Nightingale (The Sensitives) Part 8

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 b.u.mped 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 r.e.t.a.r.dant 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 a.s.sessment. 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. d.a.m.n. 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 antic.i.p.ation.

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 a.s.sa.s.sination 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 G.o.d.

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 b.u.mps 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.

d.a.m.n it. So much for getting away unnoticed.

"You remember me don't you, Lark? I helped you during the blizzard."

Pedestrians pa.s.s 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.

Official State music pipes across the crowded square and I pray it's enough to drown out the repet.i.tion of my name that's traveling between the cages. If Eamon is here, he'll find me in a few seconds.

I shuffle to the left and something pulls on my heart. I can't turn my back on this old woman. Not when she showed me kindness. I owe her my aid.

I rush to the cage, elbowing aside the foul men who are in my way. Miss Tully clenches the metal bars with her twisted fingers. Her farmer clothes have been replaced by a shapeless thin slip. She must be freezing.

Without thinking, I shed my wrap and pa.s.s it to her. Tears glisten in the old woman's eyes. "Thank you. I knew you'd help."

Fury builds in me. What has this kind old woman done to deserve this?

"Why are you here?" I demand.

Miss Tully drapes the wrap over her shoulders. "They say I a.s.sisted in your kidnapping. Please, Lark, please explain that I did nothing."

My eyebrows pull together. "Who said that?"

"Heya, step back from the prisoners," an Enforcer shouts from the next cage over.

"Why did you run off? And why are you talking to this woman?" Kyra asks. She's finally found me, and she's standing so close that her shoulder touches mine. "We have to get you home."

Miss Tully shivers in the cold. I can't leave her like this. "This woman helped me when I was lost in a blizzard. I need to return her kindness."

Maz shakes his head. "Haven't you done enough tonight, Lark? If Malin doesn't parade us across that stage tomorrow, we'll be fortunate."

"Then we have nothing to lose," I say and stomp over to the Enforcer guarding the cage. My blood whirls in excitement. It's time to see if what my friends say is true: that everyone fears me.

"I demand you release the old woman. To me. Immediately."

He laughs. "And why would I do that?"

Make a decision, Lark. Expose yourself and save Miss Tully, or run away and let an old woman be unjustly punished.

I lift my face so he has a clear view of who I am. Around us, a crowd has gathered.

"Miss Lark," he stutters. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you." This man is a Dark witch and he's terrified of me.

I narrow my eyes and raise my hand slightly. "Now."

He hurries to the cage, slipping in his haste, and opens the door. "You. Out."

The crowd near me is quiet. Chills run down my spine as I imagine the Splinter group lurking just beyond the tight throng encircling me. They know I'm here. They have to.

"Stop this," Kyra says. "Please, Lark. We need to go home."

"No."

Miss Tully climbs through the cage and onto the street. The other prisoners fling themselves at the bars, pleading to be released too. Their cries build inside me, and my body quivers with magic. I pray to the untrained eye I simply look cold, not wild. The last thing I need right now is another demonstration of my unchecked magic.

With my shaking hands protectively on Miss Tully's back, I turn toward the stunned crowd. Sparks of red flash before my eyes and I gasp, trying to contain the magic flowing through me.

In the distance, thunder rumbles and my body sags beneath the buildup of magic.

Miss Tully hunches forward. Her fear rushes through me and mingles with my anger. The wind whips up and over the crowd, sending debris flying through the air, making it impossible to hear anything. But as I stand there, protecting the woman who once helped me, my breathing begins to slow and the fear fades. I will not fall apart before these people. I won't.

The wind vanishes.

Newscaster cameras zoom in on me. I shield my face with my free hand, but I know it's of no use. I exposed myself the minute I approached the Enforcer and demanded Miss Tully's freedom.

The urge to run consumes me again. But the less sane part of my brain knows I'm not done here.

With every ounce of bravery I can muster, I raise my voice and declare before the crowd, the camera, and anyone with a feed, "This woman has done nothing wrong. It was a misunderstanding to imprison her. She is a part of my household staff."