Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE SCENT OF VIOLETS

‘Y ou hungry?'

The words cut through my thoughts. I'm lying on my side, running my fingers through cold sand, marvelling at the colours in the tiny grains, polished pearl and gold and brown. I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees.

‘A little.' The sea is a glittering line in the distance, the sun high. A round tower stands on the edge of the shore, not too far away. The walls are smooth and brown with no windows, only a door in the base. Just below the crenellated top is the glint, silver and black, of my family insignia. Further along the curving coastline is another tower, squat and round like a troll guarding the shore.

‘What are the towers for?' I ask.

Ruth takes in a long breath, blowing it out of her nose. ‘I guess you wouldn't know, not having seen the sea before. They're guard towers.'

‘Guard towers?' I grow cold. What if they have cameras? What if they're watching me, right now? There's movement along the top wall, someone's head and shoulders silhouetted against the sky. Shit. ‘Er… who, what…?'

Ruth glances over at the tower and her lip curls. ‘Vamps at night, human guards during the day. The great lords of Raven like to keep us safe.'

I feel sick. ‘Guarding against people… coming here?'

Ruth laughs without humour. ‘Why would anyone come here? No, they're to stop us leaving. Don't know where they think we'd go. Europe is no better than here, if not worse. Out of the frying pan into the fire.'

‘But can't you visit other Safe Zones? And, aren't there islands, out there? In the Channel?' This I did know. I'd seen the maps in our library, studied them in my lessons. Maybe Kyle and I will go there, if we can.

Ruth frowns at me, taking a moment to answer. ‘There are. They used to be free folk, living there. Some of the last places. But the vamps found them all, eventually. Can't even let us have that, a couple of tiny islands.' She huffs out a laugh, humourless. ‘And forget about going to any other Safe Zones. They like to keep us where they can see us. Besides, how are we supposed to get there?'

She sounds more resigned than bitter, but her words fall like stones into my stomach. Fuck. I know I have Kyle, and he can run as fast as any car. But I'm worried, now. What if we can't get to the next Safe Zone?

Ruth touches my arm. ‘C'mon. It's getting cold. I'll get you lunch.'

I think of the roll of money in my pocket, the way the little girl's mother's eyes had widened when she saw it. Of towers filled with darkness that border her world. ‘Let me pay. You've been so good to me already.'

Ruth smiles her transforming smile. ‘That sounds lovely. There's a café along here. Shall we go?'

A café. I've never been to a café. This day is one revelation after another, not all of them bad. I feel a thousand miles away from Emelia Raven, from her world of velvet and blood, of guards and golden staircases. Even Kyle, waiting in his dark room, seems distant, a link to a half-forgotten life. It's hard to believe I've only been here a few hours.

Getting up, I follow Ruth to the stairs leading up from the beach to the road. The iron railings, once painted blue, are now peeling and rusted. I slide my hand along them, taken by the light bouncing from the metal.

‘C'mon.' Ruth waits at the top of the stair, her head tilted, eyes slightly narrowed.

‘Sorry.' I laugh, trying to cover my confusion. But everywhere I turn there's something to see. The buildings along the seafront are a mix of tall houses painted different colours, and one that looks like a wedding cake, white and tiered. Letters on the front spell ‘rand Hotel' – I realise the G is missing. There are several smaller buildings in a row, single storey, with bright striped awnings. All of the awnings are folded away except one, below a painted sign reading ‘Café', a couple of white plastic tables and chairs set outside, optimistic in the November sunshine. As we draw closer there's a delicious smell. My stomach growls.

Ruth pushes open the glass door and I follow her, trying not to stare at everything. But I can't help it. The colours are so bright, the shadows so different to what I'm used to. I notice a small crack in one corner of the door windowpane, a piece of paper taped over it. Inside, the chrome and glass display case is gleaming. And it's filled with food. Not people in cages, not strange plastic packages, but real food. Sandwiches, a few round buns with raisins. A big bowl of salad. Not a huge variety, but I remember what Ruth said, about how hard it is to get things. My own diet was as rich as I'd wanted it to be, my mother happy to indulge any whim I had, anything I saw in a film or read about and wanted to try, found and brought to the house. I bite my lip, looking again at the small display.

‘What will you have? There's soup today, chicken and vegetable, if you'd prefer something warm. And they do lovely chips. I know I'm chilly after sitting on that beach.'

The man at the counter, an apron over his shirt, smiles at us. Behind him on the wall is a menu, written in chalk on a blackboard. The soup is on there, plus several types of sandwiches, salad, something called a pasty, and chips. Tea, milk and water look to be the only drinks on offer. I'm not that cold, though, and I think again about what Kyle said, as I look at Ruth in her padded coat, while I wear silk and leather, my jacket open to catch the sunshine. Still, soup sounds good.

‘I'll have the soup, please,' I say. ‘And some tea. Oh, and chips, too.'

Ruth orders and, when it's time to pay, I peel off several bills, handing them to the man. He seems surprised, handing one back to me straight away. ‘That's too much,' he says. I watch, fascinated, as he puts the notes in the till, counting out my change. He hands it to me. A jar, a few coins in the bottom, stands on the counter. A faded sign on it reads ‘Really good-looking people leave tips.' I drop my coins in before following Ruth to a table by the window, looking out at the sea.

Ruth is right. The chips are good. So is the soup, flavourful with herbs and meat. I dip my chips in it, enjoying the combination.

Ruth raises her eyebrows. ‘That's a different way to eat chips.'

‘It is?' I sort of smile, feeling awkward. I've never eaten with anyone before. Maybe I'm doing it all wrong.

Ruth grins. ‘Might try it myself.' She takes a chip and dips it in her soup, then eats it. She laughs. ‘Not bad, actually.'

I laugh too, more from relief than anything.

Once I've finished, wiping my mouth with a rough paper napkin, I realise I need the loo. A sign above a doorway at the back, black lettering on white, points the way.

‘Back in a minute.' I get up. The doorway leads to a small hallway, tiled white like the rest of the place. A boy is there, leaning against the wall. He's waiting, just as I am, the white painted door closed with the lock flicked to engaged. He nods at me, a flash of grey eyes, chin-length shaggy blond hair pushed back from a strong jaw, high cheekbones. He's tall and broad-shouldered, wearing black jeans and an oversized dark grey jumper, the long sleeves frayed at the wrists.

I nod back and lean on the wall, not too close to him, my arms folded. Then I realise something. I can smell violets.

I gasp, unable to help it. The boy turns to me.

‘You all right?'

‘Uh, fine.' I look down, not sure what else to say.

There's a pause. ‘So, hey. I'm Michael.'

I look up, surprised. ‘I'm Emel— er, Emily.'

‘Nice to meet you, Emily.' He holds out his hand. As he moves, the light catches his eyes so they shimmer, iridescent for a moment.

I take his hand and shake it, like I've seen on TV. He laughs. So do I. The bathroom door unlocks, the door swinging open. A woman steps out, dark hair in a puffy cloud around her wrinkled face, bright pink lipstick smeared on her lips. She looks surprised to see us. I realise we're still holding hands. Michael must realise at the same moment, because he lets go.

‘Ladies first.' He indicates the empty room.

‘But you were waiting.'

‘It's fine. I can wait.' I bite my lip, unsure what to do. ‘Go on.' He grins.

‘Well, thanks.' I step into the small cubicle.

‘You're welcome. It was nice to meet you, Emily.'

‘You too,' I say, closing the door. When I come out a few minutes later, he's gone. So is the scent of violets.

* * *

After lunch we head back up the hill, Ruth taking a different street than we did coming down. There's a building on one side of the road, a large square place with a blue metal roof, people lined up outside.

‘What's that place? Is it a club?'

Ruth sort of curls her lip, her brow furrowing. ‘It's a harvesting plant, of course.'

‘A what?'

Ruth shakes her head. ‘Surely you know about them, I mean…' She's really frowning at me, and I know I've slipped up.

‘Oh, is that what it is?' I say, trying to cover my error. ‘Of course, I didn't realise. I guess the one near us is different. So it's where everyone goes to, er…'

‘Be harvested? I know you don't have a blood port.' She gestures to her elbow. ‘So your parents must have been part of a great house, for you to have avoided that fate. Where's your mark?'

I'm frozen. Of course I'm part of a great house. One of the greatest. Fuck. And what does she mean by a mark?

Ruth rolls up her other sleeve, turning her arm to reveal the pale underside. I feel sick. Burned into her skin, red scar against white, is my family mark. Raven.

‘Um, my mark, it's um, well, it's under my clothes,' I whisper, because I can't trust myself not to start crying.

Ruth's face creases with what looks like sympathy. ‘Oh my dear,' she says. ‘Mistral, then, is it? I hear he likes to brand his dancers, especially the young women, in more… intimate places.'

I nod, feeling even worse. Fucking Mistral. That sounds like him, sleazy bastard. The ache of anger returns to my chest, like a flame inside me.

‘I'm sorry I asked, dear.' Ruth takes my hand, squeezing it, her face still crumpled with concern. ‘Come on, shall we go along here? I have some shopping to do.'

‘Wait.' I'm mesmerised by the shuffling line of people making their way into the building, as though they're being slowly sucked inside. Ruth says nothing, still holding my hand. ‘That little girl today, the one we saw. She… she doesn't, surely she doesn't have to…' I'm going to throw up, I know it. Or scream.

Ruth tilts her head, eyes shrewd on me. ‘No, she doesn't. Not yet. But she'll be thirteen soon enough, taken to be assessed. If she's lucky, she might get chosen as free-range, a blood dancer. If not…' Her eyes go to the shuffling line.

‘If not?' I whisper the words.

Ruth's gaze comes back to me. ‘She'll be branded, have her blood port cut in, then be sent to the plant for her first harvesting. And so on, every month for the rest of her life.'

Tears fill my eyes. ‘That's awful.' I'm still whispering, my throat feeling thick and sore. What the fuck. I'm trying to recover from everything I've seen, everything I've been told, and how different it is from what I imagined. But this . I swallow down bile. This is who my family are. Who Raven are. To these people, anyway.

‘It's life.' Ruth shrugs. ‘At least, it is now. It's the deal we made.'

‘The deal?'

‘With the vamps, of course. They let us have electricity, water, warmth and light, live a semblance of a normal life. In return, we give them our blood. It seemed the best option, at the time. But now…' Her gaze becomes distant, then fixes on me once more. ‘Surely you learned this at school? The Red Rising, then the Famine, and the Blood Agreement?'

I shake my head. ‘No. I mean, I learned some of it. I guess, just not… I was tutored at home.' Shit. That slipped out. But I'm shaken to my core. I knew about the Blood Agreement, of course. But it had always been told to me as a happy ending, that everyone was safe. Not this… this trap of an existence. The desire to tear it all apart washes over me, fierce and strong.

Ruth says nothing, her dark eyes on me. I meet her gaze, my lips trembling. ‘Come on then,' she says. ‘Let's get to the market before all the good things are gone.' But she's still watching me. I shrug, like it's no big deal, and start walking again.

As we continue past the harvesting plant I notice something daubed in black paint on the rear wall, like a scar on the pale painted metal. At first I can't figure out what it is. Then I realise. It's a raven. In a noose. Underneath are five familiar words. The North Wind will blow . Ruth stops again.

‘Don't you worry about that.'

My lips press tight together against sickness. I'm not worried. I understand, now. More than she can know.

‘It's just nonsense,' Ruth says.

‘But—'

Ruth shakes her head slowly, her eyes fixed on me. ‘Just nonsense.'

We start up the hill again. I'm reeling. I think of my father, broken and charred on the ballroom floor, my fear for him and my mother. I hadn't been able to understand why anyone would want to hurt us, the benevolent lords of Raven, with our nice Safe Zones and well-fed dancers. But now it all starts to make a terrible sort of sense, how people wouldn't want to live like this, how they wouldn't want their children to live like this. Trapped, and forced to give up their blood each month, simply to get something which should be a basic right. To be safe.

And I begin to doubt my decision to leave.

In Kyle's arms it had been easy, his embrace a haven from the weight of my old life. After the Moon Harvest it had been easier still, to walk away from death and pain, from what my people were revealed to be. But there was also a dance under moonlit windows, the collected memories of my ancestors reminding me where I came from. And what I could be.

You'll be a great Raven , Kyle had said. Bridging the gap between vampire and human, fostering understanding. I'd wanted to meet with the rebels, tried to force my mother to negotiate with them. But all my resolve had broken in a single night, in a field filled with blood. And I'd forgotten one thing. I was the next Raven. If I chose to do it, to take on the title after all, maybe I could stand for something different.

Maybe I could change things. Tear it down, just like I want to.

‘We're going along here.' Ruth is waiting, her head tilted to one side.

I blink, shaken out of my disquiet. ‘Oh! Right.' I follow Ruth across the road to another street, running parallel to the water. It's a market street, stalls along the centre facing both ways and shaded by awnings, colourful in the sunshine, people walking up and down. As we draw closer the illusion starts to break down again. The goods on the stalls aren't new, the clothing worn, books with tattered covers, mismatched plates and trinkets. There's food, but not a lot – one woman is cooking meat over a charcoal grill, fragrant smoke billowing, while a man and woman stand behind a small array of vegetables – potatoes, carrots, onions and turnips – plus a basket of apples. The stalls, on closer inspection, have been mended many times, the cloth patched and frayed in places. And the people… Their clothing is colourful, there's laughter and chatter, all of them walking free in the sunshine. But I see them now for what they are, what I've heard them being described as: breeding stock, cattle, meat. Food.

There's a building on the other side of the street, burgundy tiles on the front facade, the front door still with fragments of stained glass in the dark wooden frame. There are several rough wooden tables and benches outside, all full. Men and women, their hands curved around tall glasses of reddish-brown liquid, all drinking and talking loudly. They look as though they're having a good time, until I notice the dark circles under their eyes, the strained manner of their smiles.

And I'm the same as they are.

Slightly enhanced abilities ( if Kyle is right) aside, I'm human, just as they are. Last night I'd been food for a hungry guard, his touch impersonal and intimate at the same time, my comfort of no concern to him. And these people, if I understand it right, have to bleed into plastic bags so my people can eat. I suppose it's a kinder way of doing things; at least they get some semblance of life, rather than simply being slaughtered. But is this living? They're as trapped as I was, inside my world of gilt and mirrors. At least in my cage, no one was feeding from me.

‘D'you fancy some apple crumble tonight?'

I come back to earth with a start, realising we've stopped at the stall with the apples. Ruth is selecting several, inspecting them carefully before placing them on the counter. Six green globes, gleaming in the sunlight, their sides smooth.

‘Sounds lovely – I mean, I don't know if I'll be staying though. Um, Kyle and I, we're supposed to be going…' I stop, remembering I have no idea where we're going. Or if we can even leave. Once again, I wonder whether home is an option.

‘We'll eat early.' Ruth pats me on the arm. ‘My husband will be home, and I'd like you to meet him. I'll take six, please,' she goes on, turning to the stallholder.

‘Let me.' I pull out my roll of bills. ‘Please,' I say as Ruth protests. ‘My contribution to dinner.'

‘Oh, go on then. Thank you.'

I pay, and Ruth carefully places the apples in a string bag. We wander past the other stalls, stopping every so often so Ruth can buy something. Each time, I insist on paying. Each time, she lets me. As we round the last two in the row of stalls, I glimpse someone watching me. It's the boy from the café, the sleeves of his jumper pushed up, hands in his pockets. I meet his gaze and he grins. Then someone walks between us. When they pass, he's gone.