UNBREATHABLE (11 page)

At the corner where the stairwell turns again, she peeks over the wall with a frown. “Clear.”

The pattering of our boots on the concrete echoes along the close walls.

At the bottom of the stairs, feet away from the door, Dena drops to her knees with a sigh and leans against the short ledge on the side, resting to adjust her mask.

And that's when I see the Jute behind her.

He raises a knife to Dena’s neck. Her eyes widen, but she’s otherwise still. She doesn't even struggle. She stares at me, breathing carefully neutral. Fresh sweat breaks out along my hairline and my heart beats faster.

“Don't want your bestie to die now, do we?” The Jute asks in a throaty voice, the pale brown silk around his face puffs with his words.

Breathe
, I remind myself. I slowly reach for one of the small knives around my waist. My heart thuds and it takes me a moment to realize I’m afraid. I haven’t felt afraid in so long, the feeling is almost foreign.

But I’m not afraid for myself or for Dena. But for the Jute.

He presses the blade harder against her soft flesh and chuckles. And before I can think, I pull back my arm and throw. The tiny blade disappears into his flesh.

“No,” I say, standing as he drops to his knees. He chokes and sputters and his knife clatters to the floor. “We don't.”

Dena grabs the doorknob without a word. I look back up the stairwell, adrenaline still pumping through my veins, but it’s empty.

Dena turns the knob and pauses, glancing back at me, almost shyly, unable to meet my eyes. “Thanks.”

Surprise steals my ability to speak. Dena
thanked
me.

The world around us is eerily quiet when we step into the early morning light. The red ground is so much different than the pristine white floors I’ve come to know so well. I haven’t set foot outside the Tower since I ran from Rowan all those weeks ago. I’m sickened by the thought of my cowardice and fear.

I lift my eyes. And see them first.

Jute, covered from head to toe in black to protect themselves from the dusty, gritty wind.

There are guns in their hands, each of them pointed straight at us.

I throw up my arm to stop Dena. She shouts.

I drop to the floor and roll towards the wall of the house to our left. Their shouts are immediate. And so is the gunfire. Real, actual gunfire.

And Dena falls as a bullet rips into her.

I read somewhere that on Earth, two people died every second. When humans came to Jutaire, they lost track of time, but I’m certain one second is nearly equivalent to two heartbeats.

Which meant that for every heartbeat, there was one death. One heart ceased to beat while the rest went on, unfazed. Likewise, for every two heartbeats, four new souls entered their perfect world.

It’s fascinating how much death touched the lives of those on Earth. Death was everywhere, occurred with every breath of their lives, yet they found a way to be happy, to thrive. Death isn’t as constant here on Jutaire, though with only so many of us left, one death a week is enough.

Too much.

Today, so many Jute die because I kill them all. My hands are a blur as I throw the small knives, one after the other. They won’t hurt me because they need me alive.

I’m terrified. Because as the Jute fall, I feel nothing. Not even an ounce of pity for the lives I take.

Dena moans in the sudden silence. I rush to her side when I’m certain all the Jute have fallen. And I realize they only differentiated between us because of her mask. The mask that is supposed to save her life nearly killed her.

Her head lolls over to face me and her dark eyes are wild. “They have guns. Real ones.”

She sounds like a child.

“They did.” I meet her eyes briefly and unbutton her tight jacket. I pull her sleeveless shirt back to the hollow beneath her shoulder. My breath catches at the sticky mess of blood.

“I've always”—she gasps—“wanted a real gun.”

“I didn't know,” I say quickly. My eyes burn at the innocence in her voice. She’s nothing like the girl who grated on my nerves.

“I'm dying, aren't I?” She wheezes. “You killed them all, didn't you?”

“No. And yes” I press my fingers against her wound and she gasps. The bullet needs to come out.

I need to take it out.

“The bullet—”

“Shh, I know.” I take a deep breath and before I can rethink my decision, I press my fingers into her ripped flesh. My fingers squelch and my insides scream. She cries out, her body arching in pain, and I want to get away. Far, far away. Run to my dark home and hide away.

But those are the thoughts of the old Lissa. The meek girl who faded away in the span of a month.

My fingers close around the stub of metal and I pull it out as Dena's cries ring in my ears.

A shadow falls over me and I reach for my dagger with bloody hands.

“It’s me,” Julian says. He crouches down beside me, his eyes frantic. “You're supposed to be at Slate's house.”

“Dena—”

“I'll take care of Dena. Go. Now.” His voice rises with every word. My blood runs cold at the fear coating his voice. Because Julian is never this afraid, and somehow, I’m certain his fear has nothing to do with Rowan. They
are
brothers, after all.

“I don't even know where his house is.”

“The second road, seventh house on the left.” He answers without pause, taking a satchel of water from the pack slung over his back. Dena hisses as he douses the wound, but she stays still.

I envy her strength, her calm. Maybe I'm still not strong enough. Maybe I'll always be the girl Gage wanted trade over like a shiny object.

“This is worse than I thought,” Julian says softly and turns to me. For a moment, I think he means Dena's bullet wound. “We don't have much time.”

He snorts softly, contradicting his words with a sideways smile. I swallow. Julian never knows when to smile, but when he does, it’s like Earth. He reaches for my face tentatively and I hold my breath as he brushes away my stray hair with the back of his cool fingers. He whispers something softly, a strange look on his face.

I stumble to my feet, and pry my eyes from his. I yank one of the guns from the fallen Jute, for Dena, and collect my bloody knives, tucking them back into my belt.

And I run, letting the morning air cool my burning cheeks. I hear his whispered words, like feathers brushing against the edges of my mind, threatening to fade away.

But I can't believe I wanted to die.

But Julian also said to run. I’ll think of what he meant later. I slip the gun into my boot and turn onto Slate's road.

I count the houses as I go. My heart beats faster the closer I get, as if it knows something I do not. I wipe away the sweat collecting above my lip.

At the sixth house, I stop.

A carriage stands off to the side, the entire structure elaborate, with inhuman elegance.

My lips part when I look to Slate’s house.

There, in the midst of Jute soldiers swathed in the night sky, about to enter Slate’s house, is a woman.

A navy robe wraps her slender form. A crown of white sits atop her head. Her stark red lips curve into a sly smile. And her eyes shine like the moon. The portrait doesn't do her justice.

Queen Rhea.

”Well, well. Now this is convenient,” the Queen laughs, light and airy. Carefully perfected. “Very, very convenient. Don't you agree, Wren?”

She slides her gaze to one of the soldiers beside her. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and his eyes frantically dart about. He’s the only one out of place in the calm group. “Y-yes, your majesty.”

She smirks and turns her attention back to me. Her beauty is strong and her heart is dark. This I can tell by her gaze alone.

“Do you know who I am, girl?” Her voice is powerful. I don't answer. But the smart part of my mind forces my gaze down, as one should do to respect a queen. I read that somewhere once.

“Are you mute, Lissa?” I flinch at her sharp tone. And my name. She knows my name. Gage told them everything.

“No.” Why my voice is a frail whisper, I do not know.

“No, you’re not mute.” She lifts her chin as I lift my eyes. “So I will ask you again. Do you know who I am?”

“The Queen. Queen Rhea.” My voice falters. Weak, that is all I am. “o-of the Jute.”

“One would be a fool not to know that,” she says dismissively. I look up in confusion and meet her unnatural eyes.

“Oh, darling girl, you look lost.” She comes closer, her dark robe snagging on every little rock. But if she’s anything like the wasteful royalty I’ve read about, she won’t even wear the robe again.  

Her beauty is like Julian's, mesmerizing, tantalizing. Depreciating and she knows it.

She’s close enough for me to see her unnaturally smooth skin—so smooth it’s almost frightful—and the exact point where her ink black hair pierces her scalp, and to tell we are nearly the same height.

She extends her hand, dazzling rings glinting off her fingers. My breath trembles. I swallow. I’m afraid of an unarmed woman.

She rubs a lock of my dusty hair between her fingers and smiles. The kind of smile Gage said a cat would give a mouse on Earth. She utters three words.

And I wish I had never wanted to know.

“I'm your mother.”

The ground sways. Or I do.

Warm hands grip my shoulders and I look up, only mildly surprised to find my face inches away from Julian's. He’s always there when I need him. As if he knows. Maybe he does. There is so much surreality in my life right now, that wouldn’t be a surprise.

The Queen laughs and clasps her hands together. How many times had I imagined my mother’s laugh?

“The gang's all here,” she coos. “This is perfect, just perfect.”

I turn and my heart sinks to the dark pit of my stomach. Slate, Dena, and Chancellor Kole are here too.

“Rhea,” Slate hisses. His eyes are livid, the pale gray as dark as a stormy sky, his hands are clenched and a vein bulges in his neck. There is no love in his eyes now, no conflicting emotions. Only pure anger. Tears sting at the edges of my eyes—they’re my parents.

“Did you ever think our darling daughter would live, Slate? No. The moment you saw her blue body, you assumed. You were always too...
human
. Emotional and naïve.”

“I'm surprised Gage never said a word all these years,” she adds flatly.

“You knew,” Slate thunders, rushing forward. Chancellor Kole holds him back. Behind the Queen, the soldiers shift their weapons.

“Oh, yes,” she says, unfazed by his anger. “Gage was a very smart man.”

“Why keep it from him?” Julian asks, curiously. My heart skips a beat when the Queen narrows her eyes at him, her gaze darting to his hands on my shoulders.

“I know you,” she muses. “You're the suicidal half-breed. The brother Rowan is always jabbering pointlessly about.” She says
suicidal half-breed
as if it’s a disease.

His hands slowly tighten around my shoulders and his breathing quickens. Could he have known the Queen was here when he was tending to Dena? Is that why he was so afraid?

“I have a job for you, half-breed. A way to make yourself useful to your society, wherever it is you belong.” She adds the last part with a laugh and slides closer to him, closer to me. “Will you tend to my darling princess and protect her with your life? She is, after all, your future queen.” Her question isn't a question. It’s a threat. An order.