Black City (15 page)

“I can’t believe Ash helped you. It seems so unlike him,” Day says as we head to the gym hall for Tracker trials.

“I know. It surprised me as well. Maybe we’ve misjudged him?”

Day laughs. “Let’s not get carried away. One random act of kindness doesn’t make him a saint.”

“I never said he was a saint. I just meant maybe he’s not a
complete
jerk? Besides, it wasn’t one act of kindness. He does charity work too, as you know—”

Day whips around on me. “Oh, my heavens. You like him.”

“No I don’t!” I say.

“Then why have you gone bright red?” she says.

“I’m hot, that’s all.”

“Need I remind you he’s a twin-blood Darkling?”

“I don’t like him,” I say.

“And a low-life Haze dealer, who got his best friend hooked on drugs,” she continues.

“Day! For the last time, I don’t like Ash Fisher. Okay? I would never, ever allow myself to fall for a Darkling after one of them murdered my father.”

“Mmm,” she says, unconvinced.

I’m not surprised she doesn’t believe me. I didn’t convince myself.

We carry on walking to the gym hall in silence. There’s no way I can tell her about the
other
thoughts I’d been having about Ash all night, such as the funny way my heart reacts whenever I’m near him, the memory of him as he tenderly bandaged Martha’s hand, that lingering look between us as we left the market.

Something flutters in my stomach, and I realize it’s nerves. Am I actually excited at the thought of seeing Ash? No! Day’s right—nothing’s changed. I can’t fall for someone like him.

“I’m really sorry about Truffles. Do they have any leads yet?” Day says.

I tell her about Sebastian’s theory that Humans for Unity were involved.

“Would Humans for Unity do that?” I ask.

“Some of the members are pretty extreme, and they’ve always preferred violence over diplomacy,” she says. “It’s one of the things Beetle and I always argued about; I just couldn’t support his decision to be a member of that group. Their obsession with the Darkling cause is dangerous. They’re going to get Beetle killed one day.”

“Should we ask Beetle if he knows anything about it?” I say.

“He’s hardly going to admit they did it.”

“I guess,” I mumble as we enter the hall.

The noise is unbelievable as students chat excitedly about their chances of having the V-gene. Sebastian is already at the front of the hall setting up the equipment with Kurt. Sebastian’s getting a lot of attention from the girls in my year, which he’s lapping up, smiling flirtatiously at them. Urgh. Whatever.

My heart yanks, and I search for Ash in the crowd, knowing that he must be nearby. Sure enough, he’s leaning against the wall, Beetle beside him. Ash rakes his fingers through his rippling black hair, and for a second, I wonder what it would feel like to have his fingers running through
my
hair . . . I glance away, mortified.
Why is he having this effect on me?
If anyone knew what I was feeling right now, they’d lock me up and throw away the key.

I take Day’s hand and casually join the line close to where Ash and Beetle are standing. Ash catches my eye, and my pulse quickens. Blushing, I pretend to check the time on my father’s watch, which shimmers gold in the overhead lights.

“You’re looking surprisingly ‘hot’ again,” Day whispers to me. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain twin-blood boy?”

“Sshhh!” I say, glancing at Ash.

He looks at me, cocking his head slightly. Oh, Lord, did he hear that?
Don’t be paranoid, Natalie.
Darkling hearing isn’t
that
good.

Beetle murmurs something to Ash. I edge closer to them, curious to know what they’re talking about and secretly hoping to hear my name. I catch snatches of their conversation.

“How’s she doing?” Beetle says.

A pained look crosses Ash’s face. “Worse. It could be any day now.”

“I’m so sorry, bro. How’s your dad holding up?”

“He’s a mess. He won’t leave her side. I don’t know how he does it; I can’t stand looking at her.”

I wonder who they’re talking about.

Sebastian claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention. The room falls silent.

“Purian Rose has given you all a very special opportunity today, a chance to join the Trackers and make this world a better, safer place for the mighty human race,” he says, pacing around the room. “There are fifty squads like mine across the United Sentry States, from Mountain Wolf all the way to the Emerald State. Today’s test will determine if you have the V-gene and have what it takes to join my squad—”

“The best fragging squad in the whole Black River State!” Kurt roars.

The line starts to move forward. The first victim is ushered up to the machine—a short girl with cropped brown hair. Kurt rolls up her sleeves and places her arm inside the machine.

“Don’t worry, you’ll only feel a little prick,” Sebastian says.

“I bet he’s said that to a lot of girls,” Day mutters.

I stifle a laugh.

The brown-haired girl winces as her sample is taken.

Kurt shakes his head. “Next.”

Day starts to turn a sickly shade of green as she looks at the needle.

The next student goes up and takes the test. It’s another fail. It goes on like this for thirty minutes: negative, negative, negative, positive, negative, negative, negative. By the time it gets to Gregory Thompson, only three students have been picked. He haughtily strides up to the machine, rolls up his own sleeve and confidently inserts his arm.

“Pass!” Kurt says.

Gregory punches the air and joins the other Trackers, who all pat him on the back. His twin brother, Chris, saunters up to the machine next.

“Fail.”

Gregory can’t contain his glee at his brother’s failure, a wide smirk crossing his lips. Chris mumbles something under his breath and stalks over to the rest of the rejects.

“Looks like I’m next,” Day says, the color draining from her face. “At least if I get on the troop, it might help with my Fast-Track application.”

She nervously sits down and screws her eyes shut as the needle sinks into her arm.

“Fail,” Kurt says a moment later, leading her away.

She seems relieved. I’m next. I feel the heat of Ash’s gaze on me as I walk to the front of the hall.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter to Sebastian, placing my arm in the machine.

Beetle chats quietly to Ash, but he’s not paying attention. His focus is solely on me.

The needle sinks into my flesh, making me wince. Lights blink on the machine as my DNA is tested. I roll my eyes. This is so dumb.

“Pass,” Kurt says.

“What? Are you sure?” I say.

Sebastian grins at me. “Congratulations!”

Disappointment surges through me, which is odd. Why should I care if I’m a Tracker—isn’t this something I should want? Ash holds my gaze for one lingering heartbeat as I’m bundled toward the rest of the Tracker cadets.

Beetle’s ushered up to the machine, and Sebastian barely looks at the result before he announces, “Fail.”

Beetle grins, giving Ash the thumbs-up, and saunters over to the rest of the rejects. Ash is next. He doesn’t even attempt to take the test and instead walks toward the rejects.

“Where are you going, nipper?” Sebastian sneers.

I furrow my brow. He can’t be serious.

“Everyone needs to take the test, including you,” he says.

They coolly eye each other, the tension palpable between them.

“I’m waiting,” Sebastian drawls.

Ash mutters a curse and walks up to the machine. Kurt punches the button, bringing the needle down on Ash’s arm. Lights blink and flash as his DNA is analyzed, and a moment later, Kurt checks his results. He frowns and reads the results again before turning to face Ash, his expression curious.

“Positive,” he says. “Welcome to the Trackers, Mr. Fisher.”

* * *

Ash Fisher is the topic of conversation on everyone’s lips for the rest of the morning. How can a twin-blood Darkling be a Tracker?

“He’ll never hunt his own kind,” I say to Day as we walk to art class, my least favorite subject, since I have all the artistic skill of a rabid squirrel.

“He doesn’t have a choice,” she replies.

“It’s such a sadistic thing to make Ash do.”

Day doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. It’s not exactly the first time a Darkling has been forced to hunt its own kind; it was common practice during the war for less moralistic Darklings to collaborate with Trackers in return for food and protection.

Ash is already outside the art room with Beetle; they’re talking quietly to each other. He looks up at me as we approach.

“I’m sorry.” I can’t think of anything else to say.

He gives me a sad smile.

The art class door opens, and Mrs. James, a frumpy woman with wild brown hair, ushers us inside. The room is spacious and bright, with colorful paintings on the walls and wonky-looking clay sculptures spread along the shelves. My stomach sinks when I see the circle of easels surrounding a plinth in the center of the room.

Day rushes to an easel, and I drop my bag next to the one beside her, watching Ash out of the corner of my eye to see where he’s going to sit, half of me wanting him to sit near me, the other half wanting him not to. I furiously push the first thought out of my head. What’s gotten into me?

He heads to an easel on the opposite side of the circle, and Beetle takes the seat next to him.

“Hey, babes, is this seat taken?”

Chris Thompson smiles down at me, his dark brown hair falling into his hazel eyes. There’s a faraway look in them, like he’s not quite on this planet. His brother, Gregory, hovers behind him, all pinched and mean looking.

“Er, no,” I say.

Ash’s head turns ever so slightly in our direction.

Chris sits next to me, while Gregory grumpily takes the easel beside Day, turning his narrow nose up at her as he sits down.

“Swap seats with me,” Day hisses under her breath.

I imagine an hour of Gregory waxing lyrical about my mother and how he hopes to “follow in his father’s footsteps and work for the government.” Gag.

“Sorry,” I mouth.

Day huffs loudly.

Mrs. James claps her hands to get our attention. “Right, class, who wants to be our victim?”

I shrink down in my seat. I hate people looking at me, especially at my surgery scar over my heart. Mother always has it airbrushed out of photos, and I don’t blame her; it’s so ugly.

“Day, why don’t you model for us?” Mrs. James says a little desperately.

Day reluctantly takes her place on top of the plinth. Her glasses unceremoniously slip off her face and fall on the floor. Gregory laughs. Chris leans across me and punches his brother in the arm.

“Don’t be a dick,” he says.

Beetle hurries out of his seat and hands Day’s glasses back to her. She gives him a grateful smile, and his ears go pink, the way they always do around Day. Ash teasingly rolls his eyes at Beetle when he sits down.

I stick my brush in some paint and splash it on the canvas, not taking much care over it. A familiar chill creeps over my skin, and I look up. Ash is watching me from across the room. His eyes dart away.

“Congratulations on making the squad,” Chris says to me.

“Oh . . . yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t tell my bro, but I’m glad I didn’t make the squad,” Chris says quietly. “I don’t want to hunt Darks for a living.”

“Same here,” I admit.

“It’s crazy about Ash, isn’t it? Poor guy, that’s gotta suck. Fragging Sen—” He catches himself when he remembers who he’s speaking to. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” I mumble.

I focus on my painting, feeling guilty even though it’s not my fault Ash has been enlisted to the Trackers. A few minutes later, I sigh and inspect my masterpiece. It’s a hideous mess of brown and gray. Oh, well. If Mrs. James asks, I’ll tell her it’s impressionistic.

Ash stands up all of a sudden, drawing my attention. He shrugs off his jacket, exposing the lean muscles of his toned arms. The tiny red pinprick is still visible on his left forearm.

“Looking good,” Chris says, making me jump.

“What?” I ask, my mind still on Ash.

Chris points to my painting. “You’ve got a real eye for it.”

I make a really unladylike snort-laugh sound that grabs everyone’s attention. I cringe, sinking lower in my chair.

“You’re joking, right?” I say to Chris.

“Okay, I admit it’s not the best I’ve ever seen.”

I inspect his painting. It’s not bad; it actually looks a little like Day.

“So,” Chris says, running a hand along his chiseled jaw, “I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything after the museum trip tomorrow, maybe we could hang out or something?”

“Erm . . .” I glance at Ash.

“Or we could go to the Armistice Day celebrations on Saturday?” Chris adds.

Ash continues to paint, seemingly oblivious, although his ear twitches slightly like he’s listening in.

“I’ve got a boyfriend.” The lie falls out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying. “Sebastian, the Head Tracker? He’s really protective of me.” All of which is true, apart from the boyfriend bit.

Ash turns to face me, a dark emotion blazing across his face.

“Too bad,” Chris says.

I turn back to my painting, my heart not in it.

Chris gets up and strides over to Ash, who quickly covers his painting, looking like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. What’s he hiding? Surely his painting can’t be worse than mine. Chris doesn’t seem to notice as they talk quietly, their faces serious. Ash nods and passes something to Chris—a playing card! I think back to the two of hearts playing card in my jacket pocket. Ash must give them out to all his Haze clients. The thought disappoints me slightly; I don’t like being reminded that Ash is a dealer. I’d much prefer to think of him as the boy in the market. I don’t completely hate that version of Ash.

Gregory chucks a piece of scrunched-up paper at me to get my attention.

“What?” I say irritably.

“I’m really excited about our first training session with the squad on Thursday, aren’t you? It’s just a shame we have to share our lesson with that nipper,” he says, looking at Ash.