,” Flora says. She touches her heart for emphasis, and I notice a golden ring like mine on her left ring finger. “That’s what you wanted when you did the Carnival, and you found Flash. You two are so happy together. I really want that. I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

  Clementine glances at the tablet. “I just got a question from one of the players,” she says. She wrinkles her pale nose. “It came with a note from Daddy. He wants to use the question to explain the No Touching rule. I still don’t quite want to ask it, though.”

  “What is it?” Flora asks.

  “Someone wants to know if you’re a virgin,” Clementine says in disbelief. Her faint blonde eyebrows rise, and Flora stiffens noticeably. “I’m sorry, Daddy made me ask it. To explain the rule. I’m so sorry, Flora.”

  “Of course I’m a virgin,” Flora says. She sits self-consciously now, as if she just became aware of every muscle in her straight back. I like seeing Easies uncomfortable. One more sex question and she might snap in half.

  “They only asked because they don’t know how we live,” Clementine says to comfort her. She reaches across to lay her hand on Flora’s knee. Flora relaxes slightly. Raising her voice to address us, Clementine adds, “We aren’t allowed to touch anyone outside the Families until after marriage. Let alone be intimate. We’re kept separate from all other Americans. This is why the Carnival means so much to us. It’s where we meet our future husbands and wives.”

  “Let’s move on,” Flora says.

  “Yes.” Clementine leans back. “Here’s a better question from the players: What makes you smile?”

  “I like that question a lot better,” Flora says. She exhales a lungful of air in nervousness disguised as a laugh. “Anything makes me smile, really, but especially honesty. Trust is very important to me and to a relationship, and I love when people are honest.”

  Over the next hour, Flora answers more than thirty questions. I learn her favorite color (pink), food (caramel ice cream—whatever that is), what her three brothers are like (blah blah blah), and I squirrel away every fact. Then she gives an autobiography that is supposed to illuminate her “character.” She talks about how hard it is to be isolated from the world, how she struggled in school, and how much she’s always looked up to Clementine. I sneer the whole time, especially during the bit about her sister. Flora doesn’t look at Clementine the way Wick looked at me, or the way he looked at Star. Disaster unites families, not excess.

  “Any last words, Flora?” Clementine asks.

  “No, that’s all,” Flora says.

  “You did a great job here today,” Clementine says, shutting off the tablet. She stands and offers one hand to her sister. “Let’s go home.”

  Flora takes Clementine’s hand and they hug on their way out. Their dresses rustle together, bouncing even more light into my eyes. I look away and squint at the players on the other side of the room. Every last one is deeply focused. The DZ directly across from me rests his chin on two pointed fingers, staring unblinkingly at Flora. The DZ to his left whispers harshly to himself, as if he’s repeating what he just learned with urgency, and I should do the same. I lean back in my chair and think.

  If I play Flora—hunt her—then my best bait will be kindness. I’ll act like I care about how she feels. Pretend to be weak and break down into tears in front of her. Hold her hand. Once she trusts me, I’ll aim for her honesty weak spot and pull the trigger. Easy. With my plan in mind, I look at Star. She stares at the glass with an emptiness in her eyes. Whispers start to spread as players mutter to each other about Flora. With everyone else distracted, I figure it’s safe enough to lean toward Star and ask her a small question.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  She doesn’t answer. Her face is blank and pale under the makeup. I can sense t
hat she’s hurt—I can feel it as I look at her—but I don’t know exactly why. She’s still staring at the chair where Flora was sitting. Something about the interview must have wounded her. I want to hold her, but I can’t.

  “What is it?” I whisper even softer.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Players’ Box, attention please,” Mr. Chauncer’s voice returns, louder than before. The player on the other side of Star winces at the volume, and I lean back into my own chair. I’ll just have to talk to her later. “The second prize is about to arrive. Ladies, the New York Family offers you Bing Troublefield the Fourth.”

  Troublefield? The Fourth?

  Impossible.

  12

  Two tall boys enter the central room wearing jet-black suits and golden ties. They knock each other’s chests in a playful kind of roughness, and I zero in on the one who sits in Flora’s old seat. That must be Bing. But—he can’t be a Troublefield. He’s an Easy, for God’s sake, and he doesn’t look a thing like me. His skin is strangely tan, and his honey hair looks slick and hard, as if it’s been polished with wax. He’s a pretty boy—and he might even be wearing makeup. No, we are not related. We are barely the same species.

  I know he has the family name, but that has to be a coincidence. It has to be. He must be from a different line because my Troublefields—true Troublefields—would never have stayed up here when their family was still trapped in the Dark Zone. They would’ve found a way to join us in Dark DC or they would’ve died trying. That’s how strong the Troublefield bond is supposed to be: Walls can’t separate us and scarcity can’t divide us. We are bigger than that. Better. This Bing can’t be my cousin—or uncle, or nephew, whatever.

  Still, I can’t help but squint my eyes and scour him for any sign of Aura, Burn, or me. Bing sits with his back slouched and one leg angled lazily across the other. He raises an arm to scratch his neck, and his sleeve falls slightly to reveal the Troublefield family crest on the soft side of his wrist. My mouth drops open. The thick black T is there. Inside the shield. On Bing. His shield is more elaborate than mine—with leafy ivy curled around the sides and eagle wings spread in the background—but the core of the tattoo is right in front of my eyes. I can’t deny it anymore—he is family.