Powerless (The Powerless Trilogy, #1)
Lauren Roberts
For every girl who has ever felt powerless.
Chapter One
Paedyn
Thick, hot liquid runs down my arm.
Blood.
Funny, I don’t remember the guard nicking me with his sword before my fist connected with his face. Despite being a Flash, he apparently couldn’t manage to move faster than my right hook to his jaw.
The smell of soot stings my nose, forcing me to clamp a grimy hand over it to stop a sneeze from slipping out.
That would be a very pathetic way to get caught.
When I’m sure that my nose won’t alert the Imperials lurking beneath where I’m hiding, I return my hand to the filthy wall my back is currently pressed against with my feet planted opposite me. After taking a deep breath that nearly has me choking on soot, I slowly begin my climb upwards once again. With thighs burning almost as much as my nose, I force my body to continue shimmying while stifling the sneeze.
Climbing up a chimney isn’t exactly how I thought I would be spending my evening. The small space has me sweating, swallowing my fear before scrambling to the top of the cramped corridor, eager to replace grime-caked walls with a starry night. When my head finally peeks over the top, I greedily gulp down the sticky air, then climb up and over, immediately bombarded with a new concoction of smells far more unpleasant than the stench of soot clinging to my body, my clothes, my hair. Sweat, fish, spices, and I’m quite certain some sort of bodily fluid, blends to create the aroma that surrounds Loot Alley.
Balancing atop the chimney, I strain my eyes on the shadowed roof to inspect my sticky arm. I’d nearly forgotten to examine it without the usual biting pain that accompanies a sword slash to remind me.
I rip off a strip of cloth from the sweaty tank that clings to my body, dabbing at the gash with it.
Adena’s going to kill me for ruining her stitching. Again.
I’m surprised when I don’t feel the familiar twinge of pain as I rub at my arm with the rough fabric, impatiently sopping up the stickiness.
And that’s when I smell it.
Honey.
The same honey that belongs to the sticky buns oozing out of the many pockets in my ragged vest and dripping down my arm—mistaken for blood. I sigh, rolling my eyes at myself.
It’s a welcome surprise, nonetheless. Even honey soaking my clothes beats trying to wash blood out.
I take in a deep breath and look out over the crumbling, rundown buildings cast in shadows by the flickering lampposts dotting the street. There’s not much electricity here in the slums, but the king generously spared us a few lampposts. Thanks to the Volts and Scholars using their abilities to create a sustained power grid, I have to work exceptionally hard to stay in the shadows.
Farther from the slums, the more the rows of shops and homes slowly improve in condition and size. Shacks turn into homes, homes turn into mansions, leading up to the most daunting building of all. Squinting through the darkness, I can just barely make out the looming towers of the royal castle and the sloping dome of the Bowl Arena that resides beside it.
My eyes flick back to the wide street stretched out before me, scanning the surrounding sketchy buildings. Loot Alley is the very heart of the slums, pumping crime and trade throughout the city. I trace the dozens of other alleys and streets jutting off from it, getting lost in the maze that is the city before offering a sigh and small smile to the familiar street beneath me.
Home. Sort of. Technically, a home implies that one has a roof over their head.
But stars are far more fun to stare at than a ceiling.
I would know, seeing that I used to have a ceiling to stare at every night, back when I had no need for the stars to keep me company.
My traitorous gaze sweeps across the city to where I know my former home lies wedged between Merchant and Elm Streets. Where a happy little family is likely sitting around the dinner table, laughing and discussing their day with one another—
I hear a thump, followed by the murmuring of voices that drag me from my bitter thoughts. Straining to hear, I can just make out the muffled, deep voice that belongs to the guard I so kindly relieved of his duties a short while ago.
“—came up right behind me, quiet as a mouse, and then ... then the next thing I know, I get a tap on the shoulder and a fist to the face.”
A very irritated and very shrill female voice echoes up the chimney. “You’re a Flash, for Plague’s sake, aren’t you supposed to be fast or something?” She takes a deep breath. “Did you at least get a look at his face before you let him rob me? Again?”
“All I saw were his eyes,” the guard mumbles. “Blue. Very blue.”
The woman huffs in irritation. “How helpful. Let me just stop every person on Loot to see if their eyes match your vivid description of very blue.”
I stifle my snort as something creaks from the other end of the room, followed by a chorus of muffled footsteps. From the groan of rotting wood shifting beneath several new pairs of boots, I immediately deduce that three more guards have joined the hunt.
And that’s my cue.
I hop off the chimney and grab onto the raised ledge of the roof, swinging my legs over the side to dangle above the street. Blowing out a breath, I let go and bite my tongue against a yelp as gravity yanks me towards the ground. With a soft thud I drop ungracefully into a merchant’s wagon brimming with hay. The stiff straw pokes through my clothes like one of Adena’s pincushions, and a cloud of soot and hay rises on the night breeze when I jump out onto the street.
Passing the time by plucking straw from my tangled hair, I begin my journey back to the Fort, weaving through beat-up merchant carts, all abandoned for the night, feet dancing over trash and broken trinkets. Looters slumped against alleys or tucked in between buildings whisper among themselves as I pass.
I feel the weight of the dagger tucked into my boot and relax at the comfort of the cool steel as I pass groups of fellow homeless huddling together for the night. I can see the faint shimmer of purple forcefields shielding some, while others don’t even have an ability strong enough to allow them to sleep peacefully, which is the exact reason they call the slums their home.
I keep my steps swift and sure as my eyes sweep back and forth across the alleys, never letting my guard down. The poor don’t discriminate. A shilling is a shilling, and they don’t care if they jump someone worse off than them to get it.
Several guards cross my path as I zigzag down streets, forcing me to slow down to steer clear of them. Every shop, corner, and street has been bestowed the gift of leering, white-uniformed law enforcers. These brutal Imperials have been stationed everywhere along Loot Alley by decree of the king due to an increase in crime.