Sin City

by Jennifer Martucci

  Continuing down the street, Garan and I run. The cheers intensify the further we go, swelling to a deafening crescendo when we follow the curve of the road and come into view. In the distance, I see them. I see the people of Sinsity. I see what appears to be innumerable fists pumping in the air. But my focus doesn’t remain on them long. The howl of a motorcycle demands it.

  Garan stops dead in his tracks. “This is it. They’re back.” He retrieves the weapons from his back pocket. Gripping a bloody dagger in each hand and with two broken arrows protruding from his body, he looks every bit as lethal as he truly is. “I’m ready for them.”

  Following Garan’s lead, I unsheathe my sword. “Me, too.” I hope.

  The first biker rounds the corner of a side street just ahead of us. He slows to a stop and waits, revving his engine so that his rear tire spins with a screech, releasing plumes of white smoke. Moments later, a second biker appears from the street opposite him. They both wait, engines growling and wheels spinning faster and faster until the other three in the group join them. Shaved heads gleaming and tattooed arms bunching and flexing as they twist the handles of their motorcycles, they each warm their tires, punishing them against the asphalt as the back tires rotate and the bike is kept still. But the stillness doesn’t last long. Seconds later, they peel out, leaving behind a long trail of white smoke and darting toward us.

  “What do we do?” I scream to Garan.

  “Kill them!” he yells in response.

  The motorcycles close the distance between us with lightning fast speed. One pulls ahead of the pack. Broad through his shoulders and barrel-chested, the biker, though dressed identically and similar in appearance to the others, has a skull mounted between his handlebars. With the flick of his wrist, the front end of his bike rears, the machine continuing on one wheel as it races toward us. The metal skull catches the sunlight, shimmering and shining like a deadly earth-bound star for a moment. But that’s not the only shining object that catches my attention. When finally the front end returns to the pavement, I notice that in his left hand, the biker grips an ax. Smiling with vicious glee, he twists his right hand. The bike responds immediately, lurching forward and rocketing toward us with a shrill whine. The others aren’t far behind.

  A heartbeat away from reaching us, the lead biker hoists his ax in the air. He cries out words that’re unintelligible. Suddenly, however, a panicked expression seizes his face. Mouth wide and eyes round, both hands fly to his neck, where a dagger is buried there. Without hands in place to steer and accelerated to top speed, his bike loses control. Toppling to one side, the bike slides out, skidding toward the four approaching. Reacting quickly and veering sharply, the other bikers narrowly avoid colliding with the out-of-control motorcycle. Undeterred, they persist.

  Circling us once again like a forest beast circling its prey before attack, dust kicks up, shrouding my vision and making it hard to breath. One breaks formation and barrels at me. Wielding a sword, he slices the air, intent on lopping my head off. I drop to the ground, avoiding the strike, then spring to my feet. He’s turned around already and is racing toward me. With only a split second to act, I swing my arm wide and with all my might. My blade connects with flesh. Warmth splatters on my face, the metallic stink of blood heavy. The biker spills over the side of his vehicle. He lands near me, a deep gash in his throat wide and bleeding. The motorcycle continues without him for a few feet before it drops, skating to one side and wheels still spinning.

  Seeing two of their own fall, the three remaining riders descend on us.

  Gunning the engines and aiming straight for me, the rider nearest screams a profanity as he hefts an ax over his head. I dive out of his path seconds before his front tire touches me, rolling out of the way and into the line of fire of another. All around me, dust swirls in time with the incessant whine of motorcycle engines. Dizzying and deafening, I struggle to focus. Only the chrome pieces of the bikes reflect the sun’s light. And the weapons. In my periphery, I see a blade glinting in sunlight. I steal a sidelong glance and as I do, I see Garan duck, pop back upright and lunge, driving his sword into the chest of the biker as he passes him. He retrieves it and the biker grips his chest. Not wasting a moment, Garan shoves him off the bike and to the ground. As soon as the motorcycle lands, Garan climbs on.

  “Lucas!” Garan shouts. “Come on!” He gestures for me to get on the back of the bike.

  Rushing toward him as fast as I can, I throw my leg over the rear portion of the seat.

  “Hold on!” Garan shouts. He twists the handle on the right and the bike shoots forward.

  The two motorcycles that remain are already at the end of the street. Revving their engines for several moments, they blast forward, kicking up dust and smoke as they charge at us.

  Garan doesn’t slow. Instead, he tests the engine, twisting the handle as far as it will go, pushing the motorcycle to its limits. Devouring pavement he launches us directly in their path.

  The distance between the two bikes and ours shrinks fast. “Garan!” I scream when they are fifty feet from us. Ignoring me, Garan pushes forward.

  Barreling down and about to collide with us, the bikes are so close I smell the sweat of the riders, I see the expression of the biker to the right. His eyes widen briefly before he jerks his vehicle. Oversteering at such a high speed, he dips left then right, losing control while the other biker blazes past us, just missing us but shearing off our side view mirror. Our mirror drops to the ground just as a shriek of metal-on-metal claws at the air. Turning, I look behind us. Twisted and mangled, one bike is on its side, dark smoke rising from it. The driver’s leg is pinned beneath it. The other has landed far from it, front wheel spinning while the biker, throw from it, bleeds from the head.

  Garan doesn’t bother looking back. He doesn’t need to. He simply continues on, blazing a trail forward. A massive crowd waits in the distance. Hearing the drone of our engine, they expect to see at least one of Volac’s men appear before them. When they don’t, when they see us instead, a hush befalls the group.

  Staring at us, shocked and silent, the crowd doesn’t receive us when Garan stops, cutting off the engine and ending the ear-splitting buzz. We climb off the vehicle. Looking around, no one makes a single sound.

  Suddenly, Garan shouts, “Fifteen blocks!” and shoots both fists in the air.

  Garan ignites a feverish reaction. The citizens of Sinsity erupt. An explosion of frenzied cheers detonates. Thunderous applause fills the street and screams of approval ring out.

  Trying not to focus on the deafening roar of excitement, I scan the faces in the crowd. I don’t see Ara, Pike or Reyna. I do, however, see Volac. Standing with his arms folded across his broad, tattooed chest, he scowls. He does not appear to share the enthusiasm of his people. His gaze finds mine, trapping it and holding it hostage. Glaring at me, a deadly spark burns in his eyes. Garan and I beat him at his own game. Now he has to figure out another way to kill us, which is exactly what he looks like he’s doing right now.

  Chapter 21

  I ignore the rage-filled heat of Volac’s stare as it sears my skin. Forcing myself to look away, I focus, instead, on the crowd. Before me, a veritable sea of bodies bob, undulating like choppy waves. Their faces blur. Contorted and screaming until their skin reddens, I have trouble telling one from the next. The only faces I want to see are that of my sister, brother and Reyna. I want to see Kai, Xan, Micah and Aaron, too. But they can’t nourish the starved and wounded part of me that craves my family.

  Marching forward, I barrel into the rolling swells of Sinsity citizens. I expect resistance. I expect the current to push me back. But, to my surprise, the people part. A path is opened for me. Weaving my way through it, past men and women who clap me on my back and congratulate me, I see a swath of flaxen hair billow. A single lock is caught by the breeze and lifted. I know instantly to whom it belongs. And just a glimpse is enough to speed my pace. I disregard the pain I feel with every step I take and keep my gaze pi
nned to the pale tresses. Like a beacon, Reyna’s hair, illuminated by bright, unfiltered daylight, spills like liquid sunshine over her shoulders. The closer I draw, the clearer her expression becomes. She looks left and right, rising onto her tiptoes and wringing her hands, frantic and searching.

  “Reyna!” I call to her.

  She catches sight of me and the worried creases on her face smooth. All of her features relax briefly before a wide smile rounds her cheeks. “Lucas!” she cries, the word snagged by emotion. My name on her lips is a benediction. My heart trembles. She wraps an arm around Ara’s shoulder and pulls her close so she can see me too.

  Ara bolts away from Reyna and straight for me. “You did it! You survived!” She throws her arms around my neck and I lift her off her feet. “I can’t believe it!” she says into my neck, the sound muffled.

  Rearing my head back so I can look at her, I lift one eyebrow. “You can’t believe it? You didn’t think I’d live?” I ask with exaggerated incredulity. Lifting the back of one hand to my forehead, I feign upset. “I’m hurt, just broken hearted,” I say dramatically.

  Ara laughs and hugs me tighter. “Be broken hearted all you want you big faker. As long as you do it in one piece.”

  I laugh with her, returning her hug. “Fair enough. I’ll do my best.”

  “Promise?” Reyna’s voice caresses the shell of my ear. She kisses my cheek. I free one arm and wrap it around her shoulder, holding the two girls I love.

  Ara leans back. She looks between Reyna and me. She sighs and smiles.

  Pike, hanging back just behind Ara and Reyna, watches as if waiting his turn.

  “What’re you doing standing there alone? Get over here!” I tell him.

  Joining us, he approaches on the right. He throws an arm around my neck and says, “Way to go, brother.” His knee grazes the remainder of the arrow that juts from my thigh. I wince. Pike steps back, his eyes searching my face before they lower to the large blood stain on my pants that rings my injury. “Whoa, you’re hurt!” he says. “Ara, be careful. Maybe you should back away.”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I assure them.

  “Fine? You have an arrow in your leg!” Pike looks at me like I’m nuts.

  “Yeah, so?” I bob one shoulder. “Garan has one in his hip and one in his butt cheek.”

  “Butt cheek?” Ara giggles then catches herself. She frowns and chews her lower lips. “Poor Garan.”

  “I know,” I agree.

  “You need to get help with that.” Pike looks from the wound to my face worriedly. “Aaron should know what to do with it,” he thinks out loud. “Let’s get Garan, too. Get you guys fixed up.”

  “Well, well! Look who made it through The Gauntlet!” Xan, elbowing two men out of his way, stops in front of me. He reaches out his hand. I do the same. He clasps my forearm firmly. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

  Micah, a few steps behind Xan, pokes his head forward. With a somber expression, he says, “You look terrible.” He shakes his head, brows knit. Then with a broad grin, his mood lightens. “But you made it! Nice work!”

  Kai and Aaron appear. Kai, towering over the others, flashes a smile. “Welcome back.” His deep voice is a soothing, welcome sound. “Way to survive.” He pats my back.

  “What happened here?” Aaron points to the broken arrow protruding from my thigh.

  “Long story.” I roll my eyes and shrug.

  “Garan has two sticking out of him,” Ara reports to Aaron.

  “Is that right?” Aaron asks.

  Ara nods.

  “Want me to take a look at the wounds? Where’s Garan? Is he okay?” Aaron looks around.

  I turn and look over my shoulder without answering Aaron. My eyes scan the crowd for Garan. When they land on him, I see that he’s urged toward the stage upon which Volac waits. His gaze meets mine, and in the instant that it does, I know I need to join him.

  “I have to go,” I turn to our group and say. “Garan’s waiting for me.”

  “Looks like Volac is, too.” Xan clips his chin toward the stage, to where the leader of Sinsity stands with his arms still folded across his chest and glaring at me through the crowd. Xan shivers. “If looks could kill…” He whistles. “You’d be decomposing already Lucas.” He looks back to me and shakes his head. “Go. We’ll be right behind you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I wink at Ara and exchange meaningful looks with both Reyna and Pike then set off at a jog toward the stage. Climbing the three steps, I positon myself beside Garan. He looks at me briefly before turning his attention to Volac.

  Volac advances a single step and the crowd falls silent. He bring his hands together, starting a series of loud, slow claps. His odd applause is devoid of enthusiasm. It mocks us. “Well done,” he says flatly. “I suppose you get to live.” His tone is lifeless. He studies us, pursing his lips with his nostrils flared,

  Clearly annoyed that we beat him at his own game, I worry he’s formulating another plan, one where the rules change in his favor yet again. It wouldn’t surprise me given how the law of Sinsity seem only applicable to everyone except him. Still glowering at us, he continues. “I should not have let you go together.” He stuns me by coming dangerously close to admitting a mistake. “Especially knowing who you are,” he adds, his eyes landing on Garan.

  Especially knowing who Garan is? What does that mean? As far as I know, Garan is a rootless traveler. No family. No friends with which he travels. Until now, that is. Garan’s a skilled fighter and extremely resourceful, but how would Volac ever know that? It doesn’t make sense.

  “So you do know who I am and still sent me to my death.” Garan’s posture is ramrod straight and his words, spoken in a calm, even tone, are a statement rather than a question.

  Volac chuckles. It’s a calculated, malevolent sound. “I do, and that’s why I sent you to your death.” He laughs again.

  In a flash, I see movement in my periphery. A second later, one of Garan’s daggers hurtles end over end, stopping when it meets with Volac’s neck. Buried deep in his throat and thrown with force, only the tip of the hilt sticks out.

  No longer laughing, Volac’s eyes widen in shock. His hands fumble for the dagger, lingering at his throat as gurgling sounds bubble from him. Trying in vain to speak, words are lost, stifled by the blade. Lost forever behind it. Blood burbles from his lips, spilling over them and running down his bare chest. He falls to his knees, eyes fixed on a distant point but unfocused, then collapses.

  Stunned gasps ripple through the crowd, echoing until it sounds like a single, unified inhalation. Suddenly unsure on their feet, some try to run. Yet no one appears to have a plan. They scramble, bumping into each other as they each move in a different direction. Chaos reigns.

  Seeing the state of complete and utter disorder the crowd has fallen to, Volac’s guards attempt to regain some kind of control. Frozen for a long, stupefied moment, the nearly dozen positioned nearby appear unsure of what to do. One among them decides to move, racing toward the stage but stopping just shy of it. The others follow suit, circling the platform.

  Seeing their movement, Xan, Micah, Kai, Pike, Reyna and Ara, rush forward. They push past the guards, who do not put up a fight, and jump onto the stage. They stand beside us, blades drawn and prepared to fight to their deaths.

  Garan steps forward. “Drop your weapons,” he orders the slain leader of Sinsity’s guards. “My name is Attis Caerus Garantartus, son of the slain King Alidious Demitrus Garantartus. King Garan as he was known.” Garan’s voice tolls like a bell, rich and authoritative. The frenzied movement settles. The crowd quiets and their eyes rise to Garan. The guards, more confused than before, lower their blades, but only halfway. “I said lower your weapons,” Garan commands, his voice low but so powerful the guards are compelled to obey his command.

  Approaching the stage, unarmed and meek in appearance, an older woman curtsies, facing Garan. “You are the son of King Garan?” she asks. You’re the rightful ruler of the Ur
thman throne?”

  Nodding, Garan acknowledges her. “I am the rightful ruler of Urth.”

  The woman stares up at Garan, his words not quite registering.

  “The rightful ruler of Urth?” Her voice is soft as she speaks, her brows gathered.

  “Yes,” Garan answers.

  The woman doesn’t speak another word. Instead, she dips her head low, touching her chin to her chest.

  The crowd is stunned to silence once again. So silent, I swear individual heartbeats can be heard. Many, unsure of what else to do, hesitantly drop to their knees, bowing their heads. The rest, however, remain standing and look around staggered by all that’s transpired, all that’s been revealed.

  Garan remains as he is, staring out among the people, shoulders rounded and head high.

  Xan, sidling up beside me, nudges me with his elbow. I turn toward him and he whispers, “King Atticus Gargantus? Is he for real?”

  “Attis Caerus Garantartus,” I correct, dumfounded by Garan’s announcement. “And I have no idea.”

  A long pause passes between us. Xan stares at me, as if waiting for a better explanation. “Okayyy,” he finally says. “Well, whatever the heck his really long name is, his dead father was the King at some point and he seems to think he’s the heir to Urth. Should we be worried?”

  I blow out a stream of air despite feeling like every last drop of oxygen is being squeezed from my lungs. My mind reels. Garan says he’s the son of a slain king. He thinks he’s the rightful ruler of Urth. Rightful ruler. The words do not sit well. Should there even be such a thing? A sole ruler of all that remains of Urth? And because he’s an Urthman, does that mean he believes the Urthmen are the superior species? Are we in danger?

  “Do we still call him Garan? Or is it King Garanfuluffus?” Xan mispronounces Garan’s last name again.

  “King Garantartus,” I say, my voice sounding as hollow as I suddenly feel. “And Xan, right now, I have no idea what the heck is going on or what to call him. Or whether we’re in danger.” I swallow and try to piece together the situation. But it doesn’t add up. “Prince Cadogan was in charge. That’s the only ruler I knew of. His father was King,” I say.