The Dark and Hollow Places (4 page)

But of course we’re only deluding ourselves by staying. Between the Unconsecrated and what’s left of the Recruiters, the City’s not safe anymore. And there are only two options for a girl with no connections like me: Figure out how to take care of yourself, or find someone in the black markets to take care of you.

I’ve never liked the kind of protection they’ve offered, so I’ve spent the last three years completely on my own.

As I walk toward the Palisades, clouds gather over the mainland, wind rushing along the river and twining through the narrow alleys, whistling against windows busted out so long ago that weeds spill over the ledges and trail down broken facades.

In my mind I keep replaying the moment on the bridge when I noticed my sister; I keep picturing her face. Her expressions and the way she carried herself. But the farther I move from the river and the bridge, the more I begin to doubt what I saw.

I left my sister alone in the Forest, and I’ve spent the last decade of my life alternating between assuming that she got lost like Elias and me and died or that she somehow made it back to the village and has lived there safely ever since. Either way, I can’t imagine how she could have ended up here on the island.

Could the girl just be someone who looks like me? Who merely has hair like mine? It’s not like it’s rare to have blond hair. It’s not like I have any extraordinary features that make me stand out in a crowd. Other than my scars, of course.

Laughter trails down the alley behind me, snapping me from my thoughts. I cross my arms over my chest and pull my coat tight, hunching my shoulders. It’s colder here in the shadows, the pinch of winter settling between the cracks.

Someone calls out and I walk faster, staring at my feet and trying to train my senses behind me. Just as I reach the corner there are more shouts and the sound of feet running.

I spin back into a broken doorway and fumble for the knife in my pocket. There’s a group of three men down the road circling a bone-thin girl who barely looks old enough to be a teenager and a tall lanky boy who doesn’t seem much older, both wearing dingy gray tunics that flutter around their
knees. One of the men lunges at the boy, throwing a punch, and they tangle. The girl backs away, her eyes wide and lips trembling.

In the shadows of the alley our gazes connect. She’s shorter than I am, petite with slim shoulders and a pointed chin. One of the men reaches for her, wraps a hand around her upper arm, and she cries for help. Her gaze pleading for me to do something.

I grip the knife so hard my fingers ache. The men can’t see me here, huddled against an old concrete pillar just out of their line of sight. The girl fights against her attacker’s grip, screaming now. The boy reaches for her but he’s on his hands and knees on the ground, the two men alternating kicks to his ribs.

My teeth hurt, I’m clenching them so tight, and my heart pounds furiously. I should help them. There’s no one else around and it’s not hard to see that the boy and girl are severely outmatched.

I could sneak along the edge of the alley and try to surprise the men. I could run and search for someone else. I could throw something.

But none of these things would really help—they’d only serve to draw attention to me as well, and I know better than to invite trouble.

I’m rooted in place, unable to make up my mind to help, when two Recruiters stumble past me, their focus on the scuffle down the road rather than on me, crouching in my ragged clothes.

“What’s going on?” one of them shouts in a booming voice. The men scatter away from the pair, leaving the girl shaking, her companion on his side on the ground, groaning as he clutches his abdomen.

She looks at the Recruiters as if they’re her saviors. My stomach turns.

“Thank you,” she starts to say as the two Recruiters split apart, one moving to either side of her. “Those men, they told me they know about a place to buy fresh meat, but …” Her voice trails off as one of the Recruiters places a hand on her shoulder, his thumb curling over her collarbone.

“You two Soulers?” he asks. He and his fellow Recruiter trade a look as if they’ve just found treasure at the bottom of a garbage bin.

The girl swallows, wide eyes dancing between the men. Her chest rises and falls, sharp and quick like a bird. Reluctantly, she nods, and the Recruiters grin widely.

“We’ve been looking for some of you,” he says. “Man in charge has a few questions he wants answered. Though I don’t see there being any rush.”

A rage burns inside me. There used to be a time when the Recruiters were worth something. When they actually protected the people rather than preyed on them. The smart thing would be for me to fade back into the shadows and sneak away. It’s safer for me to just forget this girl and boy who were stupid enough to trust a stranger.

I’ve never been anyone’s savior—I’ve barely been able to keep myself alive, much less anyone else. But then I think about my sister and how I left her in the Forest.

Shifting my weight, I start to move away from the group, when one of the Recruiters reaches out and flicks at the girl’s stringy ponytail, then wraps it around his fingers and tilts her head back.

She doesn’t scream. She probably understands there’s not anyone she could call for help, not anymore. The boy on the
ground tries to crawl to his feet but the other Recruiter just places his foot on his back, pushing him down.

At that moment I realize I can’t abandon her. I take a deep breath and hold my mouth against my arm. Slowly I exhale, moaning deep and long like the Unconsecrated. The Recruiters’ heads snap up and tilt to listen.

I moan again, the sound urgent and rife with need. My skin prickles at how convincing I am to my own ears. How pained and wounded my voice seems. The moan bounces between the buildings, making it impossible for the Recruiters to pinpoint.

Three times I inhale and exhale, then I dash into the street, breathless. “Run!” I scream as I sprint toward them. I glance over my shoulder as if expecting plague rats to stumble after me.

I’ve known panic in my life. I’ve known a deep clawing fear that crawls along the spine and roars blinding loud. This is what I call on as I race toward the little group, as I yell that they must go and go right now.

I grab the girl’s hand in mine and pull the boy up by the collar of his tunic. I drag them behind me, darting to the left as we leave the alley and weave around buildings to put as much space between us and the Recruiters as possible.

We run until my legs burn and my throat is raw and I half believe my own terror. The girl tugs at me when I slow. “What about the Resurrected?” she pleads, her eyes wide, and I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know I made it all up to save her.

The boy bends over, hands braced on knees as he tries to catch his breath, his face broken with pain.

“It’s okay,” I tell her, holding her close against my side. “We’re fine. I was just trying to distract them from you. You’re
okay now.” I’m surprised at how much their safety actually matters to me.

The boy looks up, trying to focus. “You’re sure?”

The girl shudders. They have no reason to trust me, which is the way it should be. They need to learn that no one—no place—in this city is safe anymore.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Amalia,” she says.

I think about my sister and the way she looked when Elias and I left her in the Forest. Her knee was bloody from where she’d fallen and scratched it. The scent was driving the Unconsecrated around us into a burning need. They pushed against the fence for us, moans curdling up long-dead throats.

How easy it would have been for me to have made a different decision. To have taken her hand and led us both home. How long I’ve tortured myself for choosing to follow Elias down the path away from her.

“Where do you live?”

She starts to turn and point but the boy grabs her hand and pulls it down. He stands as straight as possible, his arms pressed to his side where he was kicked. “We can make it,” he says, trying to sound as though he’s strong enough to take care of the situation. It’s easy to see neither one of them has eaten in a while—cheeks sharp and eyes smudged with bruises.

“They said they were looking for you—why?” I ask, still not sure I should leave them on their own.

They glance at each other, clearly warring over what, if anything, to tell me. “They’ve been after all the Soulers,” the boy finally says. “We don’t know why. We just know that they’ve taken the ones they find.”

The clouds hugging the mainland have shifted over the
island, dropping the temperature, and I’m finally glad to be wearing so many layers. Amalia hugs her arms around herself and I pull a scarf from my neck and drape it over her head and shoulders. The boy pulls her against him.

“I can walk you home,” I offer, not sure how much help I’ll be against another band of Recruiters, but at least we’d have more numbers between us.

“We’ll be okay.” His voice is firm, though I still see the hesitation in his eyes. The lingering terror of what almost happened to both of them.

But what else can I do? And so I nod and turn back toward the Palisades, hoping that somewhere out there a stranger might take pity on my sister and ensure that she’s safe and alive.

T
he incoming storm erases the lingering daylight early, and wind smelling of fires and rot curls down the street, seeping through my clothes. Even though I try to make my way back to the Dark City as quickly as possible, I’m still stuck weaving through the Neverlands when night falls. Feet shuffle down an alley nearby and I shiver, rushing toward the nearest fire escape so I can climb up to the roof to escape the claustrophobia of crumbling walls.

It’s safer up high at night, less possibility of the wandering dead sneaking up on you in the darkness.

My sister is near, I think as I hurry toward the Palisades. Abigail’s here just across the river at the Sanctuary. I close my eyes and try to feel her. When we were kids I thought we had some sort of connection, a thread that tied one to the other. If she was sad I could sense it—any intense emotion would reverberate through me no matter where I was in the village.

It was like we shared everything: one heart, one soul, one
breath. But standing here in the Neverlands I can’t feel her. There’s too much despair to pick out that of one girl.

I cross a rickety bridge and it bucks under my feet with the force of someone else’s weight. The ropes creak and protest as another person leans against them for support. I pull the knife from my pocket and pick up my pace, skirting an abandoned roof garden and scurrying over another bridge. This is not the place to run into a stranger—no good can possibly come of it.

But the steps keep following me, gaining ground in time with my heartbeats. Keeping my head ducked low, I round the corner of a storage shed and glance back over my shoulder. The person following me is tall and broad, loose clothes draped over his lanky frame and face wrapped in shadows. His hands tense by his sides.

I press my lips together and take a deep breath. To my left shouts ring out from a broken window, people yelling and screaming at each other, and I use the distraction to start running. In my mind I see a crude map of the Neverlands, the pattern of bridges connecting the buildings, the fire escapes leading down to the streets and the places that are too dangerous to venture into.

Just as I’m scampering across a wide low roof another form materializes out of the dark. “Hey, what’s the rush?” he asks, starting toward me with a leer on his face.

I feel so stupid for being here at night. For thinking I could be invisible. In the old days I was always safe enough in the Neverlands—it was the place for people like me: outcasts, smugglers, the desperate people who lived on the fringes of the Dark City.

Sure, I’d get propositioned, but my scars have always kept
most people away. Things have been changing too fast and I’ve refused to notice that it’s become so dangerous here, even for me.

The man coming toward me whistles to someone and suddenly there are three men falling into step, one of them blocking the bridge on the other side of the roof, trapping me.

The night suddenly feels like it wants to swallow me whole. I swipe my knife widely, trying to cut a clear space between us.

I curse myself for not having left the island this afternoon. I should have kept going across the bridge and never looked back.

The men circle me, tighter and tighter, closing in. I flick my eyes around the rooftop, trying to figure out a way off. But there’s nothing. They have the bridges and fire escape covered. I tighten my grip on the knife and plant my feet, bending my knees for balance.

“This one wants to fight,” one of the men says. I can’t keep them all in front of me no matter how hard I try. I spin around but there’s always someone behind me. Then arms close around my chest, pinning my elbows to my sides.

Everything explodes inside me with the need to survive and escape and the terror-fueled realization that I might not be able to.

I twist my wrist, flicking the knife up hard, aiming for his shoulder. He ducks but still I feel the blade nick his skin. He grunts and releases me, pushes me away from him, hooking his foot around my leg so that I stumble.