Page 5 of Xantera
Hair up. Shoes on. Cloak fastened. Badge pinned. Breath unleashed.
Malcolm, on the other hand, takes his time. I know it would be rude of me to make the long walk to the northern lip of the city without him, but impatience makes my fingernails dig into my palms as he takes his time pulling on his shoes in the living room. How is he so quick to leave for work every day, but so slow to report for the most important part of our lives? A sliver of me wonders if he’s one of those citizens who dreads the Choosing, who doesn’twantto be picked.
I can’t fathom it. Sure, the Healing Center is my home, my safe space, but the Blood Moon Palace has…
“Alright,” Malcolm says finally, straightening as he fixes his collar. “You ready?”
I stare at him. OfcourseI’m ready.
He nods, as if he realizes the exact words that would be too impolite for me to say.
“Let’s—”
“—report to the Blood Moon Palace for the Choosing,” the female voice says, drowning out his.
Out in the street, we melt into the flow of thousands of bodies surging toward the ivory building in the distance. I can practically hear the mixture of a thousand heartbeats and breaths as all the healthy, able-bodied citizens over the age of eighteen make their way to their potential future. But the other sound is louder.
The howling.
It’s always extra vicious on nights like these, when crimson slathers the full moon above our heads. As if the Monster can sense all its untouched prey moving like blood in an artery within the walls it cannot overcome.
I bask in the chills it sends down my body. The Monster cannot reach us in here, so let it howl. Let it rage. The Guardians will protect us as they always have, and tonight, twelve of us humans will sustain their strength so that they can keep on protecting. They call it a sacrifice, but it’s not a sacrifice in the literal sense. The Chosen Ones must let the Guardians drink from their necks, yes, but they don’t die. In fact, they’re rewarded—with a lifetime of comfort and ease and a place in the Blood Moon Palace until the day they pass of old age.
As always when I near the giant courtyard before the palace, I find my gaze flitting up to all those balconies for proof.
The Choosing is the only other day the previous Chosen Ones come out besides Sanctuary Sunday. Now, a few dozen of them are leaning over the ivory railings, their cloaks and hair flowing in aslight breeze as they observe the crowd pooling below them. They look poised, regal, strong. A few wave.
I swallow a sudden lump of disappointment.
Turning around, I find that I’ve lost Malcolm in the flurry, but there’s no time to go looking for him. Sentries are stationed in a semi-circle around the courtyard, herding everyone into position until I’m standing exactly twelve inches from my neighbor in every direction.
The movement dies down. The jostling comes to a halt. Even the heartbeats and breaths seem to come to a standstill, silence settling over the night like a shroud.
Only the Monster howls on, and I can’t help my eyes from wandering to the Wall stationed behind the palace.
One hundred feet tall, its spiked top scrapes the silhouettes of midnight clouds in every direction. I can almost picture the Monster pacing back and forth on the other side, occasionally sitting on hideous haunches to fling its fury to the bloodstained moon.
The screech of ancient doors rips my attention downward again.
They’re coming out.
They’re here.
I sense rather than see them. I almostalwayssense rather than see them. There was only one time, after I had just turned eighteen, when I got to observe one of them with my own two eyes: the Tenth Guardian, a beautiful black-haired female with red, red, red lips. She’d passed me by without even glancing my way, but I’d felt the swish of her presence like a whisper grazing my skin. Felt her otherworldly grace and strength that sang of her superiority.
These people are truly a gift from heaven. Our saviors. Our idols.
Now, I feel that kind of presence again, crisscrossing through the crowd. I see my neighbors go even more rigid. All around me, spines straighten and knees begin to shake. I keep my eyes forward, trained on the back of the person in front of me.
Pick me. Pick me. Please pick me.
Nobody ever admits they want to be the Chosen One, but here I am, admitting it.
I hold my breath tight in my lungs, waiting.
At first, I’m almost positive this will be just like almost every other time, where I don’t even get a glimpse of those pointed fangs, crimson eyes, or marble skin. The disappointment from earlier is sinking deeper and deeper into my gut until—there.
A flash of brightest white.
