“You,” he says again, low and determined, as he picks his way through the crowd to the preacher man’s stage. “You did this to my city. You and your puppet master. Where is he?”
“I don’t listen to True Borns,” the preacher man snarls dismissively. He backs up only to find himself trapped against the massive, hulking trunk of the tree. “I don’t have no beef with you or the other True Borns.”
“Oh yeah?” Storm’s smile flashes like a sharp knife. The crowds part to let him pass with a wide berth. The preacher man pales but doesn’t dare turn his back. “You’d set yourself up as wardens of this city but with no mention of True Borns? What did you think you were going to do with us? I’ll ask just one more time. Where. Is. Father. Wes?”
Wild-eyed, the preacher man turns his head to the side and nods briefly. In the shadows and off to the side stands another one in robes, who then slinks away. The preacher man pulls in his cheeks, as though sucking hard on something. Seconds later his jaw begins to tremble. His bony frame shakes and dances, as though electricity has jolted him. Then he falls, white foam coating his mouth as his eyes roll up into his head.
Storm bounds over to the man and shoves his fingers down the preacher man’s mouth. He fishes out a tiny scrap of something, covered in foam. But it’s already too late.
The preacher man is dead.
5
Storm beckons to Mohawk, who stands out against the Laster crowd like a flashing sign. She’s the strangest mixture of clashing colors and patterns: black-and-bright-blue-streaked hair sticking up, wispy braids of her Mohawk coming down like a mane around her lovely face. Thick gold bands circle her neck, bright against her dusky skin. Today she wears a cropped jersey, faded red with the number twenty-three emblazoned across her chest in white, paired with zebra-striped leggings. She crouches next to Storm and opens a small plastic pouch fished from her carrier bag. Storm gently drops the white foaming item from the preacher man’s mouth into the pouch. He wipes his fingers carefully on the dead man’s shirt, avoiding the foamy parts. The dead man has gone a pearly pink color, as has Storm’s fingers.
Storm speaks into his hidden earpiece. “Jared, take the twins home. The situation is no longer safe.”
Of course we’re safe, though. Who in their right mind would cross Nolan Storm? Most of the mob has pressed back; at least half have run away. Torch and Kira have disappeared. “Dammit. One little question,” Storm says now as he gently lowers the dead man’s eyelids. “Call the rovers.” He turns to Mohawk. “Let them know there’s a pickup.”
“What did he do?” I find myself asking.
“Poison,” Storm tells me, rubbing his hands together as though they’ve gone cold. “It’s what agents have done throughout time to avoid telling their secrets when they’ve been captured.”
Suicide? My mind reels. “But you hadn’t captured him. You were just talking to him.”
Storm’s look turns me cold. I reckon it’s the most direct reply I’ll get tonight. The sky is striated with pink light, at odds with the strange discomfort of death. “When you’re through making the call,” he tells Mohawk bitingly, “get the girls home with Jared and take the sample to the lab. We’ll be here a while yet.”
…
The events of the night before get rolled into our school bags in the morning: just more homework to be unpacked and dealt with at a later date. Margot straightens her blue skirt and hikes her stockings up. “How do I look?” she asks, hooking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
“Perfect,” I tell her with a smile. She returns it, a mirror image of my own, as she sits down beside me at the breakfast nook and starts spreading the toast that Alma brings in by the plateful, along with eggs and sausage and long strips of bacon. I pop a final strip into my mouth and look over our timetables for the umpteenth time. “We don’t have the genomics exam until next Wednesday,” I tell Margot.
“Good,” she says with a shudder.
I give my sister a hard look. “You’re not skipping the tutorials.”
“I know,” she replies under her breath. But of course, there will be no more ditching class. No more lighthearted days for either of us. We are headed back to our familiar stomping grounds, Grayguard Academy. But we are not the same girls we were.
Over the past few months our world has tipped sideways and become unrecognizable. This is someone else’s life. Some other set of girls who are reentering their school, just four credits shy of graduation. Other girls who work and live with True Borns—not the diplomat’s daughters, heiresses to the Upper Circle.
Other girls, girls who have secrets cached in their blood.
…
I remember once overhearing a friend of my mother’s telling a story about a young man from the Upper Circle who’d “gone off the rails.” It was during one of their boozy afternoon sessions, the kind that ended in tears while the ladies collectively faced their fears of being Spliced. What happened to him? my mother had asked, her face a mask of disdain. Did he fall into the Lasters?
No, the woman shook her head and went on. He fell off the face of Dominion. No one knows what happened to him. It’s like he was never born.
I think about that nameless, faceless boy as I study the thin, drawn shoulders of my sister. We are lucky, I reckon. Storm took us in. He’s doing everything he can to keep us in the world we were born to. Even if that means Margot and I face the depressing and humiliating experience of returning to Grayguard. We’ve only to endure a few make-up lectures and tutorials, we’ve been told, and then we’ll be allowed to sit our final exams. I shudder to think of the pull Storm has exerted on our behalf. Though sometimes I wonder at the price that will be exacted for this small slice of kindness.
Margot turns to look at me, a question in her beautiful gray-green eyes. “You realize we won’t know a single person there any longer.”
I nod. All our friends have finished school. We were the only two in our year—still alive—not to. And we didn’t mind, not really. But our True Born guardian sure did. You can’t be part of your set without graduating, he’d told us.
True. There is no such thing as a high school dropout in the Upper Circle. And our father isn’t here to buy us our diplomas. So instead we are left with the compromise Storm has brokered for us.
My thoughts stray to the boy who’d disappeared. Every comfort we have ever known has come from the Upper Circle. Though Storm’s keep is as nice as they come—in fact, nicer than many of the highest families—it is incomprehensible to me that someone would leave the Circle on purpose. I wonder now why the boy did it. Was he True Born? Was he like us, different in some fundamental way, something that would, sure as the grave, expose him?
…
Grayguard has changed in the last six months, though I wonder if it’s just my perception of it, as though in the interim it is me who’s grown. The gray bricks and iron gates of the school, manned by gun-toting security forces, seem more austere, less like a place I’ve been to nearly every day of my life. And, though many of the uniformed faces being ushered through the gates by their Personals are familiar, they are not friends.
Jared sweeps the yard and the buildings behind us before escorting us from the car. As he helps me out, I think I feel the slightest squeeze of my hand, though I may be imagining it. I squint against the white glare of the sky and try to ignore the rising feeling of panic gripping me.
It’s more than the increased presence of security. It’s Margot. She stands stock-still on the sidewalk, her head cocked like she’s listening to something. I feel her heartbeat: a brittle tattoo. The curling dread in her stomach. A headache flashes through her mind. She rubs her temple as I rub mine.
Then I hear it, too.
Soft, so soft. Like the mewling of a kitten. Or a baby.
Margot turns white as a winding sheet.
“Okay?” I whisper, quiet-quiet.
She nods but doesn’t speak otherwise, her hand gripping mine until my knuckles turn white and I think
my bones are crushed.
Jared opens the gate, a question in his eyes. I give him the tiniest shake of my head. This is something only we can deal with, more vicious scars earned from the past few months. She can’t stand it. Every time we walk past a child, let alone a baby, Margot sucks in her breath and looks like she wants to weep. It wasn’t her fault. The test-tuber babies that Resnikov created from Margot’s flesh had nothing to do with her, not really. But she’ll not forget the sight of them, their lifeless floating limbs encased in glass. Her only choice in the matter was to destroy them, something Jared and I helped her with. And that was not much of a choice at all.
“Breathe,” I remind my sister through a fake smile. “Breathe, Margot, just breathe.”
It’s easier once we walk up the stairs and enter the building. We suddenly become swamped by the familiar scents and sounds: lemon wax and floor polish and old, musty wood. High voices like choruses of birds piercing us from left and right. And then the bell, making us jump a little, ringing the students into homeroom. We can’t hear our steps on the polished marble floors through the din. We can no longer hear our panicked heartbeats.
…
We sit by ourselves at lunch, an island of two, when a girl with a brash walk saunters up to us. She has the long, straight blond hair that so many of the Upper Circle girls aspire to. She stops before us, one saucy hand on hip as the other crosses over her midsection. Flipping her hair back over her shoulder with an impressive head toss, she gazes at us as though we’re bugs she’s come across in her living room.
I stare at the ridge of freckles spanning over her nose, the round brown eyes that would be pretty if her expression were a little kinder.
“Yes?” My tone is filled with the cultivated boredom of the Upper Circle.
Her brashness slips a knot as she continues to stare. “Are you sure you’re in the right school?” She smirks, her voice loud so that others can hear her bravado. Behind her, the volume dips as the lunchers try to overhear. “Because you look at little past your due date.”
“And?” I prompt her.
“What did you say?”
“And?” I prod her along with a roll of my hands. “Surely you’ve heard the word before. ‘And:’ a conjunction that connects two parts of a phrase. It’s what us old fogeys are good at, good grammar and good breeding.” I throw her with a dazzling, cold smile. “And, meaning, have you really not got anything else?”
The smirk slips from her perfect Upper Circle face. “True Born scum lovers,” she spits at us.
“Ah, there it is!” I turn to Margot, who stares at me as though I’ve gone mad. “Margot. Did you hear that? We’re True Born scum lovers. I knew there was something special about us.”
I turn back to our would-be antagonizer. Her face has turned blotchy. The cafeteria has gone silent as the grave. “I guess you know who we are, then. As well you should. I can’t say we have the pleasure of knowing who you are, but then, there are so many of you. There are just two Fox sisters. But seriously, whoever you are”—I indicate with a regal flip of my wrist—“thank you for reminding us who we are.”
I lean forward a little. The girl takes an unconscious step back. I lower my voice, but it still carries over the still, silent tables. “We are very fortunate in our choice of guardians,” I tell the girl in a confidential tone, while under the table, Margot frantically pinches her leg. In answer, bright pain lances up my thigh. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Nolan Storm? I assure you, it’s not a meeting you’d soon forget. And I reckon it’s always so nice to know that your friends won’t be dying of the Plague anytime soon. Unlike some.”
I flip my eye to her friend at the adjoining table, smirk dropping from her lips. She’ll be next, I know. Turning back to the freckled blonde, I give her a sympathetic shrug before dismissing her. I can feel her behind me, burning with hate, for a long moment after I turn my back. Titters start to rise from the surrounding tables and soon the cafeteria is louder than before, loud as rabble. She storms back to her troupe of girls, storing up ammunition she’ll no doubt lob at us later.
Margot rolls her eyes at me. “Did you have to go there?”
“Yes.” My voice is curt. I can’t wipe the steel from my eyes.
She’ll try to break us, this girl and her pack of girl clones. But Margot and I, we have gone so far beyond this world of petty attacks that she is nothing more than a mosquito to be slapped.
Margot gets my attention by scraping her nail along the table. She moves the finger to the side of her face, just under her eye.
“What?” I ask.
My twin nods at the room. “Look.”
The cafeteria has a large, vaulted ceiling, like that of an old cathedral. Thick wooden beams, heavy from centuries of fires, hang over the long tables in the room. The windows are high, letting in a steady trickle of gray-white light. Everything in the room is exactly as I remember it: the same pocked wooden tables, the same rickety metal and wood chairs.
The faces are different. Younger. Here and there are tables of kids I reckon are several grades below us. A young girl with pale skin draws her hair back behind her ear, nervous as a cat. They’re all nervous. Then I notice there are far fewer kids than I’m used to seeing. And the room: The walls are studded with Personal mercs, glowering with silent attention like watchful sentinels.
I pivot my attention back to my sister. “When did they start letting Personals in at lunch?”
She shakes her head with a tiny shrug. Her eyes are dark pools, heavy with sadness. In our absence, it seems, our school has become a town filled with ghosts and guns.
…
By the time Jared fetches us at the end of the day, Margot is more flushed and animated than I’ve seen her in ages. She practically bounces into the back seat of Storm’s car, humming some little song under her breath. Jared lifts an eyebrow at me, a question in his eyes, as he holds the door open. I shrug and slide in.
Torch gets in on the front passenger side. Margot taps him on the shoulder. “Rematch when we get back?”
Torch’s youthful grin fills the rearview mirror. “Yeah, sure, if Storm doesn’t need me.”
“Oh come on, surely even True Borns get time off?” Margot flips her hair behind her back. “I’m putting money on this match.”
“What money?” I launch in, just as Jared murmurs under his breath, “This I’ve gotta see.”
We pile into the games room when we return to Storm’s keep. Jared fetches us some drinks while Margot and Torch trade good-natured barbs. With the first thwack! of balls across the table, I sit back and listen to the banter with my eyes closed. My sister and I had never been permitted this kind of playfulness. It’s lovely, filling me with a sort of decadence that has nothing to do with fancy parties or fine clothes. I open my eyes and watch my sister blossom as she pulls her cue straight and strikes the balls, one after the other. She’s good—really good, I realize.
Torch watches her with a face flushed with puppy love. Jared shakes his head and whistles. “You’ve been playing us, Margot,” he says with admiration.
My twin shrugs in answer. “Been out of practice.”
This was it, the thought suddenly strikes me. This was Margot’s secret life. All those days she skipped school, before our world fell apart, all those days she’d disappear, leaving me to make excuses for her, Margot was off playing games. This game. The thought raises an unexpected lump in my throat. I blink back a hot flash of tears. She was playing.
And she never once invited me.
With a final clamor and thud of balls into pockets, Margot wins. She gives Torch a graceful victory smile while Jared lines up the table for the next game.
“My turn, shark,” he teases. Margot’s laugh peals like a bell across the room, spelling out something I should have learned about my sister long ago.
…
“Cat.”
Margot sits on the corner of my perfectly made bed, watching me prepare for the evening ahead. I’
m to go on yet another “strategic” outing, according to Storm, though I’m given to understand this one will be more political than the others. I pull at the sash across the midsection of the pale yellow dress that floats like gauze around me.
Margot gives up waiting for me to respond to our little game. “Here,” she says, coming over to me and tightening the sash expertly. Her fingers brush the back of my hair. It’s been growing since I’ve been at Storm’s. It hangs halfway down my back now in long auburn waves. I look more like Margot than ever before.
“You’re lovely,” says my twin.
“Thank you.” Our eyes cross paths in the mirror. I look away first.
“What is it?” she finally blurts out, her hands outstretching in exasperation. “What’s bothering you?”
I’m trembling. I bite the skin inside my mouth. “You never once took me,” I say, staring at the floor.
“What? What are you talking about?”
I whirl on my sister in a cloud of delicate yellow and expensive perfume. “You left me there all those times. Left me at school, left me holding the bag while you went off to play billiards. You never once thought of taking me along?”
Margot stares at me, thunderstruck. Then she laughs. My face boils.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I warn.
“Lucy.” She grabs my hand. “Come on. We both know you never would have left with me. You’ve always been the perfect Fox daughter.”
“Perfect?” I snort. “So not perfect. You were the one they preferred. And how would you know? You never asked.”
A slight frown puckers Margot’s perfect forehead. “I reckon I needed to be sure you wouldn’t stop me. You have to admit, you’ve always been a stickler for Father and Mother’s rules.” She looks at me slyly. “And now you’re the model agent for the mysterious Nolan Storm.”
True Storm Page 5