Page 23 of Xantera
Sweat dampens the small of my back as my spot in line inches closer and closer to the door, and my eyes betray me by flicking up to those balconies where a few dozen Chosen Ones are leaning against the railings, looking down at everyone beneath them.
I don’t know any of them personally, and disappointment thrums through me like it did on the night of the last Choosing, so strong and hard that I nearly sway on my feet.
Instead, I abandon all pretense and let my neck crank upward, spearing my focus at the Chosen One hanging over the balcony directly above me.
He’s middle-aged, fair-haired, and looking just as regal as all his companions as he sweeps a cupped hand through the air. To my right, a woman of the same age is smiling up at him, two children on her other side waving frantically at the man who must be their father.
The man whowastheir father, I should say. Hard to be a real one when the Guardians whisk you away from your family and everyone else you’ve ever loved under the guise of it being an honor.
And just like that, I’m rooted to the spot, even as the line shifts forward.
I’ve never really let myself think all the thoughts that press against the forefront of my mind, but now they explode and fracture into a hundred different questions that prick me from the inside-out.
How isthisconsidered an honor—staring down at a city you can never be a part of any longer? Why don’t the Guardians feedfrom our necks to get the sustenance they need to protect us and then release us back to the city? What makes them Choose one sacrifice over another? What makes them Chooseanything? They’re never here, among us, unless a blood moon blares from the sky. Even now, it’s a human representative who’s holding the clipboard and scribbling down a message much slower than an eager, blue-badged boy is talking, trying to plead his case about switching to a new job assignment.
Why isn’t he allowed to plead his case on a random Tuesday? Why is his ability to use his voice limited to once a week?
But of course, it’s the Twelve Holy Guardians who think they know us better than ourselves, and a human representative who will decide what to do with me when I drag out the necklace from my inside pocket.
Either he’ll find my injustice trivial, thanking me and slipping it into his own pocket, or he’ll find himself speechless, unable to process the gravity of what I’ve done. In that case, he’ll haul me through the front doors to face the wrath of the Twelve, where one of those dozen scenarios I’ve played out in my head will become a reality.
“Excuse me, miss, are you still in line?”
The question rattles me from my thoughts, and I whip my gaze back to find the person behind me blinking politely at the way I’ve glued myself to the stone beneath my feet.
“Oh. Oh, I’m not sure. I just—”
Need a minute, I try to get out, but the words clog in my throat, and I’m spared having to cough them out when a commotion from up ahead jerks both of our heads forward.
“No. No, please, I need to see him.”
The voice is high-pitched and strained, reminding me of the Monster’s continuous howl he inflicted upon me the other night. There’s an unspoken rule in Xantera to never sound distressed, to always keep your voice at a civil pitch that doesn’t incite worryor fear. The eagerness of the blue-badged boy was one thing, but this…
This is another.
I already have half a foot out of line, so I lean even further sideways to peek around the people in front of me and find the owner of that voice.
The blue-badged boy must have been sent on his way, because the person at the front of the line is a woman with a gold badge pinned to her chest now, her hair pulled back into a long silver braid. She’s actually on her knees in front of the representative, whose face screws up in a look of disgust as he uses his clipboard like a shield from her obvious desperation.
“As I’ve told you, ma’am, the Twelve Guardians will be in contact once they have made a decision about—”
“But is he alive?” the woman cries, and everyone in line seems to reel in a breath at the way she just interrupted him. “Can you tell me if he’s alive?”
“I am not authorized to speak on the matter.”
“Then let me talk to someone who is!”
The entire courtyard goes completely still for a second as her shout reverberates in the air. My own heart leaps in my throat, and I swear I can hear our collective heartbeats thrumming in the silence that follows her exclamation.
Then everyone breaks out into horrified mutters and whispers. “Guardians,” the person in front of me gasps. “The audacity!”
The representative’s face, however, slides back into neutral pleasantness, as if he can combat the woman’s behavior by pretending she’s done nothing out of the ordinary. “Thank you for voicing your concerns, ma’am. I appreciate your time.”
“But I—”
“Next,please.”
“But—”
