War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,115

off, the echo dying in the red shadows.

“I hope that’s in the past now,” she mumbles, if only to herself.

“I promise it is,” Davidson replies from a polite distance. His angled eyes crinkle when he tries to offer a bitter smile. If nothing else, the premier is a firm reminder of what can be. How high someone like us can climb.

Cameron and I exchange glances. We want to believe him.

We have to believe him.

I tie my kerchief tighter into place, blinking harsh tears out of my eyes. The air itself seems to burn, and my skin smarts. It’s both dry and damp at the same time, unnatural and just plain wrong.

It isn’t dawn yet, but the smoky sky is lighter than it was before as the sun begins its approach from the east. A high-pitched, electric whistle blows at the end of the alley, then echoes out over the slum, from one factory to another, signaling the massive migration that is the shift change.

“The dawn walk,” Cameron mutters.

The sight makes my breath catch. Hundreds of Red workers flood the streets of New Town. Men and women and children, dark-skinned and pale-faced, old and young, all trudging together through the poisoned air. Like some grim parade. Most look at their feet, exhausted by their work, broken by this place.

It feeds the rage always burning in my heart.

Cameron slips into their midst, with Kilorn and me on her heels. Behind us, the rest of our band melts into the countless dirty faces, blending in with ease. I look back, finding Davidson, who follows at a safe distance. In the growing light, his face tightens, betraying the slight lines of age and care worn into his skin. He fists one hand into his jacket, close to his heart, and gives me a curt nod.

Our steady parade of workers empties onto another street, wider than the rest, lined with stoic block apartments organized like regimented soldiers. Another factory shift hurries toward us from the opposite direction, intent on taking our place.

Gently, Cameron nudges me to the side, moving me in line with the rest of the Red tech workers. They step quickly, in time with one another, creating space for the new shift to pass. As they do, Cameron shoves her fist into her own jacket as Davidson did.

So do I.

Marking ourselves.

The escorts are not Scarlet Guard. Or they weren’t, before all this started. Their allegiances are to one another, to their slum. To small resistances, the only kind possible in here.

Ours is a tall, black-skinned man, willowy like Cameron, his hair braided and pulled back into a tight, neat bun streaked with shades of gray. Cameron’s foot taps as he approaches, her body almost radiating energy. He reaches us and clasps her arm,

“Daddy,” I hear her breathe as he pulls her into an embrace. “Where’s Mama?”

He covers her hand with his own. “She’s coming off shift. I told her to keep her head down and her eyes open. First bolt of lightning, she’s running.”

Cameron exhales slowly. She dips her head, nodding to herself. The dark around us continues to lift, fading to lighter shades of blue as dawn approaches. “Good.”

“I hope you didn’t bring Morrey here,” her father adds, his tone light but scolding. And so familiar. It reminds me of my own parents, chiding me for a broken plate.

Cameron’s head snaps back to find her father staring, eyes a dark and deep black. “Of course not.”

Even though I don’t want to interrupt their reunion, I have to. “The power station?” I prod, looking up at the elder Cole.

He glances down at me. He has a kind face, no mean feat in a place like this. “NT has six, one for each sector. But if we cut off the central hub, that will do the job.”

Mention of the plan snaps something in Cameron. She straightens, focuses. “This way,” she says sharply, beckoning to us.

The shift change is much more crowded than even the worst days in the Stilts market. Silver officers in black uniforms keep watch. Not on the ground, on the filthy streets, but from the overarching walkways and windows of foreboding guard posts. Officers and posts I know well enough. I watch them as I pass, noting their disinterest. It’s not the same disinterest Silvers show us at court, their way of making us feel like less than we already are. But a boredom. A disuse. Silvers aren’t assigned to slum towns because they’re warriors of important bloodlines. This isn’t a