Battlecry Read online

  I stabbed a piece of pancake, taking care to keep my breathing even. The Criminal saw me with actual battle injuries and got it wrong, but this old man figured me out in two seconds. I needed to get out of town.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said calmly. “You must be confusing me for someone else.”

  “Battlecry.” He sounded annoyed.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’ve been told that I bear a passing resemblance to her. But I promise you sir, I am not a superhero.”

  The man leaned on the table. “You and the other lady fought off that punk kid with the gun. He was trying to steal my coin can. I saw your long hair and the way you stand, like soldiers. When you walked through the room just now, I knew it was you.” His eyes softened. “You don’t forget it when someone saves your life. So, thank you.”

  I put down my fork. “Sir, I’m glad you were assisted when you needed it, but if I were Battlecry, why would I be here? Our city’s heroes have their own home, and I’m sure they have breakfast every morning.”

  He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That’s a good question. Maybe you’re undercover—”

  “—in which case you’re blowing my cover.”

  “—or maybe you’re like every other person in this room, down on your luck for some reason or another. Could be you need help.”

  I leaned forward, my jaw clenched. “Well, there’s your proof that I’m not Battlecry. Superheroes never need help from civilians.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me and then gazed out over the social hall. “Most of us have been mugged at least once. Pearl over there was hit in the head with a brick a few years ago, never did find out who attacked her. See that woman in green? That’s Holly. Someone knocked her down last year and stole everything she had, and she was already homeless. Then he raped her.”

  I was too shocked by these sordid revelations to speak. He turned back to me. “Maybe superheroes never need help, but some people in this city do. There have been less crimes against the homeless and the needy since you guys moved in. We feel safer knowing the heroes of Saint Catherine are watching over us.”

  The tears were back. He handed me a paper napkin and patted my shoulder.

  When I was done wiping my eyes, he continued. “What I’ve been trying to say, and what you won’t let me say, is thank you. Y’all have made a difference to us. I don’t know why you’re here, but if you need help, there are people here who owe you their lives.”

  And with that, he took his paper plate and walked away.

  I sat in the corner, my shoulders shaking from silent sobs. I didn’t understand where these intense emotions were coming from, but ever since I’d unleashed my wrath on Patrick, a great wall in my mind had cracked and splintered. Now every feeling I’d ever ignored or denied was leaking through. The more they came through, the bigger the crack became.

  I couldn’t leave the city. Not after that speech.

  Sincerity. Responsibility. Endurance.

  For the sake of the principles, I had to stay here and do what I’d vowed on my honor to do: protect and serve the citizens of Saint Catherine. Maybe I was a severe disappointment to my peers, but around me were dozens of helpless, innocent people on the margins of society who relied on me.

  I took a few deep breaths and stood up, then threw away my plate in the rolling trash can next to the table. I dug around in my backpack for a hair band, and when I found one I pulled my hair into a pony tail. Then I put on my backpack and walked through the crowd with my shoulders thrown back and my head held high, like a soldier.

  Right before I exited the church I took out almost all of Patrick’s money from its hiding places and wadded it into a container labeled POOR BOX.

  Then I pushed open the door and walked into the sunlight.

  17

  After leaving the church, I made my way towards the edge of town. I left the upper class neighborhood where I’d spent the night and traveled north, towards Ember’s patrol zone.

  Nobody recognized me—after the incident with the old man at breakfast, I half-expected people on the street to stop and point—but a few times young men in cars would honk and yell at me.

  At noon I stepped into a convenience store to escape the brutal midday heat. I’d kept about fifty dollars of Patrick’s money, so I allowed myself to buy a cold drink. The air conditioning inside the store gave instant relief and I decided to linger for a while.

  The young cashier kept shooting glances at me, though when I met his gaze he busied himself rearranging candy bars by the register. I made sure to not appear as if I were shoplifting.

  I strolled past the magazines, pausing when I saw the one I’d seen in Café Stella with Patrick on the cover, advertising an interview with “Georgia’s Sexiest Superhero.” My hand automatically reached for it, but I caught myself. Maybe I’d left my team, but magazines were still forbidden to me.

  Or were they?

  I’d already broken two cardinal rules. What was a magazine compared to fraternizing with The Criminal and thrashing Patrick? I checked to make sure nobody was watching me, then grabbed the magazine from the rack. To be safe I tucked it inside a gardening magazine. Gardening magazines probably weren’t allowed either, but I’d rather someone caught me reading gardening articles than a magazine that proudly called Patrick “sexy.”

  I’d never read a magazine before, so I was unsure of what I’d find. I’d been warned at length about how corrupting civilian media could be, but Elder St. James had never said what, exactly, I could expect in a magazine such as this. I was terribly curious.

  The first thirty pages were just pictures of women who looked like Ember: tall, beautiful, and extremely thin. I felt the urge to buy them all cheese Danishes, and vaguely wondered if Ember had skipped anymore meals since I left.

  I flipped past the skinny women and found the table of contents. There were lots of promising articles about dating, makeup, hair, clothes, movies, and something called a “horoscope.”

  Patrick’s article was on page seventy-eight, but I wasn’t ready to read it just yet.

  One article in caught my eye.

  Are You in an Abusive Relationship? was tucked into the back of the magazine between an article about the risk of staph infections from bikini waxes—nothing in the description was familiar to me—and “bedroom tips.”

  I stared at the picture of a man standing over a cowering woman. Her hand was outstretched to ward off an oncoming blow. The Criminal’s voice wafted through my mind.

  Jillian, someone’s been abusing you. You need to get out of the relationship.

  I almost threw the magazine back onto the rack in my haste to get rid of it.

  Breathing heavily, I marched to the cooler and grabbed a cold bottle of water, mentally slapping myself for even looking at the iced coffees. The Criminal drank coffee; who knew what I’d turn into if I kept up that kind of behavior? Picking up the magazine had been wrong. If I got hit by a bus after I left the convenience store, it would serve me right. I’d never read a magazine again.

  The doors of the convenience store opened with an electronic chime, and the corner mirror revealed three pretty young women walking into the store. They were all dressed in cut offs and tank tops—much more sensible in this weather than my khaki pants and gray t-shirt.

  One of the girls saw me by the cooler and waved. “Hey, Brianna! I thought you were working today!” She walked over to me, then did a double take. “Oh, sorry, girl. I thought you were someone else.”

  I felt my face turn red, as I’d never gotten used to interactions with female civilians my age. What was I supposed to say to her? Ember would’ve known. Because she’s a better superhero than you ever were. She takes the time to get to know the citizens. You made friends with a psychotic supervillain.

  “Um, that’s okay,” I mumbled.

  I turned away, but she stayed put. “You look familiar.” She studied me. “Do you go to King High School?”

  “No,” I
said curtly. I didn’t want this conversation to go any further, considering what had happened last time I talked to a young civilian.

  Her companions rounded the corner of the aisle. I wondered if I could jump over the magazine rack and bolt without attracting too much attention.

  “Hey Jasmine, who’s your friend?” one of the other girls asked.

  The third girl froze halfway down the aisle and swore. “You’re one of them,” she breathed, undisguised awe in her voice.

  Did everyone in this wretched city know me? Why did I even bother wearing a mask?

  The first girl looked at her friend, and then me. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Ohmigod!”

  The cashier looked up. I shushed and beckoned them to come closer, which they eagerly did.

  “Ohmigod, I can’t believe it’s you,” Jasmine whispered. “Why aren’t you wearing a mask?”

  “She’s obviously trying to get a drink,” the second girl replied. “Like, it’s hot out.”

  “Ladies, please. I rubbed my temples. They giggled.

  “I’m Imani,” the second girl said. “These are my friends Jasmine and Shantrelle.” I nodded at them in acknowledgment. “And you…you’re Firelight.” She said Ember’s codename as if she hardly dared speak it.

  “You idiot,” Shantrelle said. “This is Battlecry. Firelight has red hair and a dog sidekick.”

  “But this is Firelight’s neighborhood,” Imani snapped. “I’ve seen her here before. She kicks ass. And she’s got the long hair. This one time, Big John’s guys were hassling me and Firelight ran up and I swear to God, she set a dog on them and it, like, tore their faces off.” She looked at me, shy. “That was you, right? You walked me home and talked to me about how to tell Malik that I like him.”

  I pursed my lips, deciding whether it was even worth it to lie. “My codename is Battlecry,” I said quietly. “But please call me Jillian when I’m not wearing my mask.”

  They gasped in unison. “I didn’t know superheroes even had names,” Imani said.

  I raised an eyebrow—I’d never heard that superhero myth before, and it stung.

  Jasmine smacked her shoulder. “Of course they have names. They’re people, you know.” She grinned crookedly at me. “You know Atropos, right?”

  Her friends tittered and blushed.

  “Yes, I know him. He’s the leader.” I could taste bile.

  “You’re so lucky,” Shantrelle said with a sigh. “I wish I could live with him. I saw him fighting once. That man is ripped.” She leered at Imani. “Maybe he’ll save me from a burning building one day.”

  “I want him to save me from a different kind of fire,” Imani said, laughing.

  They broke into fresh giggles, but Jasmine stopped when she saw my humorless expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “Atropos is a jerk.” My grip tightened on the water bottle. “Y’all deserve better suitors than him.” Though I knew I was being rude, I pushed past them and walked up to the cashier.

  The three girls followed me, peppering me with questions.

  “Why’s he a jerk?”

  “Did you guys used to go out? Did you break up?”

  “Why are you in Northside?”

  “Is Firelight nearby?”

  “Can I be your sidekick?”

  “Does Helios have a girlfriend?”

  I spun around. “Please, stop. I’m not allowed to talk to people, especially about, well, the things you’re asking about.”

  “You’re not allowed to talk to us?” Jasmine repeated. “Why?”

  “Let me show you why.” I slammed my bottle of water down in front of the startled cashier. My super strength caused the bottle to burst.

  Swearing, I stormed over to the magazine rack and grabbed the women’s magazine.

  Holding it up in front of their shocked faces, I growled, “You see this guy? He’s the reason I can’t talk to you. When he says something is forbidden, it’s forbidden. If he caught me talking to you right now, he’d beat me until I couldn’t stand anymore. That’s what your precious, sexy Atropos is really like.” I threw the magazine down onto the dry part of the counter and glared at the cashier. “Ring up the magazine, too. I need something for target practice.”

  There was complete silence except for the low thrum of the coolers.

  Instant regret replaced my indignation, for I’d broken yet another rule: never, ever reveal a leader’s methods of punishment. Civilians were soft, uncomfortable with the stark reality of our lives.

  “You can have the magazine and water,” the cashier said. He pushed them towards me. “They’re on me.”

  I looked into his eyes and once again was reminded of The Criminal.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered, grabbing the magazine and bottle and striding towards the doors.

  “Jillian, wait,” Jasmine said, catching up to me. Imani and Shantrelle followed close behind.

  I didn’t break stride. “Please forget you ever met me. I’m not supposed to be here.”

  Jasmine was undeterred. “Did you mean what you said? Back there, about Atropos beating you until you can’t stand?”

  I stopped and looked her straight in the face. “Yes. That was true. Tell all your Atropos-worshiping friends.”

  Her expression hardened. “I hope you kick his ass.”

  The corner of my mouth twitched. I nodded once, then turned and continued north.

  18

  I walked through dirty streets lined with abandoned buildings, into unkempt neighborhoods with cracked sidewalks and overgrown yards. Factories belching steam loomed over the small houses. The melancholy whistle of a train in the distance told me I was near the train yards, and the city limits.

  This was my destination. I’d stay in the city, but I needed to be far away from Patrick.

  The sun was low on the horizon when I found an ancient shed hidden in the brambles and long shadows of a thicket near the train tracks. I broke the rusted padlock and forced open the door, dodging a shower of spiders, dust, paint chips, and splinters. The shed smelled faintly of mildew and dust, but it was empty.

  After removing the cobwebs with a stick, I laid down on the ground with my backpack under my head. Immediately, my thoughts turned towards the people I’d left behind.

  What would Reid be doing right now?

  If I had to say who the second-in-command of the team was, I’d settle on him, if only because he was the person who earned Patrick’s wrath the least. Reid struck me of the sort of man my parents hoped I’d marry one day: he knew every principle, embodied all four traits, and was quick to offer help when we needed it.

  Patrick knew the same amount of information as Reid, but Reid’s embracing of our teachings had always struck me as more genuine. I was tempted to resent him for never stepping in between me and Patrick, but why would he? Patrick had the right to punish me.

  After a minute of thinking, I remembered that Reid was the primary cook of our little household. I wagered it was around dinner time—I didn’t dare turn on my phone to check lest I be tracked—and he liked to make soup. I closed my eyes and inhaled, pretending that the musty scent was actually steam from a thick stew full of meat and vegetables.

  Back home in Chattahoochee, meals like that were only available whenever the charity truck came, which wasn’t often, but here in Saint Catherine we could buy cans of soups and stews, and bread rolls and salad and lemonade to go with them.

  Yes, he would be cooking a big pot of soup, and Ember would refuse her bowl, possibly because she was crazy.

  Ember. What would my sister-in-arms be doing right now? Talking to Reid, probably about me. Hiding up in her room. Throwing weak punches with bad form at the punching bag, with nobody there to correct her. Brushing her hair by herself instead of letting me brush it for her, and missing spots in the back because of it.

  If plotting the crimes on the crime map now fell to her, she was probably getting ready to give a patrol brief. The only positive in the last possibility was that the amo
unt of reading required for reviewing police reports would improve her literacy, as it had mine.

  Marco was sitting up in his room, staring out the window and thinking that he’d just lost another Johnson cousin. I was certain of this.

  And Patrick…Patrick was probably in pain from my attack, and thus ready and willing to inflict pain on the other three.

  I curled up, guilt crashing down on me. Whatever was going on in that house, it was my fault. If Patrick hurt anyone, it was because of me. I rolled over and hugged my knees, trying to ignore the ache in my chest by focusing on the painful emptiness in my stomach and the annoying scratch-scratch of a rodent in the corner. Tomorrow I’d start fixing up my new home into something habitable.

  Though I was exhausted, sleep was hard to come by. When I did sleep, I dreamed I was lying in a pool of blood.

  I dedicated the next two days to making the shed weather proof, scrounging plywood, nails, tarp, plastic, and whatever else I could find from various junkyards and abandoned properties.

  On the second day, while I was laying a small barrier of bricks around the perimeter of the shed to keep out rodents, I tripped over a low vine and stumbled into my pile of bricks. My pants tore at the knee, revealing a shallow, bloody slice in my leg.

  Sitting on the ground, I poured a trickle of water over the cut and idly wished Benjamin could heal it for me so I didn’t get an infection.

  Benjamin. The rustling leaves overhead seemed to whisper his name.

  It was the first time I’d allowed myself to think his name since I’d set out to make a new life for myself. Where was he right now? Did he hate me? Did he regret sitting down next to a sad, broken woman in Café Stella on that rainy day? Was he evil?

  Part of me seethed. Of course he’s evil. He’s a criminal. He was going to let you die.

  But that wasn’t right—he’d tried to call an ambulance for me. I’d stopped him.

  The same voice had an answer. Because you gave up on life, like the quitter you are.