Wings (A Black City Novel) (5 page)

“Where can we go to get all these supplies?” I ask.

“Babbage and Son’s in Flux Plaza,” Destiny says. “Scott’s a friend of mine.”

“I’ll go tell Garrick,” Elijah says.

I watch him as he strolls over to the cockpit, a crease between his brow, deep in thought. I wonder if he’s thinking about his mom.

“I hope Garrick’s men find Yolanda and the others,” I say.

“What good will it do?” Destiny says. “I doubt the Commander will agree to a rescue mission, hon. There’s nothing in it for him.”

“But they could lead us to the Ora,” I say. “We really ought to be looking for it. We can’t guarantee the Sentry rebels’ weapons will be enough; shouldn’t we have a backup?” The Sentry rebels have an impressive arsenal, but it’s still no match for Purian Rose’s forces.

“Look, you don’t need to convince me,” Destiny says. “My aunt always told me, ‘Have a plan B, Destiny. You never know when you might need it.’ But try to see it from the Commander’s point of view. If anything happened and the virus got released into the compound, a bunch of people could die. Not me, thankfully. I don’t have the V-gene,” she adds, laughing a little. “But a good fifteen percent of our soldiers do. So I get why he’s being cautious. I think he’s
wrong
—we should have every advantage possible—but I get it.”

I sigh, knowing it’s pointless to discuss it any further. Destiny can’t change the Commander’s mind any more than I can. The boat goes around a bend in the river, and Destiny peers out the window.

“Man, this city sucks,” she says. “I never thought I’d see this stinking place again.”

“Why did you come back?” I ask.

“My aunt begged me,” she replies. “Things were getting pretty crazy in Centrum. I got mixed up with a bad crowd a few months back, so my aunt persuaded me to come home and join Alpha Squad.”

“What sort of bad crowd?” I ask, curious to know more about her life in the capital, where she was working as a model. Polly wanted to do that as a career too. She and Destiny would have gotten on like a house on fire.

“I’d rather not think about it, hon. It’s all in the past.” Destiny gazes out the window again. “I miss Centrum.”

“Speaking of which, what’s Omega Squad doing there?” I ask, recalling everyone huddled around the com-desk in command central.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she says.

“But—”

She silences me with a firm look. I let it slide, knowing when to push her and when not to.

• • •

The
Fogger
slows down as we approach Flux Plaza, the main city square where their Darkling ghetto is located. Or
was
located. The notorious brass gates leading into the ghetto dangle off their hinges, and the place is now empty, all the Darklings having been taken to the Tenth in accordance to Rose’s Law. Purian Rose’s forces have been sweeping across the country, systematically clearing out the ghettos, city by city. Gallium was targeted a few weeks ago while Ash, Elijah and I were on the run.

Garrick docks the boat beside the jetty next to Flux Plaza and we all climb out, making sure our hoods are up. The city square is jammed with Workboots setting up a wooden stage in the center of the plaza. I vaguely recall February Fields’s news report earlier, about a nationwide Cleansing ceremony taking place next week. It’s going to be a huge televised event, with millions of people attending ceremonies across the country. I’m guessing the stage is for that.

I watch a group of Pilgrims filtering into the church on the west side of Flux Plaza. They all have shaved heads and a rose tattoo above their left ears—the mark of a follower of the Purity faith, the religion that Purian Rose created years ago. Membership has exploded in the past few weeks, as people clamor to prove their devotion to Purian Rose for fear of being sent to the Tenth. Nothing encourages faith like fear, it seems.

“Babbage and Son’s is over there.” Destiny points to a shabby store next to the church.

The five of us head through the bustling town square toward the store. I tug my hood lower over my face as a group of Pilgrims walk past, handing out flyers to passersby about next week’s ceremony. One of the women thrusts a flyer in my hand and I quickly take it, stuffing it into my pocket as we approach the shop. A tarnished copper sign hangs over the doorway, reading
BABBAGE AND SON’S APOTH
ECARY
. A silvery bell rings as we step inside.

The shop is cramped and gloomy with an unpleasant sulfur smell in the air. Glass-fronted cabinets filled with colorful jars of potions and medicines line the side walls, and a large mirror hangs on the back wall behind the counter, giving the impression that the shop is bigger than it is. We head toward the counter. Garrick and Sasha have to bow their heads so they don’t bump them on the low metal beams overhead.

Standing behind the counter is a man in his midtwenties with unruly auburn hair and sleepy brown eyes. A brass watch dangles out of the breast pocket of his red waistcoat. I’m guessing this is “and Son’s” from Babbage and Son’s.

“Hey, Scott,” Destiny says, taking off her mask.

A wide grin spreads across his slim face. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” He steps down from the platform and gives Destiny a quick hug. “I heard you’d gone on a spiritual retreat or something.”

Destiny gives a tight smile. “No. I was just living it up in Centrum.”

“I’m sorry about your aunt,” he says. “Things have gone to hell around here since she died. At least she could keep those fragging guards under control. Now they keep coming into my store, demanding free this, free that, like they own the joint.” Scott turns in my direction and I lower my head slightly, even though I’m wearing a hood and mask, so there’s little chance he’ll recognize me. “So what are you guys here for?”

“We just need a few supplies,” Destiny replies. “Can you put it on my tab?”

He arches a brow. “It’s a tab only if you intend to pay the bill someday, Des.”

She grins. “True, but isn’t it so much nicer for us to both pretend I’m going to do that?”

He chuckles. I raise a quizzical brow at Destiny.

“Scott’s father used to work for my aunt,” she explains. “During the last war, he let her enemies use the shop to host their cloak-and-dagger meetings so she could spy on them.”

Scott walks over to the large mirror hanging behind the counter and hooks his hand around the frame. There’s a click as a secret latch unlocks and the mirror swings forward to reveal a hidden room, big enough to comfortably fit one person, two at a push.

“It’s a spy room,” he explains. “The glass is half silvered, so you can watch what’s going on in the shop, but they can’t see you.”

“Neat,” Elijah says, unhooking his mask so it hangs loose around his face. I shoot an angry look at him—we’re supposed to be in disguise—and he grimaces apologetically. “Couldn’t breathe.” Scott’s eyes widen sightly as he notices the cheetah-like markings down the side of Elijah’s cheeks, realizing he’s a Bastet. He casts a curious look at Destiny, but says nothing as he quietly sets about getting our supplies. Destiny trusts Scott, so I probably can too, but even so, I keep my mask on. He places a jar of flaxseeds on the counter and unscrews the lid. The second he opens it, Elijah starts violently sneezing. Garrick and Sasha bark with amusement.

“Id’s nod funny,” Elijah says between sneezes. “I’m allergic do flaxseed.”

Scott puts the lid back on before Elijah has a fit, and starts weighing up the other ingredients. There’s a portable digital screen on his countertop, streaming the latest news from SBN. The sound is off, but it’s obvious from the pictures that the report is about the bridge that Omicron Squad bombed this morning. Ash’s image suddenly appears on the monitor, and I quickly reach across the counter and turn up the volume.

“. . . These latest attacks are being attributed to the terrorist organization Humans for Unity, led by wanted criminal Phoenix, whose whereabouts are unknown,” February Fields reports over the image of Ash. I stare at the picture. It’s been doctored to make Ash look more threatening—they’ve deepened the hollows in his cheeks, narrowed his black eyes into cruel slits and lengthened his fangs. That’s not who he is. That’s not my Ash. I reach out a hand to touch the screen, aching to be close to him, then snatch it back when I remember Scott is watching. But it’s too late.

He looks from me to Elijah, then to Destiny. “Are you guys with the
rebellion
?”

“We’re not here to answer questions,” Garrick growls, flashing his canines.

Scott holds his hands up. “Hey now, there’s no need for that. I’m on your side.” He points toward the Pilgrims outside his store. “Those freaks are scaring off my customers. It’s bad for busin—” He frowns. “Great, the Tin Men are coming. I hate these guys more than those weirdos outside.”

Tin Men?
I turn. Marching across the square is a group of men dressed in metal-gray uniforms. They look like Trackers—the elite police force that specializes in hunting Darklings—but their uniforms are the wrong color. They head straight for the shop.

“Get into the spy room,” Destiny says, shoving me and Elijah into the crammed space.

Elijah grunts with pain as my elbow jabs into his stomach. I barely have time to turn around before Destiny slams the door, locking us in. The room is immediately plunged into darkness. It’s hotter than hell in here, making it hard to breathe, and I yank off my mask and take a few deep gulps of the musty air. Elijah fidgets behind me, his hand accidentally running up my back as he tries to get comfortable.

A bell tinkles.

Through the double-sided mirror, I watch five men enter the store. They all have shaved heads and are wearing dark gray garrison caps. The floorboards creak as they walk across the room in perfect unison. They ignore Garrick and Sasha, who are pretending to study the jars on the shelves. Destiny is by the counter with Scott. She stiffens when the squad leader approaches them. He’s a middle-aged man with pale skin and penetrating eyes that match the color of his uniform. Pinned to his chest is a silver butterfly medal. Who
are
these people?

“Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” Scott asks.

“We need a quart of Night Whisper,” the man says in a flat voice.

“Gee, sorry, fellas, I don’t have any in stock,” Scott says. “I’ll have to order that from Centrum.” He reaches for his notepad and pen, and accidentally knocks over the jar of flaxseeds in the process. The heavy glass jar smashes as it hits the floor, scattering the golden seeds everywhere. Some of them skid under the thin gap at the bottom of the mirror-door, stopping by my feet.
Uh-oh.
Elijah clamps a hand over his nose and mouth, muffling the sneeze. The man’s eyes narrow and panic claws up my throat. Did the man hear it?

“I’m such a klutz.” Scott chuckles nervously. “How much did you need again? A quart?”

The squad leader ignores Scott and walks around the counter. He stops in front of the mirror. Our faces are just centimeters apart, separated only by the thin sheet of double-sided glass. I don’t dare breathe, terrified the smallest thing will give us away. Behind him, Destiny’s hand inches toward her gun holster. Light glints in the man’s strangely pale eyes. They have an almost metallic quality to them. He shakes his head. “You’re imagining things,” he mutters to himself, then turns away and addresses Scott. “Make it two. We need it by the weekend.”

He joins the four other men and they leave. The instant they’re gone, Destiny opens the mirror-door and Elijah and I spill out, both gasping for breath.

Scott stares at me. “It’s
you.
”

I realize I’m not wearing my mask and scramble to put it back on, but the damage is already done. Garrick and Sasha quickly form a protective barrier in front of me. A low, throaty growl escapes Sasha’s neon-pink lips, and Scott wisely backs away.

“You can’t tell anyone what you saw,” Destiny says to him.

“My lips are sealed.” He pretends to zip his mouth closed.

“Who were those guys?” Elijah asks, gesturing toward the shop door.

“Rose’s new security force,” Scott says. “They’ve been kicking about the city for the past few weeks, scaring folk into giving them names of anyone suspected of anti-government sentiments.” He passes Destiny the supplies we came for. “Use the cellar door. It’s safer.”

My mind is still on these “Tin Men” as we climb out the cellar door, which leads into a dark alleyway beside the church. A bell lets out a melancholy
dong, dong, dong
from the church’s belfry, telling the Pilgrims the morning service is about to start. What does Purian Rose need with a new security squad? It can only mean trouble. Destiny, Garrick and Sasha enter the alley first; Elijah and I follow.

The alleyway is filled with trash cans overflowing with several weeks’ worth of garbage, and I cautiously step over the piles of junk. It’s nearly all glass bottles. Some of them still have a milky-gray residue in them. They must be some of Scott’s potions. I accidentally kick one of the bottles and it rolls across the cobblestones, hitting a pile of rags. The material stirs and a man’s craggy face appears between the folds. A gasp escapes my lips. His sallow skin is drenched in sweat and covered in seeping ulcers, which have devoured his face so that part of his nose and eyelids are missing. Even through my respirator mask I can smell the sticky scent of decay reeking off him. He grabs my ankle and I cry out in fright.

“Help me . . . ,” he rasps, blood spraying out of his chapped lips.

“Let her go!” Elijah roughly kicks the man’s hand away.

We hurry to meet the others, my heart racing.
What was wrong with him?
I haven’t seen wounds that bad since the Wrath, but he didn’t have any of the telltale signs like yellow eyes and hair loss. So what is it?

“You okay, hon?” Destiny asks as we reach them.

“No,” I admit. “That man needs our help.”

“Scott can deal with him,” Destiny says, taking a firm hold of my arm.

She drags me down the passageway, ignoring my protests to go back. Just before we slip into the crowds, I look over my shoulder. Through the shadows, the homeless man’s rotting face peers back at me.