The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (20 page)

“Get up,” the guy
spits from above me.

“He doesn’t look good,
Mote. He should be back up by now. Maybe he’s having some kind of
reaction.”

“Good for him. Grab
his arms. We’ll take him to the cells.”

“For what? All he did
was walk.”

It’s not possible for
me to burn any hotter but the heat builds anyway. My chest is full
of fire, rib cage straining to fit even more scorching pain inside
me.

“Breaking the rules,”
Mote says. His voice is muffled, distant. “He tried to leave
Manchester.”

I attempt to speak. My
words evaporate on my swollen tongue.

Rough hands dig into
my armpits and haul me up, my pumps dragging on the gritty floor.
There’s rain falling, which soothes the heat on my neck but does
nothing to quell the furnace inside me. I’m going to die—God knows
where, with three assholes I don’t even know.

Screw this
, I think.
Screw everything. I don’t want to die.

My body doesn’t listen
to me.

I burn. All goes
dark.

***

Branwell

09:07. 23.10.2040. The
Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

The light that streams
through the half-moon window is cool and silver, the sky outside a
grey so pale it appears white against the metallic veins of the
glass. High above me strips of glass spread out from the main
window like rays of the sun. They interrupt the dimness of the
communal bedroom with bright beams; inside them dust motes twirl
hand in hand in an elaborate waltz. For somewhere so bleak it’s
very pretty. I’ve noticed that about Manchester, more than I did in
Forgotten London—the architecture around the town is as fanciful
and elegant as it was in my home, my London.

And much like home
it’s forever raining.

Raindrops splatter my
face as I step outside, firmly closing the door behind me. I tip my
head down against it as I cross the lifeless road and squeeze into
a back street only wide enough for two people to fit side by side.
Making my way to the inner centre, the town quiet and lazy around
me, there’s nothing to hear but the pounding of the rain as it hits
my coat, my boots, the ground.

Hunching down further
against the raindrops, now pounding the top of my head hard enough
to leave a sting, I cross a square of grey bricks and wilting grass
to duck under a dry awning. Blissfully guarded against the worst of
the weather, I lower myself to the paving stones beside a gutted
storefront. I heroically overlook the smell of rain, wet grass, and
urine. Public places are so lovely, these days.

My jeans don’t budge
from where they are now glued to my legs as I spread them out in
front of me. I close my eyes. Every day has been so hectic lately
that I’ve hardly had time to stop and catch my thoughts—let alone
process them. The only time I have a moment to think is at night,
and most days I’m so exhausted I fall instantly into
nightmare-plagued sleep.

I see my sister’s face
in most of my dreams, her long brown hair loose and tangled, so far
from her usual neat chignon that it hurts my heart even in sleep.
Last night she stood watching me from a white cliff so high above
the beach I found myself on, the wind whipping her hair around her
face. Impossibly, I could see the sadness in her eyes despite the
precipice between us. The peculiar sharpness of dreams picked out
the familiar green of her eyes, her high cheekbones, the olive tone
of her skin.

It hurts to
remember.

Bennet has become an
indistinct shape in my mind, but in my sleep she’s as bright and
lovely as she ever was. I miss my sister so much. I want her
back.

I have discovered a
new family here in the future, in Honour and Dalmar and Priya and
the Guardians, but it isn’t the same. It isn’t enough.

I
want to go
back
.
I hadn’t realised until this moment of solitude but I desperately
want to go back. As much as I love the people in my new life … it’s
not enough to keep me here. If I find a way, I’m going
home.

“Branwell.”

The whisper is almost
drowned out by the rain but I hear it. Looking up, I don’t know who
I expect to see. Honour, maybe. I‘m jolted at the sight of Horatia,
tall and thin in sleek jeans and a navy blue pea coat. Wet black
hair clings to her face, accentuating the apples of her cheeks, and
water drips down her straight nose to splatter the ground at her
feet.

I stumble to my feet.
“What is it? What has happened?” Horatia wouldn’t seek me out for
anything short of an emergency. Despite the time we’ve spent in
each other’s presence, I do not think she’d come to me for simple
company. Something bad has happened. Fear is waking up a trembling
in my hands.

“Honour,” she says,
and the ground has dropped beneath me. I have tripped into hell
itself. I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, willing this
sudden nausea to pass.

“Where is he?” My
voice emerges as something strangled. “Do you know where he
is?”

She nods, her dark
eyes tracking the emotions on my face.

“Take me to him.”

Horatia and I scurry
through corridors rich in ancient grandeur. High stone arches
overhead are made bright silver by the churning sky outside, light
blazing through tall, vaulted windows. At any other time, I might
have stopped to admire the building, to trace the delicate lacework
of engravings in the bricks, but there is only one thing on my mind
in this moment.

Honour.

He’s in this old city
hall somewhere, locked underground in a cell I can only imagine as
rank, damp, and despicable. Adrenaline and fear force me faster but
my body is incapable. I trip on an imperfection in the stone, a
lance of pain shooting up my ankle. I let out a curse word I’ve not
spoken before, heart pounding. I’m suddenly afraid this tiny delay
will be the difference between finding Honour alive or dead.

I can’t know what’s
wrong, what’s happened to him—Horatia explained succinctly, before
we pushed through the high double doors of the city hall, that she
knew her brother was hurt and needed help, and that Dalmar
threatened the Manchester council until he discovered Honour was
being held in these cells. For what reason, nobody knows. And we
don’t know how serious it is, whether he is only imprisoned or has
but seconds left to live.

Tears stinging my
eyes, I pull myself back to my feet.

Horatia touches my
shoulder. “Okay?” she asks in that quiet way of speaking she has,
as if she daren’t speak louder than a whisper or the demons of
grief will return to drag her to darker depths.

I give her a stiff
nod. “I’ll be fine when we find him.”

We set off running
again, and I try to push my pace even more, my leather satchel
slapping the backs of my legs with every movement. By the time we
reach the end of the hallway where a group of Manchester strangers
has collected, I’m out of breath. Pain spreads across my ribs.

“You can’t go down
there.” This comes from a balding man in camouflage trousers. He
points the barrel of a gun at Horatia and me. “Nobody else is
allowed down. Dagné’s orders.”

My eyes burn a path of
hatred. I remember this man, Dagné’s body guard, her main soldier.
He drew my attention when we first arrived in Manchester. He
reminds me of a bald eagle, sharp and predatory. Marc, that is his
name. I stored it away in my mind because there is something so
casual about his hold on a weapon that makes my stomach uneasy.

While I’m thinking
quickly, desperate for a way to persuade Marc to let us pass,
Horatia darts forward like a viper. She takes the man completely
off guard, dropping him with a quick series of moves—a kick to the
ankle, an elbow to his stomach, a knee to his groin. She clutches
my hand before the others can retaliate, using their surprise to
get us away.

She guides me into a
dark alcove and down the stone steps hidden by it.

“Where did you learn
that?” I ask, stunned.

Horatia turns her
head, showing me her smile—bright and pained. “Marrin taught
me.”

We lapse into silence
as I pick my way carefully down the concave steps. Eventually I ask
her the question that followed me all the way across town. “Why did
you come for me?”

I
trip on the edge of a step but catch my balance. I wish I had
the
Illuminum
—one
of my father’s creations—to light our way. The scent of damp keeps
the darkness company, setting my every nerve on edge. This is no
place for any person, alive or dead. Before the thought of Honour
dead can fester, Horatia speaks.

“You matter to my
brother,” she says. “And I think he matters to you.”

“He does,” I agree.
“Very much.”

The steps become even
narrower the further we go. It physically pains me to slow my steps
but if I fall and knock myself unconscious, I’ll be no good to
anybody.

The space at the
bottom smells of rot and moss, vomit and something bitter I can’t
place. I taste them all as I suck in a needy breath of air. It’s
too dark to see more than a few feet in front of me, but I’m glad
of it. I don’t want to see a single thing but Honour Frie, alive
and safe. People are supposed to die in comfortable beds when
they’re old and have twenty children. Not when they’re fifteen and
full of so much unrealised potential, so much light and good and
vitality.

I
won’t let him die down here. I
can’t
let him die down
here.

I can’t let Honour die
at all. And that’s what hurts me the most—I have no hand in whether
Honour dies or survives. I don’t even know what ails him. But I
need him to live.

“Here.” Horatia grasps
my hand and leads me into pure darkness.

“How can you see?” I
ask, throat swollen.

“I just can.”

I’m guided down a
short corridor, to a shallow cell with rusted bars and a flickering
yellow light. Three guards—two scrawny young men no older than
myself and an Asian woman in her twenties I’ve seen around this
town—attempt to block our entrance. Horatia jabs her fist into the
ribs of one boy and the jaw of another. The woman steps aside, her
mouth shifting into the slightest smile.

I don’t have time to
be awed by Horatia’s efficiency because this sickly light gives me
enough illumination to see Dalmar and Timofei inside the cell,
crouched beside a black lump on the floor.

I shove through the
cell door and drop beside my friend, searching his face for signs
of life. With trembling fingers I touch his side, biting down on a
sob of relief at the feverish warmth, the sweat soaking his cotton
shirt. If he’s warm, he’s alive.

“Is he going to
die?”

“I think so.” Dalmar’s
words are no more than a breath. I daren’t take my eyes off Honour
but I know I’d find Dalmar grief stricken if I did.

“What happened?” Fear
surfaces as anger, my voice hard and sharp as flint. I don’t mean
to snap. I don’t apologise either. “Who did this?”

“Guards at the town
edge,” Timofei seethes. “They swear they didn’t do anything but I
don’t believe a word of it. I think they did something to—”

He cuts himself off so
abruptly that I tear my eyes from Honour. “Finish your
sentence.”

Timofei shares a look
with Dalmar, anger tinged with regret. “I think they accidentally
triggered the vaccine I gave him back in the base.”

“But you said—you said
there wouldn’t be warning signs. You said he’d just drop dead.”

“And he did. He has
minutes, Branwell, at most.”

“God.
”

“There’s no God here,”
Timofei mutters, but I don’t hear anything after that. Sounds merge
into one cacophonous buzz, pierced only by the heavy echoes of my
heart beating my grief and disbelief and unacceptance. Honour
cannot die.

He can’t.

I need him.

I
need him.
It’s with that realisation that
I spring into action. I’ve lost my father, my sister, and—many
years ago—my mother and brother. I refuse to let anyone else slip
into the claws of death. If Honour is going to die and Timofei
thinks it’s because of the vaccine, the disease in his system, I
have absolutely nothing to lose.

I tip the contents of
my satchel onto the floor, wincing at the riotous clash of metal
and glass and mirror on stone. I grip the Cure in white
knuckles.

“What are you doing?”
Dalmar eyes the syringe-gun in my hand with suspicion.

“The only thing I can
think to do.” I plunge the needle into Honour’s arm, pulling the
Cure’s trigger. I don’t have time to sterilize it but I’ll take my
chances and Honour’s for him. An infection can’t hurt if he’s
already dead.

I watch Honour
obsessively as I slowly release the trigger, the steel barrel
becoming heavier as it removes the disease. Through a window of
glass, I watch the Cure fill with a green-white substance that may
or may not be responsible for killing Honour. He’s still breathing,
barely, his breaths few and far between and horribly shallow when
they come. His face is ashen, the skin around his eyes much darker
than the rest of him.

It’s too late. He’s
already dead.

I pull the Cure from
Honour’s arm and slam my thumb on a brass button, discharging the
virus into the corner, far from us. The times I’ve used the Cure
before, it has only taken two full syringes to clean the blood. But
will it be the same for Honour, this close to death? I just act,
using the Cure to pull more of the disease from Honour and
praying—begging—that it works. The green substance only fills half
the syringe before it turns to blood, red and ordinary.