The Romano family—two parents and their four kids—were a raucous bunch, nothing like the fragile quiet of Misty’s own home. Aurora Romano and Misty had been best friends for most of their lives. Aurora’s father and her two brothers were boisterous, while her mother and her sister were all giggly and playful. No wonder Misty spent more time there than she did at her own home. Fun and adventuresome, with far more friends than Misty had, Aurora always managed to find humor in even the most serious of situations. For both Grounder girls, growing up beneath the desolate streets of Manhattan would have been much worse if not for their friendship. But this night all was quiet, the family subdued within the quadrant. A visit from the Deacon was no laughing matter: everyone paid, sometimes with something other than coin.
Misty found Aurora in the square, slumpstone room she shared with her younger sister, Amber. Amber, lying still atop her cot, looked to be asleep. Aurora was several inches taller than Misty, with no trace of the slender build of her best friend. Aurora’s family could afford to eat, and it showed in her plump cheeks and more generous curves. She sat cross-legged on the floor playing Golack, a dice game that could be played either alone or with others. Aurora looked up as Misty entered. “What took you so long?”
“Had to wait for the Deacon to leave . . . wasn’t a good situation.”
Aurora glanced at her sleeping sister at Misty’s words, her face full of concern. “Tell me about it! That drooling creep ogled Amber until she started to cry. We need to keep her well out of sight the next time he comes around.”
“He gave us the rest of the week to come up with this month’s quittance,” said Misty quietly, and Aurora’s gaze snapped right back to her.
“Do you want me to talk to my parents? I’m sure they would—”
“No,” said Misty quickly. “We don’t need handouts. I just need something good to trade for some more food, and we’ll be fine.”
“So I guess you need a trip to street level more than ever, huh?”
“I guess so.” Misty bit her lip, trying to keep down her nerves. It was Aurora who usually encouraged their nightly excursions, and Misty felt odd being the one to push. “You still want to come?”
“Are you kidding?” A smile grew on Aurora’s face for the first time that night. “Let me grab my coat.”
Chapter 7
The two teenage girls climbed up the ancient, chipped, and rounded concrete stairs, past a weathered sign with the words Herald Square still barely visible beneath centuries of age and fading vandalism. As they approached street level, both girls double wrapped their scarves around their mouths and noses to minimize the amount of acrid air that made its way into their lungs.
Misty’s eyes began watering halfway up the steps, but after similar late-night excursions to street level on numerous other occasions, she knew the caustic effects would dissipate in a few minutes. As they stepped up onto the sidewalk she took in the city’s gloomy deserted landscape. Here, all buildings were outer-clad in matte black rubber. Reaching well into the cloudbank above, the rows upon rows of black rectangular tiles were all made from repurposed automobile tires. Covering the facades of buildings, where they were periodically recoated in Ragoon sap, the rubber tiles ensured that what still remained of the original concrete, marble, metal, or other material used in constructing the high-rise buildings would remain dry, unaffected by the constantly dripping acid rains. Standing there, Misty saw in the distance no fewer than ten empty lots, a cautionary example of what happened to buildings before the clever use of tiles was initiated. City engineers used the materials—bricks and whatnot—from a hundred fallen structures to build the intercity ramparts that kept the now-lifeless Atlantic Ocean at bay.
“Which way?” Aurora asked. Only her eyes were visible, but they expressed enough mischief to make Misty smile as she peered into the distant gloom. One good thing about the always-present cloudbank, hovering four hundred feet overhead, was the constant soft glow that gently illuminated the air beneath. Unlike below ground, here it was never pitch-black.
Two male Grounders, speaking excitedly to one another, hurried by on the opposite side of the street. They were arguing over something one of them held in their hands, a bundle of red and green fabric more vibrant than any Grounder clothes Misty had ever seen. Fortunately, neither of the men noticed the presence of the two young women close by.
Misty and Aurora waited until the men were out of earshot before they resumed their trek. “Let’s head to Uptown, we can usually find some good—” Misty’s words caught in her throat as she spotted a large shape on the sidewalk across the street. Both girls stared, transfixed, at what was clearly a man’s body.
“We need to help him,” said Misty, at the same time as Aurora exclaimed, “He’s naked!” They met each other’s eyes, unsure of what to do.
“Should we . . . um, see if he’s really . . .”
“Dead?” Misty glanced up and down the street. They were all alone, as far as she could tell. Huddled together shoulder-to-shoulder, they crossed the road. Now close, they crept to the broken body. Dripping rainfall had washed away some of the mess, but he was still framed by a puddle of blood, dark against the pavement. The man lay motionless on the ground, obviously dead. He was indeed naked, with dark hair plastered to his face by rain, and open brown eyes that stared lifelessly into the distance. His head was turned to the side, and from behind it, an opaque grayish substance that was definitely not blood had congealed in a small puddle. Misty shuddered.
Aurora, raising a hand up to her mouth, said, “I think I might puke.” She closed her eyes and breathed heavily in and out, but managed to keep the contents of her stomach.
Misty looked up at the cloudbank above them. “He must have have fallen,” she said wonderingly, and tried to imagine those few seconds of freefall. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
Aurora pointed and said, “I’ve never seen one of those before. It’s beyond disgusting.”
Misty knew Aurora wasn’t referring to the corpse itself, and let out a short huff, somewhere between surprise and laughter, as Aurora giggled beside her. Since he’d landed squarely on his back, the dead Skylander’s manly bits were still fully in tact. It was Misty’s first glimpse of a man’s penis as well, but she couldn’t bring herself to share in Aurora’s amusement. She crouched down next to the body, her attention still on the dead man’s face. She reached out with gentle fingers to close his eyes.
“Get the hell away from him!” The command came from behind them in an angry, authoritative voice.
The girls spun around. A tall man was running full speed toward them, wearing a hooded coat not quite long enough to hide his bare shins and ankles. Misty caught a quick flash of his red kilt. A Skylander!
“I said to move away!” Misty straightened from her crouch and stepped back, hoping without looking that the wet sound beneath her boots was rain and not blood. Out of breath on reaching them, the Skylander looked first at Aurora then at Misty. As he crouched down beside the dead body, he gently turned the deceased man’s face toward him to better see. As Misty had suspected, the other side of the man’s head was completely demolished, his blood, bone, hair, and viscera muddled together into a stomach-churning stew.
“Do you know him?” Misty asked, trying to keep her heart from dropping into her stomach, where it too might be vomited out onto the sidewalk.
“No.” The Skylander’s voice was strongly accented, and his tone was harsh and firm. It was a voice well used to being obeyed. “I dinnae ken if you’re both deaf, or simply daft, but I told you to move off.”
Misty bristled, her nausea forgotten. “No, you move off,” she said, surprising even herself. “You don’t know him. Who are you to tell us what to do?”
As the Cloudwalker glared up, she got a clear look at him for the first time. He had dark wavy hair that was long enough to be seen beneath his hood, and a small scar marring a proud chin. His deep blue eyes were narrowed as he frowned at her, but his face was smooth
and unwrinkled, his strong jawline clean of facial hair. He’s barely a man, thought Misty. Probably not much older than herself. A mere boy.
“I’m the one who was sent here to collect this poor sod,” snapped the Skylander. “And I don’t need a couple of wee Grounder bairns getting in my way.”
Misty had never met a Skylander in person before, but Grounder children often made fun of their odd speech. She knew full well what he was saying, and for the second time that night, her fist clenched in anger. She had been unable to talk back to the Deacon for fear of what he’d do to her and her family, but this Skylander boy held no such power over her.
“You’re no older than me, I’d wager,” she retorted. The words—and the anger that came with them—felt good on her tongue. “So if I’m a child, then perhaps it’s in your best interest to wonder why your people would send you to collect him? Or should I expect your mother to come calling for you any minute now, ye wee bairn?”
The Skylander gritted his teeth in silent fury at her mocking accent, while nearby Aurora’s eyes were wide with amused surprise.
“This man was one of my people,” said the Skylander finally, eyeing her carefully. “And his death is my people’s business. Unless, perhaps you had something to do with his death?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a scoff. “He fell. We found the body.”
“And stole from him? Took his clothes? Thought you could get a few pennies for a good kilt and rackstaff on the Black Market, aye?”
“We did nothing of the sort,” said Misty firmly. “He was naked when we found him. Here, on the ground. That makes it our business, not yours. I will yell for a parishioner to come deal with this situation, so you can leave now. Go back up into the clouds. This is our world, boy, not yours.”
*
Frustrated, Conn placed his hands on his hips. He had to think, and this rambunctious fud was making that nearly impossible. Stepping off the curb, he glanced up and down the empty street and remembered his father’s words. Do not let yourself be seen below the clouds. This had already turned into enough of a mess; the last thing he needed was some parishioner’s involvement.
He turned to the outspoken Grounder girl, whose scarf had fallen aside, now draped loosely about her neck. For the first time, he could see her delicate features. A face illuminated in the cloudbank’s glow. Her full lips were pursed in her thin, almost gaunt heart-shaped face, which was framed in tangled auburn curls. Her large green eyes stared back at him from beneath dark lashes. Noting the fire within them, he wasn’t sure he wanted to stoke her anger more than he already had. He needed to keep a low profile here, after all, and he couldn’t afford to blether away with a Grounder until someone took notice.
“Look, Miss,” he said after a moment, fighting to keep his voice pleasant. “I dinnae want trouble. Let’s start over, can we do that?”
Misty shrugged. “My name is Misty, not Miss.” The other girl made no sound, but Conn had the odd sense that she was amused by the situation.
“Misty, I’m Conn. Conn Brataich.” He smiled comfortingly at Misty, the way he did for the Grounders he led across the clouds, and spoke slowly, like he would to a spooked pigeon. “This man, another Cloudwalker like me, did indeed fall this night. I assure you, I would not be down here otherwise.”
“But you said it yourself, that you do not recognize this man,” Misty said. Her tone was sharp; she was obviously still ready to joust.
Conn stared down at the body. He had no idea who the poor bastard was. “You didnae see him fall, by any chance?”
“No, we didn’t.”
He sighed. “This really is a jobby.”
The phrase made the other Grounder girl laugh out loud. She leaned in closer to Misty and whispered, “That’s Celtic talk for a bag of shit, I think.”
Conn noticed one corner of Misty’s lips turn up for a split second.
“Aurora and I saw who took his clothes, if that helps any.” she said. “Two bandits. They were running away from the body, all excited-like. One carried a bundle of clothes in his arms.”
“That doesn’t help much,” Conn said with a disappointed sigh. “I’m sure they’re long gone by now. You didnae happen to notice the color—”
Misty cut him off. “Green and red squares. His kilt was green and red.”
That news wasn’t even remotely possible. The only Cloudwalker clan with a green and red kilt like she’d described was from Jersey City, nowhere near the spot in the cloudbank where the dead man had fallen. Green and red were the colors of the Folais Clan themselves, the family of Lili Folais, his fiancée and sole daughter to the reigning Jersey City CloudMaster Gordon Folais. This was a boaby situation, if there ever was one. The relationship between the Brataich Clan and the Folais Clan was precarious at best already. Conn’s upcoming marriage to Lili had been arranged to mitigate any further unrest. But now a Folais Clan Cloudwalker had literally landed belly-up on the streets of Manhattan, which could very easily lead to war. Maybe this bloke isn’t that important, thought Conn. One could only hope.
“Well?” Misty said.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to just stand there, or should I call for a parishioner?”
The girl really was beyond annoying. “I’m taking him with me. Please don’t call a parishioner. I’m asking you as a favor to me.”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, her noisy rubber slicker squeaking as she did. “Why on earth would I do a favor for you?”
Conn looked up at the dim glow of the cloudbank above. Of course she would make this difficult. “Tell you what. Someday, I’ll do you a favor back. Anything you want. Big or small, ken?”
That made her laugh. “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that? And why would I ever want help from a Cloudwalker anyway?” She turned to Aurora. “When was the last time I asked for a Skylander’s help . . . can you place that?”
“Never,” Aurora replied flatly. “You’ve never met a Skylander before.”
Misty shot an annoyed glance at her friend, but held firm.
“Then I guess I’m at your mercy,” said Conn. “But I’m telling you, the fella lying here should not be here. Not directly beneath a Brataich Clan cloudbank. It spells trouble. Lives could be at stake. My life could be at stake. Is that what you want?” Conn gave her his most earnest, trustworthy expression.
Misty returned his comment with a smile, one that said she knew his words were a crock of shit. “Fine. But I’m taking you for a man of your word, Conn Brataich. Anything I want, big or small.”
“Yes. That’s what I said. Now you better move off. What I have to do next won’t be pretty. I assure you, the front of his body looks a whole lot better than his bottom side.” Conn leaned over to pick up the dead body, hesitating until they’d both turned around and left. He could feel their eyes still on him from somewhere across the street, and suppressed a shudder. He knew his chances of running into Misty again for her to cash in on a favor were slim to none, but he had a sinking feeling she was the type of person to bend chance to her will.
Once the Grounders had gone, Conn removed his long coat, feeling exposed in his white shirt and bright red kilt. It wasn’t raining outright, but he knew the ever-present mist would make his skin itchy and irritated before long, so he had to hurry. Spreading the jacket out next to the body, he rolled the corpse onto the coat’s lining, doing his best to avoid any contact with the mess. The crushed bones of the Cloudwalker’s body made a horrifying sound as he moved him, and Conn had to take deep breaths to stop himself from feeling a bit faint. With an effort not to pay attention to the man’s mutilated face, Conn wrapped and tied the sleeves of his jacket together around the corpse’s upper torso. Straightening the man’s crooked and splayed legs, he next went ahead and tied the coat’s long tails tightly around both ankles. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. Conn stood up and surveyed his work, brushing a small clump of bloody hair and skin off of his white sleeve with a fr
own. At the very least, the coat’s wrapping should keep him from being covered in the dead man’s blood and gore on the long trek back up.
Chapter 8
Both girls remained quiet as they crossed the wide deserted street and stepped up onto the sidewalk, but Misty’s mind was still reeling. Misty repositioned her scarf, already felt the ill effects from her face’s exposure to the caustic mist.
Aurora, the first to break the silence, said, “I still can’t believe we spoke to a Skylander.”
“He’s just a person,” said Misty irritably. “Not so different from you and me. No big deal.”
“It’s no big deal so long as we’re not caught,” Aurora corrected. “But if we had been—or still might be—how many of the sacred laws did we actually break tonight?”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. No one saw us. Look, see?” Misty gestured to the deserted streets. “Other than him, there’s no one around here but the two of us.”
“At least three sacred laws were broken, according to the Purgeforth doctrine,” Aurora said. She recited them, the very picture of a devout Purgeforth schoolgirl, “One: Thou shalt not have direct dissertation with the sullied . . . which is pretty much anyone not of the Purgeforth sanctification. Two: Underage girls shalt not converse with boys or men without an adult chaperone present. And three: Thou shalt not overly converse—or build relationships of any sort—with Skylander individuals. That last law comes with a pretty harsh punishment, though I can’t remember what it is.”
Cloudwalkers Page 5