Elias (GRIT Sector 1) Read online

  I took the journey home quickly, my instincts on alert. This wasn’t home; I couldn’t help but wonder if there was such a thing. A place where someone felt safe and comfortable, like every step they took wasn’t being watched, everything they wanted and desired under threat of extinction. The streets were quiet; it had been weeks since I’d allowed myself to be stranded after curfew.

  The Queen and her Parliament had enforced the curfew as a way of trying to protect the public from the evil that ran wild under the cover of night. She’d tried—they’d all tried—to make London a safer place, to control crime and punish it in a way that deterred and reformed…but they’d failed, and London had gone under spectacularly. So Her Majesty and her government had been forced to make a deal with the devil—a public submission to an army they could no longer fight. When darkness fell, the city emptied. The streets fell silent, shops were boarded up with industrial steel to protect them from being looted, restaurants were as good as non-existent now there was no night-life, no industry with demands to meet. By day the capital was a thriving city of business, culture and diversity, but by night…it died. And so did anyone who dared to walk its streets.

  Which is what I was doing right now. There were no busses, no taxis, no river boats or rickshaws like I’d seen in the newspapers reporting life on the outside. We didn’t need those. We were locked in, barricaded by concrete and barred by guards in towers at checkpoints on the outskirts of town. We were left to sink, to suffer and survive the best we could until the good died and, with no one left to kill, the bad would die too.

  We’d been abandoned by our country, left to fend for ourselves and pray we’d see the outside again.

  I walked past the Italian restaurant I’d been to as a child. It was one of the only places I’d ever seen that wasn’t part of the institution of being a citizen—home, school, work—or part of the grounds my family owned. I hadn’t been to Ashford House for weeks, since the last family party hosted by my adoptive parents, Richard and Mae Ashford.

  My thoughts were halted by the sound of footsteps behind me. I tried to identify how many pairs—how many people threatened to fight each other over who would cause my death. My heart stopped beating before it kick-started and went into overdrive. My step faltered and I slipped on the wet cobbles, bracing my hands in front of me to catch me when I fell. By some miracle, I didn’t, but I sped up. I would have broken out into a run, but I knew that was what they’d want. The chase. The hunt. Shit, why didn’t I just stay in the shop tonight? Or give up on trying to meet Reaper, and get home before curfew? I wanted to look behind me, to find out what I’d be facing, but instead I chose to keep my eyes forward, my gaze fixed on the street ahead—on the little flat at the end where I could see the dim light of the lamp in Ruby’s bedroom. Was she up waiting for me? Would someone tell her I’d been metres away before they’d got me?

  I could still hear the footsteps. Someone was still following me, and I was still alone, outside, in the dark and I couldn’t even find the courage to scream.

  Would anyone have come and saved me if I did? I allowed my gaze to dance around me, hoping someone would at least watch me die so they could tell my family. I could see the twitch of the curtains in the house to the right of me, the flicker of candlelight from the bungalow to the left, a blind being lowered in the flat beneath ours. I promised myself that if I survived this, I’d never grab Mr Lowe some milk on the way home from work again. I felt the tension building as my muscles began to burn, my legs began to tingle and my lips fell numb.

  Was this it? Was this really it? Surely this couldn’t be the end of my story already.

  “Trixie.”

  I screamed then, partly because I hadn’t been expecting a whisper to cut through the frosty silence and partly because I felt some relief before it had even registered.

  “Trace.”

  I turned in time for my brother to grab the top of my arm and steer me off to the side into the shadows. He held me against the wall while I caught my breath, allowed my heart to slow and the adrenaline to die down now it knew it wasn’t needed. Trace stood on guard, one hand on either of my arms as he glanced around us to interpret danger before it could hit us.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “What are you doing?” I returned his whisper, although mine was harsher with defence and cold with the thought of what would have happened if he hadn’t been here.

  Trace grabbed my wrist and pulled me along behind him as he charged towards the building where Ruby and I lived, refusing to slow down for me…or the others.

  “Keys.” He held his hand over his shoulder, wiggling his fingers at me. “Keys, Trixie.”

  I dug into my bag, hooked the ring over my finger, pulled my set of keys out and handed them to my brother. He was mad. Trace didn’t get mad often; he was cool as a cucumber, so laid back he was horizontal, and all those other clichés. He didn’t do mad, and definitely not at me. He snatched the keys from me, shoved me up the steps to the front door of the flat I shared with our grandmother, and he stood over me like a force-field while he unlocked the door, pushed it open and shoved me inside.

  “Trace,” I said, watching as he inspected the area, sweeping the ground below with a detective’s eye, and then slammed and locked the door.

  “No,” he clipped, shutting me up as I opened and closed my mouth, looking for the words to utter an excuse. “Do you realise what could have happened out there?”

  “Of course.” I shrugged like I used to do when I was a kid and Richard caught me smoking. “I was almost home.”

  “Do you know what they’d have done if they caught you?”

  “Yes.”

  My voice was quieter then, when I was forced to face the possible outcomes if Trace hadn’t been there. I’d seen the news, I’d read the newspapers, I’d had people I considered friends go missing never to be seen again until their photo emerged on the noticeboard outside Scotland Yard. We were slowly dying out. Killing each other. Destroying the human race until there would be nothing left. London first, then the world. The media didn’t bother to dilute what they showed; they didn’t blur out images of disfigured bodies, pools of blood, and severed limbs. What was the point? It was a fate we’d all suffer eventually.

  I followed Trace into the kitchen and stood by the door as he checked out of the windows.

  “You know they won't come in,” I said, my voice drowned out by my brother’s anger.

  “Trixie.” He silenced me again and I continued watching him quietly.

  We’d been raised together, since Richard and Mae had adopted me when I was five. There was no story on my parents; I was just told they’d disappeared without a trace, and it was all I’d ever received by way of explanation for where I’d come from. They day I was adopted by the Ashford family was the day whoever I was before had been erased. I watched my brother moving around the kitchen, inspecting the cupboards and rummaging through the fridge. He was a totem of everything the Ashford family stood for. In his charcoal grey suit, he looked smart and superior. In my scruffy office-wear that really needed a wash, I looked, well, scruffy. His light hair was clipped and neat, mine was dark, dry and needed a cut. His eyes were hooded with generations of secrets outsiders—including me—had no right to know about. My eyes were empty with ancestry I’d never learn about. His soft features projected an approachable man and when he’d smile, it was captivating, mischievous and charismatic. And that was before he spoke, cutting short any doubt you might have had about him being textbook perfection. Eton-educated, Sandhurst-trained…a playful smart-arse of epic proportions.

  “You realise you’re a carer, don’t you, Trix?” he asked, slamming the fridge door shut and turning to me, his big old monkey arms folding across his chest.

  “Like fuck I am.” I cowered when he shot me a warning glare. The kind that demanded the respect the Ashford family received thick and fast. “Sorry. What does that mean? I’m a carer?”

  “When was th
e last time you fed our grandmother?”

  “Whoa,” I snapped, raising my hands. “I’m not a carer. She lives with me…and I’m waiting for payday.”

  “To eat?” His brows shot up, his eyes widening, “Good lord, Trixie Ashford.”

  Now he was disappointed. He only called me by my full name when I’d disappointed him. Richard did the same thing. I couldn’t help it; money ran out before I was able to buy everything I needed; extra food was lower on the priority list than keeping Ruby warm.

  Trace dug into his pocket and pulled his wallet out, tossing some notes onto the table.

  “Trace-”

  “No.”

  He tipped his head towards the window as he moved to slide it up. He climbed out onto the ledge and sat down. I followed, tired. I just wanted to go to bed. Half an hour ago I’d been convinced I was done, a victim of the night never to snuggle into my bed sheets again. I wanted to go to bed so I could wake up late again in the morning after sketching into the early hours, and forget about how close I’d been.

  I sat next to my brother as he took a cigarette out of its case and offered me one. I took it, accepting the lighter when he held the flame in front of me.

  “So, big brother,” I said, blowing out the first cloud of smoke since the last time Trace and I had done this. “Why were you out after curfew?”

  “I can protect myself.” He shrugged in dismissal. “Why were you?”

  “Seb kept me in the shop.”

  It was a lie. I’d chosen to say, but Seb could have made it easier by keeping our appointments during daylight hours.

  “You mean you stayed to inspect the new piece.”

  I rolled my eyes. He’d been watching me. I wasn’t surprised; I knew I always had an Ashford minion lurking somewhere, keeping me alive when death hid around every corner.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  I sighed. “Seb says it can fetch a couple of mill. He’s putting the starting price at 1.7.”

  “What has he said about yours?” Trace’s arm bumped mine as our ankles knocked mid-swing.

  “Mine haven’t left my bedroom.”

  “You should show him.”

  “The money would be nice, right?” I changed the subject, but received no response. The Ashford’s had money—lots of it; the old kind that would never run dry no matter how deep the city drowned. “I mean, I could put Ruby in a home.”

  He laughed then, rich and throaty. It reminded me of nights in front of the fire at Ashford House. I missed it. I missed Richard and Mae; I missed the greenery that was a rarity here, all two hundred acres of it. I missed the terrace and the huge rooms, the high ceilings and the company; I missed being around people who wouldn’t sacrifice my life in an instant to save theirs.

  “Always so proper, Trixie.”

  “You know it.” I grinned, flicking my cigarette over the railing. “Now is probably a good time to tell you I’ll be out after curfew tomorrow.”

  Trace sighed and turned to look at me. “Why?”

  “There’s a showcase at the loft.”

  “How many people?”

  “Thirty confirmed.”

  He sighed again. I hated it. My brother was aging, the stress of living in this city and the responsibility of being an Ashford beginning to dull the spark that brightened the darkness we lived in. I just wanted to take him home, to gather our scattered family up in its fragmented pieces and go back home—to lock us all away in the grounds of the estate for hot cocoa, warm blankets and sunlight without fear.

  “Christ.” He groaned and turned his head to mutter expletives he wasn’t allowed to say in front of a lady. I didn’t tell him I could hear every word. “It’ll be a blood bath.”

  “I think Seb’s relying on it.”

  “Someone needs to…” He trailed off and jumped to his feet.

  “Someone needs to what?”

  “Nothing.” He flicked his cigarette and held his hand out to me. Knowing I wasn’t allowed to refuse and insist on standing up myself, I took it and let him aid me.

  “Protection will be assigned.”

  “You?”

  I hoped so. I missed Trace. I missed everything about our upbringing on the grounds before we’d been forced to fly the nest. His hand felt cold as he spun me around, took hold of my waist and lifted me through the window.

  “I have to work.” He raised his hands to the window frame. “Be safe, Trixie.”

  “Always am.”

  With that he closed the window, allowing a gust of smoky air into the room, and then he disappeared into the night. I locked the window, and checked the other windows and doors before tucking Ruby in and going to bed.

  Masks. I hated them. Seb insisted on them. I’d asked why plenty of times but he’d never explained. I’d come to the conclusion that it was his way of holding a silent auction, but keeping the danger lurking because it wasn’t silent at all. Art was best dealt with anonymously—that’s all he’d ever said.

  The showcase was a success. Seb held auction after auction for piece after piece of colourful fantasy, rainbow abstracts, and depictions of what lay beyond the boundaries of the city. I greeted unnamed faces in an array of masks, some revealing just the eyes, others covering entire faces. All of the bodies they accompanied were dressed in the best tailored suits and lavish dresses London had to offer. When the outside was cut off, import and export restricted to the necessities to keep us alive, all that was left was to cater to the riches. Fortune was something people protected as vigilantly as their lives and spent like they were going to die tomorrow…because who could guarantee they weren’t?

  I carried a tray of champagne flutes, smiling sweetly, and topped up the hors-d’oeuvres Seb had brought in to tempt people to invest in more than vol au vents.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” a male voice mused as I passed with an empty tray.

  I glanced around to see who he was talking to but the other guests were crowded around Seb at the far end of the loft. I stopped, looking sideways at the man dressed entirely in black, his face hidden by the mask of a black lion. He was strong, stood with pride and confidence that wasn’t often seen here, not even by the rich…they didn’t know if they’d be killed by one of their own, their money left to rot in abandoned back accounts.

  “It is.”

  I tried not to look. I wanted to—desperately—but I’d spent the day looking and couldn’t face it without becoming transfixed and going into a trance in front of this stranger. I hoped he was preparing to cough up the two million Seb wanted for the piece. It would suit him. There was something dark and sinister in all of Reaper’s pieces, and I felt the same air of appreciation for the macabre radiating from this faceless stranger.

  “Tell me what you see,” he said.

  He hadn’t asked. He wasn’t hoping we’d strike up a conversation. He hadn’t even looked at me, while my pulse leapt and a warm arousal moved in. This man was powerful; he was potent and he knew exactly what he was doing. I had no doubt he fed off it. I had no doubt he drank it in and absorbed my discomfort to help his ego thrive. I didn’t care, not really. In fact, I welcomed a feeling besides fear and panic. I welcomed the heat and the hyperawareness of every cell in my body

  I used everything I’d learned as the adopted Ashford and looked at the painting that spoke to me beyond what words could describe.

  “I see death and destruction,” I said, cocking my head to the side to feel the energy from the painting that had quickly become my obsession. “I see blood and beauty. I see brutal honesty and bravery of the man who dares to speak the truth. I see comfort in death and fear in life.”

  “That it?” he asked, a dry amusement in his voice.

  So it was the arrogance he got off on. The rudeness, the shut down—trying to make me feel like my explanation wasn’t good enough.

  “We all interpret art in different ways, sir,” I clipped, keeping the frost out of my voice. Richard would be disappointed if I embarrassed him
in public with a smart mouth and defensive attitude. “So actually, what I see is myself. The same way everyone who looks at one of Reaper’s pieces will see themselves, too. He captures the human body, human fears; forgotten desires and longed for dreams.” He said nothing, but I had his attention. Maybe he didn’t have a smart remark. Maybe he did, but he was choosing to let me have my thirty seconds of confidence. I didn’t know why, but I felt like he was challenging me—that he was a challenge, and I wanted to win. “I see Reaper in every piece. I see what makes him so successful. I see why he has a target on his back. I see why he’s so sought after. He doesn’t just capture the evil, the underground, he captures us too…and we don’t look all that different.”

  I edged away from him, wishing I hadn’t been so honest. I wished I’d just bid him a good evening before he’d had the chance to demand I exposed myself. Because that’s what I’d done. I didn’t know if he was from the underground. I didn’t know if he had snuck in here to see what the pure citizens did in the dark. I didn’t know if my answer had just sentenced us all to death, because I knew I was right. They may have lived below us, emerged from the shadows, to take our lives away one by one, but we weren’t different creatures. We were the same, and we were all capable of devastation. Instead of waiting for a response from this stranger who would make me feel inadequate when that was the most honest and articulate answer I’d ever given, I tucked my tray under my arm and backed away from him.

  “Have a good evening. The quiche is lovely.”

  The quiche is lovely? What the hell? I shook my head and cursed myself as I walked away and headed into the kitchen to top up my tray. I grabbed new champagne from the chiller, lined them up on the counter and grabbed the cloth, wrapping it around the bottle and slipping my thumb into the dip in the bottom. The first cork popped off without a problem, settled in my hand without a drop spilt. The second was fine, too. The third was loud and made me jump. The pop echoed around the empty kitchen, stainless steel from top to bottom, and the sound ricocheted off every surface as the cork flew across the room and champagne spurted from the bottle. I dropped it into the sink and jumped back, conscious of having to spend the rest of the night smelling like the alcoholics who had roamed the streets before they’d been wiped out.