Green Jack (31 page)

She was faintly
grateful for the nerves seizing her throat, they would stop her
explanation from sounding rehearsed. “I was on watch,” she said. “I
thought I saw something and went to investigate and that’s when
they grabbed me.” The hot humid air pressed against her. She
brushed her fingers over the thistle in her pouch, the prickle
lending her courage. She couldn’t calm her breath or centre herself
enough to predict what would happen now. Her heart stuttered and
then shook like thunder, like a storm breaking beneath her ribs.
“May I see my family now, please?”

“We have
questions,” the captain said. “A lot of questions.”

Chapter
53

Saffron

Saffron hated
leaving Jane to fight her battles alone, but she hated having to
walk back through Wall into Elysium City even more. Entering the
City was actually fairly simple—the Directorate wanted people
inside and away from the farms. Leaving might get you shot, but
arriving got you a microchip bracelet for the Rings, a supply of
protein bars, and a room in a flat in the Core.

But despite
that, Ferals would definitely be questioned and detained, at the
very least. But if they entered as prisoners, they couldn’t be
captured. Caradoc walked ahead, the coyotes attached to a makeshift
leash in his hand. It had taken nearly an hour to convince the
Ferals not to command them to bite his face off.

Saffron shoved
the leaf mask in her pack but she still felt unbearably exposed.
Her head was suddenly vulnerable, breakable. Somewhere along the
way, a clutch of weeds and thistles had become her shield. The
Protectorate uniform she’d stolen from Killian’s sister itched.
Light glinted off the barbed wire, sparking here and there when
electricity surged too quickly along the lines.

The Ferals
clumped together, surrounded by the Greencoats in their stolen
uniforms.

“Badlands10-15,
code RedC12.” Caradoc shouted up at the towers. “Feral prisoners,
so don’t keep me waiting.”

The gates
opened. Saffron shifted, her grip on of her pack tightening
protectively. Roarke stood with his rifle set against his shoulder.
One of the soldiers whistled. “I’ve never seen that many Ferals.”
He leered at Shanti’s legs, outlined by his flashlight in her
sand-coloured dress. He had no idea he was even now cheating
death.

“We’re
expected,” Caradoc said. More flashlights tracked them, noting
uniform tags, rifles, coyote teeth.

“There’s no
transport,” someone said to Caradoc.

“There’s not
meant to be,” he replied. “We have our orders, soldier, and they
don’t involve parading through the streets to make a target of
ourselves.”

Heart
hammering, Saffron forced herself to walk calmly and confidently.
She hoped fervently and fiercely that no one noticed the trees
growing right over their heads. An acorn dropped on the soldier’s
head, and he looked up annoyed. The leaves rustled, glossy in the
artificial light.She hadn’t exactly had much time to meditate.
Everyone was always shooting at them.

Still, she’d
managed to make that bridge out of branches. She was improving. She
slipped her fingers into the top of her pack, touching a bristle of
burrs. “Stop it,” she murmured.

The soldier was
still frowning up into the oak. The wind moved the leaves but they
didn’t respond, didn’t multiply or start to flower. He turned away,
uninterested. “Curfew in effect until the Trials,” he said. “You
shouldn’t have any trouble. Stay out of the Amphitheatre district
though, there are Cerberus on patrol.”

Caradoc nodded
and then signalled sharply to the rest of them. They moved
instantly and precisely, like any Protectorate unit. Saffron had
seen enough parade drills to know how it was done. And if she was
still muttering curses and imagining winter magic to keep the trees
quiet, no one had to know. They marched like that for three more
blocks until she said “Left here.”

Saffron took
point. She knew the streets better than Caradoc who been gone for
years. Whatever he felt at being back was well camouflaged by his
usual calm and competent demeanor. The Ferals ran carefully, more
accustomed to leaping crevices than a steady pace. Cats streaked
by, hissing at the foreign scent of coyotes. A few windows glowed
with the distinctly acidic light of a sunstick but mostly it was
dark and silent. She almost wished it was raining again, it would
have added a layer of sound to hide them. She took them into the
alley set up for the rebel-meet. Elysium City was the same—it still
stank of horse manure, mud, and metal. But at least tucked into the
shadows, she could breathe again.

“Saffron.”

Saffron
wondered if she was hallucinating. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep
standing up. Or maybe being electrocuted and walking for days and
using the leaf mask had left lasting damage. Nothing else could
explain how Killian was standing in front of her.

And speaking
her name.

She’d never
heard his voice before. It was soft and hoarse, like an animal too
long in hiding. He looked the same, if a little leaner. He still
had a katana at his shoulder, but more knives at his belt. There
was a fresh scar on his jaw, by his right ear.

“It’s really
you,” she blurted out, right before launching herself at him. They
hit the brick wall, Saffron laughing like a hyena.

“You’re
crushing my spleen,” Killian said fondly.

She knew she
was beaming like a child sitting on a mountain of candy. “Killian.”
She shook her head, as if it would help her make sense of the
surprise. Small broken parts of her that she hadn’t even noticed
were suddenly mended. “What are you doing here? Not that I care.
But what? How?”

“I’m here for
Caradoc. I was hoping you’d be here too.”

“I’m Caradoc,”
Roarke said, as he’d said to her and Jane when he’d found them in
the woods. He was Caradoc’s shield, a clever misdirection. She
understood the need for it, but this was Killian.

“You are not,”
she said.

Roarke hissed
out a breath. “Saffron.”

“Well, you
aren’t. And this isn’t some stranger. I’ve known Killian my whole
life. I taught him how to scale the rope bridges.”

“You pushed me
off.”

“One time!”
Killian chuckled and she couldn’t help but stare. “How is it you
talk now?”

“I could always
speak,” he said softly. “I chose not to.”

“Why?”

“Later, Saf,”
he said. “I’m the rebel guide. We need to get off the streets.”

“You’re with
the rebels now?” she demanded. “Oh, Killian, I knew you’d get
yourself into trouble without me.” He just shot her a look, one so
familiar that she instantly wanted to sketch it. He pulled
pointedly at one of the purple thistles in her hair. “Hey, the leaf
mask wasn’t my idea. And I’m staying out of trouble.” Roarke
snorted so hard she nearly asked him if he was having sort of
seizure.

“I need the
password,” Killian said quietly. “From the real Caradoc.”

“You say you’re
with the rebels?” Caradoc stepped forward. “Prove it.”

“You say you’re
Caradoc,” Killian returned. “Prove it.”

“You first.”
Roarke’s hand hovered over his knife. Saffron scowled at him,
trying to silently tell him to stop being such an ass. He didn’t
appear to get her message.

Killian
murmured a list of letters that made no sense, so softly Saffron
couldn’t quite make it out. The set of Caradoc’s shoulder relaxed.
He leaned forward and whispered something in Killian’s ear but try
as she might, Saffron couldn’t make it out either. And working
voice box or not, she knew Killian would never tell her. He took
things like loyalty and secrets very seriously. She was happy
enough to see him that she found it mildly endearing. That part
wouldn’t last.

‘This way,”
Killian said. She was a little disgusted when he led them through a
door she had passed by dozens of times with no idea that rebels
lived nearby. They went up two floors, crossed a rope bridge, and
down into the atrium of what had once been a shopping centre. It
was all cracked glass and dusty tiles and escalators that hadn’t
moved since before Saffron was born. “You’re staring at me,”
Killian murmured.

“I’m afraid if
I blink, you’ll disappear.”

A walkway took
them to an old subway entrance, boarded up and rigged with
Directorate explosives. Killian ignored it, turning right and then
back outside into another alley. The route was so circuitous, even
Saffron grew disoriented, which she supposed was the point. They
finally squeezed through a door hidden behind a dumpster that
smelled so strongly of ammonia and rot that she had to hold the
edge of her sleeve to her nose. Killian shrugged. “The smell keeps
people out,” he explained, making some signal to a rebel Saffron
couldn’t see.

Like the
underground markets, the rebels lived in the subway tunnels, only
they chose to go much deeper. Saffron walked close to Killian,
dropping her voice low. “Tell me everything,” she demanded.

He looked at
her out of the corner of his eye. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
She poked him with one of the arrows. “You owe me years of talking.
So talk. You can start with Titus and the rebels,” she suggested
drily. “Because, really?”

“This from the
girl hanging out with Cartimandua’s little brother.”

“Yeah, that’s
just weird,” Saffron agreed. “And yet I trust him.”

“That’s even
weirder,” Killian teased. “The mask really has changed you.”

“Don’t say
that.”

“I was
kidding.” He touched the side of her wrist when she wouldn’t look
at him, would only stare blindly at her boots marching forward.
“Hey.”

She shrugged
one shoulder awkwardly. She didn’t actually want to talk about it
or hug it out or whatever. It had just slipped out. “I didn’t want
to bow to the Directorate,” she said. “And I don’t want to bow to a
sprig of leaves either.”

“You’re still
you,” Killian said.

“How can you
know that?” Damn it, she was talking about it.

“Because I know
you, Saffron.”

“Have you seen
Oona?”

“Last week. She
lectured me on not getting enough sunlight.”

“Good.” She had
to ask even though she didn’t particularly care. “Your mom?
Brothers?”

“Same,” he
said. “Don’t make the face.”

“I can’t help
it.” She did try though, just a little. “How are they taking your
defection to the rebels?”

“They think I’m
dead.”

She pushed a
clump of burrs off her brow. They prickled at her fingertips.
“Why?”

“I faked my own
death,” he admitted. “So they wouldn’t have to pay for my
choices.”

“Your brothers
should at least pay for theirs,” she muttered. They walked on, the
silence stretching on, comfortable and familiar. “So you’re as
chatty as ever, then?” Saffron said.

“It still hurts
my throat,” he admitted. “And people talk all of the time without
saying anything at all. It’s exhausting.”

“I’m not
people,” Saffron said with mock indignation. “There’s no need to be
insulting.”

“Why did you
stop talking in the first place?” Her hand twitched to grab at him
in case he decided to make a run for it. She’d stopped bugging him
to talk he day he walked away from her and disappeared into the
Rings for three days and nights. When he only shrugged, she relaxed
slightly. “It’s about your dad, isn’t it?”

He nodded. She
waited for approximately twelve seconds then sighed. “I’m going to
need actual words here, Kill.”

He smiled
slightly. It was almost as good as a speech. Almost.

“My dad hanged
himself when I was seven,” he said. She’d known that already.

“He worked as a
scientist for the Directorate. He did mostly genetic manipulation,
stuff with the Dryads and the bonebirds. Until they moved him to
the chemical unit, before I was even born. He showed an ‘aptitude’.
He was one of the first to work on the Dust.”

That part was
new to her.

She just
couldn’t picture Killian’s idiot brothers with that kind of genetic
background. She’d always assumed they’d been some kind of failed
experiment with feral rats. Actually, that theory was still
sound.

“But when they
started to use the Dust on the suburbs, on people, he
protested.”

Even that many
years ago, that wouldn’t have gone over well. “So he didn’t hang
himself, he was killed.”

Killian put
down the bow. “No, he killed himself. It was the only way he could
think of to prove to the Directorate that he wasn’t a threat, that
his family should be spared.” Saffron could think of half a dozen
ways off the top of her head but she didn’t say so. She thought of
Jane as well, and went cold. “We were kicked out of the Enclave and
moved into the City.”

“You were
Enclave?” That was frankly as shocking as anything.

“Yeah. And when
I found his body, I knew enough to keep quiet. Literally.”

“You stopped
talking that day.”

“Not entirely.
Just enough to make them think I was too damaged to worry about.”
He met her eyes. “I stopped talking the day I met you.”

She tilted her
head. It felt too full and too full of rage over seven-year-old
Killian. “Why?”

“Because I knew
you mattered, even then,” he quirked a small smile. “And I knew
within five minutes of meeting you that you were all mouth. You’d
have set off all the Directorate alarms.”

She couldn’t
actually dispute that. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You get used
to it.”

She hugged him
fiercely. “You can stop protecting me now, dumbass.” She said into
his ear. “I can take care of myself. I’m not seven anymore.”