I stare at him through the flickering shadows, not saying a word.
Not knowing what to say.
“We should go.” I stand, pulling him to his feet and letting him go before I can become too conscious of the warmth radiating through his skin.
Digory clears his throat. “It’s just up ahead.” He walks past me, avoiding eye contact.
We tread through about a hundred feet of muck in silence before reaching another ladder.
He turns to me. “Once we get up there, it’ll still be curfew. Even though they think they nabbed the conspirator, we can’t take any chances.”
“Got it.”
He pulls himself up two rungs at a time.
I clamber up after him. As soon as we’re topside and split up, I have to make sure the Imposers spot me. The only thing is, I conceived my crazy plan before I witnessed that Canid tear someone apart. My sweating palms almost slip off the next rung.
By the time I catch up to Digory, he’s already sliding the manhole cover open, peering left and right just over the edge, and offering me his outstretched hand.
Gripping it, I scramble up the rest of the way and join him on the surface.
“This street’s clear for the moment,” he says. “I know some shortcuts we can use to double back, and from there I can get you home.”
“I can find my own way back, thanks.” From the look on his face, my words might as well be stingers.
“But it’s dangerous. Let me just-”
“I’ll be okay, really.”
“Suit yourself.” He kicks the manhole cover back into place. “Besides, I can’t waste any more time here, with the lives of so many others at stake.” He storms into a side alley.
Damn it. “Digory, wait!” I race after him.
He stops and pivots toward me. “Yes?” The word strikes like hail.
“Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
His expression softens. “One thing. You know what I was doing out here breaking curfew. You never told me what you were doing.”
I can’t tell him. Especially knowing how he feels about the Establishment. He’d never understand. I shrug. “Just making sure I get ringside seats for the procession.”
Digory shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll take care of yourself, Lucian. Maybe someday you’ll realize this is bigger than you.”
He disappears into the maze of alleyways before I can say anything.
The only trace left of him is the rolled poster he’s forgotten, nestled against my heart.
I reach inside my coat and trace it with my fingertips. Though it’s made of paper, it feels more like lead. I need to get rid of it before-
“Halt. Hands where I can see them.”
The blood frosts in my veins. My heart feels like it’s going to burst through my rib cage. As much as I thought I prepared for this moment, the reality of it eclipses any notions I’ve deluded myself with. The terror is overwhelming, stifling my breaths.
I don’t want to die.
“Turn around,” a sharp baritone voice commands.
I can’t move. It’s as if I’m not in my body anymore. Digory. Why didn’t I listen to him?
“I said turn around.”
If I don’t turn around, they’ll shoot me from behind. And my brother will be all alone.
The signal from my brain finally reaches my feet, and I turn around to face my fate.
A squadron of Imposers is facing me, weapons drawn, a wall of black death.
Remember what Digory said … the fear controls us, makes us weak.
No. I won’t be weak. I have to be strong for my brother. He’s all that matters.
The lead Imp lumbers toward me, a tall, massive man with close-cropped pale yellow hair and winter-gray eyes. He shoves the barrel of his gun into my forehead.
“You’re in violation of Government Statute F.4312-Observation of Ordinance Regarding Public Assembly. State your name, citizen.”
“Spark,” I manage, though my mouth is dry. “Lucian Spark.”
“Mr. Lucian Spark. You will be detained and remanded into the Custody of the Citadel of Truth, where Honorable Prefect Cassius Thorn shall pronounce judgment and sentence you for this infraction. Do you understand?”
Not that they care if I do or not, but I play the game nonetheless. “Yes. I understand, Sir.”
“Search him.”
What little courage I’ve mustered dissipates in the crisp morning wind. Digory’s poster. It’s still hidden inside my coat pocket.
Two other Imps slither from the shadows and start to frisk me.
Getting detained for breaking curfew is one thing. Being arrested for an act of treason is not part of my plan.
I squirm at their touch. “Wait … please-”
It’s no use. One of the Imps rips the poster from my pocket, unrolls it, and displays it to the commander.
His eyes look like silver gashes on his face. “Looks like we have us a traitor scum here,” he hisses to his comrades.
“Please, it’s not mine. I found it-”
He presses the gun harder against my head. “Shut up. I say we don’t wait for the Prefect and carry out your sentence now.”
Then there’s a searing pain in my forehead, and-
Black.
Six
I’m sprawled on a floor of sodden earth. It’s barely bigger than a box. The air’s heavy with dust and death, as if I’m breathing through a thin layer of rotting skin. There are no windows, no chair, no bed. Nothing. In the center of the floor, there’s a small dark hole that reeks of human waste. There’s only one way in or out-a rusty door that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. From beneath it, a dim light squeezes through, my only source of illumination. At the bottom of the door is a slat, the kind that’s supposed to slide open to slip the prisoners food.
My body’s aching all over. I’ve been stripped to just my underwear. Aside from some cuts and bruises, I seem to be fine, except for the throbbing in my forehead. I touch my head, wincing at the jolt of pain. Apparently the only thing that connected with my head was the butt of that Imp’s weapon.
Pulling myself to my feet despite the jabs of betrayal from my cramped legs, I stagger the two feet to the door, my palms slapping against the cold iron.
“Open up! I need to see the Prefect!”
My voice sounds like a stranger’s, dry and hoarse. I rub my throat, willing the fear back into its nest.
When I get no response, terror drills into my pores and taps into a geyser of adrenaline that fuels my pounding fists against the door.
I’ve heard rumors over the years about how Imposers treat prisoners.
The skin on my hands is on fire. I can feel it growing raw, slick with blood.
A loud whine pierces my ear. The sound of a rusty bolt straining through its housing.
My hands drop to my sides. My breathing is heavy, competing with the sound of my heart pulsating in my ears. As the bolt completes its labored journey and the door gives an inch, I can’t help but take a step back and brace myself.
The door pushes inward, unsettling dust and plaster. My eyes squint against the orange light now streaming into the cell. Probably just flickering gaslight lighting the prison corridor, but still bright to my light-deprived eyes. Then the light is eclipsed by a huge form in the doorway, which snuffs out the small flicker of hope before it can start to burn.
“Finally awake, huh?” This Imposer is the biggest I’ve seen yet-tall, broad-shouldered, legs like tree trunks. The name Styles is stenciled on the breast pocket of his uniform. Perhaps more unsettling than the rumble of his voice is the way his eyes slither over me, a mixture of contempt, hatred, and something else … something which makes me want to soak for hours, rubbing my flesh raw until it’s clean again.
I clear my throat. “I need to see the Prefect.”
The brute lets out a long laugh that almost sounds pleasant, except for the fact that I know he’s mocking me.
Another shape appears at the door, shorter but just as hulking. His ID reads Renquist.