Metaltown (34 page)

Ty nodded.

“If you don't work for Schultz, what could you possibly be getting out of this?” He leaned down to stare at her square in the face.

“My life back,” she said simply.

Work. Enough green to buy some food.
Colin.

He laughed then, a deep, throaty sound that grated against Ty's nerves.

“If only you were trustworthy.”

Someone grabbed her from behind. She jerked against him, swinging back with her elbow and cracking against something solid. A flash of short curls, and the red smear of blood. The schoolboy latched her arms down to her sides while she struggled.

“Bring her into the light,” ordered McNulty.

“Let me go!”

“Schultz has outdone himself this time,” said the crime lord, rising. He flattened his hands on the table, leaning forward so that the table lamp illuminated his face and made his rough skin glow. “It's clever, actually. Well played. Taunt the McNulty clan to cross the beltway and violate the truce, then when he retaliates we'll be on his turf.” He shook his head. Some of the other men at the table laughed.

“I don't know anything about a truce!” Ty's heart slammed against her ribs. Schoolboy swore and gripped her harder when she swung back her heel and connected with his shin.

“Of course you wouldn't,” said McNulty. “Schultz is too smart to tell his spy the whole story. Tell me, kid, what'd he offer you?”

“Nothing, because I'm not working for stupid Schultz!”

McNulty smiled, rounding the table slowly. He was big. Bigger than she'd thought. Two heads taller than her. A few of the girls pulled away, toward the back of the room.

It was in that moment she realized just how much she didn't want to die.

Her limbs went cold. She locked her jaw and told herself to be brave. Not to cry. If he was going to kill her, she'd go out like a Metalhead, kicking and screaming to the end. Not like some Bakerstown pansy.

She shoved her weight back, trying to throw Schoolboy off balance. She kicked at him, swung her body from side to side.

“
Stop,
” said McNulty, the word so firm she actually did. Everyone did. No one moved as he reached overhead for the chandelier and tilted it her direction. Her shirt had come up over her belt in the struggle, and he focused on the uncovered skin at her waist.

“What's a roughed-up roach like you doing with vaccine scars?” he asked.

Another man from the table rose and came to take a look for himself. She didn't like that one bit, but held still, because even if she didn't know what McNulty was talking about, anything that held off a knife to her gut felt like a good idea.

“You're too healthy for food testing,” the giant mused, releasing the chandelier. It swung, throwing light across the room in waves. “'Less your insides are all melted.”

“My insides are my own business, thank you very much.” Sweat ran down the side of her face.

“They're old scars,” said the other man, poking at her stomach with his finger. “Probably got them as a kid.” She kicked at him, and he backed away.

McNulty nodded, never looking away from Ty.

“Where are you from?” he asked. Wrinkles formed around his eyes, his mouth, his nose—the marks of a hard-lived life.

“Across the beltway,” she said between her teeth.

“Try again,” he said. “Metalheads don't have enough money for food, much less vaccines.”

He thought she was lying? There was no reason to pretend you were from the slums.

“I grew up at St. Mary's.”

“An orphan,” he said, eyes growing wide. “Your parents had the flu?”

Lots of orphans were orphans because of the flu. She didn't know where this was going.

“I guess.”

“You don't remember.”

“I was just a kid.”

“How old are you now?”

“Why do you ca—” She hissed as Schoolboy twisted her arm behind her back. “Fifteen.” She thought, anyway. She didn't know her birthday. The woman must have forgotten to mention it when she'd been dumped at the orphanage.

A quick hand snagged her chin and dragged her into the light. She blinked, trying to grab her hat as McNulty ripped it off her head. Her bandage came off next, and he tossed it onto the floor.

“Who are you?”

“What's all this about?” she asked.

He shook her so hard Schoolboy had to release his grasp. The room bounced in her vision. The muscles of her neck tensed against the whiplash.

“Who. Are. You.”

“Ty,” she said. “My name's Ty.”

“
Ty,
” he repeated, laughing. The other man laughed a moment later. Soon those at the table were laughing, too. “Ty, who just wants her life back.”

“That funny?” She mustered a sneer.

“Oh, it is,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Astor Tyson. Here, in my bar.”

“No … I…”
Astor.
Why was that name so familiar?

“Impossible,” snorted someone from the table.

There was a cloudiness in her head. Images, carried in the fog. A wooden train set on the floor. A thin woman in a black dress, dragging her through the streets. A pinch to her belly, from a long silver needle. Things she'd only dreamed about. Things that didn't always make sense.

Ty was a child when she'd been brought to St. Mary's orphanage. The nuns had called her Ty; she'd told them that was her name. She didn't know an Astor Tyson. She didn't understand why he thought she was this person, just from a stupid cigarette burn on her stomach.

She didn't remember being burned, though; the nuns had only told her that. It could have been a vaccination scar, like they'd said. But she didn't know anyone else with one. As far as she knew, only the rich kids got their shots. She didn't know why she would have been vaccinated, or against what. The corn flu? There wasn't a cure.

She flinched, realizing she'd gone still in McNulty's grasp. Her response was answer enough. A slow grin split his face, his gold tooth drawing her fearful gaze.

“I'm not Astor Tyson,” she said. “I don't even know who that is.”

Some of the older men were talking among themselves. The bald one approached behind McNulty, lifting a pair of spectacles to ogle her properly.

“Ten years late,” McNulty said. “But Hampton'll be pleased nonetheless.” He laughed. “We might get Metaltown back after all, boys!”

“What are you talking about?” she gasped as he tightened his grasp on her throat and pulled a knife from his belt.

“I'm talking about green,” said McNulty. “My favorite color. Hampton's going to pay out by the bucket for your cold corpse.”

He pulled his knife back, and in the lamplight she saw that one side was jagged, the other smooth as silk. She tried to loosen. A punch hurt less if you didn't flex; maybe the same was true for a stick.

Good-bye, Colin.

“I'll pay you double!” she shouted. One last ditch effort to save her own life. If green was what he wanted, she'd get it.

He froze. “What's that?”

“Whatever Hampton's paying you to kill me, I'll pay you double.”

He laughed, but his knife lowered. Then he stopped laughing. The room went silent, but her ears were ringing.

“Help us in Metaltown, and I'll get you the money.” She didn't understand why he believed her but knew better than to question it. If he thought she could get the money, she'd make sure he thought her blood ran green.

He released her shirt. She grabbed the back of a chair, drawing in a ragged breath.

“Might work, McNulty,” said the old man.

“Or she might take the cash and scram,” said another.

“I'm good on it,” Ty said. “Help me and I'll help you.”

McNulty turned slowly and paced across the room. He came back, bushy red brows scrunched together. Ty thought he couldn't possibly be more confused than she was.

“I need to think on it,” he said.

Her chin jutted forward. “There's no time to think on it!”

“A general always thinks twice before marching his troops into war,” said McNulty. “When I've made my decision, I'll find you. And know this: a girl with one eye can't hide in Metaltown. If you try to run, bet that we'll go with my first plan, and I'll deliver your head to Hampton on a stake.”

Ty shivered.

Dreads motioned toward the door. She should have been grateful to be alive, but all she could think was how she'd failed on her mission. Swearing under her breath, she turned, and made for the beltway.

 

30

LENA

Lena stared, still seething, at the pile of kindling on her floor that had once been a birdcage. She'd thrown it there when her father's new driver had carried her over his shoulder up the stairs to her room. The defeat in his eyes as he'd slammed the door behind him had brought a wave of satisfaction, but then the lock clicked. She was a prisoner.

She tore off her tattered gloves and flung them into the pile, pressing her bare fingertips to her hot, swollen eyelids.

She kept seeing the same image. Colin convulsing on the floor, his jaw open wide in a silent scream, his eyes pinched shut in pain. Every muscle jerking against his will.

Her father had done that. It sickened her that the same blood flowed through her veins. He had never intended to listen to the workers, only to taunt Colin with money, to offer him a bribe to keep quiet and silence his friends. Nothing mattered to Josef Hampton but wealth. He'd even sold out the Northern Federation to the enemy to get more.

And Otto was just like him.

They'd taken Colin to jail. She knew that inmates were the first line in food contamination testing. If Colin was lucky, he'd end up like Cherish. More likely he'd be forced to test some new strain of manufactured corn product. His insides would melt. Burns would cover his skin. He'd go blind or deaf. Sores would line the inside of his mouth until he was unable to eat at all, and then he would slowly, painfully die.

She'd read about this in her lessons. Before her father had become angry with Darcy, and the content had turned to language arts.

This was her fault. If she hadn't encouraged Colin to bargain with her father, he might never have continued with his charter. If she had warned him about how dangerous Josef Hampton could be, he would have known to run.

But likely wouldn't have.

A groan started deep inside of her, making her insides tremble. He already felt dead. And despite all rationality, she felt responsible.

She returned to the door, slamming her fists against the wood. When the bruises bit down to her bones, she threw her shoulder into it, until finally she slid to the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and gave in to the exhaustion.

*   *   *

Movement in the hallway had her springing to her feet. She searched frantically for something with which to defend herself. A shard of wood from the birdcage stuck out from the pile and she snatched it, and braced it before her like she'd seen Ty do after Imon and the Brotherhood had come to the statue outside Colin's apartment.

Then she glanced down at the weapon, bewildered, wondering just who she thought might be coming for her. This was the River District, she reminded herself, not Metaltown.

The door pulled outward, and a narrow woman in a black dress backed in, carrying a silver tray of tea and crackers.

Lena shoved her aside, trying to get out the door, but it was too late. The heavy oak was already locked. The tray clattered to the floor. The teapot shattered.

“Well,” said Darcy after a moment, wiping crumbs from her bodice. “I suppose this room needs a good scrubbing anyway.”

“Where is my father?” demanded Lena, throwing down the scrap of wood. Darcy's consequent evaluation of Lena's clothing and naked, deformed hands had her brows arching high into her forehead.

“I don't know,” she said. “The Hampton men have yet to return home.”

Lena sighed heavily, realizing how disheveled she must look after seeing Darcy's neat appearance. Unconsciously she went to straighten the sweater she'd borrowed from Shima. Though it was probably better that they keep their distance, Lena missed her. Anything she touched, her father had a way of breaking.

“You have to let me go, Darcy,” said Lena.

Darcy rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and knelt to the floor. She began to gather the larger pieces of glass to take to the wastebasket.

“You've had quite an exciting last few days,” said Darcy. “You must be tired. A hot bath and a warm dinner, I think, and then straight to bed.”

“Darcy!” Lena grabbed the woman's bony arm and hauled her up. “My father has sent an innocent boy to his death and I'm the only one who can stop it, do you understand? You have to help me get out of here.”

Darcy's eyes lowered. “You know I can't do that, Miss Hampton.”

“Oh, have some backbone, for God's sake!” cried Lena. “Someone's life is on the line!”

She turned sharply, and stalked to her window, staring out at the tall oak tree. The nearest branch thickened a few feet away. There, it would support her weight, but she'd have to make a jump for it.

“Where did you get this?” Darcy's voice was low. When Lena turned, her tutor was pale, her brow damp with sweat. In her trembling hand was a scrap of paper, which she extended Lena's direction. “This name. Where did you get this?”

Lena approached, glancing down at the slip she'd taken from Mr. Minnick's office when they'd been under siege at the factory.
Astor Tyson—Call McNulty IMEEDEATLY.
She'd forgotten she'd put it in her pocket. It must have fallen out when she'd thrown the birdcage.

“It was in the bottom of the foreman's desk. I think McNulty might be another charter leader or something. Not that it even matters anymore,” said Lena, waving her hand.