Taken

DEDICATION

For my mother:
who read to me when I couldn’t,
and put a book in my hands when I could.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Part One: Of Heists

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Part Two: Of Walls

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Part Three: Of Rebels

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Part Four: Of Diversions

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Ad

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE

OF HEISTS

ONE

TODAY IS THE LAST DAY
I will see my brother.

I should be spending these remaining hours with him, but instead I’m in the meadow, watching a crow pick at the carcass of a half-eaten deer. The bird is a filthy thing: slick black feathers, a beak of oiled bone. I could wring its neck if I wanted, sneak up on it and crack its frail frame between my palms before it even heard me coming. It doesn’t matter, though. Crushing the life from the bird’s small body won’t save my brother. Blaine’s been damned since the day he was born.

Just like me. Just like all the boys in Claysoot.

I stand abruptly. The crow, startled by my movement, lifts briskly into the early morning light. I send an arrow after it and miss, mostly on purpose. Truthfully, I’m no better than the crow, scavenging what I can, hoarding any bit of meat that will feed our people. If my black hair were feathers, I might outshine even the bird’s gleaming darkness.

There’s nothing much left of the deer. The corpse is hollowed out, animals having feasted on the belly. A hind leg appears intact, but there are too many flies. I don’t want people getting sick. It’s not worth the risk. Especially not today. The last thing we need on the eve of a Heist is more stress and worry.

I reshoulder my pack and let my feet carry me back toward the forest. My boots know the way, and as their leather soles press against familiar footpaths, I think about Blaine. I wonder what he’s doing right now, if he’s sleeping in, clinging to the remnants of a carefree dream. I would guess not. Too much looms before him. He was still in bed when I left for the woods before dawn, but even then he was muttering in his sleep.

I have only two quail from my morning in the woods, which will be more than enough for lunch. Blaine probably won’t even have an appetite. The Heist tends to do that to people, especially the boy of age. Eighteen is far from a celebrated milestone, and come midnight, Blaine will unwillingly greet his fate. He’ll vanish before our eyes, disappearing the way all the boys do when they turn eighteen, as good as dead. I’m terrified for him, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared senseless myself. Since Blaine turns eighteen at midnight, it means I turn eighteen just three hundred and sixty-four days later.

It was fun to share a birthday when we were younger. Ma gave us what she could: a whittled boat, a woven hat, a metal pail and shovel. We galloped through town and made everything our playground. Sometimes it was the stairs leading up to the Council building, others the tables of the healing Clinic, at least until Carter Grace shooed us away, hands on her waist and curses escaping her lips. Our antics rendered us well-known throughout town. We were the Weathersby brothers, the boys with too much zest for life in such a gray place. That zest didn’t last forever, of course.

You grow up quickly in Claysoot.

By the time I hit the hunting trailhead and make my way from the forest, it is midday. I pass two boys playing near a small fire as their mother hangs laundry on a flimsy line behind their house. One is very young, maybe four or five. The other can’t be older than eight. I smile at the mother as I pass by, and though she attempts to return the gesture, her grimace is less than convincing. She looks aged, beaten down, even though I suspect she is no older than twenty-five. I know it’s because of the boys. I bet not a day goes by that she doesn’t wish they were girls, or at least that one of them was.

I run into Kale outside the Council building. She is playing on the steps, tugging behind her a wooden duck that Blaine and I played with as children. It was a gift from our father, before he was lost. We were both too young to remember the toy being given to us—or even our father, for that matter—but Ma said he carved it himself, whittling the thing from a single piece of wood over the course of three months. The duck is showing signs of age now, a chunk missing from its bill and an uneven chip running the length of its tail. It clunks awkwardly down the steps, never landing right side up as Kale skips to meet me.

“Uncle Gray!” she exclaims. She is a small thing, not even three yet. Her nose is still soft pink, a tiny button stitched into the center of her face. She beams as I approach.

“Hey there, Kale. What are you up to?”

“Taking Ducky for a walk. Mamma said I could.” She pulls at the wooden toy behind her and it plunks onto the dirt road. “Where’s Pa?” She stares up at me with those bright blue eyes of hers. They look just like Blaine’s.

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you come with me to the market? Maybe we can find him together.” I offer her my hand and she takes it, pudgy fingers wrapping around my thumb.

“I miss Pa,” she mumbles as we move along.

I smile at her, but there’s nothing else to say. It is moments like this that make me feel lucky. I am not Blaine. I am not turning eighteen. I am not a father. I will not disappear when someone needs me most. If Kale misses Blaine now, when he’s merely at work or still asleep, how will she feel tomorrow, after the Heist? How can I explain that to her? How can anyone?

The market is bustling as always. Women and girls are there, trading herbs and cloth and vegetables. There are boys, too, all my age or younger. Some hoist freshly caught game onto tables, others tools and weapons or livestock gear, but everyone is trading for various goods. Kale fidgets behind me as I barter with Tess, an older woman who sells cotton and clothing sewn at the textile shop.

“I know, Tess. I know one bird doesn’t amount to a new jacket,” I admit as I set one of my quail before her. “But remember two weeks ago, when I gave you rabbit for next to nothing because you were in a bind?”

“Gray, you know I’d be out of business if I made every deal based on kindness alone.”

“It’s for Blaine,” I say, rubbing my thumb over the wooden buttons on the jacket. It’s made of heavy cotton, streaks of dark brown and black running through the material. “He’s always wanted a good jacket, and I wanted to give him one for his birthday, even if he can only enjoy it for a day.” I pretend to admire her handiwork but peer from beneath my bangs to see how she reacts to the thickly laid-on guilt. Tess bites her lip anxiously. She knows as well as anyone that tonight Blaine faces the Heist.

“Oh fine, take it,” she says, thrusting the jacket at me. “But we’re even now.”

“Of course.” I take Kale’s hand and we leave the market, a new jacket thrown over my shoulder and the remaining bird still dangling from my hip.

Kale continues to pull the wooden duck behind her as I lead the way toward our place—Blaine’s and mine. It sits on the southern edge of the village, set back from the other homes where it is quiet and peaceful. I frown, realizing that in less than a day’s time it will no longer be
our
place but
mine
.

“Aw, what a precious sight!” Chalice Silverston stands before us, sneering. “Father and daughter, out for one final stroll perhaps?”

I raise my head and glare at her.

“Oh. Hey, Gray. I thought you were your brother.” She’s seen my eyes at this point, the one thing that differentiates me from Blaine. His eyes are blue and vibrant. Alive. Mine are stormy, so colorless that I was named after their dreary hue.

I grunt audibly but don’t feel like arguing. I want to focus my efforts on enjoying this last day—if that’s even possible.

“What’s the matter, Gray? Feeling a little
under the weather
?” she drawls. Gray Weathersby. Under the weather. She’s been flaunting that play on words since we were children, and now, after hearing it a million times over, I’ve had enough.

“Chalice, you better shut that hole in your face before I make you,” I snap.

“Oh come on, Gray. You’re just bummed about your big brother. Sad and moping because he’s going to be up and gone in a matter of hours.”

That strikes a nerve. Anger rages into my chest, surges against my rib cage. I couldn’t care less that we went to school together, spent days sitting in the same classroom. I forget that she’s a girl and that I probably shouldn’t hit her. I react automatically, dropping Kale’s hand and throwing my fist into Chalice’s cheek. She deserves it, all of it. I hit her again, this time in the stomach. We end up in the dirt, flailing. A few strikes later someone yanks me off Chalice and pushes me aside.

“Get ahold of yourself, Gray.” I roll over and find Blaine standing above me, his eyes filled with disappointment. Sasha Quarters, Kale’s mother, stands behind him. I can taste blood on the inside of my lip and my jaw throbs. Well, good for Chalice, having the nerve to actually sock me back.

“You’re crazy,” Chalice says through a mouthful of blood. “Absolutely crazy.”

“But she . . .” I look between her and my brother. “She was mocking you, Blaine. She doesn’t even care about the Heist.”

Blaine frowns. “I don’t give a crap whether she cares about me or not. I’d rather know why my kid brother is beating up a girl half his size. You okay?” he asks, turning to Chalice.

This is why everyone likes Blaine better than me. This is why they’ll all miss him but barely notice when I’m gone. He’s calmer and has a better heart, looks at the whole of things. But me, I’m reckless, always reacting to some feeling in my chest.

I sit in the dirt and wipe the blood from my teeth as Kale runs to hide between Sasha’s legs. Sasha’s older than Blaine but doesn’t look it. I think she’s nineteen or twenty now, only it’s hard to tell because she’s so damn pretty. When Blaine had first been slated to her, I’d been jealous. Months later she was pregnant and that jealousy instantly turned to relief. That was when I started being careful with my own slatings, avoiding them when possible. I never want to be a father. Ever.

Sasha helps Chalice hobble off. I watch as they go, wondering how Blaine can stand it: how Kale lives with Sasha while Sasha continues with the slatings. Blaine’s left floating on the outskirts of the picture as if he doesn’t matter, which is a pretty standard treatment. Boys are important to an extent, but sooner or later we’re all gone, so no one bothers getting attached. Children get the father’s last name, but that’s about it. They live with their mothers; and the boys, well, the boys just drift.