CHAPTER 7
Blues are not slaves to nature. Nature is a slave to us.
—RICHARD PREW, BLUE REPRESENTATIVE
Harrison doesn’t seem like such a sell-out anymore.
Not when I’ve been a Public Person for less than two hours, and I’m already climbing into the getaway car of a Blue.
I made the choice, survival over pride, but my pride still lingers, like a pointed finger in the back of my mind, cold and accusatory.
Quitter. I hear the word in Hillaire’s flat voice.
The blue first-year carriage makes ours look like a matchbox.
A spiral staircase twists up to the second deck, its wrought-iron railing adorned with motifs of fans and hummingbirds.
Security cameras blink from the ceiling, and armed Coppers stand guard at every corner.
The air smells of fresh breakfast mingled with the fragrant aroma of cigar smoke.
Rather than open seats, there are shuttered cabins with gold-trimmed windows, drawn closed for privacy.
The soundproof walls absorb all noise, wrapping the carriage in eerie silence.
Through the cabins’ stained-glass doors, I catch glimpses of Blue silhouettes, massive and blurred like giants in a dream.
“We’re up on the second deck,” Jack says.
He drinks from his flask as we climb the stairs, his bulky body swaying off-kilter.
All I can think about is how he’s getting away with breaking the law in plain sight.
In all my years of studying, I never encountered a loophole that explains how someone like Jack can outrank a Copper or walk around so casually in public.
Even Jack’s green shawl-lapel suit is a violation; the flannel looks wrinkled and damp, and his leather derbies are speckled with mud, as if he rode a hoverbike to the Roaring Rails Station.
But despite his intoxication, he doesn’t seem like the type to throw away civil credits.
Charlotte likes wild men, not stupid ones.
At the top of the stairs, Jack shoulders open a cabin marked with a bronze plaque that reads, SALON THIRTEEN. MAXIMUM CAPACITY: FIVE PERSONS.
As I approach the door, a sense of danger wells in my gut, as if I’m stepping into a hand that could close around me at any moment.
My parents’ advice about the Prews returns to the forefront of my mind.
Dad and Mom knew Edmund’s parents once, when they were classmates at Grandmaster.
I don’t know exactly what happened between his parents and mine—Dad and Mom always change the subject when I ask for details—but they give me plenty of dark-eyed looks, each with the same warning: Stay away from the Prew family and their influence.
That includes Edmund.
Getting close to him will cost me, maybe not now, but eventually. Still, if I have to choose between dying on my first day as a Public Person and sharing a short train ride with him, I choose the latter.
I walk in.
The shift from shadowy to bright stings my eyes.
Light floods the room from a chandelier blooming from the coffered ceiling like a ripe, golden apple, its chain swaying gently with the train’s motion.
The salon is flamboyant and spacious. There’s a fireplace and pale marble statues of nude women holding trumpets, posed as if announcing our arrival.
A deeply recessed window frames the view beside five plush seats: low-armed, thickly piped, all arranged around an oiled parquet table piled high with breakfast platters, a monogrammed cigarette case, two half-empty whiskey bottles, and a scattered deck of cards.
As I look around, my first thought is that the plaque on the door stating a maximum capacity of five is bullshit. This salon could easily seat twenty people, including Jane.
Jack drops into a chair and props his feet on the edge of the table. There’s no sign of Edmund except for a navy-blue greatcoat hanging from a brass coat tree.
“Go ahead, darlings,” Jack says, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. “Take a seat.”
Charlotte, standing behind me, closes the sliding door and then whirls on him with pinched eyebrows. “Not until you show it to me.”
“Show you what?”
“Your Blood Ring.”
Jack raps his knuckles on the table. “No.”
“Take off the glove.” She sets her head in a hard-jawed, downward tilt. “Or I’ll do it for you.”
“You’d have a better chance of taking off my pants.”
“If the Copper back there had stared at your ass the way he did your Blood Ring, maybe I would.”
“Maybe you should be grateful instead.”
“I am grateful, but—”
A toilet flushes in the lavatory. Charlotte and I swivel toward the door. Behind the frosted glass, someone washes and dries their hands with a towel. I stand still, trying to look composed, waiting for Edmund to emerge.
Then I notice something strange. The silhouette barely reaches the doorknob’s height, too small to belong to a Blue.
The boy who steps out has an upturned nose and a shock of carrot-colored hair that looks as if a gust of wind blew it back. Freckles pepper his cheeks, and his pudgy chin makes him look much too young to be a student. There’s a food stain on the lapel of his burnt-orange suit.
“Charlotte, you old broad,” the boy says, tugging on a pair of gloves as he strolls over. “Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. How have you b—” He cuts himself off, squints at her, and plants a hand on his hip. “You trying to get Jack back or something?”
“No.”
“Then what’s with all the slicing and dicing?”
Charlotte touches her nose, probably her most cosmetically enhanced feature. “Uh, I—”
“And why do you smell like a fart?”
“Oh, shove off, Dickie.” She swats his hand away. “It’s not me who smells. It’s Lore.”
The boy brushes past her and circles me like a dog. He sniffs the air once, twice, curious but silent, until Charlotte jumps in to introduce us.
She begins by stating my name, age, and academic major in a formal tone, and mentions that my dad is a Green Representative.
Then she moves on to her ex, Mr. Jack Carroway, a twenty-one-year-old Green first-year majoring in energy shield defense.
Finally, she introduces the freckled boy as Mr. Dickie Langley, an Orange first-year.
At just fifteen, he’s only the eighteenth person ever granted special permission to become a Public Person and attend Grandmaster University as a minor.
“It’s because I’m good with computers… a prodigy, if you will,” Dickie brags after we log evidence of our introductions into our Blood Rings. He pulls me into a clammy handshake, sniffs me like a dog again, and says, “Yep—you definitely dealt it.”
“I didn’t deal anything.” I yank out of Dickie’s grip. “The smell is from my seat. Whoever sat there before me spilled something.”
“The carriages are cleaned between stops, so it shouldn’t smell anymore.” He turns to Charlotte, full of purpose. “What about your seat? Did it—”
“Enough swatting at flies, Dickie,” Charlotte cuts in. “We already know the Copper was setting up a hit. The question isn’t how he planned to kill Lore. It’s whether he’s got enough backing to try again.”
“What exactly do you mean by that, darling?” Jack spins his empty shot glass on the table with two fingers.
“You’re not accusing Blues of being behind this, are you?” Dickie demands.
“No, I—of course not, I just…” Charlotte gives me a pointed look, jerking her head as if I’m supposed to take over.
I nod. “Where’s Edmund?”
“In salon six,” Jack says. “With his girl.”
“With Rebecca?” Charlotte drops her cigarette case. “I thought they broke up?”
“They did. You don’t know Ed’s new girl.”
“I still wanna know her name.”
“Irene.”
Charlotte bends down to grab the case, frowning as if she’s mentally searching through every Irene she’s ever met. “How long have they been dating?”
“Almost a year.” Dickie slides into the seat beside me. “But Ed’s not dating Irene, broad. He’s engaged to her.”
“What? No fucking way. I have so many questions.”
A buzz from my Bond pulls me out of the conversation. I glance at the caller ID, feeling a rush of relief when I see it's Dad.
Before answering, I wave to Dickie. “When’s Edmund coming back?”
“As a betting man, I’d wager any minute,” Dickie says as he accepts a slice of chocolate mousse cake from a passing Pinkie. “Edmund never shacks up with his broad for long.”
That means there’s a good chance Edmund will walk in during the call. Dad will see where I am, and worse, he’ll know who I’m with.
I let the call ring out. As soon as it goes to voicemail, Dad texts me.
“Where are you, Loredana? Are you safe?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Just can’t take a call right now.”
“Are you still on Harrison’s jet?”
“No. On the train to Grandmaster. I wanted to fly home, but as soon as we landed in the Rainbow District, I had to become a Public Person. Illegal entry otherwise.”
Dad doesn’t reply for a long minute. Either he’s been interrupted or he doesn’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry, Loredana,” he finally writes, “for risking so much over this vote, and for putting you and your sisters in danger. I knew most Blues were against the Bliss ban, but I didn’t predict this kind of blowback. None of us did.”
Now it’s my turn to hesitate. He probably thinks I’ll wave it off, maybe even tell him it’s not his fault.
But it is his fault.
“I’d rather talk in person,” I text. “You still at the Capitol Estate?”
“Yeah,” Dad replies. “Coppers can’t secure a ground exit, so we’re getting airlifted. What about you? Any protests on the train?”
“Not exactly. But I could use a bodyguard.”
“Don’t worry. President Reeve ordered full protection for targeted reps and their families. A team’s waiting for you at the university.”
“Are they Coppers?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I twist my Blood Ring nervously. Dad should know what happened, but I can’t explain it all now, especially with Edmund likely to walk in any second.
“Coppers are just as hooked on Bliss as everyone else,” I text. “Better to use Pinkies or drones, ones that’ve been checked for tampering.”
“Fine. I’ll have your Coppers swapped out for Pinkies.”