Nightingale (8 page)

             
“Have a drink,” a woman, no a man, in an yellow ruffled dress says as he hands me a tall glass. “It’s called ‘Power to the People’ and we made it special for the show tonight.”

             
Before I can ask him what’s in it, he saunters away, handing out drinks to the next group.

             
Kyra darts out her hand and takes the glass from me. “Where did you get this?” she demands.

             
I point in the direction of the odd man, but he’s been swallowed by the crowd. She sniffs it and shakes her head. “I have no idea what’s in it.”

             
“Try it,” Ryker says. “It’s not like anyone here knew Lark was coming or can really see her in this light. I doubt it’s poisonous.”

             
“They saw us come in.” Kyra flashes him a look of disgust. “You try it.”

             
Never one to back down from a challenge, Ryker takes the glass and begins to chug. The three of us watch him.

             
Ryker wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s fine. Just some rum and fizzy soda.” He hands it back to me. “Try it.”

             
I look to Kyra for approval. She shrugs, so I take a small sip. It tastes sweeter than champagne, but not sickly sweet. I take another sip before passing it back to Ryker.

             
He sets the glass on a nearby table and grabs my hand. “C’mon, Lark. Let’s dance..” As he spins me, I lose my balance and knock into the man next to me.

             
“Careful, now,” the man says. A flash of red wristlet from beneath the edge of his shirtsleeve catches my attention and I jump back as he yanks at his sleeve.

             
Once I would have screamed for security. I would have let fear overwhelm me. I would have hated him. Now, all I see is a poor man, forced to live on the fringe of society all so that we witches can perpetuate a charade.

I glance at my friends but they’re too busy ogling the barely dressed performer gyrating on the stage to notice the man and me.

             
When I look at him again, our eyes lock and I can’t turn away. His skin is leathery brown, but he can’t be much older than me. Maybe twenty-two, at the most.  His cheeks have a gaunt, underfed look and his chapped lips are parted in surprise, as if he recognizes me. He
looks
like a Sensitive: mangy, dirty, wild.

And I look like Lark Greene. The privileged daughter of the woman who branded him Sensitive.

I am everything he should hate.

9

The man doesn’t break eye contact with me. His lips pucker and he raises an eyebrow. The noise in the club can’t drown out the ten haunting notes as they pass his lips.

The
Alouette
.

The song of the Splinter group.

The man’s lips twitch into a taunting smile. 

Adrenaline rushes through my body, heightening my senses. Everywhere I look, flashes of red wristlets glow in the darkened room.

How could we—no, how could my friends be so stupid as to come here? They had to have known the clientele of the club.
I
should have known better.

Magic burns in my heart, begging to be released. It presses against my chest and I rock back on my feet.

I can’t lash out here.

I can’t—

A ball of fire explodes near the stage. For a second, the crowd stands in stunned silence, but not me. My entire body trembles as another wave of magic builds inside me.

“Kyra,” I scream. All three of my friends pivot toward me. Ryker, who is closest to me, throws his arms around my body, shielding me.

“Are you okay?” he says.

Kyra shoves between us. “Did you do that?”

I nod. “I don’t know. There was a man. A Sensitive. He whistled the
Alouette
. And…and I couldn’t stop it.”

The crowd has now gone into panic mode, pushing and shoving their way toward the exits. Black, acrid smoke fills the area around the stage.

“We have to get out of here.” Kyra scans the crowd. “Ryker, stay right next to Lark. Do not leave her side. Do you understand?”

Ryker nods. “Should we transport?”

“No. We can’t risk it. Even in this mess. Let’s just get her outside.”

We push our way through the maze of flailing body parts toward the exit. The closer we get to the doors, the thicker the crowd grows. There’s one door and at least two hundred people fighting to get out. I’m bumped and jostled from every direction, and shoved deeper into the core of the mob. But Ryker never lets go of me. His fingers dig into my arm and yank me back toward him.

When we’re within feet of the exit, he throws out his arm, knocking a woman backward and flings me forward.

The frigid night air stings my face and my ears ring. Everything sounds distant. I’m pushed off to the side, out of the way, and I lean against the wall. Filth and grime cover the hem of my dress and sweat dampens my underarms.

Kyra rushes toward me while Maz and Ryker stand a few feet away. All three of them have the same terrified look. “Are you okay?” Kyra asks.

I smooth the front of my dress. “I’m fine. I was frightened and I couldn’t stop myself.”

Firemen rush toward the building carrying packs of retardant on their backs. A few of them hack at the exit, trying to make the escape route bigger.

“Malin is going to kill me.” Kyra sags against Maz. “Of all the stupid things, Lark. Couldn’t you have at least tried not to set the stage on fire?”

“This isn’t my fault! You know I can’t control myself.”

“Not your fault?
You
suggested sneaking out.
You
wanted to come here.” Kyra’s eyes flash with anger.

“And
you
went along with it,” I snap, “after
suggesting
it.”

“Because I thought it would cheer you up. You’ve been acting
deso
all day. Moping because you did so amazingly fabo on your assessment. Well boo freaking hoo.”

My fingers twitch in anger. All three of my friends stare at me, waiting for me to say something. But instead, I turn and sprint into the crowd gathered at the far end of the block, back toward the location of the safe transportation zone. I have to get away from Kyra before I hurt her.

“Stop!” Ryker yells. Ice cold daggers of magic stab at my back, but I keep running.

My heart pounds in my chest as I squeeze and duck through the crowd. Tears run down my face. I should never have let Mother take off the restraint. I’m too unpredictable.

An indecipherable shout rings out. For a moment, I think the crowd I’ve been swallowed by has noticed the burning building at the other end of the street. But the people around me face the opposite direction of the fire, toward an illuminated stage where screens hover on each side.

I turn in a circle, trying to figure out which way to go next. Only few people separate me from the stage. Four men in their twenties stand shackled together with their left wrists clamped in heavy red wristlets.

Just like the man in the club.

What was I thinking leaving my friends? Maybe it’s the alcohol, but ever since Ryker whispered to me at the banquet tonight, I’ve felt reckless and I’ve been making stupid decisions.

My alert mind searches for Eamon, or anyone I recognize from Summer Hill. But the truth is, I have no idea how to tell if I’m standing in a crowd of humans or witches. Or the Splinter group.

And that scares me. I need to get back to Kyra. Running off may have kept me from lashing out at her, but she has to be terrified that she’s lost me. It’s not fair to her. 

As I begin to move away from the stage, the crowd falls silent. Damn. There’s no way through the throng without drawing attention to myself.

My finger hovers over my wristlet. I could ping Kyra and tell her where I am…but what if it gets picked up by one of Mother’s people?

I groan. There’s no good solution except staying here for the moment and hoping my friends haven’t left.

A fit woman in a skin-tight Enforcer uniform crosses the stage and the temperament of the crowd shifts from excitement to anticipation.

When the woman stops in the middle the stage, the crowd roars to life chanting in manic unison: “Pun-ish them! Pun-ish them!”

The shortest of the four condemned men hangs his head dejectedly while the rest of them show a mixture of fear and panic.

With a satisfied smile, the woman holds up her hands and the chanting turns into a soft mew. The State’s anthem blares around me and everyone snaps to attention, eyes fixed forward until the song’s end.

When it’s over, the people in front of me move so that I can’t see the stage. Whatever is happening, the crowd loves it. I can’t even see the hover screens. A drawback to being short. All around me, people yell, stomp their feet and cheer.

Then the crowd quiets down.

“Dear people of the State,” the Enforcer woman begins. Her words have an Eastern society trill, which I find odd. Why not use our own Enforcers?

I stand on my tiptoes, for a better look. Newscaster cameras buzz over the Enforcer’s head. “These Sensitives before you stand convicted of heinous crimes against the State. Stealing. Vandalizing. Consorting with enemies.
Even
mind control. They
must
be punished.”

Yells of “Punish them” rise up again along with a few whistles.

“Li Bai Smythe,” the Enforcer says as another woman pushes the first man forward. “You are accused of using your abilities to steal produce from a public market and are hereby sentenced to a labor crew in the far north for a time no shorter than eight years.”

My hand flies to my mouth. No one can survive that kind of work for that long under those conditions. Not with the constant below freezing temperatures, poor shelter, and lack of quality food. Surely the State knows this. It’s why the Northern Society remains largely uninhabited.

Whistles fill the air again as the atmosphere takes on an almost festival-like feel. As if watching the sentencings of these men is equivalent to watching the performer back inside the club.

I roll my shoulders a little and try to calm the sense of unease growing in me. Knowing that most, if not all Sensitives, are nothing more than petty human criminals, I can’t help be feel disgusted over the whole charade. And yet, I can’t tear myself from the spectacle.

The second and third men are sentenced and hurried off the stage in much of the same way, leaving the final short man alone on the stage.  The Enforcer bobbles her head between the tablet in her hand and the man, before motioning to a woman off stage, who runs to her side. The Enforcer points at the tablet in confusion.

It’s strange the way the two women keep checking the tablet and then glancing at the last man. He keeps his blank eyes fixed on something just beyond the audience. He doesn’t smile, or sneer, or give any indication that he’s aware of the crowd.

Finally, the original woman shakes her head and hands the tablet to the new woman, whose mouth is slightly ajar. She looks like she may cry.

The new woman faces the crowd and keeps her eyes down on the tablet. “Toran Mikas, son of Stellan and Sava Mikas.” The woman’s voice breaks and I’m not sure she’s going to finish. Finally, she says, “You stand accused of plotting the assassination of Malin Greene, our Vice Head. For this, you are sentenced to death.”

Time grinds to a halt. Executions are unheard of in our Society. But more than that, this man tried to kill my Mother? Who is he?

I study Toran as the woman finishes reading the particulars of his execution. He keeps his eyes forward and his back rigid. There’s no emotion or horror in his eyes. When the Sensitive Enforcers shove him to side of the stage, he shuffles along until he reaches the stairs.

He lifts his head and whistles four haunting notes.

The
Alouette
.

Chills run down my spine. Either he’s a human with bad taste in music or he’s a member of the Splinter group.

From all around me comes a response: the same slow and mournful notes.

My heart races as I shove my way through the tidal wave of people pressing toward the stage. The song is everywhere, like an unstoppable virus, corrupting everything in its path.

This is more than one man in the club. There are dozens of members of the Splinter Group here in San Francisco. Within feet of me. How is this even possible? Why haven’t security or the Enforcers caught them?

With one last shove, I’m out of the suffocating crowd, emerging on the far side of the street. I gasp for air as the reality of what I witnessed crashes down on me.

My hands bunch the once luxurious fabric of my dress and I force myself to stay calm. To walk leisurely. After all, it will only take one person recognizing me before the whole crowd is on me.

I need to find Kyra. We should never have snuck out. 

But even though I’m terrified out here alone, one thought pummels my mind: Mother is publicly executing Sensitives. It must not be a popular policy if even the Enforcers, whose job it is to distribute justice, have a hard time stomaching it.

So what is Mother doing?

A dank, repugnant odor hits my nose and I recoil in disgust. Cages filled with people line the walkway. More supposed criminals for the State to parade across the stage. I doubt many of these people are witches at all. Most are probably unfortunate humans.

The crowd here isn’t as thick, and the attention is definitely on the cages, not me. Sneering men throw pebbles at the captives and taunt them with obscenities. A few of the people behind the bars sob while the more belligerent yell back. The hatred for these accused people is tangible. No wonder we, the real witches, hide.

But how much of this has been manufactured by our own people. By Caitlin Greene, my ancestor? And by Mother? How much has the State flamed the fires of hatred? And more importantly, do the people
need
to hate someone in order to keep the witches safe?

Dejected and frightened faces peer out from the dark recesses of the cages. They’ve no doubt heard the sentencing and fear for their own lives. The State has plucked humans of all ages, from mere children to the elderly. No one is safe from accusation.

As much as I fear the crowd, I need to get away from the horror of the people in the cages. I can’t be part of this. I can’t.

I quicken my pace. At the end of the walkway, a familiar flash of dark curly hair catches my eye. Kyra. Thank God.

Since I can’t use my wristlet because it’s being monitored, I cup my hands around my mouth to call her name. Before I do, a feeble voice cries, “Lark? Is that you? It’s me, Miss Tully.”

I freeze. An annoying ringing fills my ears and my head feels like I’ve stuck it under water. Someone bumps me from behind, but keeps going. I should keep going, too. It’s safer if I do. And Kyra is so close. We could be home in a matter of minutes.

“Lark?” Miss Tully says again, louder.

Slowly, as if being reluctantly pulled, I face the cage. Translucent white skin and a salt-and-pepper braid flashes through the darkness.

Someone in the cage gasps. A few people back away, pressing themselves farther into the dark corners, as if to avoid my attention. But others whisper my name.

Damn it. So much for getting away unnoticed.

“You remember me don’t you, Lark? I helped you during the blizzard.”

Pedestrians pass between us and I consider melting away in the crowd. That would be the easiest and safest thing to do. Walk away and don’t look back.