* * *
THE MAYOR’S HOUSE SITS at the end of a street, between two buildings made of green glass and brick. People live in these monstrous homes. I wonder if they have their own staff too, and a roomful of girls to choose from.
I keep looking back. Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s my imagination, but I can still hear Amir’s voice calling, “Where are you?”
“Faster,” I say. I see the twins kneeling beside the brook, running across the meadow, leaping into my arms. I can feel them.
Kiran makes no move to hurry.
We ride out of the residential area onto the main street, where men on horseback or in carriages pass by. The tall glass buildings on either side stretch straight into the clouds, smooth and cold and breathtaking.
Kiran veers down a small road between the buildings. We’re the only ones around now. Finally, I exhale. I’m shaking a little, and all of a sudden feel a giggle swell inside of me.
“If I’d have known it was that easy to get out, I would have made sure I was sold months ago,” I say, feeling giddy enough to jump off the horse and dance right here in the street.
“Easy?” he says so quietly I have to cock my head to hear. “You’re funny.”
“Yoa,” I mimic.
“Keep it up and I’ll take you back.”
I freeze. He’s joking. At least I think he is.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
We come to a small alley where a plain, single-rider carriage waits. It’s made of cherrywood and flaking on the side. Obviously a rental. Kiran offers his arm, and I swing down. He doesn’t need to speak the words to tell me he’s planned this, too. I shimmy between the side of the building and the carriage and slide inside. Through the punched-out window I watch as Kiran shucks the scarf hiding his face and tosses it under the wheels. He takes off the coat, revealing the dirty button-down shirt beneath, and stuffs it in beside me. Then he kneels, dips his hands in a puddle, and smears his cheeks with filth water—yellow and shiny with greasy spots. It stinks like waste.
I hear footsteps nearby, and Kiran freezes. I bite my tongue, holding back the urge to tell him to hide. It’s too late.
Two men in suits approach. Kiran keeps his head lowered and wipes his hands on his pants. They don’t look at him; they look everywhere but at him, and they keep to the far end of the alley as they pass.
He stands suddenly, not fully upright, and one of them gives a scared little shout. Kiran tilts his head towards the mare, as if to offer his Driver services, but they hurry on without a backward glance.
I should be happy they’re gone, but instead I’m angry. They didn’t even look at him.
He stays low and slips beside the carriage, hooking it up to the mare.
“Kiran,” I say. He twitches, but continues to work, fastening leather straps, setting the long wooden carriage arms into the saddle’s hooks.
“Kiran,” I say again. “Thank you.”
He stops, just for a moment, and gives a small nod.
Then he mounts the horse, and we pull out of the alley. I sit back in the seat, as far back as I will fit, keeping clear of the window. Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Kiran, his head lowered, his back hunched. He looks like an old man.
I’m ready for the fresh air, the mountains, my family—so I’m surprised when we pull under a shaded overpass and back into a small space that smells like hay and manure.
I poke my head out of the window. We’re in another barn, this one rickety and packed with gear: walls of blankets, gleaming saddles on racks, barrels of water. Down the aisle, the dirt floor has been raked clean and the metal stall doors shine in the afternoon light coming through the entrance, but where I am is more like a scrap heap.
Kiran unhooks the mare and without removing her tack, ties her lead to the outside of a stall. He returns, bright eyes shining through his mask of muck, and nods upward.
I slip through the door, quiet as I can, and climb the ladder against the wall to the loft over the stalls. The ceiling is low here; I have to crouch to move away from the ledge. Near a small open window is a bedroll. Plain, canvas, with a red horse blanket folded at the bottom. At the head is a jug of water and a tin box.
Kiran crawls up behind me and opens the box. Inside is jerky—real jerky—and flatbread crackers. My mouth waters and my stomach grumbles.
It’s quiet but for the movement of the horses—no one else is here—but that doesn’t stop Kiran from moving so close, our knees touch on the blanket. He leans in, and I’m watching his lips as he says, “Stay here. We’ll leave after dark.”
“Dock,” I repeat with a nod.
He smirks and shakes his head, but before he turns away I grab his arm.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
His jaw is working under the skin as if he’s chewing the words to a pulp before he says them.
“It keeps them safe,” he says finally. “Our girls.” Only when he says girls, it sounds more like gells.
Then he disappears down the ladder.
I’ve never seen a Driver woman, but I know they must be out there. As far as I know, no one in the city wants them because they assume the women are just as strange as the men who come to rent the horses. I guess they’ve done a good job making themselves unauctionable. I wish I’d thought of that a long time ago. I’d have rolled my whole family through the mud every morning at dawn.
I’m anxious to go now, but Kiran knows the city better than I do. If he says we need to wait, I’ll do it. He’s been right so far. Tam and Nina will be safe.
Please let them be safe.
I rip off a piece of jerky and stick it in my mouth. It’s boar. I can tell from the rough texture and the smoky taste. Soon I’ll be having a lot more of this, I tell myself. I crawl closer to the window, careful not to let myself be seen, and look out.
Below, just beyond the stables, is the poisoned stream, and just past that, the solitary yard.
I almost choke.
I should have figured Kiran had brought us back here, but I was too busy preparing for the outside. It makes the meat a little less tasty, looking at the facility that kept me prisoner all this time.
I glance down at Kiran’s bedroll, and then across the space. He could see me the whole time. He might have laid right here and watched me sleep. The thought makes my throat dry, and I reach for the water jug below the window.
The night is hazier than usual on account of the thick smoke in the air from last night’s celebrations in the Black Lanes. Someone moves against the back wall of the office—my place during my time there. My heart leaps—I hope for a moment it’s Brax, but Brax doesn’t have orange hair.
Daphne.
She’s sitting in my spot, and as I shift to get a better view I can see that she’s digging. She’s pulling up my bottle of supplies. I know I don’t need them anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want her to have them.
Her hair is swishing; she keeps looking up and checking the corner, waiting for the Watcher. It’s like viewing myself in a way—how many times did I do the same thing? A piece of silver glints in the failing light, and I know she’s found Kiran’s broken knife handle. She has no idea what to do with it, and even if she did, she’s not crazy enough to attack a Watcher. She’s helpless, and as I stare down at her something begins to boil inside of me. Soon my hands are gripping the window ledge so hard they’re turning white. I feel the panic she must feel now. I feel it as if I’m the one trapped down there behind that invisible wall. I feel her helplessness and it disgusts me.
The Garden trapped me like an animal. The Governess sold me like livestock at an auction. And the mayor and his family would have made me their whore.
I am shaking with rage.
Daphne’s all hunched over herself, and I squint to see what she’s doing. It doesn’t take long to figure it out: She’s trying to break the chain off her solitary restraint.
It doesn’t make sense. Daphne wants to get back in the Garden, she wants to be sold.
Surely she knows a stunt like that is going to earn her more time out here. But that doesn’t stop her; her moves become more frantic, and soon I see the reason for her rush.
The Watcher rounds the corner of the building.
He’s so big he makes her look like a mouse. In the failing light, he doesn’t even look human—so much muscle there’s hardly any neck, bald head gleaming. The silver wire and key to her bracelet stand out on his black jacket.
Daphne doesn’t stop trying to break the chain. In fact, she’s going at it harder now. I’m sweating just watching her.
Stop, I think at her. I want to scream it. Solitary’s messed up her head, that’s the only explanation. The Watcher is going to give her the beating of a lifetime, and she’s doing nothing to defend herself.
Suddenly, I’m thinking of Straw Hair, running towards the fence. I’m yelling at Daphne to stop her, but she and her friends do nothing, as if they’re rooted to the ground. Again, that heavy, helpless feeling comes over me, like a wet blanket on my shoulders. I want to stop Daphne like I wanted to stop Straw Hair, but I can’t. If I leave here, I risk everything. My life. Kiran’s life. My freedom.
I blink, and when I open my eyes the Watcher has Daphne by the forearm. He lifts her with one arm, and her feet fly out from beneath her. Then he throws her down and kicks her. It’s not as hard as he can, but hard enough that her cry is cut short.
The water jug spills across Kiran’s bedroll, breaking my trance. My fingers ache from squeezing it so hard. I can’t even right it. My eyes are stuck on the scene before me, and I’m sick with anger.
A dog may eat a man’s food, and sleep in a man’s bed, but that does not make it a man.
The Watcher kicks Daphne twice more. He doesn’t have to, she’s already down. She’s not even moving.
“Stop.” A strained whisper comes from my lips.
I’ve known Daphne as long as I’ve been in the city. She’s not one to be daring, unless it involves drawing the street crowd with her kissing act. Most of the time she keeps to someone else’s shadow. So I’m shocked when she snags the knife handle out of the dirt and jams it straight into the Watcher’s foot.
At that moment, half of me is cheering. The other half is horrified.
Very slowly, the Watcher removes the metal from his boot, balancing easily on one foot. When it’s clear, he grabs the slack in Daphne’s chain and gives it a hard yank. The handle is in his hand, and I know that means the broken shard of metal is sticking out of his fist.
Daphne screams.
I’m halfway down the ladder before my head catches up. I can’t cross the stream. I can’t be seen. I’m nearly free—out of the Garden, out of the mayor’s house. Helping Daphne is as good as soaking myself in water and running for the electric fence.
I don’t even like her. Not really.
She’s only a half friend.
Her scream stops short.
I jump the last three rungs down, and now my feet are on the barn floor and I’m running for the back exit I know is just below the loft. Kiran is racing towards me from the opposite side, but I reach the turn first, and streak out the back door. My white dress, now smeared with dirt and speckled with horsehair, catches on the paddock fence and rips from the thigh down.
At the edge of the stream I see them: The Watcher is facing away from me, and Daphne is shoved up against the office wall. In his raised hand shines the broken knife.
I slide down the gravel bank and leap across the stream, landing with a splash just short of the other bank. Blue water dyes the body of my dress and makes the fabric stick to my skin. I rise just as the Watcher is turning, his giant hand still holding Daphne’s shoulder.
I have no weapons. I have only my fists.
What have I done?
I should run, but the Watcher is reaching for the belt across his chest. I hold my breath, fearing the wire, but instead he removes his messagebox. I know he means to send an alarm to the Garden, maybe even to the other Watchers, and I can’t allow that to happen. I need more time. Time to get to the gates.
I charge him. He can’t hold both of us so he throws Daphne down, opening both his arms towards me. My diversion has worked; he can’t finish the code before I collide into his brick-wall body.
I go for the lower gut. Watchers have muscles like steel, but they’re still slightly softer below the reinforced bones of their rib cage. I aim for that spot and pummel it with my fists until he heaves me clear off the ground.
I think he’s going to toss me against the wall, so I splay my limbs out in all different directions in order to make myself as difficult to throw as possible. The world tilts, I’m upside down. I kick hard, and my knee slams into his face. His nose breaks with a crack.
In the background I hear a faint gasping and realize Daphne’s been freed. My plan was to help her, but now all I want is to get away.
“The key!” I say. “Get it!”
Daphne swipes down his chest and rips the entire belt free. She scrambles across the ground at his feet, but I can’t see if she gets the key to her bracelet because the Watcher is once again reaching for my throat.
He doesn’t get me. I thrash hard, and he ends up rolling me into his side, my legs behind me, my upper body beneath his arm, the way he would carry a bundle of sticks. He’s pinned my arms against my sides, and though I struggle, I can’t break free. There’s a thunk and the Watcher goes suddenly still. A rock falls into my path of vision and hits the ground.
I jerk my head back and see Kiran. He’s standing on our side of the stream, arms braced before him, fists ready. His shirt is damp from the water, plastered to his his chest. In the moonlight he looks like a wildcat, muscles lean and taut, body ready to pounce.
The Watcher’s hold on me loosens, and I can work my hand free and hit him again, anywhere I can. He’s bleeding from where Kiran’s rock smacked him in the eye; a drop splashes onto my face.
Kiran throws himself at us. He must have figured the best plan was mine; take him by surprise, hit fast and hard. There’s not much use going for the face. If Kiran leaves his body exposed and the Watcher hits him, he’ll end up broken in half.
In one move, the Watcher shoves Kiran back and drops me. I hit the ground flat on my back. The air is knocked out of my chest, and though my mouth gapes, I can’t swallow a breath. Stars burst before my vision. Finally the air comes through.
All my thoughts turn to Kiran.
I flip over just in time to see him. He’s tall, but still a head below the Watcher. There’s a moment when they square off, staring at each other, and then the worst happens.
In a flash, the Watcher grabs his wire, and snaps his wrist towards Kiran. The metal extends through the air like a striking snake. Kiran’s fast, but not fast enough. He dodges to the side, and the metal snake latches below his arm, smacking against his ribs.
There is no time. Soon, the wire will coil around Kiran’s body. It will freeze at first, then heat gradually, until it burns and tears through his flesh, his ribs, into his organs. I crawl towards the only thing I think can help. The broken knife handle.
And then I’m up, running back towards the Watcher. With a heave, I leap onto his back and gouge the knife down hard.
It connects. I hear the tear of flesh, made callused by skin treatments, and then the broken blade slides into something soft. I fight back the nausea scratching its way up my throat. This is different from killing an animal. Different even than killing a man, I imagine. I’m trying to kill a monster.
I fall off and stagger back. He falls on me, grasping my throat. The handle is sticking out of his neck at an angle. Blood is spraying out in the pulse of his life force. His thick hand squeezes my neck, and I can feel my windpipe close and bruise. The breath to my brain is cut off. I begin to panic and flail.
Out of the darkness springs a silver beast. With a ferocious snarl, the animal latches onto the Watcher’s calf, tearing through his skin in one bite. He whips his head from side to side, trying to r
ip the flesh from the Watcher’s leg.
I am released. I suck in a hard, ragged breath, and peel the handle of the wire out of the Watcher’s grip. Struggling, I press a red button, praying that this is the release. It works. The wire retracts from Kiran’s body in a whir of metal and blood.
Kiran falls to his knees. The wound is not fatal, but it’s deep enough to have begun to eat through his skin. The wire never made it around his core; it locked, like a hook, only around one side of his rib cage. I don’t see bone, and for that I’m thankful, but the blood has stained his shirt and is draining in long lines down into the gravel below.
The Watcher is swiping at Brax, but the wolf is edging him back towards the office. Pride flushes through me. Brax has just saved our lives.
Frantically, I search for Daphne, but she’s missing. She must have run around the other side of the office. At least she’s free; the chain with the metal bracelet is strewn across the dirt.
I try my best to haul Kiran to his feet, and though he’s dazed at first, his eyes clear a little as he stands. His jaw is working beneath the skin. I know it’s taking everything he has to stay silent.
He staggers into the poisoned stream. I hesitate, glancing back, but Kiran grabs my hand and we slosh through together. It doesn’t register immediately that I am afraid, but that’s what it is. I’m scared. More scared than I have ever been.
Brax cries—a short, high whine. From behind me comes a thunk, like a tree falling to the ground.
“Brax!” I shout.
The Watcher is on his knees crawling after us, the wound in his neck leaking crimson in a slow drip. One eye is round and crazed, a black circle in a sea of white. The other is mashed to bruises by Kiran’s well-aimed rock. Behind him, Brax shakes and slowly rises from the ground.
The Watcher makes it to the stream. Kiran and I pause on the opposite shore and watch him with bated breath.
A groan gargles out from the giant’s throat. And then he falls face first in the water and lies still.
CHAPTER 15
I’M RIGHT ON KIRAN’S heels as we charge past the white-fenced paddocks into the barn. The horses within lower their heads and stomp their shod hooves. Only when we stop do my knees threaten to collapse. I grasp a stall door before they give out completely, and open my eyes wide to hold back the hot tears threatening to break free.