Black City (Black City #1) 1

A pair of penetrating silver eyes appears on the screens.

I recognize them immediately. They belong to Purian Rose—the spiritual leader and head of the United Sentry States. A message rolls along the bottom of the screen: His Mighty sees all sinners.

Chills run through my body, and I quicken my pace. I instinctively head down City End and stop dead in my tracks. Why do I always end up here, even when I don’t mean to? I stare up at the Boundary Wall, a stone wall over thirty feet high, covered with posters of Purian Rose urging citizens to vote for Rose’s Law. The wall divides the city in two, segregating the humans from the Darklings. It would take you over a day to walk around the entire circumference of the wall, which encloses the Darkling ghetto known as the Legion, the largest of its kind anywhere in the United Sentry States. Every city in the USS’s nine megastates has walled ghettos just like this one, keeping the humans and Darklings apart.

Behind the Boundary Wall is a second, smaller wall covered in spikes and barbed wire, and beyond that . . . my family. All my Darkling relatives live over there: my aunts, uncles, cousins. I turn away, not wanting to deal with this tonight, and take the longer route home to the Rise, the district in the northernmost part of the city where the poorest residents live.

There are five superdistricts in Black City: the Rise, the Park, the Chimney, the Legion and the Hub, where the Emissary’s headquarters are located. There are nine Emissaries in total, one for each of the country’s nine megastates, and our Emissary is the worst. It sucks she’s back in the city; things were so much better when she was evacuated to Centrum during the air raids last year.

I duck under the flimsy wire fence that surrounds the Rise. The fence is a rather halfhearted attempt to keep out any Wraths that have escaped over the Boundary Wall. They’re feral Darklings infected with the deadly C18-Virus, and they roam the streets hunting those foolish enough to still be outside after curfew. Idiots like me.

I sneak through the sleepy cobble streets, dimly lit by cast iron oil lamps, following my usual path home. The Rise earned its name because of the hundreds of high-rise apartment blocks that dominate the city borough. The Sentry government had to erect some tenements quickly after Black City was bombed, and they’ve never bothered to come back to finish the job. Several of the buildings are already falling down, threatening to topple at the slightest touch. Six months ago, one of the buildings collapsed and killed over a hundred people. It didn’t even make SBN news. No one gives a fragg about us.

I approach two derelict high-rises, which lean against each other like sleeping giants. Nestled in the crevice between them is an old church, its gray stone walls strangled by ivy, the bell tower leaning slightly. Home. Outside the church are a dozen apple trees, bursting with deep red fruit, which Mom planted to make the graveyard look less gloomy. Mrs. Birt’s ginger tabby cat sits on a nearby headstone and hisses at me as I pass. I growl back, and it scrams.

I take another pace, then pause. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I peer into the gloom, in search of movement, but see nothing. Huh. I must be imagining things. I reach the front door and scowl. Fresh graffiti is sprayed over the dark wood, just two words painted in large red letters: RACE TRAITOR. The letters are smudged where Dad’s tried to scrub the words away. I sigh and go inside.

Dad’s sitting in one of the church pews, waiting for me. He seems to have aged another year since I left the house this morning. His thick brown hair has gotten grayer around the temples, his beard more disheveled, his blue eyes duller. It’s difficult to believe he’s the same man who used to make Mom giggle like a schoolgirl just by smiling at her.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“Out,” I say.

“Where’s your coat?”

“Lost it,” I say, which isn’t technically true. I know exactly where it is: under the Hazer girl’s head. Maybe I’ll swing by tomorrow and see if she left it. I loved that jacket, got it off a Darkling Legion Liberation Front freedom fighter during the war, just before he got captured by a Tracker.

I walk past Dad toward the pokey room at the back of the church. Propped against the padlocked door leading down to the crypt is a rusty old camp bed where Dad sometimes sleeps when he’s not down in there, which isn’t very often. I don’t think he’s seen daylight in weeks, not since she came back. I turn my back to the crypt door, not wanting to look at it, not wanting to think about what’s behind it.

The rest of the room is taken up with a small table and a few kitchen appliances. The room’s filthy, with grime on the walls and dirty dishes piled high on every surface. On the floor are several crates filled with tinned food; donations from the locals to hand out on our next charity run. Around the kitchen table are three chairs: one for Dad, one for me, and one chair that hasn’t been occupied in eight years. Slung over the back of it is a Lupine-fur coat, which Dad gave to Mom on their wedding day.

I pick up the coat and press my nose against the silvery fur. I almost believe I can smell Calder lilies on it, the scent of a much happier time. A familiar pain bunches up in my chest, and I carefully put the coat back on the chair.

On top of the cluttered table is a mountain of bills. I pick them up, and my mind wanders back to the Sentry girl. What had the guards called her? Natalie.

I dolefully sift through the bills, trying to focus my mind on other things, but my mood worsens with every red letter. I’ll need to get some new clients to pay for all of this, and the idea sickens me. I hate getting the kids at my school hooked on Haze, but I have no choice. It’s that or we’re out on the streets. That’s not good in a place like Black City.

“Are you going to tell me where you were?” Dad says as he enters the kitchen.

“Library. I was returning some books,” I lie.

“You risked being caught outside after curfew to return some books?”

“What can I say? The library fines are astronomical.”

“The library burned down last week.”

Oh.

“Heavens, Ash, if anyone catches you out after curfew—”

“I know.”

“You have to be more careful. Trackers are crawling all over the city now that the Emissary is back in town.”

He doesn’t need to remind me. After the Emissary was evacuated last year, only the general police force—the Sentry guard—was left behind to control the city. Now she’s back to open negotiations with the Legion to extend their territory, and the city is swarming with Trackers, a specialist military unit dedicated to hunting one thing: Darklings.

I toss the bills on the table. “I was getting some money for us. Someone’s got to pay for all these!”

Dad narrows his blue eyes at me. “What have you been doing?”

I rub the back of my neck.

“I told you not to deal Haze anymore!” Dad yells. “What if they catch you? Honestly, sometimes I think you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

My mouth twitches.

“Do you want to die?” Dad persists, on a rant now.

“I already am dead.”

“Just because your heart doesn’t beat doesn’t mean you’re not alive.”

“You don’t understand,” I say quietly. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a freak. How can you? You’re human; you’re nothing like me.”

Dad has a heartbeat, and Mom even has two. Yet somehow I ended up with nothing but a stone-cold lump inside my chest. No matter how many times he tries to explain it—my heart doesn’t beat because it doesn’t need to, the symbiotic protozoa in my blood feeds oxygen to my organs instead; it’s just one of the many weird and wonderful side-effects of mixing human and Darkling DNA—it doesn’t make any difference. I’m still a monster.

“I don’t want you going out at night anymore,” he says.

I let out an irritated sigh.

“I’m serious, Ash. I don’t want any Trackers sniffing around here asking questions.”

“Okay, okay,” I mumble.

Dad goes to a drawer and pulls out an envelope.

“This came through the mail,” he says quietly.

Dad hands me the envelope. Inside are a pamphlet and a copper wristband. I scan the contents of the leaflet:

DARKLING REGISTRATION ACT

ON THE ORDERS OF PURIAN ROSE, head of the United Sentry States:

Darkling citizens living in Sentry territory must wear Identification bracelets at all times. Failure to comply will result in death.

I examine the wristband. There’s some text engraved on it: Ash Fisher #000121 Property of Harold Fisher, Ivy Church, the Rise.

I inhale sharply. “They can’t be serious. I’m not a dog! I’m no one’s property.”

“I’m sorry, son,” Dad says, unable to meet my eyes. “Just promise me you’ll wear it. I don’t want you getting into any trouble.”

I swallow back my shame and slip on the wristband, not wanting to give Dad any more reasons to be worried about me. I cover the band with my sleeve, but I still know it’s there. It’s humiliating. In the space of a few minutes, I’ve gone from being someone’s son to being his pet.

“At least this way a Tracker won’t mistake you for a rogue Darkling,” Dad says, his voice strained.

“Yeah. Look, it’s no big deal; it’s just a wristband,” I lie, whether to him or to myself, I’m not sure.

I glance at the padlocked door leading to the crypt.

“Has she eaten?” I say.

Dad shakes his head. “I was waiting for you.”

I go to the fridge and take out a sachet of Synth-O-Blood, a synthetic form of O-positive blood. The Sentry engineered it shortly after war broke out eight years ago, in order to feed the thousands of Darkling citizens they’d forcibly relocated to the Legion ghetto, behind the newly constructed Boundary Wall. They were the luckier ones who managed to bribe, bargain and fight their way into the ghetto, knowing it was their best chance of survival. The rest were sent to “migration camps” in the Barren Lands. Now the only Darklings you’ll find on this side of the wall are a few domesticated housemaids, some trespassers hiding out in Humans for Unity safe houses, rogue Wraths and me. The last twin-blood in Black City.

Dad moves the camp bed and unlocks the padlocked door. We walk down the stone steps in silence. The crypt stinks of death and decay. In the center of the room is a battered armchair, a discarded book on the armrest. I force myself to look beyond it toward the creature hunched in the corner of the room.

She stirs.

My grip tightens around the bag of blood.

“I’ve . . .” I clear my throat, which is dry like cotton. “I’ve brought you some dinner.”

The creature growls, tugging at the chains holding her to the wall. I slide the sachet of blood across the floor, and it comes to a juddering halt in front of her. She rips into the sachet and slurps at the blood with her black tongue, splashing blood all over her partially rotted face, revealing the full length of her long, curved fangs.

I sit down on the armchair, watching from a safe distance. The Wrath virus isn’t airborne, but I’m still at risk if she bites me. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I angrily wipe them away. Dad’s right. We have to be careful with the Trackers back in town. I glance over at the creature.

They mustn’t know about Mom.

4

NATALIE

I HURRY UP the gleaming white steps to the Sentry’s regional HQ, my new home. One wing of the white marble building is still being reconstructed after it was blasted during the air raids, but otherwise it’s come out relatively unscathed. Not like everywhere else in this city. It probably wasn’t our forefathers’ smartest idea to build Black City using cheap Cinderstone bricks, as once they start burning, they’re impossible to put out. But it takes immense heat to start the reaction, and how would they know that, centuries later, our “great leader” Purian Rose would firebomb the city and everyone in it?

I miss the Sentry headquarters in Centrum, the state capital of the Dominion State, where we spent the past year after we were evacuated from Black City. It was much nicer than this one; simpler, less ornate. I’ve never liked Black City HQ, and neither did Father—he didn’t think it was a safe place to raise a family, which is why he insisted we live in the manor house on the outskirts of the city when I was growing up. He couldn’t have been more wrong. But now here I am, back in Black City, a place I never wanted to see again.

I pass several Sentry guards by the front doors, and they salute me. I swipe my identity card over the scanner and step inside the sterile entrance hall. Tucked under my arm is the twin-blood Darkling’s coat. The Hazer girl gave it to me, saying she didn’t want it, and just holding it sends shivers down my spine.

I should be grateful nothing seriously bad happened tonight; it was reckless of me to walk the city streets alone after dark, but I just wanted to get some souvenirs from my old house for my sister, Polly.

I never did make it to the mansion after bumping into that twin-blood boy. I still don’t quite understand why he let me go. Maybe he just wanted to get out of there fast and leave me to deal with the Hazer girl? Another shudder ripples through me. Tell anyone about me, and you’re dead . . . I’m not going to tell. There’s no point—I’ll never see him again.

Besides, I don’t want to give my mother an excuse to increase my security. My bodyguard, Sebastian, is more than enough for me, thank you very much. At least I can wrap Sebastian around my little finger and occasionally get some freedom.

I head straight for the stairs, intending to find Polly, when the blond-haired receptionist raises her head and looks at me.