He puts the blood sample on the sideboard, beside a row of sharp wooden stakes.

“So are you ready for your big day tomorrow?” he says.

I can’t believe he wants to talk about school, here of all places. Then I remind myself I’m supposed to act like this doesn’t bother me.

“Do I have to go? Why can’t I just be homeschooled?” I say.

“Because Purian Rose demanded you go to the city school,” Mother says, and a chill runs through me at the mention of his name.

“Why?” I ask.

A knowing look passes between Mother and Sebastian.

“Because Purian Rose said so. Those are his orders, so you’ll do as you’re told,” Mother says.

“I’ll have nothing in common with the other kids. They’re all Workboots. They’ll hate me,” I say.

There’s always been a tension between the proletarian class, known as Workboots because of the ugly leather ankle boots they all wear, and the Sentry—the ruling class. Only Sentries can work for the administration, which is why it’s called the Sentry government; it’s just a way to remind the Workboots of their place in society.

“It’s not fair. I liked my Sentry school filled with my Sentry friends,” I continue.

“Just do as you’re told, Natalie,” Mother snaps. “I don’t want you making Purian Rose angry; you know what he’s like. Do you want to put your sister at risk again?”

“No,” I whisper, a thrill of fear rising in my throat.

Sebastian throws me a sympathetic look. He knows all about what happened to Polly. I confided in him when we were dating, and Mother told Craven, since he’s the closest thing to a friend she has in Black City.

“Do you want me to stay with Natalie, make sure she gets settled in?” Sebastian asks.

“No! Mother, please. I don’t need a bodyguard when I’m in school. It’s perfectly safe,” I say.

Ever since Polly got hurt, Mother’s made sure I’ve had a bodyguard watching my every move. It’s so smothering.

“He can drop me off in the mornings and pick me up every afternoon,” I offer quickly. “Please. I don’t want to be the only student with a bodyguard. It’ll make me more of a target, if anything.”

Mother considers this. She looks at Sebastian. “Make sure you bring her straight there and back each day, no dillydallying.”

“Yes, Emissary.”

“I’ll call the Headmaster and arrange for one of the girls to keep her company,” Mother replies.

“I don’t need a rent-a-friend,” I say.

Mother slaps me with a silencing look.

The creature on the gurney beside me stirs, and I force myself to ignore it.

Mother notices the Darkling boy’s coat still slung over my arm. “Where did you get that?”

“I traded for it,” I say quickly. “I thought I’d wear it to school, so I can fit in with the rest of the kids.” Actually, that’s not a bad idea!

“No daughter of mine is wearing Workboot clothes.”

“It’s going to be hard enough fitting in as it is. I need to look like them,” I say.

She opens her mouth to protest.

“Oh, before I forget!” Craven says a little too brightly as he takes a lab pass and a bottle of pills from a drawer and tosses them to me. “There’s enough medication there to last you for the month. And I’ve had your lab pass activated; feel free to pop down whenever you want and I can show you the ropes. Welcome to the team.”

I turn the bottle of heart medication over in my hand. I can’t stand having to be so reliant on these tiny white pills. Just one more thing controlling my life.

The Darkling on the gurney suddenly wails in pain, making the other Darklings in the cells around us howl in unison. Craven picks up a wooden stake from the sideboard and plunges it twice into the creature’s chest, penetrating its two hearts. It thrashes for a few seconds, spraying blood and spittle everywhere, before collapsing lifeless onto the gurney.

“Was it really necessary to kill it when I was standing so close?” Sebastian complains, wiping Darkling gunk off his red jacket.

“It was the humane thing to do. It was in pain,” Craven replies. “The acacia wood kills them instantly. Better this than to die of the Wrath.”

He glances at Mother, who returns a frosty look.

Craven opens a metal drawer, pulls out a pale green surgical sheet and covers the Darkling’s dead body with it. Blood soaks through the material, reminding me of my father’s blood seeping through his clothes . . .

I have to get out of here right now.

I rush upstairs to Polly’s room. She’s the only person I want to be around these days. She’s sitting in a plain wooden chair in front of the windows, staring at the drawn curtains, her hands folded in her lap. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but I don’t expect her to—she barely speaks since the night Father died. The doctors say it’s post-traumatic stress. Sometimes she’s totally lucid, and it’s like I’ve got my old sister back, but most of the time she’s trapped inside her own mind, not talking to anyone for days—sometimes weeks—on end.

Our housemaid, Martha, has already unpacked her clothes and belongings, not that my sister has much need for clothes, since she spends all day in her bathrobe and slippers. All around the room are pictures of Polly: photographs of her at ballet recitals and school plays; paparazzi shots taken of her at glitzy events; posed black-and-white portraits by the famous artist Kendra, which Mother paid through the teeth for. She’s so exquisitely beautiful in all of them. It was always her dream to be a big-shot actress in Centrum, and now that’s never going to happen. I don’t know how she can stand having the photos all around her, reminding her of what she’s lost.

Sebastian’s in some of the photos. They were in the same year at school, and he was infatuated with her, the way I was obsessed with him. When she turned him down, he opted for second best: me. Not that I cared at the time, I was just thrilled that such a good-looking older boy would want to date me. I know I’m nothing in comparison to Polly. She’s tall, with silky straight black hair and gorgeous silvery gray eyes, while I’m short, blue-eyed and have wild curly blond hair like my father’s. You’d barely think we were related.

I place the twin-blood boy’s green jacket on the floor by Polly’s feet and open the curtains. The starlight illuminates her face, highlighting the patchwork of scars across her skin. One side of her face is almost unrecognizable, the shredded flesh contorting her once-beautiful features. It’s weird, though. I hardly register the scars anymore; she still looks like my big sister to me.

Polly’s silver eyes drift to the green jacket on the floor.

“I found it. Well, I didn’t exactly find it.” I tell her about meeting the twin-blood boy in the underpass. “It was insane—he could’ve killed me. If Mother found out, or Purian Rose . . .”

She glances up at me.

“I won’t do anything silly like that again, I promise. I won’t risk anyone hurting you.”

She grips my wrist and pulls me close, the sudden movement surprising me. Her expression is intense.

“Don’t be afraid to do what’s right. Don’t let Father’s death be for nothing.”

She releases me, and her eyes glaze over, lost in that dream world of hers again. Sometimes I envy her; it must be nice not having to live in this reality. I kiss her forehead, pick up the jacket and head to my bedroom, her words ringing around my head. Don’t be afraid to do what’s right. How can she still think that after everything that happened to her and Father? She was always braver than me.

I enter my room and kick aside the unopened cardboard boxes that clutter the plush white carpet. The balcony windows have been left open all day, and it’s wintry cold in here, but that’s how I like it. I drop the dark green jacket beside my pillow and chuck my pills into my battered satchel.

Martha is hanging up my new black and red school uniform in my wardrobe. She’s the only Darkling I can tolerate being around these days, and that’s only because I’ve known her my whole life. Besides, she’s no threat. All domesticated Darklings are neutered when they start working for a Sentry family.

I sigh, flopping onto my king-size bed.

“Do you want me to unpack these boxes?” Martha asks.

“No, I’m never unpacking them. I’m not staying. As soon as the boundary negotiations are over, I’m on the first train back to Centrum.”

She gives me a sad smile. We both know we’re never moving back to Centrum.

“Oh, before I forget. I have a gift for you.” I rummage around one of the cardboard boxes until I find the small square box wrapped in fancy paper and pass it to Martha. She carefully unwraps it and opens the box to reveal a bangle made from twined strands of white and yellow gold.

“I’ve had it engraved,” I say.

Martha reads the inscription: Martha Zhao #00118 Property of Natalie Buchanan, Black City HQ, the Hub.

“It’s your new identity bracelet. Do you like it?” I ask.

Martha nods slightly, not saying anything. She must be overwhelmed; it’s a very expensive gift. She slips it on.

There’s a low hissing sound by the balcony windows, and my kitty, Truffles, leaps off the balustrade and pads into the room, his golden eyes fixed on Martha. Despite being a tiny speckled fur ball, he has the attitude of a cat ten times his size. He hisses again at my housekeeper.

“I should go before that cat attacks me,” Martha says.

She leaves, and Truffles pounces onto my bed and sits on my lap. I scratch the back of his velvety pink ears.

“So where have you been, huh?” Truffles purrs and rubs his nose against my hand.

He climbs off my lap and sniffs the green jacket draped over my pillow, then lets out a questioning meow. I rummage around the pockets, curious to see what’s inside. All I find is a handful of loose change, a packet of cigarettes and an old playing card. The design on the back swirls and weaves around itself, like it’s alive, creating new designs every few seconds. I flip the card over and lightly trace my fingers over the two hearts: one red, one black.

I chuck the jacket on the floor and lie back, looking at the ceiling. When we were kids, Polly and I used to play a version of I Spy where we’d search for patterns in the textured plaster. I spy a lion, a three-eared rabbit, a phoenix, the face of a Darkling boy . . . My eyelids start to become heavy. I quickly slip into a deep, troubled sleep, my dreams filled with nightmarish visions.

* * *

I’m standing inside a dark, empty cave. The space is vast, terrifying, and instantly I know something is very, very wrong. The walls are strange. I stretch out my hand and touch the smooth stone, expecting it to be cold and hard, but instead it’s warm and slick. I withdraw my hand. My fingers are sticky with blood.

Somewhere in the dark, something stirs. I’m not alone.

Fear rises up inside me. I remember I’ve stolen something, something precious, but I can’t remember what it is. All I know is that they want it back. I have to get out of here before I’m discovered. I try to move, but my feet are stuck in the wet, spongy earth. I sense the Thing getting closer, searching for me. I try to remain calm, but then it happens. The cave starts to close around me. Panic boils over as the walls get closer and closer, until they’re squeezing me. I can’t breathe, I’m being suffocated, I—

* * *

I wake up with a start, my skin drenched with sweat, my heart pounding a mile a minute. I’ve been having the same nightmare ever since I was a little girl, and it still scares me. I take one of the pills Craven gave me earlier and pad over to the balcony to get some fresh air.

From up here, the buildings glow like embers. In the distance I can just make out the dark line of the Boundary Wall. Centrum seems like a lifetime away. I hate being back here. My insides feel hollow. I have no one: my father is gone, my mother barely registers my existence, and my sister is like a zombie most of the time.

Truffles saunters outside to meet me, letting out a pointed yawn.

“Cats are supposed to be nocturnal, you know?” I say.

He meows at me and leaps onto the marble railing.

“At least I have you,” I say.

His hackles rise, and he dashes back inside my bedroom.

I peer into the gloom, trying to see what it was that spooked him so much, but find nothing. Crazy cat.

Still, I’m unable to shake the unnerving feeling that someone was just watching me.

5

ASH

“GET UP, YOU LAZY ASS!”

I throw a stone at the yellow barge moored on the canal, close to where the Haze appointment was last night. The Hazer girl’s not lying dead on the ground, so she’s either alive or there’s a zombie strolling around the city somewhere wearing my jacket. The stone bounces off the barge’s rotting wooden wall, then plops into the water. There’s no sign of life. Right, you asked for it. I push against the barge with all my might, rocking it until Beetle’s pale face appears in one of the boat’s dusty windows. He idly scratches his scruffy brown hair, then sticks his middle finger up at me. I laugh and jump onto the barge.

There’s no polite way of putting it; Beetle’s room is rank. There are stinking clothes heaped in piles on the floor, cigarette butts ground into the threadbare rug and several dinner plates with something green and furry growing over them. On the wall is an old Legion Liberation Front poster, featuring a stylized black-and-white photo of Sigur Marwick—the Darkling ambassador and former civil rights activist—looking defiantly into the distance, toward a “better tomorrow.” Hatred boils inside me.