Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series))

by Rose, Frankie

  This isn’t what I was expecting. When Ryka said Freetown was an actual town with twenty thousand people, I assumed there would be buildings. Solid structures. Street lights and actual streets to put them on. There are no streets here, though. Only muddied walkways that weave haphazardly through the seas of flapping material. Hundreds of night fires burn, some dangerously close to the fabric of tattered, worn tents. The ink-black shapes of people flicker and twist around the flames, nothing more than tiny specks from this distance.

  Ryka points to a small wooden bridge that spans the river, turned green with moss and lichen at the edges of its rickety nailed planks. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” I sound pretty convincing, but I know the sad truth. I’m a liar. Shame I can’t trick myself along with Ryka. Regardless of my nerves, I have choices to make about who I want to be now, though, and I don’t want to be a coward. “Where are you going to take me?” I don’t even know that Ryka is going to take me anywhere. He could abandon me as soon as we walk into Freetown. There’s nothing stopping him from doing that, and after all the arguing and face-pulling he’s done since we met, he will probably be glad to see the back of me. He starts walking towards the wooden bridge, more confident now that home is in sight. “To Grandfather Jack,” he says. “He’s in charge here. Along with the priestesses, of course.”

  “And people call him Grandfather?”

  A dry look passes over Ryka. “They do.”

  “But he’s not really their Grandfather, surely?”

  “You’re smart for someone who’s done nothing but crush skulls and bite peoples’ ears off their whole life.”

  My mouth drops open. “I’ve never bitten anyone’s ears off!”

  “Finally! The truth!” Ryka hits the bridge and his boots make a hollow clomping noise as he takes long strides to the other side. The planks of wood feel spongy underfoot. They are probably well past a little maintenance and in need of replacing altogether. I hurry across, trying to dispel the images of falling through the rotten wood and plunging into the water below. My legs are jelly by the time I get to the other side.

  Ryka rolls the sleeves down on his shirt and pulls the band from his ponytail so he can re-tie it, capturing the wisps of blond that have escaped. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Jack your little fantasy story, okay? That story doesn’t end well.”

  I grit my teeth and consider jamming the knuckle of my bent index finger into his side. That would really hurt, and seeing him squirm would frankly make my day. He stalks off towards the tent line before I can do more than picture it, and I trail along behind him. My hands start to shake as we pass the first haphazardly pitched tents.

  Some of their flaps are open, and inside there are families eating and women in long skirts rocking babies to sleep. In others, groups of teenage boys play cards and roughhouse, scrubbing each other’s heads with their knuckles, laughing raucously and shoving one another over. The smell from the night fires is everywhere―a bitter, biting constant that should make me panic, but instead seems to calm my nerves. Intermingling with it are a thousand other smells, some more pleasant than others. Cloves, cinnamon, and anise flood my senses, forming a map of memories on my tongue; spiced meats and sugary scents, unwashed bodies and soiled clothing, butter and yeast and excrement―all of these are underpinned by the crisp, clean smell from the forest, which wafts on the breeze. It cleanses the palate, wiping away everything before it.

  Every time we pass a fire where people gather around it, Ryka inclines his head and grunts out a greeting. More often than not the people crouching around the flames rise as he passes, averting their eyes politely. Some of them don’t, though. Some of them jeer and grin at him, laughing when he makes some joking remark about beating them bloody at training in the morning.

  I watch everything. There’s a strong possibility that I’m not going to be able to stay here, and I want to be able to find my way back to the bridge if I have to make a quick exit. Ryka leads me through a maze of tents, occasionally skating on the mud where the pathway turns muddy. Wooden planks have been placed down so people can navigate the boggiest areas, but my boots are still clogged with stinking brown sludge. I knock them against one another as I walk, trying to scrape some of it away, but it only makes it worse. The foul mud doesn’t seem to bother Ryka. He waves at a group of girls that pass us; they wear long, flowing skirts like the women I saw back in the tents, with colourful shirts and scarves swirling around them as they move. They must have small bells sewn into the material, because they tinkle musically as they pass, giving me hard stares from their beautiful, kohled eyes.

  I duck my head and keep close to Ryka, unsure of how I’m supposed to react to such open curiosity. We walk for a long time before Ryka takes yet another sharp turn and we find ourselves in an open marketplace. The noise is furious, like the rushing of the river when it was at its maddest, the undulating pitch and fall of countless voices all talking at once.

  There have to be at least a hundred stalls, all organised in a grid pattern, with a snaking walkway that winds through them. Leather bags and belts, clothes, silver bangles and bracelets with tiny bells attached to them, small wooden instruments that people press up to their lips and play as we walk by, food merchants and drinks stalls. For every stall of one kind, however, there are at least two knife stalls. Every single kind of knife under the sun. I could spend hours here running my fingers across sharp blades, lost in the glimmer of bright metal.

  I almost lose Ryka three times before we’re half way across the market place. The confusion of bodies, all pushing and pulling and pressing together, is overwhelming. He glances over his shoulder, no doubt expecting me to be getting trampled, and frowns. “Here.” He holds out his hand.

  I take it, scowling. If I don’t, I’m getting lost and that’s for certain. His hand is so much bigger than mine, and strong. He could probably crush my finger bones right now if he really wanted to. Hopefully he won’t. I get pulled through the crowds, casting my eyes to floor so I don’t have to catch the irritated expressions on people’s faces as I stumble into them and trip over their feet. There is nowhere like this in the Sanctuary. I’ve never borne witness to so many people all gathered in one place, laughing and talking and feeling so openly. Not even in the Colosseum. There, the crowds are huge, sure, but it is mainly made up of Therin. They only discuss the bets they’ve placed on behalf of their Trues, or talk reservedly amongst themselves, discussing tactics and fighting favourites. They’re not frantic or harried like everyone here. The chaos of it makes my legs wobble.

  “We have to hurry,” Ryka tells me. He sounds a little annoyed that I’m not moving as fast as he would like, but something in his tone makes me think he’s at least trying to be nicer.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he says, “the man we’re going to see holds court until after dinner and then he goes home. And he really doesn’t like to bothered by people at home.”

  “Oh.”

  Ryka pauses abruptly and I walk into his back, my nose pressing up against his shirt. He smells like sweat and Jada and something fresh and green. A crowd of people have halted right in front of him to peruse some of the stalls selling fried food. He growls low in his throat and pushes roughly through them. I manage to struggle through after him in the gap he makes before it closes, and I see the end of the market up ahead.

  “Maybe I should go see him in the morning?” I suggest.

  “Not an option.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’ll have to figure out what to do with you until morning, and I seriously don’t have the energy for that.”

  Of course. I was right: he can’t wait to be rid of me. “Fine,” I say, “I don’t want to be stuck with you longer than necessary, either.”

  Ryka turns and throws a casual smile over his shoulder, his face lit up by the final stalls that sell multi-coloured candles and storm lanterns. “Oh, come on. I’m charming and pleasant to be around. You, on the other han
d―”

  I dig my thumb into his back, hard, without thinking. “You’re lucky I need you right now.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you’d find yourself on the floor, trying to worm your way out of another chokehold is what.”

  The crowd breaks and Ryka picks up the pace, pulling me forward beyond the marketplace. We’re in a small square, thick with mud, which is bordered on three sides by huge white canvas tents. Their guy ropes are staked out as close to their structures as possible, presumably to stop people from tripping over them. Ryka whips around and pulls me to him. The muscles in his body are no less tense, but his scowl seems to have disappeared. Maybe it isn’t a permanent feature, after all. “Look, can you―can you just not tell anyone about that. I’ve never fought a girl before. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and stare at him. “As I recall, I was the one doing the hurting.”

  “I know,” he says. He scrubs his hand over his face, blowing out an exhausted sigh through his fingers. “Look, any time you want a rematch I’m all for it. Just please―don’t go round telling people you cut me. It won’t end well.”

  I consider his request, taking into account that he didn’t shout it, or flat out order it of me. “All right. So, it’s not considered manly to be beaten by a girl in Freetown. I won’t breathe a word.”

  Ryka nods slowly, not taking his eyes off me. I can tell he’s searching my face, seeing if I am someone who means what they say. I used to see Trues do this to one another all the time. He turns and walks off without taking my hand this time, quickly skirting the back of the tent to our right. When he reaches the corner of the square where the tent finishes, he steps over the tangle of ropes and disappears through gap between them.

  I follow, distributing my weight carefully so I don’t fall onto the tensed lines. Ryka waits on the other side, leaning against a steel support that forms part of the entrance to the tent we just walked beside. “Remember what I said,” he tells me. Then he pulls back the mud splattered canvas doorway and vanishes inside.

  JACK

  A fire rages in a pit located in the very centre of the huge tent. This is undoubtedly a very bad idea. A strong breeze could catch an ember and the whole thing could go up. A thousand tents make up Freetown, though, and there seem to be just as many fires. I can only imagine they must know what they’re doing. Or at least I hope they do.

  I hide behind Ryka as we walk into the room, trying to find a calm space in my head where I can convince myself everything is going to be all right. Along one side of the tent, six stacks of chairs form a line, varying in height. The one closest to us is overloaded, and the tower leans forward like it might topple over any minute. Four gas burners sit in the corners of the single large room, flickering inconsistently and throwing off shadows, which dance where the light fades. There is nothing in here apart from the fire, the stacks of chairs, the gas burners, the sticky mud floor, and the small group of people sitting close to the fire.

  “Well!” A voice calls out, low and gruff. “Look who it is. The wanderer returns.”

  I peek around Ryka’s shoulder and see three faces gazing back at me. The eldest, a man of at least sixty, looks startled when he catches sight of me. “And he’s brought someone with him. You been hunting wild people in the woods again, Ryka?”

  “Wild is definitely the word,” Ryka replies.

  Since I’ve been spotted, I side step out from behind Ryka and eye up the people around the fire. The man who spoke lounges back in his chair, his legs thrust out before him, crossed at the ankles. The toes of his boots have gone grey where the caked-on mud has dried in a thick crust. His hair is shaggy and steel grey, swept back out of his face. He wears a loose blue shirt, which pulls a little tight over his considerable belly. Quick, intelligent dark eyes study me back. They seem so much younger than the rest of him. Bright.

  The other two, a woman and a man, have a more polished look about them. The woman reminds me of my mother― my birth mother. Her dark hair is coiled in a tight braid on the back of her head, and gentle creases line the delicate skin around her eyes and her mouth. She looks like she must smile a lot. The dark-haired man beside her wears nothing about his personality on his face. He is devoid of anything but cool curiosity as his stony eyes pick over me. He doesn’t look friendly, not like the old man or the woman. There is something of Lowrence to him, even though he looks nothing like my father. I’m ashamed to say I don’t hold his gaze for long.

  “Well,” the older man says, “are you going to tell us where you’ve been and who you’ve got with you?”

  Ryka looks at me and frowns. “I went where I always go. And she,” he gestures to me with his thumb, “says she’s called Kit.”

  The old man uncrosses his legs and then crosses them the other way with a small smile on his face. “Kit, hey?”

  “Yes, Kit. My name’s Kit. Well, not really, but—”

  The old man bursts out laughing, rocking back on his chair. When he reaches up to brush his hair out of his face, I see the same thin stack of marks trailing up the back of his arm. The ink has faded, though―gone blue and fuzzy, unlike Ryka’s crisp lines.

  “You don’t seem to know who you are, child,” he says around his smile. He’s more right that he can ever know. I kick my toe against the back of my other boot and pull a wry face. He takes this as some sort of response. Turning to the woman and man at his side, he says, “Perhaps we can discuss your proposition in the morning, Ella. As for you James, my answer was no yesterday, it’s no today, and if you’re half as smart a man as I think you are, you can probably guess what the answer will be tomorrow.” He chuckles when he speaks, knocking James’ boot with his, but James doesn’t smile. He gets to his feet stiffly, his back ram-rod straight.

  “Thank you, Grandfather.” He holds his hand out to shake with the old man. His face is expressionless and well contained but I know body language. The guy is furious. Ella leans forward and kisses Grandfather Jack on the cheek, squeezing his hand.

  “Good night.”

  James doesn’t say anything as he stalks out of the tent, but Ella smiles broadly at me and winks. “Lovely to meet you, Kit. Ryka.” She inclines her head to him like the people around the fires before did, and then they’re both gone.

  “Come and sit down, the pair of you,” Grandfather Jack says.

  Ryka moves off and sinks down in the chair next to the old man with ease. My hands prickle as I join them.

  “So,” the old man grins at me, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “Kit,” he offers me his hand. “You can call me Jack.”

  I lean forward so I can shake his hand, noticing that Ryka’s staring at Jack with his mouth open. I ignore him.

  “I’m very honoured to meet you, Jack.”

  He laughs. It’s a low, rumbling sound that might come from as deep down as the soles of his boots. “Likewise. Now, where have you come from?”

  I let my gaze flicker over to Ryka, trying to work out how much of my ‘fantastical story’ I’m not supposed to tell. He rolls his eyes.

  “She’s from Lockdown. She was drowning in the river when I first found her.”

  “I was not!” I answer hotly. “I was doing just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Uh-huh. She drank her body weight in river water and nearly died of exposure,” Ryka says.

  “All right, now, never mind that. So you escaped Lockdown, then?” His eyes creep down towards my neck, and my cheeks start burning. I know what he’s wondering. I tug down the neck of my shirt to reveal the halo around my neck. With the back of my fingernail I lift it up, a little afraid to touch it. He nods his head, lacing his fingers across his belly. “I see.”

  He doesn’t seem even remotely fazed. I tuck my halo away. It feels wrong that Ryka should be looking at it―at me―with such unveiled horror in his eyes. Jack raises an eyebrow.

  “I have to say, I thought you’d be different.”

  My hear
t stutters. “What?” Maybe he has some preconceived ideas about what people from the Sanctuary are supposed to look like. Green spots, three heads, something like that.

  “The Sanctuary put out a radio broadcast two days ago. Said one of their fighters had gone missing. There’s a reward on your head, Kit. They’re offering an astronomical amount of money to get you back.”

  I stare at him until the heat from the fire forces me to blink. A number of things run through my head, the first of which is how best I should escape from this tent. Jack is pretty old, but it’s wrong to underestimate someone based on their age. He could be a proficient killer for all I know. Secondly, I’m wondering who put up the money. Was it Lowrence and Miranda, or could it possibly have been the Sanctuary municipality themselves? I’m worth a lot of cash to both parties. I shouldn’t be surprised that they would do this. Ryka leans forward in his chair. “Why would they be willing to pay a small fortune for her?”

  Jack tsks. “I just told you, boy. She’s one of their amphi-fighters. Pay attention.”

  I’m well and truly over Ryka’s belief that I’m a frivolous, lying little girl. I ignore the dumbfounded look on his face. “What are you going to do?” I say to Jack.

  He purses his lips and squints one eye―a pretty strange look. “I’m not going to do anything, I shouldn’t think. What do I want with a basket full of money? We don’t use it here. Everything we have is traded or worked for. The only place I could spend money would be in Lockdown, and the likelihood that I’ll be headed there any time soon is, well, nil.”

  This doesn’t reassure me. Jack knows as well as I do that the Sanctuary will give him food and clothes and technology in place of money if he wants it. I shrink back into my chair, still thinking about running. Jack smiles easily, rocking on his chair legs.