The Dark Sky Collection: The Dark Sky Collection Page 2

  Sonya kissed my cheek and tried to make casual conversation as she cleaned and wrapped my wounds. Thankfully nothing was broken this time. I did my best to be polite and friendly so she would smile, but my mind was on autopilot. I barely even noticed when she left.

  Sonya’s words nagged at me when I was alone. Pushed against what I believed.

  Three years of fighting for my life in the Crater taught me how to survive. But not how to live. And that was what I was hoping for.

  A life where I didn’t have to suffer in battles for my life. Where I could trust someone on my own terms. Where I could fall in love again without worrying that I’d only be a way to pass time.

  Stupid hopes in a world overrun with bloodthirsty monsters and cold-hearted warlords. But I remembered my life before The Storm. I remembered having a family. Being safe. Cared for.

  I wanted those feelings to come back more than anything, but the more I fought, the more I saw, the more my hope began to fade.

  Chapter 3

  Being around the Runts should have made me feel lucky that I wasn’t considered one of them anymore. Ryland and the Dogs considered them lower than dirt, men and women debased and abused until they lost all strength and willpower. They looked empty and weak, like beaten children with the most basic needs. I felt pity every time I looked at them.

  I moved the supply crates into their hundred- foot den, a tiny space with ragged, patchy fabric strewn across the ground to serve as blankets. I knew from experience that the fabric was scratchy and so thin you could feel every rock that stabbed into your back when you tried to sleep.

  Dirty cookware sat discarded on the bare patches of dark brown earth where small fires would be made to cook dismal amounts of food. The Runts were given scraps– which I was currently bringing them– so the air constantly smelled rotten. The putrid stench wasn’t helped by the holes dug in the ground to serve as chamber pots. The only light in the area came from the dim light bulbs strung around the room, hammered into the wooden beams that supported the ceiling.

  Sadder than the living conditions were the Runts themselves. The grime and dirt covering their bodies did nothing to hide the bones I spotted under the burlap sacks they used as clothing. At least on those lucky enough to have “clothes.” Some of the Runts wore nothing at all.

  Their hair was in tangled, clumped, or oily messes, their eyes bloodshot and tired. Two dozen men and women coughed and gagged, going about menial tasks like equipment repair and sewing. They would do whatever tasks Ryland assigned them, when he was inclined to remind them of the control he had. Most of the women went about their duties with empty, distant eyes. Shadows of their former selves. Sonya’s mind hadn’t shattered at the job she was forced to preform for the Stray Dogs. Others weren’t so lucky.

  I tried to keep myself anonymous as I dropped off the crate of spoiling meat. The slight thunk of wood on hard earth got their attention. The Runts stopped what they were doing, eyes going wide as they saw me standing there. My heart sank. After three years, I thought they would realize that I wasn’t their enemy. I would never hurt any of them. But all they could see was the rabid animal inked to my arm. They knew that if Ryland ordered me to discipline them, I would be very hard to resist. Being the famous and feared champion in the Crater didn’t help matters.

  I turned and walked away before their stares could deject me further. I entered the tunnel that connected the Runt den to the Alpha den. It resembled and old miners cave, dead and dying string light bulbs tacked to rotting wooden beams. I trudged through them to my room, hoping that I wouldn’t run into trouble.

  I should have known better.

  They seemed to come out of nowhere, so I was grateful that I heard them moving at all. I looked up and stopped in place.

  Dylan and Stanner were healed, save for some minor bruises, and ready for revenge. I saw the malicious intent in their eyes as they stormed closer. They hated losing to a kid half their age who just fought to see the next day.

  The Runts scattered to the shadows. My fingers curled slightly, ready to form into fists the second they stormed closer.

  The two men stood in front of me and glared.

  “Something wrong?” I asked, flicking my gaze between both of them.

  “Ryland wanted you in his den an hour ago,” Stanner grated out. The vein in his left temple bulged. His temper must have been on a hair trigger.

  “No one told me about it,” I said. “Thought I was supposed to help the Runts.”

  Dylan looked at the men and women cowering against the wall and scowled with disgust. I bit back my comment that he didn’t look– or smell– any better than they did. We all lived in the dirt here.

  But nothing I said would get through to him. It wasn’t just that he was bigger and stronger than the rest of us, or that the snarling dog tattooed on his right forearm marked him as a Stray Dog and not a Runt. No, if I said anything, violence would ensue because I said it. They’d spent nearly a month nursing their wounds and thinking up revenge schemes as they regained strength. A better way to fight me and turn me into a bloody pulp.

  “You’re not one of them,” Stanner pointed out. Steam was all but coming from his ears. He pointed to my right forearm. “You’re one of us.”

  I glanced at the tattoo, a duplicate of theirs, given to me when Ryland thought I was worthy to fight for him. He saw something in me when I first survived the Crater at thirteen years old. The rabid hound growled at me as I stared at it, furious and savage. It was a mark of what I was supposed to be. What I became every time Ryland forced me into the Crater.

  “Not by choice,” I said plainly.

  For someone I beat to pulp only weeks ago, Dylan moved with alarming quickness. His hands fisted my shirt and shoved me against the earthy wall. Cold, hard soil lined into my back, but I just stared blandly. I wouldn’t let him think he intimidated me.

  “You’re an ungrateful bastard, you know that?” he snarled. “You don’t know how good you have it. You don’t deserve to be in the Crater.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You want to go into another hole in the ground? Keep pushing me, and you’ll get your wish.”

  Dylan hissed and pulled back his fist, but I was ready. I knocked my head against his, crushing his nose. When he was dazed, I hammered my fists against his forearms. Released, I shoved him hard into the middle of the hall.

  Stanner was quick to replace Dylan, swinging his fist wide. I blocked the strike to my head, though I couldn’t do anything about the one to my stomach. Still gripping his first hand, I twisted it until it was pinned behind his back. Stanner roared angrily, fighting a cry of pain that had to be rushing up his arm.

  Dylan rushed to my open left. I snapped my head in his direction, then swung Stanner into him. The two men collided and hit the wall. I stepped back and raised my fists to defend myself again.

  “Nash!”

  I frowned. I hated when people shouted my name.

  Moving to the right so I could keep Dylan and Stanner in my sights, I looked at the new voice. My scowl became a grimace when I saw Ryland’s new favourite lapdog– Benson– staring at me from the tunnel junction at my back.

  Benson was the filthiest of the Stray Dogs. Given that we lived in a cave, it certainly said something, though I think he enjoyed being rotten. His clothes were constantly covered in grime, his pasty skin covered in streaks of soot. The oil from his thinning hair was slick against his head. His eyes rheumy eyes were fixed on me, but at least he wasn’t smiling. Seeing his black and yellow teeth almost always made me gag.

  “Ryland wants to see you.”

  Benson turned and started walking toward the Alpha den. He wouldn’t care if I were late or not, but Ryland wasn’t renowned for his patience.

  I glanced at Dylan and Stanner. The look in their eyes promised me that our rivalry wasn’t over, but they wouldn’t draw Ryland’s ire for petty revenge. At least not yet.

  Sighing heavily, I followed Benson to the next cavern. This cave wa
s double the size of the one the Runts occupied, filled with makeshift mattresses and cots for thirty men. Tables and chairs were piled high with tools and equipment in random order at the centre of the room. Crate upon crate was stacked along the Alpha den walls, each one filled with supplies that were almost embarrassing to use. Rusted or broken tools. Clothing that was little more than tattered fabric. Food growing with nightmarish mold.

  And our marauder Clan was considered to be one of the wealthiest remaining in Westraven and in Aon itself. Not that we had other Clans to boast to, since most were killed by the Hellions in The Storm eight years ago.

  Scrounging through the crates were a dozen thickly built men. Five more sat on the ground grumbling and cursing each other in a game of Liar’s Dice. Scars lined the skin of their arms and exposed chests. Cold eyes and hard frowns were the collective expressions. Every man had a rabid dog inked on his right arm.

  I walked past the Stray Dogs, avoiding their gazes even when I felt aggressive eyes on me. To these men, my supposed crew, I was nothing more than an inexperienced boy who was lucky in the Crater. They had never accepted me, would never try. For reasons I gave up trying to understand, I was no better than a Runt to them. A slave with a touch more respect than the actual Runts, but a slave nonetheless.

  Benson led me past the offended eyes to the wood and iron bolted door at the back of the cave. Two men with barrel chests and pistols on either side of their hips– Carter and Jensen– lounged outside it, sitting on a pair of crates that amazingly held their weight. They went rigid as we approached. They paid Benson no mind, but scowled at me.

  “Boss still wants to see him,” Benson replied.

  “Don’t know why,” the man on the right– Jensen– grumbled. “Kid ain’t worth shit outside the Crater. Barely worth it in there.”

  I didn’t bother to be offended. If three solid years of fighting and becoming an undefeated champion couldn’t make them respect me, nothing would.

  “Just following orders,” Benson quipped before rapping his knuckles on the door.

  A muffled grunt came from inside, signalling Benson to enter. He strode in with his chin held high. I let my shoulders slump.

  Ryland sat on a leather trunk behind a wooden desk. Both were stolen from a wealthy house in the artsy drafter district, but damned if they didn’t make him look like a powerful leader. He polished a flintlock, adorned with a silver skull and black gems for eyes. It had been one of the most popular firearm models among marauders in the years before The Storm, when piracy was at its peak. Now there were only handfuls left. They were rare, powerful treasures, and their owners would kill to keep them.

  “Get out, Benson,” Ryland muttered without looking up.

  The marauder sputtered behind me. He had come far and wanted to continue moving up the ranks until he was Ryland’s equal. A dream that would never be fulfilled. Ryland saw himself as a king under the ground. He would never allow anyone to become his equal, content with killing off the competition.

  A cold, steel stare confirmed this. Benson bowed his bead and quickly scurried out of the room. He closed the door behind him, leaving me alone with the marauder captain, his unknown intentions, and his gun.

  Ryland rested the pistol on the desk and stared up at me. I didn’t feel any safer.

  “Have you heard the news?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t have any friends willing to gossip with me.

  “The Hellions are moving in the daylight now.”

  Of all the things he could have said, that was the last one I wanted to hear.

  The bloodthirsty monsters that came from the tear in the sky known in as the Breach were nocturnal butchers. Flying down without warning in their grotesque raiding skiffs, they hunted and captured any human they set their blood-red eyes on. Knifelike fangs sank into exposed flesh, tearing it from bone. They didn’t have a preference about who they killed. Man, woman, child... Younger sister, baby brother. If it was human and it breathed, it was prey to them.

  I dropped my eyes to my feet before the memories could resurface and bring old pain with them.

  “How do you know?”

  “Our last scavenging party came back in ribbons. Literally. Russ’ arm was hanging by threads of skin. Stab wounds all over his body. All the bastard could say was that they had needles on their face, whatever the hell that means.” Ryland shook his head. “Amazing he got as far as he did. Can’t say I was pleased about his fate.”

  I grimaced. Russ wasn’t a friend, but he never actively sought to hurt me. That earned him one up from the rest of the Dogs in my eyes.

  “His fate?”

  The captain gave me an impatient sigh. “What use is a crazy marauder with one arm?”

  Understanding dawned into horror. “You killed him?”

  Ryland nodded without a trace of remorse. “One of the snipers on the wall told me the moron was tying to get in. Screaming like a damned grieving widow. So I told him to put a bullet in Russ. Keep the Hellions away from the Barren before they heard him.”

  Maybe it had been a mercy. Maybe Ryland was looking out for the rest of us in the dens. I still thought it was heartless and barbaric, and the brutality of it shocked me.

  “Do you think he was telling the truth?” I hedged, getting control over my horror.

  “Don’t know. But I’m sure you’ll find out.”

  I squinted. “Sir?”

  Ryland stood up slowly. The leather trunk groaned with relief as his immense bulk was lifted from it. “We’re going into lockdown, Nash. If Hellions are going to take over the day as well as the night, then we can’t risk as many scavenges. We need to take as much as we can, and make it last as long as we can before other Clans get their hands on it. Which means you need to start pulling your weight.”

  That was another reason the Dogs hated me so much. As far as they were concerned, I was getting an easy ride. All I had to do was heavy lifting, go on small scavenging missions, and stay alive in the Crater. I wasn’t a “true crew mate” to them. Not that I could do anything to get them off my back, since they all tried to kill me when they cornered me alone.

  “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  Ryland started making his way around the desk. “We’ve been trying to push a farmer into our employ. Stubborn old coot named Davy. Doesn’t want our protection for a share of food from his farm. I want you to persuade him.”

  A cold knot formed in my stomach.

  “All due respect sir, I think this is the kind of job better suited to your regular scavengers.”

  Ryland stopped in front of me and folded his arms over his chest. “They gave me their opinion on you, too. They think you’re weak. A coward too afraid of doing what you have to do for your family.”

  Rage bubbled under my chest. I couldn’t control myself this time.

  “You’re not my family.”

  Ryland didn’t wince at the dangerous growl in my voice. He showed no emotion at all.

  “We’re the only family that matters. Your other family is dead. Because they were weaker than you.”

  “Don’t–”

  Ryland shoved hard against my shoulders. I stumbled back. “I made you stronger.” Another push, another stumble. “I made you better.” Harder this time, almost toppling me over. “I made you a man.”

  He pushed me again. When I stumbled, my back hit the wall.

  “And all you do is whine and cry like your bratty siblings did.”

  My temper snapped before I could realize what I was doing. I surged forward and drew back my fist, ready to knock out Ryland’s teeth. Which was exactly what he wanted me to do.