AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Today, the leather chilled her skin.
She slipped another bite of lo mein into her mouth.
Dixon put away the Sangre. She’d never refused it before, and she hated that refusing it now might invite further speculation. He didn’t pull out his notepad and ask questions, though. Instead, he slipped into the kitchen and filled a kettle, leaving it on the stove while he opened a cabinet and rummaged through the cutlery, the clatter not loud enough to cover the newscasters’ voices as they blabbered on, rehashing the newest trial at Bullstow. Another lowborn hacker had been found guilty by the disciplinary committee that very morning.
They’d sentenced her to hang.
Lila’s stomach wriggled but did not turn. She shoveled another bite into her mouth, annoyed at its insistence.
“Do you know what else hangs?” one pleasant newscaster asked the other, her hair a shield fixed around her head.
“Effigies?” The other, her hair equally sculpted, winked.
The women both laughed in a rather fake manner, then stopped at exactly the same time.
A picture of Chairwoman Holguín appeared in the space beside them.
Lila shoved more food into her mouth, listening as the women droned on about the protests outside Bullstow, showing a video of people crowding the front gate the night before. A rather crude version of the Holguín matron hung on a makeshift scaffold, the entire structure set to burn by a single match. The workborn who crowded the area chanted something unintelligible, fists pumping in the air, fireworks popping above their heads like gunfire. The group wore no colors—for workborn had no right to do so—but several in the crowd had red bands tied around their upper arm. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen such bands. Lila recalled seeing them on the Wilson compound, the night of a riot, and in previous protests against the Holguín family.
“Representatives from both High House and Low House conferred with protest leaders to discuss their concerns last night,” one newscaster reported. “According to protesters, Bullstow has bungled the safety of government data as well as the sale of Oskar Kruger, a slave bought by the Holguín family. The teenager disappeared shortly after his high-profile purchase less than two months ago. Protestors speculate that Chairwoman Holguín secretly sold the boy to King Lucas, the German king and emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.”
“The Holguín family released an official statement this morning,” the second newscaster continued, “alleging the chairwoman was a victim of theft. The matron maintains that German mercenaries kidnapped Oskar Kruger before the family could complete negotiations with a highborn family in England. Bullstow claims they are still investigating the matter.”
The first newscaster nodded absently, her eyes jiggling as she followed the teleprompter. “In related news, a fire broke out after protestors gathered in front of the Musketman and the Two Cat Tavern last night, both pubs owned by the Holguín family. Firemen were called to the scene around ten o’clock. A spokesperson for the fire department says they were unable to put out the fire before it consumed the buildings, but they kept the flames from spreading to neighboring businesses.”
Footage of the restaurant and the bar next door filled the screen, smoke billowing from the windows and doorway. Highborn patrons streamed outside, a flutter of silk and brocade and leather. The crowd parted slightly so they could escape. Hard eyes and clenched jaws followed each scrambling figure.
More red armbands dotted the crowd.
The video ran out, returning to the newsroom. “Chief Shaw of the Bullstow militia called the incident unfortunate, saying that no criminal act perpetrated by protesters would go unpunished. Bullstow is investigating the incident as arson.”
Dixon handed Lila a mug of tea, then plopped beside her with his own food.
A bedroom door opened.
Tristan leaned in the doorway. “I knew something like that would happen eventually. I wish I had been there. I would have liked to throw a few Molotovs.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and prowled across the room, his black trousers and sweater covering his swimmer’s build, his boots soft against the hardwood floor, his short brown hair mussed as though he’d just woken up. His brown eyes skated across her face then to the containers stacked on the kitchen counter.
He fetched a mug and a tea bag, then grabbed the kettle off the stovetop.
Tristan looked good.
Better than good.
He seemed more relaxed than she’d ever seen him.
“Times are finally changing,” he said while his tea steeped. “They’ll soon change for the better.”
After it had finished, he brought his mug to the screen and plopped down in the sofa chair, ignoring the newscasters who still yammered on, this time about a theft in East New Bristol. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing over a guest today.”
Dixon pulled out his notepad. The oracle retrieved her.
“Oh, are we taking orders from the oracle now?”
Lila frowned. “I thought you were helping her.”
“Yes, we are,” Tristan said. “I had no idea you’d decided to join us, though. I suppose you’ve grown bored of life on the run, or perhaps you’re just tired of mourning your beloved fiancé.”
