The Raging Ones Read online

  As I die here.

  A rancid stench permeates from the nearby dumpster … and from me, lying stiffly beside sodden bags of waste. I fight to speak, but no sound escapes. I fight to lift my heavy head, but my frozen muscles ache. I lick my cracked lips, blood on my tongue.

  Isn’t the afterlife warmer?

  It shouldn’t resemble the same place where I sat down to die: the dank, dirtied alleyway between a firehouse and a laundromat. Tears gather and squeeze from the corners of my eyes, crystalizing on my cheeks. Lift your head, Franny.

  I bite hard and stifle a moan as I raise my thumping head. I force my gaze upward. My jaw nearly unthaws and lowers.

  No.

  It can’t be.

  Morning light battles the lilac smoke, gathered like rumbling clouds.

  I’m bathed in purple hues.

  Silent tears glass my eyes and I shudder at the sight. Did the gods send me to the worst of three hells? What have I done wrong? Frightened, I wheeze out short, sporadic breaths and then roll onto my stomach. A bout of hope flutters inside—what if my deathday hasn’t passed?

  I could still die in an hour or two. I slow my panting and gather my muddled thoughts. I’ll soon die. Thank the gods. I’ll soon die. With haste, I wipe my frozen tears. At the entrance of the alleyway, a lavender car idles beside the curb.

  If I’m meant for hell and hell is where I choose to die, I can’t remain here.

  I’m no car thief, but since Purple Coach did employ me to shuttle people around Bartholo, maybe it’s not a crime to borrow one of their vehicles. In hindsight, I should’ve made many more plans to save up bills and avoid this—how I wish I did.

  I just never think that far ahead. I’ve never needed to.

  Now, as I fixate on the car, I do make a better plan. Die peacefully. Legs too buckled to stand, I dig my fingers into the snow. Cold steals my voice, but my mouth opens in a scream. I drag my body toward the entrance of the alley.

  Soaked. Head pleading to split and burst, I scream. I scream violently and harshly, but all the noise is lost in my dry throat.

  Just get there. Just get there.

  I groan and dig and drag my body another foot. Another.

  Once more.

  I pause, but not to catch my breath. Voices emanate, chatter mounting, and footsteps crunch the snow. In seconds, figures round the corner with vibrant laughs still caught on their lips. The sound fades as they freeze. Seeing me clawing toward the car like a pitiful, wounded animal.

  One fair-haired girl and two slim boys waver for a moment, eyeing one another, then me. No older than I am, they’re dressed in Fast-Tracker rags. Torn pieces of cloth and ripped shirts, layers upon layers for protection from the cruel weather.

  While they hesitate, my desperation climbs toward my lips. I mouth the only word that makes sense to me.

  I mouth, Help. My voice squeaks.

  I try again. Help. I see my breath cloud.

  They nod to one another and then they approach my body. I stretch a quaking arm toward the taller boy, so he can help me to my feet.

  No sooner do I reach out, does he swat my hand away. The sole of his boot crashes against my chest. My head and back thud to the icy pavement. Wind struck from my lungs, I heave for breath.

  “I want her coat,” the girl exclaims, jostling my arms through the holes of the wool sleeves. Her eager, beady eyes meet mine. She rotates my left arm until my bones shriek. Stop.

  Stop.

  As soon as I start to thrash against her, the taller boy whacks my cheek with the back of his hand.

  He does so each time my lips part.

  My head spins.

  The girl unbuttons the last of my coat, ripping it off me completely. “You won’t die without this.” She knows this for a fact. The odds that today would be my deathday are slim.

  But it is.

  “Or without these,” the shorter boy pipes in. He unties and yanks off my boots, his coarse laugh returning. “Unless it’s your deathday, that is.”

  It is.

  It is my deathday. I no longer fight to speak. The taller boy puts extra weight on my chest, his knee bearing down on my breastbone.

  His smarmy grin better rot his teeth. I swallow an agonized, furious moan and struggle to move. He slaps me, my face numb to the pain.

  “If it is your deathday,” the taller, rougher one says, “then you won’t be needing this kinda comfort.” He winks at me.

  I spit at him.

  His kneecap rams into my chin. My teeth batter with piercing pain. I grimace, eyes tightened shut, and they hurriedly forage for more scraps of cloth, more clothes. Hands fumble with my zipper, my waistband, the sleeves of my shirt, ripping.

  Disoriented, I raise my arms and mouth, Stop, stop, stop!

  I use my last reserve of strength, kicking out my legs, battling their advances. The taller boy demands, “Let us have them! You don’t need them!” He tries to yank off my slacks and underwear.

  My next scream escapes, hostile and coarse and dry, but it bites like a wintery blaze. I elbow his jaw and he thuds on his bottom, gawking like I rose from the dead.

  I unleash a gnarled, animalistic noise. Get away. Get away!

  The girl collects the coat. The other boy, my boots. And the taller boy rises with torn shreds of my shirt. Without another word, they rush from the alley.

  I cough hoarsely and plant my hand on the ground for support. My palm rests, not on snow, but sopping paper.

  A flyer with planets and stars and wondrous colors. I brush it aside, a wet newspaper underneath. At first, too spent to see—I blink and blink and blink. I glaze over typed font and all the words, searching for numbers. Searching for the date. Only the date.

  Just the date.

  Please.

  Up by the corner. I see it.

  1-24-3525.

  It’s the day after my deathday.

  I’m already in hell.

  I choke back a sob at the thought of my friends who’ve passed. Did they meet this pain? Did they feel this unholy end? It can’t be. I cry and flip through the paper, the date printed on each page. I throw it angrily aside and stubbornly return my course to the car.

  “It’s not over,” I breathe, my voice raspy and raw. I don’t end this way. I can’t end this way. I will die better this time.

  You’re already dead.

  I hush the horrid reality and I claw, barely clothed, to the idling lavender car. I gain a foot or two before I hear the patter and crunch of boots against snow and ice.

  Fear spikes and I try to drag myself to a dark shadow. Figures round the corner, without hesitation, without stop, and I think the thieving Fast-Trackers tipped someone off to pilfer the last of my protection from the climate.

  “Mayday,” I mutter a curse and as two males near—I kick out my legs and raise my hands into solid fists. I scream out incoherent threats, cries scrambled with snot and wet tears. Fright tries to fog my brain and I blink for coherency to see the towering boy crouch in front of me.

  Quickly, he shrugs off his long black coat and covers my shivering frame. I slow in confusion and scrutinize him. Not starved thin like the others, his lean build has brawn, muscle spindling up the stretch of his arms.

  His alert gray eyes scour my body and snowflakes flutter into his dark messy hair.

  Right behind him, a broad-shouldered boy sheds his green coat. I eye the sleeves and hood, roughly stitched with fur and skins of an animal. He places the coat on the other’s bare shoulders.

  I open my mouth to speak, but the gray-eyed one does before me. “We’re going to help you.”

  Help? Hasn’t it been proven? My face burns from the many slaps and my teeth ache painfully and shrilly.

  No one helps anyone.

  It’s what the thieving FTs said: if it’s not my deathday, I won’t die out here—and if it is, then I’ll be gone fast enough.

  I’m in one of the three hells.

  I say with scorched breath, “You’re a hallucinatio
n.”

  I’m sure of this.

  He tugs off his glove, about to press his bare palm to my cheek, but I recoil. His hand drops, and he peeks over his shoulder at the other boy.

  Not a second or two later, the blond-haired one narrows his cold gaze onto me. He squats beside what seems to be his friend.

  As the gray-eyed boy speaks, he draws my attention. In an assured, smooth voice, he says, “Will you let your hallucinations carry you out of the cold?”

  Yes, I think upon instinct.

  In my silence, he licks his lips and says, “Will you let your hallucinations help you?”

  Yes. Tears slip from my eyes. But why would you?

  Exhaustion drags my body down, the safety of his words soothing me like a drug. Before I slump into a heap, the one with harsh blue eyes lifts me in his strong arms. His touch carries familiarity, as though he’s done this before. Held me.

  Held someone.

  In unforgiving conditions. In frost and snow.

  As soon as my hallucination has me tucked to his chest, my cheek brushes his bare shoulder. Skin tingling along his skin. The sensation lights up my brain, dizzies me, like ingesting nippy air too fast, too quickly. My neck slackens and my head falls back.

  The world darkens around me.

  Hopefully into a better death.

  FIVE

  Franny

  I wake to the sound of sirens. Distant, roaring noises that grow louder and louder. Eyes still closed, I can imagine the red and yellow flashing lights that accompany the high-pitched wails.

  Could the coroners be coming for my body?

  Purple Coach drivers shuttle them in white sanitary vans. They scour the city for those who’ve died. My name is surely on their list. If they can’t find my body, they’ll scribble Unconfirmed next to Franny Bluecastle and continue on.

  Unconfirmed.

  Bodies either sinking at the bottom of the iced ocean or obliterated into too many pieces to count. Coroners used to tell me that most unconfirmeds were fishing accidents. Stepped on fissured ice. Down they went.

  I keep my eyes shut for a moment longer. My sore muscles and limbs nearly forbid me from moving. The gums inside my mouth blister like I gnawed on them. Gods.

  Maybe it’s why I hesitate to look. To see. This place can’t be crueler than the alleyway. I’m warm. Wherever I am, heat cloaks me and the cold has been shunned.

  So I gather scattered pieces of courage and fight to open my heavy-lidded eyes.

  They widen in awe, a shocked breath escaping my parted lips. I was last met with white, white snow and lilac smoke.

  Now.

  Now I’m met with gold.

  Glimmering crown molding frames the vast ceiling and in the center, a decorative oil painting contrasts with my last ugly view. Sapphire skies, streaked with a blend of blue pastels, paint puckered with stark white clouds. Rolling over a vibrant orange sun. No purple smears.

  Just beauty that I’ve never seen until now.

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I reach up, as though I can run my fingers through the ivory clouds and feel the heat of the sun soak my cheeks. The pounding in my temple almost subsides. The gods have sent me to an extraordinary place.

  Thank you.

  “Good, you’re awake.”

  I startle at the masculine voice and shoot straight up, my limbs screaming to lie back down. I ignore their protest, but before I look at him, I notice the silky red sheets covering my legs and the humongous gold-framed bed beneath me. A robe fits perfectly around my frame, softer than anything that’s ever touched my skin.

  No longer frozen to the bone in wet, tattered clothes. I’m grateful to be rid of them.

  I spot the boy.

  He sits on a dignified kind of velvet chair that matches the ornate burgundy drapes, pulled closed over a full-length window. His demeanor is strict but commanding. Spine erect with purpose. Head hoisted like it never learned to lower. Hands on each armrest, he pushes himself to a stance.

  Taller than I imagined.

  Those gray, unflinching eyes, I recognize.

  “You’re my hallucination…” I sweep his features once more while my pulse tries to slow. He eyes me all the same. Up and down. Side to side. But he never steps nearer. Why would I hallucinate a boy? The opulence, yes, but a boy …

  Your hallucination brought you here, Franny. To a place that resembles the Catherina Hotel. Where I’ve longed to be.

  My mind reels and I remember my mother and all her stories about the three gods.

  “Or … are you Caeli?” I ask. He must be Caeli.

  I favored all the stories with them. How the gods would send protectors down to guide the dead to the skies. “The Caeli will clasp your hand like this.” My mother clutched my hand firmly. I was so little that hers nearly sheathed mine. “And with them, you’ll feel safe, no matter where you may be. Caeli will escort you.”

  The Caeli looks puzzled. “What?”

  “Caeli.” I massage my jaw, but then my weakened arm drops to my side. I try again, raising my arm to press my fingers to my tender cheekbone, skin stinging. It’d hurt less if I had a handful of snow.

  Even with the room’s warmth, the boy wears a black wool coat, the collar high, shielding his neck. He doesn’t seem cold. I think he just hopes to leave soon. Somehow, I’m more certain about this fact than anything else. You can’t know for sure.

  I feel like I do.

  It’s not in the way he stands. It’s not in the severity of his eyes. The answer is somewhere. Is it possible to know the core of someone without understanding the shell?

  I watch him saunter toward a mahogany dresser with golden knobs shaped in Altian eight-pointed stars. Voice like varnished glass, he says, “I’m not familiar with Caeli.”

  Maybe it’s called something different. I wish people talked about what happens after death in more detail, but most stories vaguely mention peace and not much else. I just have to believe he’s Caeli. My mother learned about the gods from tales, not anything in fancy Influential books.

  She could’ve botched the name—heard it wrong and then passed it wrong to me.

  “It’s what my mom called the protectors sent by the gods.”

  His eyes briefly flit to me as he collects a black handkerchief from a drawer. He keeps his mouth shut, popping a lid off a brass bucket. He shovels ice into the cloth and knots the fabric.

  I remain completely still.

  With a lengthy stride, he returns to the side of my bed. Closer than before. My pulse speeds, uncertain but certain. Curious but cautious. My warring emotions tell me to spout a million questions but then to contain each one.

  It’s why I stay mostly quiet.

  He reaches out to press the covered ice to my cheek, but I flinch before he touches me. Then I stretch even farther back. We’re silent, staring at each other. Overwhelmed.

  He blinks once and then twice. “Put this on your cheek.”

  I take the covered ice. He’s here to help. I’m just not used to helping hands. As much as I asked for them, I don’t understand how they can exist without a catch. Maybe it’s because I’m dead. He helps because I’ve died.

  That’s it.

  I put the ice to my cheekbone and, on impulse, I extend my palm to the Caeli.

  Please let this be the right way. “You can take me now.”

  His lips never upturn. They stay in an ill-humored line. He swings his head toward a wooden grandfather clock. Impatiently, it seems.

  “Is that how this works?” I ask outright.

  “No,” he says with finality.

  I frown. Of course. I botched my deathday, so why wouldn’t I botch this too? I’m just the girl the banker shuts the blinds on. The girl people piss on in an alleyway. The girl most ignore while she drives them around the city.

  I’m just Franny and all I’ve ever counted toward was this. I scan my surroundings, reminding myself that it’s not close to terrible. My body may be furiously sore, but I’d take every w
eighted bone for this view.

  My lips begin to rise at the painted ceiling, the embroidered drapes, and the intricately stitched rug, spooled with warm-colored thread.

  I catch the boy studying my reaction, but I don’t shield my emerging smile for him. It stays with my happiness.

  “Death is beautiful,” I whisper.

  He tears his gaze from mine and eyes the clock again.

  Then a bathroom door swings open, a second boy appears. Shorter than the one beside my bed, but bigger boned. Taut muscles ripple down his chest and carve his arms.

  I remove the ice from my cheek, sitting more stiffly. Another Caeli.

  He rubs his damp hair with a scarlet towel, buck-naked. Beads of water slip down his skin. Not noticing me, he says, “The hot water in the bath doesn’t go cold here—damned miracle.”

  By his stature and blond hair alone, I remember. He was the one who carried me from the alleyway. I try to ease and hug my knees closer to my chest.

  The first Caeli is about to speak, but the one drying his hair suddenly acknowledges me.

  His cold gaze lightens like a ray of sun through fragmented clouds. “Well, aren’t you just brimming with pleasure.”

  I touch my lips, but my smile has faded, leaving mostly the comfort I feel inside. Still, the corners of his mouth pull upward. Like he knows just how happy I am.

  “Put some clothes on, Mykal,” the first Caeli snaps.

  “Why?” both Mykal and I say together.

  Mykal nearly breaks into surprised laughter and a rumble tickles my throat—strange. I withhold a cough, and he scans me, toe to head, while rubbing the towel through his hair.

  Then he ties the fabric at his waist, hiding his lower half. “Seems she’s more like me and less like you, Court.”

  I catch the other Caeli’s name. Court.

  Court rolls his eyes. “No one is like you, Mykal.”

  I don’t understand the opposition to being naked unless you’re too cold. I didn’t spend my days caring about whether someone saw me in baths. Not when I was lucky enough to take a lukewarm one. Most Fast-Trackers I know feel the same. I wouldn’t be able to speak for Influentials, but they do have more time to be concerned about things.