“That was a very interesting direction to take the scene,” Mr. Kimble says. “But perhaps next time do it with a little more . . . er . . . humor?”

Day stomps off stage, Beetle walking unsteadily after her.

“What was that all about?” Natalie whispers.

I don’t like reminding her I’m a Haze dealer, but I can’t lie either, so I tell her the truth, including the fact I’m trying to wean Beetle off the drug.

“I feel like such a jerk giving my best friend Haze,” I admit.

“You’re trying to help him,” she says.

We sit down on the rafter, our legs dangling over the edge, as we watch the play.

“Ash, why do you deal Haze?” Natalie asks.

“My dad and I need the money,” I say.

“Does he know you deal?”

I nod. “He’s terrified I’ll get arrested, but we don’t have much choice. If there were any other way for me to earn money, I’d take it, but there are no opportunities for me in this city.”

Natalie looks at the copper band around my wrist. “People like my mother have made sure of that.”

“Does it bother you that I deal Haze?” I ask, covering the wristband.

“Yes,” she admits. “But I accept you for what you are, the good and the bad, the same way you’ve accepted me, despite my family.”

I slide my hand along the rafter until our fingertips touch. It’s a small gesture, but I can’t risk holding her hand in case anyone looks up at us.

The lesson ends and the students hurry outside to play in the snow. The air is crisp and cold, and the city feels at peace for the first time in weeks. Students laugh and run around the town square, throwing snowballs at each other and hiding behind the three crosses. The snow on the crosses has turned pink as it soaks up the dried blood stained into the wood. It’s chilling watching students play beside the crosses, but that’s life in Black City. Everywhere you turn you’re reminded of death, but you have to block it out, otherwise you couldn’t carry on living.

A snowball smacks me in the face.

Beetle grins sheepishly at me. He’s clearly feeling much better. I lob a snowball at him, and he staggers back like he’s been shot. Natalie giggles. I grab some snow and toss it playfully at her.

“You’re in big trouble, Fisher,” she warns, scooping up some more snow.

We break out in a full-on snowball fight and are drenched in icy cold water within minutes, but none of us cares. Day walks out of the school, her arms laden with library books, and rolls her eyes at us. Beetle chucks a snowball at her, hitting her on the cheek with more force than I know he meant. She stumbles back into Natalie, knocking them both to the ground. Day’s library books fall everywhere while the contents of Natalie’s bag spill over the snow. Other students have stopped their own games to watch.

Beetle rushes over to help Day.

“Leave me alone!” she yells, her cheek red and raw where the snow has stung her.

“I’m sorry . . . I . . . It was a mistake,” he babbles.

She scoops up her books, glowering at me. “I bet you put Beetle up to this, Fisher. You’re such a bad influence on everyone.”

“Hey!” I object.

“Don’t you dare say that about Ash,” Beetle snaps.

We’ve never heard him tell Day off before, and it surprises all of us.

“Ash is my best friend and a decent guy. He’s not a bad influence,” he says.

Day sniffs haughtily. “Really? He got you addicted to Haze.”

“No, he didn’t.” He looks up at Day with shame-filled eyes. “Linus got me hooked on Haze. Ash has spent the past year trying to wean me off it. That’s what we were doing in the prop room. He was helping me.”

Day inhales sharply, then looks at me, her brow furrowed.

“I think you owe Ash an apology,” Natalie says to Day.

Day’s mouth tightens. She’ll never say sorry to me.

“Forget about it,” I mumble.

Day swishes her ebony hair over her shoulder and strides away.

“She really should’ve said sorry,” Natalie says as I help gather the books and pencils that fell out of her satchel.

A shadow falls over us. Sebastian is silhouetted against the stormy sky, flakes of snow melting in his blond hair.

“Get away from her, nipper,” he says.

I stand up, my heart pounding. Sebastian notices the chunks of snow on my clothes, the dusting of white powder on Natalie’s.

“He was helping me pick up my books, Sebastian,” Natalie says quickly. “Someone hit me with a snowball, and I fell over. It was so silly.”

It’s clear he’s trying to decide if he believes her or not. Thankfully, he bends down and starts picking up the remainder of her schoolbooks.

And that’s when I see it.

A piece of torn paper fluttering on the snow beside Sebastian’s foot.

My heart jackhammers against my chest. Cold sweat breaks out on my brow. Natalie looks alarmed; she’s seen it too. Don’t let him notice it, don’t let him notice it, don’t let him notice it. Sebastian shoves all the books back into Natalie’s satchel and hands it to her. I exhale.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Let’s go,” he orders.

He moves his foot, and that’s when he sees the scrap of paper by his boot.

The world stops.

Sebastian picks up the note, quickly scanning it.

I swallow.

Natalie’s hands are drawn into tight fists, trying to stop them from shaking.

He looks slowly up at her, his green eyes burning. “I can’t stop thinking about you?”

Oh, fragg.

She licks her lips, and I know she doesn’t mean to, but she gives me a fleeting look. Sebastian turns and studies me. His fist clenches around the note.

“It’s from this boy, Chris Thompson,” Natalie says. “He asked me out, I said no, but he keeps sending me messages. It’s embarrassing.”

Sebastian holds my gaze for a beat too long. I can’t breathe.

“Sebastian, we really should go. It’s getting dark,” Natalie says.

He throws the note back in the snow and roughly takes Natalie’s arm. They walk through the town square. I start breathing again the instant they’re gone.

* * *

The sky fades to white as a blizzard rolls across the city, making the buildings look like snowcapped mountains. I trudge toward Chris’s house, my stomach grumbling, hoping he’s still in need of a Haze fix after I blew off yesterday’s appointment. I need some Synth-O-Blood; I haven’t eaten in ages. At the back of my mind, it registers that he wasn’t at school today. Neither was Gregory, which is odd—Gregory would never miss a day of school. Maybe they’re both sick? I hope not; at least not Chris.

My heart’s still pounding a mile a minute after my run-in with Sebastian. I think Natalie managed to convince him with her cover story. I can’t believe what a close call that was. We’ve only been together for a few hours, and already we’ve nearly been caught.

I walk down City End, following my usual path along the Boundary Wall. The Darkling guards peer down at me with judgmental eyes, and I swear they’re whispering at me as I pass by—traitor, turncoat, collaborator—but they can’t possibly know I’m dating Natalie. It must be in my head. Even so, I quicken my pace, eager to get away from them.

I cross through the security gates leading into the Chimney, the factory district, and find Chris and Gregory’s house amid the bustling refineries and warehouses spewing clouds of choking smoke and toxins into the air. High above the twisting spires of the factories are giant screens, which play the same grainy film footage of Purian Rose on a loop. He smiles benevolently down at us, saying a bunch of stupid slogans like “work sets you free” or “love work, love your country.” I make a rude gesture at the screens as I pass.

The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly prickle. Someone’s watching me. I stop walking and scan the buildings. There’s nothing there. I must be a little jumpy from the run-in with Sebastian.

I knock on the green door of the Thompson twins’ house. There’s a long pause before footsteps shuffle toward the door. A middle-aged woman answers, her brown hair tangled around her freckled face. Her eyes are red and moist.

“Can I help you?” she says, her voice cracking with emotion.

“I was wondering if Chris—”

The woman’s eyes widen when she registers what I am. “Mark!”

“What is it, Anne?” The door swings open, and a tough-looking man glares down at me.

Just be calm. I clear my throat. “Sorry to bother you—”

The man grabs my shirt. “What did you do to my son?”

“Get off me!” I reply, struggling free from the man’s grip. It was a mistake to come here. What was I thinking?

“Who is it, Dad?” Gregory says, rushing to the door.

He stops dead when he sees me. A look of burning hatred crosses his narrow, pinched face.

“You killed my brother!” he screams, rushing toward me.

“I didn’t!” I say, confused and suddenly terrified. Chris is dead?

Gregory picks up a loose brick from the low wall running down the length of the path. I back away, but my feet slip in the slushy snow, and I crash to the ground. Gregory’s on top of me in seconds.

“I’ll kill you for what you did!” he yells, lifting the brick over his head.

“I’m calling the Sentry guard!” Gregory’s mom darts back into the house.

“You’ve made a mistake,” I say.

Gregory smashes the brick against my temple, and red spots explode before my eyes. Then the world turns black.

19

ASH

I WAKE UP to a blinding light. Is this paradise? My dad always described his vision of heaven as a bright white light. No. My kind don’t go to that place, we go to the Elsewhere. Darts of pain shoot through my skull where I’ve been hit. Definitely not in paradise. I blink twice and try to adjust my eyes. At first I think I’m outside, the light is so piercing. Then things begin to come into focus: a door, UV strip lights, polished metal walls.

I howl as another white-hot pain strikes me, like a thousand hands ripping me apart. My body has been stripped naked, and it’s red raw and blistered where the UV rays from the lights overhead have scorched my skin.

I try to move and realize I can’t; my left foot is bound to the wall by a heavy silver chain. Oh fragg, oh fragg, oh fragg . . . I yank on the chain, which sizzles into my palms and ankle, but it doesn’t budge an inch.

The metal door clanks open, and Natalie’s mom, the Emissary, appears at the threshold. Her pale hands are clasped in front of her sickeningly thin body, her breastbone clearly visible beneath her stretched skin. There’s nothing of Natalie’s warmth and softness about her; there’s no resemblance at all, except the cornflower blue of her eyes. In the corridor behind her, Martha—the Darkling housemaid I rescued at the market—is mopping a stain off the floor. A worried look flits across her face when she sees me. The Emissary impatiently shoos her away.

Emissary Buchanan enters my cell, and the guards shut the door. She holds a sachet of Synth-O-Blood in one hand, while the other is closed around a small object I can’t see.

“I didn’t kill Chris,” I say through cracked lips. “I didn’t even know he was dead.”

She contemplates me for a long moment, then opens her hand to show a two of hearts playing card. My calling card! I’d given it to Chris earlier this week.

“Does this look familiar to you?” she says.

“You can’t keep me here. I have rights.”

“You don’t have any rights, twin-blood. You’re not human.”

I pull against my restraints, a low growl escaping my lips.

She steps back warily. “I recommend you control yourself.”

“I didn’t kill Chris,” I say again, desperation creeping into my voice.

“Chris Thompson died of a Haze overdose. You’re the only twin-blood registered in the city, and he had your playing card, which I’ve been informed you give to your ‘clients.’ That’s all the evidence we need.”

A cannonball drops in my stomach. I can’t believe this is happening! I’m going to get executed for a crime I didn’t even commit.

“Just confess to the crime, and this will all be over,” she says icily.

“I didn’t do it!”

She makes a signal with her hand, and a second later the UV lights turn up to full power. I howl again as my skin explodes with pain. She waves a hand, and the lights lower. I curl up into a ball, my body shaking. I urgently need blood to heal myself. In the faint recesses of my mind, I wonder why she’s the one questioning me and not one of her goons.

The Emissary dangles the Synth-O-Blood in front of me. “Is this what you’re after, half-breed?”

I refuse to look at it. I’m not going to beg for food like a dog.

She takes out a hairpin and pierces the bag. Blood drips onto the floor beside me, just within my reach. My nostrils flare, and my fangs drip with venom.

“This can be yours,” she says softly. “All you have to do is confess that you killed Chris.”

“Never.”

She squeezes the bag, and more blood spills onto the floor. I shut my eyes.

“Just confess—”

“No.”

“Confess!”

My stomach coils and cramps. The smell of blood is intoxicating, so sweet and delicious and—

I crouch over and lap up the spilled blood, humiliated and disgusted with myself. But I can’t stop,it tastes so good . . . All you have to do is confess, and the rest is yours. My skin immediately begins to heal as my blood is replenished, the red flesh turning to pink, then pearl white.