Elias (GRIT Sector 1) Read online

"Elias."

  I should have known he'd be here. I'd expected a visit, but it still caught me off guard. It still brought me to heel the way it always had. It still frightened and comforted me simultaneously. I took a deep breath, blinked once and turned my back on the capital of England to face him.

  "Father," I greeted with a curt nod.

  Ambrose Blackwood. My father. My guardian and mentor, my leader and trainer, my boss and the man who would soon step down and leave the empire to me. Father smiled, the way he always did that reminded me of our similarities. He'd been here before and one day I would be where he was standing.

  I gestured for him to take the seat opposite me as I pulled my chair out and slid into it, unbuttoning my jacket and taking a quick breath of freedom.

  "Where were you yesterday?" he asked sitting down, his eyes fixed on me.

  Intimidation. One of the first lessons I’d received when I began training. I wasn't fazed by it. No, I welcomed it, especially from my father. He had the sparkle in his eyes, the same Blackwood sparkle I'd seen in my own when I looked in the mirror less than an hour ago.

  Where had I been yesterday? I was supposed to have been at my grandmother's luncheon, snacking on cucumber sandwiches and sipping elderflower cordial.

  "I had some business to tend to," I lied.

  He knew I was lying; I knew he did. He was a human polygraph and he'd once walked this road, crossed this path and followed this pattern.

  But he said nothing.

  He couldn't. It was no longer his place, my discipline no longer his responsibility, my actions no longer under his authority.

  Deception. Another lesson taught early; how to see when someone was lying; how to spot the dilation of their pupils, the twitch of their neck as their pulse spiked; the hesitation and signs of anxiety.

  "You were missed," he said.

  I knew he wanted to question me. I knew he was curious as to where I had been, what I had been doing and who with.

  The answer? I had been at home in the library, with the door locked and the curtains drawn, avoiding the world.

  I knew the drill; I'd heard the stories and sat through hundreds of hours of lessons. I knew what I was supposed to be doing this year...but I didn't want to.

  The lack of rebellion would bring shame on my family and disgrace the name I'd been given.

  "She wants to see you."

  "I know."

  "She doesn't want you to avoid her."

  "I know."

  "She just wants you to come to terms with it."

  I nodded this time. I didn't need to say it again—I didn't need to follow the script to the word, as long as the outcome was the same. Rebellion. We both knew I was aware of the rules. I didn't want to disobey, to refuse and defy...but it was part of the transition.

  "How is everything coming along?"

  I wished he was asking about the phase, I wished he was addressing the shift; I wished he was encouraging me to talk to him, letting me know I had my father's support.

  "Good." I nodded, wanting to give him more. Wanting to give him something instead of avoiding everything. "Great, actually. The team is more than adequate."

  "Don't get too involved, Elias," he warned. I felt the stab of sadness at his disappointment. It passed quickly, the armour clicking into place before a hint of tension could move. "That's why you have William."

  William Tate—Tate being the word of importance. The Tate's had worked for the Blackwood's for ten generations. William Tate was my partner. He ran the company while I didn't. The Blackwood's had always made sure the Tate's were paid handsomely and respected greatly, like our equals...only they weren't.

  They were not equal.

  They were our dogs, the money, compliments and security their treats—rewards for their loyalty to the name that would always overshadow theirs.

  "I know."

  "Where is he? I wondered if he'd show me the records."

  "It's Monday morning, Father," I said, conscious of my tone and keeping it in the safe zone. "He's in meetings today. Investors this morning, advisors this afternoon."

  Father scowled. I'd fallen for it. He had no right to see William now. He hadn't really wanted to know where William was; he'd asked to find out how close I was. He'd asked to gain access to what it was I really wanted.

  To be William.

  "Look, Elias," he said, leaning forward to place his hand over mine, halting my drumming fingers. "I know this is difficult. It's a sudden change and it's a lot to get used to. But we've followed all the rules. I've made this as easy as possible for you."

  "I know." I nodded, feeling like a broken record, but refusing to let the human emotions I'd been trained to control let loose. "I'm trying."

  "You're doing well." Father stood up, rounded the desk to stand behind me, and placed his hand on my shoulder. "I'm proud of you, son."

  My breath hitched, my vision blurred and the tips of my fingers felt numb. Three times. My father had said those words just three times in my thirty-two years on this earth.

  The first had been after a lesson, when I'd sat and listened to the story for over an hour, fascinated and transfixed on the truth about why we were here.

  The second had been after a fight; after my first lesson in military combat. I'd shown him that I could commit; that I would push my body beyond its limits and win—no matter the cost.

  The third. Right now, when I'd shown him that I was still committed to this, that I would push and fight and reach for my destiny.

  "We're doing the right thing, Elias."

  "I know."

  My father gave my shoulder a gentle reassuring squeeze and I watched him leave the office, a feeling niggling deep inside me that maybe there were alternative ways of doing the right thing.

  I allowed my lips to twitch in amusement.

  Who was I kidding?

  We were GRIT. It was our destiny to continue this work, like our fathers before us.

  It was entirely too early to be awake on a Sunday. I did not want to emerge from the cocoon of my bed and sit through another day, desperately wishing the week ahead would disappear in a cloud of eternal-weekend promises. There was a distant ringing, an angry chiming that was far too aggressive and spectacularly annoying.

  And then I remembered.

  It was Monday.

  I jumped up, reaching for my phone only to notice when I looked at the screen that I’d pressed snooze at least seven times, and I was late for work.

  Again.

  I fell out of bed, scrambling to my feet and heading for the shower as I stripped out of yesterday’s clothes and prayed I wasn’t too late to catch the hot water before it shut off.

  I was in luck. For half of the shower anyway.

  Wash, rinse… I did all that with hot water; I washed with some cheap body wash from the off-licence on the corner of the road, which claimed to be fragranced with rose and cotton when actually, it had a distinct aroma of cheapness and fakery. Still, I washed with it, scrubbing away the dirt from yesterday and cleaning the canvas for a new day. I washed my hair with the shampoo and conditioner that I’d bought on sale last week, shaking the bottle and squeezing hard to get the last little splodge out of the bottom. And that’s when the water ran cold, cursing me for being late and laughing at me for being covered in conditioner. I hadn’t had time to rinse if off, so I did it under the cold trickle, jumping and squealing every time a drip flicked from my locks and splashed my bare back. I hadn’t shaved, I hadn’t cleaned yesterday’s makeup off, although I watched it tinge the water as it dripped from me and ran into the drain.

  So guess what? I didn’t bother.

  I switched off the water and climbed out, scrubbing the towel over my wet body in the race to get dry. Securing it around me, I wiped my face with a hand towel, tossing it into the sink as I left the bathroom and went in search of some clothes.

  I hadn’t done my laundry. Saturday had been spent accompanying Ruby to the market, perusing the stalls with her alt
hough we both knew she’d had no intention of buying anything. She was as good as housebound, too tired to go far from the flat we shared, too stubborn to allow anyone to accompany her so she could stay out for longer. Instead she waited for me and every weekend, unless she was otherwise engaged, we’d walk the market with her arm linked with mine, her little, age-worn feet shuffling along the cobbled streets.

  I rummaged through the pile on the floor—the one I had sorted neatly so I didn’t mix the colours in with the whites again—and carried out the sniff test. I might have been running late and still half asleep, but I drew the line at wearing clothes that had been tangled together for a week. I found some dark trousers and a blouse, tossed them on the bed, and raced to the drawer for underwear.

  Thirty seconds later I was dressed and rushing to cover my sleepy blotches and blemishes with makeup that would make me look half-human and calling a taxi—offering him double the fair, which of course, I couldn’t really afford—if he hurried the hell up and got me to work before I lost my job.

  Grabbing a band off my desk and shoving my hair up on the top of my head to dry, I left the bedroom, shut the door behind me to hide the mess and slid along the hallway to the kitchen.

  Ruby was sitting at the table with breakfast and a cup of earl grey. God damn, I hated morning people. I hated everything associated with life before midday which, in this world, meant I was limited to what I could not hate.

  Ruby tutted and shook her head, raising her dainty teacup to her daintier mouth and took the daintiest sip.

  “Good morning to you too, Grandma.”

  “This is no way to begin a new week, my dear.”

  I rolled my eyes and opened the refrigerator, digging in for a carton of orange juice, hoping there would be something for me to take for lunch hiding at the back somewhere.

  I was out of luck. I’d be going without lunch again. I didn’t want to be bitter about it, but I couldn’t help it. I glanced over my shoulder, past my bony backside to where Ruby was watching, dressed in her silk and velvet that had once belonged to a pharaoh, or whatever it was. I shot up when the cab driver honked the horn outside, and cursed as I banged my head on the shelf in the fridge.

  “Fuck sake.”

  “Trixie Ashford.”

  “Sorry, Grandma. Won't happen again,” I said for the umpteenth time since we’d moved in together. Every day. I’d said it every day for the past two years. Ruby didn’t react anymore, simply sighed and resigned to the fact that I was a twenty-first century woman with a mouth to match, and not the lady she’d hoped I would become. “Have a good day.”

  “Shopping list.” Ruby pointed behind her to where post-its were piled up on the cork notice board, and I pulled them off, shoving them in my pocket as I slung my backpack over my shoulder.

  “Have a good day,” I said again, leaning over her to kiss her wrinkly cheek and pinch a piece of toast, shoving it in my mouth before she could protest.

  I waved at her over my shoulder knowing she was watching, and left the flat, running down the steel steeps, jumping over the missing one and sliding straight into the back of the cab.

  I sighed in relief when I got to the shop and realised I was the first in. I pulled the keys out of my bag, opened the lock and let myself in, quickly disabling the alarm before I drew any attention to myself.

  “Seb?” I called when I closed and locked the door, and heard rustling in the back room. “Seb, is that you?”

  The shop fell silent and my heart raced when I thought of all the reasons for the scurrying I’d heard, the quietness that had surged in when I’d spoken, and the tension and fear that smothered me as I reached behind me to grip the door. I called again.

  “Seb?”

  The rustling began again, quietly at first, gradually growing in volume until I heard thumping movement behind the door to the back room and it opened slowly.

  “What time do you call this?” Seb shouted as he emerged and showed he meant no harm—at the moment—with his hands in the air and a smile on his face before he wiped his hands on his apron.

  “Sorry. It was Ruby, she had a bad night,” I lied.

  I told that lie a lot. Ruby was old, she wouldn’t mind. Seb frowned, clearly doubting my excuse for being an hour late with my hair still wet, and wearing clothes I’d worn last week—although I couldn’t remember which day I’d worn which item.

  “How is she?” he asked, pulling the apron over his head and hanging it on its hook on the inside wall of the back room.

  “Good.”

  “I haven’t seen her for a while.”

  “She doesn’t leave the house much,” I lied again.

  Because she did. With me on Saturdays and wherever she went during the day while I was at work. She refused to talk about those times, calling on her supposed dementia and claiming amnesia had struck to take her memory of the day’s activities away.

  Seb nodded, then tipped his head from side to side. He wasn’t arguing—it wasn’t a debate he’d win here—but I knew he was wondering why anyone would want to stay indoors.

  Sebastian McGuire, my boss, art dealer, gallery owner and up-and-coming-artist-grabber. He’d moved to London back in the nineties, with the idea of using art to explore and explain all of the things that made London as unique as it was. When others were fleeing the capital, before the boundaries were set and the barriers erected, Sebastian slipped in, made the cesspit his home and couldn’t understand why we weren’t partying in the streets and splashing in the blood shed by the killers of the underground.

  “What’s on today?” I asked, steering us away from a conversation we couldn’t have.

  “Coffee first,” he said, smacking his lips like a dehydrated dog. “Then we’ve got showcase plans to go over, some portfolios to evaluate and a new piece from Reaper coming in later.”

  “Before curfew?”

  Seb tipped his head again, like he always did when he didn’t want to lie, but wanted to avoid telling the truth. It was a kind of weave; slide to the left, ease to the right…he basically wanted to stay on innocent ground, but dance with deviance on top of it.

  Which meant Reaper’s piece wasn’t coming before curfew.

  Reaper. The artist of the minute. He’d actually been the artist of the phase, since the last man brave enough to paint the truth had been killed by those he depicted. Reaper had no face. He had no real name, no persona, no character or profile…he just existed as the man everyone wanted to meet, because his paintings told the truth. In shades of colour that matched the insides of the humans in the city—black and red—Reaper painted like no other, displaying the death and evil that was allowed to thrive in the deserted capital of the country. We hadn’t met him. We’d sold two pieces for him—for a total of £3.2 million—and we’d never met him. Neither had the people who brought the pieces in and represented him. I didn’t know his story, but I wanted to. I was fascinated with Reaper.

  “Okay.” I nodded, desperate to just get on with the day before time ran out. “Coffee first, then we can get ready for the arrival. Do you know who’s bringing it in?”

  “Do I ever?”

  “Good point.” I reached my desk in the centre of the shop, slung my bag on top and dug into it for my planner, slumping into the seat and grabbing a pen from the pot. “What needs to be done for the showcase?”

  “One thing at a time, Trix.” I glanced up at Seb to see him taking his place at his desk behind the cubicle in the corner. “Coffee, then work.”

  I sighed. Coffee took time. We didn’t have time, never did; I wasn’t sure I actually knew what it felt like to not be working to a schedule, under pressure and under the watchful eye of those waiting for us to make a mistake. I stood again and slipped into the back to make Seb’s coffee. Why he couldn’t make it himself, I didn’t know, but it was in the contract I’d stupidly signed without reading and my boss took great pleasure in knowing I’d signed up to take his shit and receive money in my account every month for it.


  I stared at the clock as sunset loomed closer, bringing bursts of orange and tints of purple to collide. I was in trouble, I knew that. I also knew that Seb would let me go if I asked…but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t subject myself to his judgment and I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to meet Reaper. There was almost no possibility of him bringing his own piece in for us to sell, but by God as long as there was hope of seeing him, I’d risk my safety and apologise to Ruby later.

  There was a quiet buzz in the background as I finalised plans for tomorrow’s showcase of bullshit colourful art of a fantasy world that was impossible here. We had a visitor and they’d arrived at the back entrance as planned, in time for them to get home before darkness fell. Seb shot from his chair where he’d been staring out at the street waiting for whatever it was he sat up waiting for every night, and ran to the back. I followed, stealing a glance outside as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, leaving the city to its own devices. I reached the back, down the concrete steps and through Seb’s workshop as he freed the locks from the steel door and pushed the bar to open it. Two men waited for him outside, both dressed in black overalls that would protect the canvas from contamination…neither of them were Reaper. I knew he’d carry himself like the genius he was, hold an air of creativity and superiority because he’d tapped into the underground. He held it and he owned it and he manipulated it into realism on a page. These two men were run-arounds, minions, employees who had signed a NDA that no doubt promised death as a punishment for breaking it.

  “Good evening, fellas,” Seb greeted, his eyes flashing with pound signs and the excitement of Reaper’s latest masterpiece.

  I agreed with him here. I had butterflies and I welcomed their escalation as the two carriers stepped in, carefully hauling the precious cargo into the shop. Seb led them to the display station, an easel with clasps at the bottom and bright lights above. That was it. Seb didn’t inspect artwork with a magnifying glass or chemicals that validated the materials used. He used his naked eye, he followed his gut and he listened to the instincts that had led him to this industry, and brought the newest Reaper piece to our door. The carriers reached up to caress the red velvet cloth that always concealed Reaper’s work, and in perfect sync, they slid it off the canvas to pool at the floor beneath the easel.