Outlier: Rebellion (22 page)

When he climbs onto a piece of wreckage twice the height of him to explore further, he peers down at the blue spray he’d effected … and curiosity grips him anew. It did not simply spill color everywhere. When the thing gusted, its dye formed a very distinct pattern across the shattered slabs of cement: a large and artful drop of water painted cerulean.

Within the shape, three words:
LET IT RAIN.

00
23
 
Wick

When he gets to the Noodle Shop, his hands are so sweaty, his every finger trembling with such anticipation that he can hardly grip the door handle. He considers taking a minute to gather himself when suddenly the door opens and Cintha stands there. “They’re waiting upstairs. Be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just be smart, okay?” She moves aside, letting him pass.

Wick nods tentatively, not sure what she means. “Thanks,” he says anyway, entering to find the place devoid of customer. When he makes it up the wooden passage to the loft, he finds Rone and Victra at the table. They both turn—Rone’s face bright and welcoming, Victra’s stony and decorated in her tackiest blues.

“If you want,” Rone offers before even a greeting, “I can go in with you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Wick shines the dagger at his belt. “I’m prepared.”

From behind a tapestry, Yellow emerges like a fog and slowly crosses the room—foot, cane, foot, cane. “Anwick.” He clears his throat. “As there are only so many hours in a night, let us discuss what we need to know from the boy. Rone, Victra, you can go.”

“No way,” says Rone. “I’m staying for this. Victra, too. She can see through others’ eyes. And, should that door become blocked and trouble came—
not that it will, buddy, calm down—
I’m the only one that can pass through walls to get us in there.”

Yellow squints at the two of them, doubts not easily hidden from his pale face, then nods. He turns back to Wick. “To begin, you must gain the boy’s trust, convince him to work with our ever-friendly Pratganth in mapping what he knows of the Lifted City—which should be ample—and ask of him two important facts: who fell the Lord’s Garden, and where is the Weapon.”

“Weapon? What Weapon?”

“Seriously?” This comes from a wide-eyed Rone. “You haven’t heard of the Sanctum Weapon? The King made it himself, or a past King, I don’t know. It’s the size of a building! Or, well, at least that’s what I heard. And it can—”

“We know
nothing
,” says Yellow, cutting him off. “Neither do we know its
size
or
capability
. But that’s why we have the boy.”

“Once he’s divulged all he knows,” says Wick, “and that’s assuming he even does, what then?” His eyes move from person to person. “Are we … giving him back?”

Yellow squints his eyes. “You think I mean to kill the boy when he’s through?”

“You said it yourself,” points out Wick. “We don’t kill, but for the enemies up there, in the sky. This boy is from that sky.”

“No,” says Yellow simply. “We will not kill him.”

In truth, Wick can’t be sure he can trust Yellow. Though he hasn’t yet failed on his word, nor has he given Wick a solid reason to stay wary, he takes issue in trusting a man who could literally make him forget his own name.

But really, Wick hasn’t much a choice. “I’m ready.”

Yellow moves to an ugly door in the corner of the room. “He’s through here. Keep to your watch, Anwick Lesser … We will keep to ours to ensure your safety.”

“What’s the big scare? He’s just an unarmed guy,” argues Wick, annoyed at all the caution and intensity—it really isn’t playing well with his body’s already fraught nervous system. He’s suddenly very thankful for skipping Lionis’s dinner; it might’ve ended up all over the floor by now.

“We don’t know his power,” warns Yellow.

“And he doesn’t know mine,” retorts Wick, then he crosses to the door, twists the lock, pushes in and lets the ugly door shut.

The room is tiny and the walls are a vague off-white wash, the only window having been sealed with a metal plate from the outside. In the corner is a squatty bed upon which their guest lies. He sits right up, all his muscles contracting in the effort, visible even through his shirt—
Wow—
and when those bright blue eyes connect with Wick’s, all the confidence in him goes.

“You saved my life,” the boy says.

Athan Broadmore.
Wick tries to smile, realizes he can’t. His face is burning … His back is pressed into the door and his heart races with an urgency. His insides are turning worse than when he was in the middle of the square, meteorites falling from the sky, at any moment his death imminent. It seems for Wick, being in such proximity to a thing so beautiful is more dangerous than hellfire.

Is this petrification of his every muscle and fiber because of … guilt?
I sorta felt you up when you were knocked out in the square,
he confesses to himself, since he can’t confess aloud.
Couldn’t keep my hands off you then, can’t keep my eyes off you now.
His face burns.

“Thanks,” the boy—Athan—says. “It seems kind of dramatic to say, but … thanks for saving my life.”

And then suddenly Wick finds his breath again. “Not sure it was me saving your life,” Wick points out, his voice small, “more than it was you being at the right place at the right time.”

Athan smiles.

Oh, wow … That smile.

“Luck always seems to carry me along,” says Athan. “Nice arms. You must be skilled with that knife.”

For some reason, the sudden and unexpected flattery hits Wick sideways, and he finds himself less flattered and more annoyed—even though his arms seem to flex more at Athan’s words. “It’s a dagger.”

“Oh, dagger,” Athan corrects himself, his beautiful blue eyes falling on it … hovering at Wick’s waist, his hip, his weapon.
Where are your eyes going?
“Looks nice.”

The stark light of these rooms bring out one’s every flaw, but Wick cannot see a single one in Athan Broadmore. His golden hair is dusted lightly of copper, short and everywhere … It seems like something tried to tame it to one side, but the spikes of gold refused. His skin is perfect, simply no other way to say it. Smooth and uninterrupted, his arms sculpted the way art is sculpted. His jaw, strong and set …

Wick finds a new emotion joining the cocktail in his chest: a sour pinch of resentment. As Wick surveys the beautiful Sanctum boy—his face, his body thickened with the tone and muscle of someone who has time and attention and fortune aplenty—he’s reminded of how so different the two of them are. All the fantasies that played on his mind for the last few days, the coveting and the craving … it is all a farce. It was wasted and it was cruel, and nothing good falls from the sky, not ever. The giant scrap metal disc thing in his backyard that could’ve crushed any of his brothers … The colossal shadow cast by the Lifted City as the sun skips over the clouds … The derisive laughter and scorn of highborn, and the scream of a King … No, nothing good comes from up.

And here stands a boy as beautiful as boys can be, and the flames of Wick’s longing turn to anger.

But it is not anger that will score him the answers he needs.
Play nice, draw the kitty in, and then …
“Can we start this over?” asks Wick. Athan lifts his eyebrows, his baby blue eyes gleaming.
Damn those eyes.
“Let’s … pretend we’re just two guys meeting, you know, before the explosion, before the park and the fire and the—and all that.” He takes only a few steps and has nearly crossed the whole of this small room already, then guardedly extends a hand. “I’m Anwick Lesser.”

He felt it necessary to introduce himself formally, full first name. Athan smiles again—
Oh, he has to know the effect that gorgeous smile has on me, this cruel Sanctum boy
—and replies with, “I’m Athan Broadmore, of Broadmore Manor,” just as formally.

Of course he knew that already. And then their hands clasp for handshake, firmly, carefully. Some kind of electricity occurs, some kind of …
Wow, his skin’s soft. My hand must feel rough. I must look a dog to him, a slum rat …
some kind of …
Wow …

Then they let go and it’s over. “Nice to meet you.”

“So tell me,” Wick begins, the electricity still stirring his guts into a spicy bisque of blissful agony, “Athan Broadmore … What is your Legacy?”

Athan shrugs two soft, muscular shoulders. “Not sure.”

He’s playing with me.
“This will go smoothly if you’re honest. No playing.”

“Well, I mean …” Athan looks upward, gathering the words. Even this moment of thought is the most adorable thing Wick has ever seen. “I don’t know it. It’s never been needed. I mean … My brother can do something great, but he never uses his either, not ever. He has servants that do everything for him. And my sister—”

“Servants,” Wick repeats.

Athan appears to have a lot more to say, but closes his mouth instead, seeming shamed.

Beautiful this boy may be, but the image of “Lifted Life” that’s now stirred up isn’t one Wick can, with any trace of his being, call beautiful. He sees this pretty boy in front of him being served by slaves, maybe even his teeth brushed for him, or lint picked off his socks. How can people use other people like tools? Like toys? Athan may not seem like the type of guy who would use people like that … in fact, he looks kind. But if there’s anything Wick knows, it’s that first impressions are never what they seem.

And he knows this boy not.

“I need to ask you a few things,” Wick says plainly, drawing his eyes away from the boyishly beautiful face and body of Athan Broadmore. This may be the only way he can speak to him without being so cruelly distracted. “The sooner you answer, the sooner you go home.”

“Well … not that I’m in a hurry, but go ahead and ask your fill, Anwick Lesser.”

He might escape looking at Athan, but not hearing that velvety voice say his name like that. “I need to ask you … will you assist us in a mapmaking project? One of our guys is mapping the city and … and …”

“And you need help detailing the Lifted City?” Athan finishes for him. “Yes, I’ll help. I’ve lived there my whole life. What else?”

Wick is genuinely surprised. He wasn’t expecting this to go so easily—but he still won’t make the mistake of meeting his eyes again. Staring at the floor, he goes on: “We also need to know who brought down the garden.”

“Lord’s Garden? I wish I knew myself.” His throat tightens. “I liked Lord’s Garden. A lot. I went there every day.”

“Don’t have any idea at all? Even a suspicion?”

“No. I was only visiting, watching the Lunar Festival below when it all happened. And I—Why aren’t you looking at me?”

Stop being so weak.
Wick lifts his eyes. It’s like he sees the Sanctum boy for the first time all over again, his heart casting waves to even the tips of his fingers with every hungry beat. This sky-boy, this Privileged … Why do such beautiful things come from ugly places?

But another thought occurs to him: Athan has no love for this place. No Privileged in their right mind has a care in the world for those below … so why is Athan being so cooperative and kind?
Don’t trust anything from the sky, no matter how pretty his face.
Yeah, that’s the simple truth Wick’s been denying himself ever since he pulled this sorry boy from the festival wreckage and flame: Athan just wants to go home, and he’s not beneath doing anything to get there—including sweet talk, answering questions … and flirting.
Yeah, play with me all you like, Sanctum boy, but I don’t play nice back.

“I’ve hated your sky-kind my whole life,” mutters Wick, his jaw snapping tight, “and you can play with me if you think it’ll get you anywhere, put on your flirts and flash your sexy smile. But we are
not
friends, and if you can’t give us what we need, you’ll starve in this room, a dead Sanctum boy.”

Athan’s eyes shrink, brows lifted with genuine surprise. Wick swallows hard, immediately second-guessing what he’s said.
I went too far and fucked it up. Yellow and the others are counting on me and I—

“You think my smile’s sexy?” Wick stares, long and hard. Is the Sanctum boy still playing with him? Athan smiles tentatively. “You said it. I heard it.”

Don’t let him play with you.
“There’s a man outside,” Wick goes on, “who can have you forget your own name, and a boy who can reach through your body and squeeze your heart until it stops. So I recommend that you—”

“You’re squeezing my heart plenty, as is,” replies Athan, lifting his brows further, his gaze like blue watery gems. “But even with that—that older guy and—and that younger guy … Anwick, you’re the only person who’s been nice to me. You’re the only one who’s … who’s treated me well.” His smile wavers. “And now you’re threatening me.”

Wick looks away, his resolve broken.
I’m going about this all wrong. I need a different strategy. I need … I need …

“I need …” Wick stammers, then thrusts his hands into his pockets, glaring at the ground. It is a blind leap of trust, admitting or not admitting his truths to this person … the feeling comparable to dancing the rim of a cliff. Too far one way, you fall.

“Go ahead,” says Athan gently. “Tell me. You need …?”

“I feel sick with resentment.” Wick still glares at the floor, arms flexing with his hands jabbed into pockets, teeth grinding. “A slum boy, playing nice with the Sanctum boy, just to get what he—what he needs … when all I want to do is punch your teeth out of your pretty face.”

Athan doesn’t respond to that.
I’ve fucked it up and I don’t care. He was never mine to begin with.
Wick lets the air freeze over from his words.
I’m such a fool.
The room freezes for a while … for too long.