Page 8 of Xantera
I loiter, though, on the steps of the Healing Center, my eyes darting treacherously past the flow of civilians to the complexes across the street: 360 and 361. The space Diggory melted into.
I’m sure the sentries already tried retracing his steps. I’m also sure it’s not my place to wonder if they found anything or not.
Still, my healing motto clangs through me: nobody dies on my watch. What if Diggory is somewhere in the labyrinth of complexes, hurt and unable to ask for help? What if this still, technically, falls under the job designation the Guardians gave me? He never checked out of the Healing Center the proper way, after all. He’s still my patient.
By the time I exhale, I’m already stealing in between that dark lane sandwiched between Complex 360 and 361.
It’s just like any other walkway in here. Symmetrical doors line either side of me, with knobs and metal slats for meal-laden trays tofit through. I’ve never really studied the corners and edges of these walkways, though. My eyes have always been focused on the light spilling from the end of the darkness, not the darkness itself.
Now, I allow myself to slow my steps and look up. Down. All around.
The first thing I notice is whatisn’there. Flags. Loudspeakers. Screens.
Cameras.
The lack of color, the monotony, the symmetry—I’ve always considered it a no-man’s land between point A and point B. Now, it seems like a perfect crack for someone to fall through, especially when the end of this walkway splits into spiderwebbing intersections where I waver, uncertain whether to turn left, right, or continue straight ahead. I have a vague idea of the Xantera map etched into my mind from my schooling days, so I know that clusters of complexes bleed into other clusters on either side of the main road. Diggory could be anywhere within the walls of this city.
Up ahead, a door opens. Somebody exits their housing unit, their red badge gleaming in the shadows. I nod politely as she makes her way past me, as if I live in one of these complexes, too, and I’m just heading home after a long shift.
Which, on a technicality, I am. I’m just taking a detour.
To where? I don’t know. I don’tknow.
Watching out for signs of bloodstain or a struggle, I continue on a meandering path until something snags my attention, and I stop dead to pivot back around. For a second, I don’t understand why the door I’m staring at seemsoff, but unease trickles down my spine.
Then I realize there’s no metal slat for food to fit through above the doorknob.
I gawk at the smooth absence of a slat for several seconds, feeling my pulse skitter up my neck. This… this can’t be right. Unless whoever lives here doesn’t need food, they should have the same door as the rest of us, the same means for receiving daily meals.
Before I can pull myself back, my knuckles are knocking against the door.
Oh, I shouldn’t have done that. Ireallyshouldn’t have done that. Invading the privacy of someone’s personal housing unit is reserved for sentries and sentries alone, unless it’s Sunday. Sanctuary Sunday marks the day of balance, a reprieve in our routine. The Recreation Center unlocks its doors, the Blood Moon Palace welcomes visitors in the courtyard, and citizens can accept visitors, too.
Today isn’t Sunday, though. If someone opens that door and sees a random uninvited civilian in front of their space, the sentries might be knocking onmydoor soon enough with a whole host of questions.
But nobody answers. The door doesn’t open.
And when I abandon all sense of courtesy and self-preservation and try to turn the knob, I find that it won’t budge.
It’s locked.
Now that same unease spikes in my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Nothing is ever locked except for the front doors of the Blood Moon Palace, but I’ve never heard of anyone eventryingto open them anyway. To lock a door is a sign of distrust. And there is no reason to distrust this society the Twelve Guardians have built us from the ground up.
Almost as if something about the door repels me, I find myself hurrying on, taking turn after turn until I’m back in the last remnants of faint sunlight leaking from a pink-tinged sky. Soon, it’ll be dark and the Monster will begin its nightly howling. Malcolm will be wondering where I am. Everyone is either back at their housing unit or starting a night shift, so the main road is practically empty as I sneak back onto it.
Which is why, when a scream splits the air, I have a clear view of who’s making it.
The patient I thought I’d find bleeding out somewhere in between complexes is currently on the main road, kicking and thrashing, as several sentries haul him away.
The deep screams fill my head, and I already know this is over.
A taste.
A tease.
Like biting at fucking smoke and trying to rip it between my canines. Useless.
One second, I’m howling, and the next, a man’s voice echoes through my skull.
