The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) Read online

  I relay to Kari how we met, expecting—for some reason—a deep insight into our inevitable friendship. Instead she says, “I have no idea. Some things are just meant to be, and others are coincidences. I think your friendship with my brother is a bit of both. Now, are you going to States like Cat suggested to get this supposed cure? Or are you going to carry on as you are now?”

  I rub my face. “How should I know? Is there a guide book for this kind of thing?”

  “If there is, I could have used it a few years ago.”

  I’m not really paying attention. There’s something off about this whole conversation, something that’s taken me until now to recognise. “Tia,” I say, searching for truths in Kari’s dark eyes. “You didn’t mention my sister, not even once. Why?”

  “Because I don’t know her, Honour.”

  Kari’s wringing her hands, watching me with a mix of sympathy and frustration. At me? At herself? That part of me locked deep down inside, the one that knows Kari, thinks she’s pissed at herself. I can feel my breathing spiking again and something tells me this time it won’t be so easy to calm down. “What do you mean?” I draw out every syllable like I can put off the truth.

  Because the secret part of me already knows what Kari is going to say, just like it already knew Cat would say I’d had the ‘procedure’.

  “I never saw Horatia,” she says. “I never knew her, because she was never with us. If she was in Underground London Zone, she was somewhere else, in a different experiment.”

  ***

  Branwell

  11:04. 04.11.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

  The dining room in Plymouth smells of flavour and promises, the bland food of the Northlands towns a distant memory. Gleeful and grateful I accept a steaming bowl of stew and find a seat between Marie and the girl with wild chestnut hair from Leeds. I glance around for the woman’s leader—the weathered man with the bald patch—but I assume he’s with the Guardians council, planning and compromising with the Plymouth ambassadors, as they call themselves.

  I wonder what wreck of a building we’ll be assigned in this town. An old shop, like in Leeds? Crumbled houses? The dungeons of an ancient prison? Nothing would shock me after what we’ve been subjected to, but from the quick glance of Plymouth I caught when we made our way to this dining hall, this town appears, almost, like a real city. The locals saunter and bustle, market vendors hawk their produce, bicycles glide along the roads, and children play in dirty puddles much to their custodians’ dismay. It is a true city, only lacking the blinking stars of gas lit windows and carriages sloshing through the rain. Surely a place such as this wouldn’t give us a bedroom dominated by damp or ramshackle tents made of bed sheets.

  I try not to dwell on how much I miss my basement. My rumpled bed with the remembered impression of my body’s shape. The scent of musk on the air, as familiar as my own heartbeat. Home. I have a new home now, in the people around me, but that doesn’t ease the homesickness in my heart. I doubt the heartache will ever shift and I wouldn’t want it to. As long as I yearn to be back, I haven’t forgotten them. I try to call up their faces—Bennet, father, Carolina, Jeremy, Nancy—but all I get are indistinct blurs and shapes and colour. I’m reminded of being in the basement of Morelock’s house when the cruel Olympiae villain left me beaten and dizzy, seeing in foggy movement. Trying to recall the faces of my family after being away from them for some time is achingly similar.

  “What’s up with you?”

  I peer at Marie from behind my hair. It’s longer than I usually let it grow, curling on the ends. “I’m just tired,” I say.

  Priya leans around Marie to gift me a smile. “We’ll be able to rest soon.”

  “I know.” I’m less craving sleep than I am world weary, but I don’t tell my friends that. Some things are too personal to share. I return my attention to the bowl of stew before me, scooping up the now-cold vegetables, attempting to put together a complete jigsaw image of my family. Bennet, as always, is clear as crystal behind my eyes. I’ll never forget her face, not in my lifetime. My heart twinges and I wonder if echoes of it go out to her, my twin sister, wherever she is. I hope she senses me, the way I feel phantom sorrow in my sleep and convince myself it is Bennet’s pain.

  Hele and Horatia have taken seats opposite us, so quietly that I startle when I look up and discover them there. “You’re a world away,” Hele says. Her eyes are crinkled at the corners, the window overhead brightening them to a striking sky blue.

  “Yes,” I agree. “Sorry.” I rub the beginnings of a headache at my temples and pray it doesn’t get worse. My headaches are either nothing to bother about or they debilitate me. Unfortunately, the table’s other occupants appear to be conspiring to give me a migraine.

  An argument has erupted between the red haired girl on my left and the woman named Vivienne Cynwrig. Vivienne is by far the loudest of the two, raising her sharp voice to deliver words as weapons. She attempts to patronise Miranda of Leeds by circling back to her younger age. But Miranda bats off the old woman’s words as if they’re no more than rainwater.

  “If we run straight into war, everyone will be killed,” Miranda says, her hands pressed together in her lap where her plaid dress pools. It’s primrose yellow, made pale by time and patched together in places with brighter and darker remnants.

  Before I came to this time I never realised how lucky I was to have clothes whenever I wanted, to be able to ride into the city and have garments created just for me. I’d give anything now to have a wool coat tailored to my measurements. The coat I pilfered from Leeds is too long and tight across my shoulders. I’ve taken to wearing it unbuttoned, which leaves my limited number of shirtsleeves vulnerable to the rain. I don’t know what became of the overcoat I fell into the Guardians home wearing; I suspect it’s buried in the pit of Forgotten London under debris and the dead.

  “No, child, you’re wrong—” Vivienne’s voice is a whip cracking, but Miranda’s cool tone cuts through her words effortlessly and the elder woman has no say. My headache builds.

  “The Guardians need time to put together the details of their plan. I’ve studied strategy for ten years. I’ve been waiting for this war since I was born. I know what I’m talking about, Vivienne. Running into it won’t help anybody. We need to stay in Bharat and strengthen our defences. We need to wait for them to send the bulk of their military to Bharat, so we can cut down their numbers and, finally, go to war when they’re weakened.”

  “There’s already a wall around the City, girl. What more defences do you want?”

  “Do you know how easy it is to take down a wall?” Miranda stares directly at the older woman, and Vivienne must be a better woman than I’m a man because I’m squirming at the intensity in that look and I’m not even pinned by it. I realise I was wrong to think the man we first met in Leeds was the town’s leader. “It would take the Officials one day to deconstruct it, and they know it. That wall is there to keep immigrants out—not an army. What will you do when the soldiers blast into the City and come for your nephew? I’m guessing he won’t be running off to war—you neither. You’ll sit underground in a Guardian safe place and wait for it all to blow over.” She raises her chin. “And when the soldiers come to put a bullet in your head, you’ll be glad we fortified the City’s protection, be glad it held them off for a couple weeks longer, long enough for us to make them weak, long enough for us to win the first small victory.”

  Vivienne is glaring, but Miranda must be spot on about her hiding because the old woman doesn’t speak one word of disagreement.

  “So don’t talk to me about rushing head first into war,” Miranda seethes. “I’m trying to keep people alive, not put them to death.”

  ***

  Honour

  11:39. 04.11.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

  The first thing I want to do when we’re settled into a ‘guest house’ on the waterfront is ditch everyone and go searching for Wes. I cannot think about
what Cat and Kari told me, about what it all means for me, for Horatia. I need to busy myself and the best way to do that is to find my brother and spend as much time with my family as possible.

  I plan to go straight across town but the landscape in front of the house catches me by the scruff of my neck and draws me close. It’s so … open. I rest my elbows on a wall and stare out at the mass of rainclouds gathered over the silver sea. A couple of boats are far out on the water and I can’t tell whether they’re abandoned or they’re—a ridiculous thought—fishing. There’s a stretch of black land just visible directly across from where I stand but next to it is open water, grey and infinite. It tugs at my heart.

  The boat that took us from Harwich to Hull made me sick and disgusting but I want to go out on the water anyway. There’s something about the way it looks, endless, that makes me want to cross it just to find out what dark towns and vibrant Cities it leads to—to find out where the water ends.

  Does it end? Or does it go on forever?

  I stare at the line on the horizon, running my hand over a road sign that says ‘Grand Parade’, until Tia comes out for me. She leans her arms on the wall and says, quiet enough to be nothing at all, “Wes.”

  “You’re right. Let’s go find him.”

  I turn my back on the open water and head into the town centre. A red and white striped tower sticks out of the grey land, a pointlessly huge metal wheel to its left. We head for the tower. I think it’ll guide us inward, to an information centre Hele pointed out. That’s hopeful—I’m expecting to get lost.

  All the buildings we pass are bright white and grand, with black twisted balconies and twinkling windows. This zone practically stinks of rich people. It wouldn’t surprise me if the President came waltzing out of one of the fancy wooden doorways. I wince, stung by guilt for the thought as soon as it’s formed. Marrin was rich, was the President’s son, and he wasn’t any less a person than me. I can’t judge a person by how much money they have. That’s not what matters anymore, if it ever mattered.

  Horatia tugs on my hand insistently, drawing me back to Plymouth. I follow her as she retraces our route back to the centre. Her memory is much better than mine. I got memory for useless facts, where she got memory for crucial information. Tia narrows her eyes at the thinning road in front of us, contemplating. She changes direction, cutting through a lush park. A shortcut—that’s a great idea. I don’t complain though. I just go with it.

  I think she’s got us lost for sure when we come out on the other side of the park and make so many turns down so many side streets that I’m dizzy. We don’t come across anything but fancy white houses for ten minutes, until my sister guides us out of the maze of little roads and the city centre falls on us. We stand in the middle of shops and cyclists going in every direction imaginable. I’m amazed. Horatia’s sense of direction is better than mine too, apparently.

  The information centre is still a few roads away but we find it easily. The building is actually called ‘Information and Problems Centre’, so a white board with crude painted letters says. Inside, the place is dead but a woman at a desk waves us over. We skulk over to her, our tired expressions the antagonist of her sunny smile. I give her Wes’s name, tell her we’re family.

  Tia is visibly hopeful. I expect the woman to tell us there’s no record of Wes, that he’s not here. I don’t expect it to be so easy.

  But it is.

  She gives us another smile with too many teeth and writes down an address.

  Plymouth is the closest thing to a normal town—a city before the flares—on this whole island. Everyone has a job, like in Forgotten London, but it isn’t mandatory and they earn money instead of credits. They have money called pounds and pence that comes in coins and paper. I’m amazed they managed to keep enough of it from before the flares to be able to use it. They don’t have an allocation centre, but they have a market and a food shop which is pretty much the same. They have a food hall like in Manchester, but none of the food is free—that has to be paid for, too. I think the money goes to the cooks—since that’s their job—but I’m just guessing.

  Everything seems too complicated. When the Guardians win, if the world goes back to the way it was, it’s going to take years to get used to the systems and the customs. Maybe they’ll keep credits. I hope they do. I’ve grown up with the white coins; it’d be weird to live without them.

  There are students everywhere around Plymouth, wearing dark uniforms and colourful ties. Some are even my age which is strange to see. In Forgotten London we left school at twelve to start work. I’d have loved to go to school until their age. I could have read so many books, learned so many subjects. Maybe I’d be a genius now, like Bran, if I was still in school.

  I warm to the thought. I’d like to be able to understand my friend when he goes off on one of his excited rants—though those are rarer lately—and to know what Dalmar means when he talks about technology.

  A man selling hot soup calls out to us but I politely turn him down. We don’t have any of their money. Tia stares longingly after the soup vendor, unfolding a slip of pounds from her pocket.

  “Where did you get that?” I hiss.

  She turns to me with a tiny sly smile. “I pickpocketed a woman.”

  For half a second I just blink at her. Then I ask, excitement unfolding, “What else did you get?”

  She produces a chunk of chocolate wrapped in gold foil, pressing it into my hands. Our grins are an instant of mirrored glee. We jog back across the road to the man with the soup.

  14:42. 04.11.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

  Wes lives on a pretty residential street with flower beds and bright doors. I see him through the squares of glass in the door before he spots us. He doesn’t look any different—same dirty blonde hair, same broad shoulders, same serious expression, same slumped way of walking. When he sees us, his slump becomes a run. He swings the door open and grabs me into a hug before I can form a word. Tia sets her soup down on the top step and coaxes Wes out of my grip. Her fingers pat down flyaway strands of Wes’s hair. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to say or do for a few minutes, but then his mouth tips up.

  “I didn’t think you’d find me,” he says. And then before we’ve had a chance to reply he adds, “I’m so glad you’re here. John had to leave weeks ago, and I’ve been sitting around on my own ever since.”

  “We’re here now,” I tell him.

  “I’m coming back with you.” He ducks his head back inside. “Let me get my stuff.”

  “Coming with us where?”

  “I don’t care.” His shout comes from deep inside the house. Tia and I stay on the doorstep. I stuff my hands into my pockets, rocking on the balls of my feet. Wes re-emerges with a grey holdall and slams the door without bothering to lock it. “Anywhere,” he says. “I go where you go.”

  Running a hand through his long hair to smooth it away from his face, he looks at us and heaves a long sigh. We leave the street behind.

  By the time we get back to the guest house the sea has become more insistent and the waterfront is windy as fuck. Wes wants to get inside as quick as possible—I think that’s how he’s dealing with the trauma, with Thalia’s death. He was twitchy all the way across town, staying closer to Tia and me than he needed to.

  I watch Wes hurry up the stone steps to our latest home, desperate to get inside. All of my family are reacting differently to this aggressive way of life. I don’t judge Wes one bit for wanting to be out of the open. Whatever makes him feel safe on this unsafe island is fine with me. Besides, I have so many issues that I’ve got no right to judge anyone based on theirs.

  I don’t follow Wes. Yosiah is stood against the wall across the road, contemplating the water. He looks sad. Tia communicates that she’ll show Wes to a room and I should talk to Yosiah in one elaborate wave. I make my way over to him, bracing my body against a gust of wind.

  Yosiah doesn’t turn but it’s obvious he knows it’s me in the way
he doesn’t try to strangle me. He nods at the sea. “That’s the second boat in half an hour.”

  I squint at the white rectangle bobbing on the sea, a trail of foam following it. It’s not as big as the ship we took to Hull but it’s not tiny either. “Where’s it coming from?”

  “Europe.” I recognise that soft voice unconsciously—Kari. She meets my frown with a raised eyebrow.

  Yosiah’s tone is harsher than the wind. “I don’t remember inviting you to join this conversation.”

  Kari snaps her mouth shut on whatever she was going to say. A flash of hurt joins the anger on her face. She strides away without a word, throwing me a covert glance as she heads for the guest house. I know what it means, which is no surprise, but I don’t know what she wants me to do. Instead of asking what’s wrong with Yosiah with words I’d definitely screw up, I ask questions with my expression.

  He avoids answering by waving a hand at the boat. “They’re coming from France, from Forgotten Paris. They heard about our evacuation to Bharat and they want to join us.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He rubs his face. “Timofei.”

  “Ah. Are you two … y’know? Because I thought you and Miya—” He blinks extremely slowly. “And that has absolutely nothing to do with me.” I stop talking, which is perfectly fine, the right thing to do. But then for some stupid reason, I start up again. “I’d be fine with either, just so you know. And I think they’re both really great people. Miya’s a little … terrifying, but if that’s what you go for that’s great.”