Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) (15 page)

“I’m getting it taken off today,” I say quietly. She empties the pail a second time over my hair, and I wince as some of the frigid water runs down the back of my shirt.

“It’s none of my business,” she says. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

Gratitude swamps me right then, and an odd lump forms in my throat. “I don’t mind,” I tell her. “You can ask me if you want.”

She hesitates before saying carefully, “What did it feel like? The first time?
 
You know, when you felt something? Was it wonderful?”

I clear my throat. “Ahh…not really. I’d just
―
someone had just died, and
―
”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Ignore me. Pretend I didn’t ask.” She wrings out my hair frantically and then throws the towel over my head, scrubbing like crazy. With hair like mine, she’s re-creating all of the knots she just worked out.

“Olivia!” I stagger back, flinching as the rocky river bed bites into the tender soles of my bare feet. “It’s okay. Calm down.”

When I manage to push my hair back out of my face, Olivia’s wringing her hands instead. “I’m just not going to open my mouth again,” she says.

I shake out my hair and toss the towel onto the rock. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind. I guess…I guess I haven’t really experienced
wonderful
yet. But I’ll let you know if and when I do.”

A smile spreads on her face. “It’s now my personal mission to make that happen soon. Do you think you’re ready to go now?”

“Go where?”

“Oh,” she says, “Ryka asked me to take you to August. He’s busy this morning. He missed a week’s worth of practices and the Tamjis frown on solitary training. They want everyone to know what they’re up against.”

It’s no surprise that Ryka found an excuse not to come and deal with me himself. I’m glad he did, too. His sister is much more pleasant to be around than he is. What’s surprising is that the Tamjis all train together, especially when there’s no logic to the way they are called to fight. Everything is based on what the priestesses decree, according to Ryka. If I were fighting in a system like that, I’d want to hide my weaknesses and my strengths to maintain an edge over my opponents. Olivia takes my hand and guides me back towards the tent, where I clean off my feet and pull on my boots and my knife belt. She looks at me strangely but doesn’t say anything. It’s one thing agreeing not to fight here, but another thing entirely not wearing my knives. It’s a habit that’s going to take more than one night to crack.

“Are you nervous?” she asks.

“About what?”

She points to her neck, smiling so that her left cheek pulls up to the side.

“Yeah, I’m nervous,” I tell her. Because I am. I really am.

AUGUST

The walk through Freetown is terrifying, if only because Olivia knows everyone and they all want to talk to her. I stand behind her, trying to look inconspicuous, but I’m not very good at that, so people end up giving me cautious looks and moving on quickly, pulling their gawking children behind them.

Olivia barters for two cups of sliced fruit, tugging three of the small silver bells from the sleeve of her dress in payment. Seems like an odd system to me, but it appears to be working for the residents of this strange refugee town. We eat as we walk through the hawkers’ market, which thankfully isn’t as busy as it was last night.

“What do you do when you run out of bells?” I ask.

She slips a piece of melon into her mouth and chews. “Sew more on.”

“Huh. And what about the men? Surely they don’t walk around with bells sewn into their clothes?” I can’t imagine Ryka tinkling every time he walks. Olivia opens her mouth to answer, but before she gets a chance her brother falls in alongside us, smirking casually. He is shirtless, the tanned skin across his shoulders beaded with sweat, and his black pants are covered in mud. His hair is the exact same colour as his sisters; it’s surprising that I didn’t make the connection between them straight away. My cheeks flush when his eyes skirt over me, studying my clothes and my expression.

“The men pay for their services in blood and sweat,” he says.

“I thought you were training.” Olivia scowls, though I can tell she’s pleased to see him. She elbows him and offers out her fruit cup. Ryka takes a piece of fruit and tosses it into his mouth, still staring.

“I was. We finished early.” He narrows his eyes, squinting at me. His gaze lingers on my neck, even though my halo is hidden. “I came to see if she was gonna go through with it.”

I know he’s referring to the decision I made last night. He thinks I’m going to back out of getting the thing removed. “Of course I am going through with it. I said I would, didn’t I?” I don’t know why, but it takes work to peel my eyes off his naked chest. Once I accomplish that, I studiously ignore him as we tromp our way through Freetown.

“Are you headed to see the priestesses later?” Ryka asks his sister.

“Yes, I am. You should come with me, Kit. The Keep where the priestesses live is beyond that hill over there. You see the pathway leading over it? They call it the Holy Walk.”

The hill Olivia points out lies in the distance beyond the farthest reaches of Freetown. A green swell rises up out of a copse of matchstick-like trees, where I can make out the pathway she’s talking about. It zigzags back and forth in a pale yellow line until it disappears over the top of the hill.

“They have a house over there?”

Olivia laughs. “It’s more than a house. It’s incredible, really. I won’t ruin it for you by trying to describe it.”

“It’s creepy, Liv. You’re the only person who likes going there,” Ryka adds. He skirts around a broken wooden plank half submerged in the mud. “She cooks for the priestesses. Doesn’t shut up about them.”

Olivia slaps his arm and the scowl she put on when he showed up suddenly looks a little more convincing. “Shut up, Ry. And for crying out loud, put some clothes on.”

Laughing, he does as his sister says, producing a shirt that was slipped out of sight in the back waistband of his pants. It goes over his head, but not before his eye catches mine and he winks. I flinch and go back to ignoring him.

Olivia pelts a piece of fruit at him and Ryka pokes her in the side, making her squeal. She kicks out at him, missing entirely. “You shouldn’t speak that way, anyway. This one,” she says, pointing at her brother, “went to the Keep when he was eight. He nearly died in his first proper match, but the priestesses cared for him and brought him back to health.” She turns to Ryka, eyebrows raised. “I would have thought you’d be a bit more grateful, seeing as how they saved you.”

My eyes round out. “How were you hurt?” Ryka smirks again, revealing a deep dimple in his left cheek.

“It was nothing. My sister likes to exaggerate.”

“Nothing? He was stabbed in the thigh. It wasn’t really that deep, but he was so young that they thought he might not make it. He pulled through, though. I think that’s what started people off thinking that this fool is invincible.”

“Ha ha! They think that?” I break out laughing before I can stop myself.

A flash of pride burns across Olivia’s face. “No one’s ever beaten him before.”

I try not to laugh anymore because it looks like she might be upset if I do. She might be even more upset if I tell her that I pinned her brother and could have killed him if I’d wanted to. I just smile and nod. “That’s very impressive.” It certainly explains Ryka’s social status and why he thinks so highly of himself. He just rolls his eyes and pulls at Olivia’s arm. “Jack wants to see you at home, Liv. I can take our new friend to see August, after all.”

An excited look passes over Olivia’s face. “Did he mention anything about feathers?”

Ryka frowns. “He did actually.”

A blindingly happy smile explodes across Olivia’s face. She spins and pulls me into a tight, overwhelming embrace before I can do anything about it. “I’ll come and see you later. And don’t feel bad about telling me if my brother is awful to you. I’ll sort him right out.” She points a warning finger at Ryka before running off into the crowd, jangling like a set of keys.
 

“Feathers?” I ask, confused.

One of Ryka’s shoulders pulls up in half a shrug. “I never know what those two are up to. Our grandfather has a major soft spot for Liv. She reminds him of our mother.” He walks onwards, not looking at me, and I study the back of his neck while I decide whether I really want to question him. Eventually I decide that I do. “Does Jack like your mother?”

“Used to.”

“But not anymore?”

“She’s dead. She was his daughter.”

The nonchalance in Ryka’s tone betrays much, as do his words; the way he removed himself entirely from the equation—
Jack’s daughter
is dead, instead of
my mother
is dead—has deleted himself entirely from any personal involvement with his mother’s demise. He is either dead inside, or completely torn apart. The steely resolve in his eyes tells me little. It does tell me that he doesn’t want to talk about it, though. “Wait, so Jack actually
is
your grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you don’t call him that?”

“No.”

“But everyone else does? And he’s
not
their grandfather?”

“Yes.”

“I’m confused.”

“I can imagine.” Sighing, Ryka stops dead and faces me, rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. “The people call him that out of respect. He was voted to lead Freetown a long time ago, and they’ve always likened him to the leader of a family. A big, messy, twenty-thousand-strong family.” With his arms stretched wide at his sides, Ryka gestures to the tent city around us, and the people all shoving and pushing past. “We stopped calling him grandfather when we were tiny. It just didn’t mean the same thing anymore.”

Running my hand just underneath my halo, I focus on the shallow indentation in his cheek, where his dimple revealed itself moments ago. “Then why did he tell
me
to call him Jack?” I ask.

Brown eyes pick over my face, pausing to stare at my lips. “I wondered that myself. Come on. August’s forge is just up ahead.”

August’s forge is a squat, sprawling tent that sits practically on top of the river. Billows of dirty white smoke pour out of the back of it, and once again I wonder about the practicalities of having fire of any kind inside a building made out of cloth.

“August!” Ryka tosses back the tent flap and skips inside, leaving me to edge nervously in behind him. A middle-aged man with a heavy, tooled leather apron greets us. His hair is
 
black as jet and pulled into a tight ponytail. Head to toe, he is filthy. He stands by a huge fire pit burning in the centre of the room, holding a length of metal into the flames. Its end glows like a burning white star.
 
Everything smells like chemicals and warm metal. I’ve never been inside a forge. I don’t even know if the Sanctuary has any forges. The way August’s tent is so immaculately clean and tidy surprises me. Ironmongery seems like it would be a messy job, but everything is in order here.

Two long trestle tables run the length of the room, pushed back from the fire, which are laden with heavy iron tongs and chisels. I don’t know the names of most of the tools, but they are arranged in neat rows, and each one is clean. At the far end of the room, the back wall of the tent is missing and the edge of the river runs less than four feet from it.

August flashes us a broad smile when he sees us and withdraws the length of metal from the fire with a set of tongs. He carries it quickly to the river and plunges it in. A loud hiss erupts from the searing hot metal, and a cloud of smoke rises in the air. The smoke blows into the tent on the breeze, and I bite back choking gasps as August comes back inside.

“Ah, come on. It’s not that bad,” he says, laughing. He leans forward and slaps Ryka on the top of his arm. For a second I think August is contemplating hugging me. That’s the last thing I need, but he apparently already knows this. His eyes skirt over me and he smiles, revealing that one of his front teeth is blackened.

“You must be Kit,” he says, setting down his work. I shake the hand he offers me. This I can do. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning. What time do you call this?” he jokes.

“Midday. Apparently that’s what time people in Lockdown wake up,” Ryka replies.

“Actually, we usually get up before sunrise. I was just very—” I break off when Ryka starts chuckling. I have to stamp down the urge to pinch him really hard. I clench hold of my dagger hilts instead, trying to calm my spike of anger. It’s a powerful tide washing over me, almost blinding me with its ferocity. Surely it can’t be this bad all the time, and for such a small thing? August
tsk
s at Ryka.

“Careful, son. She’ll have an eye out with one of those blades if you’re not careful. Wait.” August’s eyes pause on my knife belt, growing in size. “Well, well,” he says. He holds out his hand again. “May I?”

“Uh
―
sure.” I pull out my daggers and offer them to him, handle first, unsure why I should feel so nervous. August flips them both over in his hands with the practiced skill of someone who handles weapons every day, catching them up before twisting and throwing them behind him out of the tent. A zipping sound fills the air and then a juddering
thunk, thunk.
Both daggers slam into a tree trunk by the water’s edge, wobbling from the force of their impact. August hoots and claps his hands together.