8. AURORA
My mind is a mess of chaotic thoughts.
Innate magic, rebellion, shifting into mythical creatures?
Hennesey said the Conclave had fallen, and something about nooses around their necks.
Does this mean my father could be dead?
And even better, maybe Thomas Crankshawe is dead too!
Please Gods, let the revolution have burned Cranskawe, his revolting mustache, and lecherous leering face to ashes. And his fucking creepy-ass French son.
But part of me is terrified. I’m not so innocent that I don’t know the Drakeward name has given me a modicum of safety here. Would Taliesin have fought for me if I was just Aurora Smith?
Nope.
The warden will know about the fate of my father, but there’s no way I’ll ask him for information. I’m pretty fucking sure he’d want something in return.
Ugh.
“Move it, Princess,” Taliesin grunts, snapping me out of my spiral. We’re at the entrance of the chow-hall for lunch. I move up a step, toward the scent of boiled cabbage, old fish and the sweat of hundreds of people.
The canteen is a cavernous, low-ceilinged room that vibrates with the low roar of unhappy voices.
The Diggers are packed onto dented metal benches like sardines, while the Guild occupies a section near the far wall with cleaner tables and better lighting. They even have different trays—actual food instead of the gray sludge being slopped into my plastic bowl.
“Eyes on your tray,” Taliesin warns as we shuffle through the line.
I take my seat, staring at the mush. Back home, my mother’s maid, Marta, had me stand on the scales every Saturday. My father would study the numbers, his lip curling at the slightest gain.
"A Drakeward woman is like a diamond, Aurora—flawless. It is my job to help you attain that perfect form."
I guess after I drove a blade into old Thomas’s fat gut, Father realized I’d never be his perfect diamond. But you know what? I’d rather eat this gray shit than another one of those miserable egg-white omelets.
We sit at a table surrounded by Taliesin’s inner circle. Including the boy from education class—Imran.
Fuck.
That poor kid must be my age, but his eyes are sunken so deep into purple shadows they look like inverse plums penetrating his skull. He’s staring at the bowl of sludge with a look of profound nausea.
“Eat, Imran,” Clay mutters, pushing his own piece of bread toward the boy. “You need the calories.”
“Tastes like shit.” The boy coughs, then starts trying to clear his throat.
Again, and again, and again.
Clay starts gently thumping his back, another dude shoves a plastic beaker of water in his direction.
Cough, cough, cough.
Layla runs across the room, pulling the boy up and into her arms. Her fists are in the middle of his belly and the next second she pulls inward.
Heimlich, right?
A wad of something bloody flies out of his mouth, and he sucks in a much needed breath, thank fuck. Layla sinks to the floor, Imran still in her arms.
Looking around, I don’t see any medics.
What the fuck? The guards are watching, not responding at all. In fact they look totally bored. “HELP HIM!” I shriek.
Nothing.
I clutch Taliesin’s arm. “Why won’t they get help? Should we get him to the infirmary?”
Taliesin’s eyes don’t leave Layla and Imran. “Diggers don’t get the medics, Princess. Waste of resources. Care is for the ‘valuable’ prisoners. Witches and Canaries.”
Clay is helping Imran to sit up.
“That’s, that’s…” I splutter, not believing what Taliesin is saying.
“That’s how the system works. You’re useful if you can work, end of story. Become weak, and it’s just another thing for the system to turn a blind eye to.”
I look around the table. Everyone is getting on with their food, like someone nearly choking to death is run-of-the-mill.
“Bit of a shock seeing how the other half live?” One of the men, called Jensen I think, glares at me.
“Our lives don’t mean shit, but it’s my old man who probably made the jar your beauty cream is kept in.
Or those chandeliers that magically change colors?
Bet you’ve got one of them over your fucking four-poster. ”
Shit. I do.
I did.
“And the fumes in the factories killed my Pa, while he hand-molded your pretty trinkets.”
I want to dissolve into the floor and disappear. I can feel the eyes of every Digger on me.
There is nothing I can say to Jensen. To any of them.
Their hatred is valid.
Spooning more mush into my mouth, I keep my head down. This is awful. I’m actually craving getting back to my stupid cage.
“Maybe you’ll learn what real work is when you’re on your hands and knees for the Guild,” Danny leans over, his breath smelling of stale tobacco as he invades my space.
“Make sure you keep that ass high and those pretty cheeks in the dirt, Princess. I can help you practice the position if you want.”
Taliesin’s hand slams onto the table, making the plastic trays jump. Danny flinches back, but the smirk doesn’t entirely leave his face. “Just trying to be helpful, boss.”
“Fuck off, Danny. And keep your comments to yourself.”
Danny and his pal, Rice, swagger off.
A thick-set woman with a scowl and a bowl of soup slams down on the bench opposite. I don’t bother giving her a smile. I’ve already learned there is no such thing as feminine solidarity in this place. “You gonna eat that?” She points to the dried-up bread on my tray.
“Yes she is, Dot,” Taliesin says, sounding weary. “Eat it. You’ll need your strength.”
Need my strength to be a Guild slave.
He stares as I slowly take a bite out of the slice, then raises a hand, beckoning two henchmen toward us. They are built like brick walls, with faces littered with scars.
“This is Crow and Hauser,” Taliesin says. “They’ll take you to the yard, and shadow you for the next hour.”
Crow, the one with a jagged scar across his broken nose, spits on the floor. “Let’s get this over with. I’m missing my rec-time because of this bitch.”
“You’re missing rec-time because I say so,” Taliesin commands, his eyes flashing. “It doesn’t matter for what reason. Do not bitch about my orders.”
After a second Crow drops his eyes. “Sorry, boss.”
Taliesin grunts. “Whatever, just bring her back in one piece, or you answer to me. No one touches her. Not the Guild, not you, no one.” He turns to me.
For a micro-second, his amber eyes soften, a flicker of something that looks like regret or maybe even an apology.
But then the mask slams back down, as hard and cold as the prison walls.
“If possible, just do what you’re told without complaint.
Don’t give them a reason to break the deal. ”
“So you’re relying on me to keep the peace?” I snap back. “Some leader you are, Bevan.”
He turns his back, and the dismissal stings like a slap.
I’m marched down the corridor, flanked by the two silent giants.
They crowd me. I can smell the stale sweat, and something like engine grease embedded in their uniforms. “Keep up, girl,” Hauser rumbles when my footsteps begin to drag.
He doesn’t look at me, but his hand hovers near my elbow, ready to pull me to my fate if necessary.
Some of the Diggers we pass stop to watch. A few look sympathetic, others, like Rice, just smirk, leaning against the stone wall as if my situation is the most amusing thing he’s seen in a while. Maybe it is.
The trek feels like a funeral march, the rhythm of our feet echoing against the low ceiling. Any dignity I’d still managed to retain is in danger of slipping away with every step that takes me further toward this punishment.
The air grows colder, as we approach the heavy doors that lead to the surface. Crow leans in slightly. “Don’t make trouble. Your kind have already done enough.”
The image of Imran’s pale face burns into my mind. Jensen’s words play on repeat.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I have no right to complain.
Not today.
Maybe never again.
Entering the yard, the afternoon sun is choked behind thick clouds.
I tilt my head back, searching the gray sky for a hint of Hennessey’s "Great Awakening"—a wing, a spark, a dragon’s scale. Anything. But there’s only smog and the bite of cold, oily rain. Nothing is coming to help me fly away. I’m grounded in the mud with the rest of the inmates.
Crow and Hauser escort me over to the Guild bleachers, I shake off their hands. If I’m doing this, I’m not going to make it look like I’m being dragged there by a couple of troglodytes.
Guild members in navy blue twill sneer as I pass. Dissatisfaction and anger are the undertones. Privileged kids made to pay for sins they never expected to be held accountable for.
I don’t like it.
But I can do this.
I put a blank expression on my face, then stand there, not moving, not speaking. Just waiting. If fucking Taliesin is watching, he can shove it. He won’t see me break.
“Get your ass up here, slut!” Thad shouts from the top row.
Of course he’s called Thad. That’s what an aspirant Elite would name their son.
Thad. Mother Fucking Idiotic Wannabe Thad.
When I’m within spitting distance of him, I stop and take a long, slow moment to stare him down. Hmm. I make a big show of eyeing his receding hairline. The pathetic comb-over he’s trying to hide behind is not working.
“The name is Ms. Drakeward, Baldy. Tell your boss I could get to him quicker if all these apes moved out of the way.”
Beside me, Hauser splutters out a cough, which I realize hides a laugh.
Thad-the-twat looks at me with murder, but nothing else happens as Dimitry snaps his fingers, signaling the sea of Guild members to part so I can climb up the bleachers.
Reaching the top step, I stand waiting for instructions, trying to ignore that burning hatred coming off Thad.
“Little biter, you have much to learn about respect,” the Russian man says eventually.
“Razve Thad deystvitel’no zasluzhivayet moyego uvazheniya?” I reply in fluent Russian. One of the four languages I know well.
Does Thad deserve any respect?
Surprisingly, Dimitry chuckles. “U etogo cheloveka mozgov tak zhe malo, kak i volos.”
That man has as little brains as he has hair.