Powerless (The Powerless Trilogy)

The wheel of a merchant’s cart rolls over my toes. I bite back a yelp but don’t bother biting back my rather rude retort directed at the oblivious man who’s mindlessly crippling people with his cart.

Well, today’s off to a great start.

I slept fitfully last night, tossing and turning as I faded in and out of my recurring nightmares. Flashes of my father dying while I can do nothing but hold his hand, climbing up a chimney only to find the top boarded up, and Adena, the only person I have left in this world, being dragged away from me screaming.

Sometime between my numerous nightmares, Adena made a feeble attempt to shake me awake. I rolled over groaning, trying to cling to the little bit of blissful sleep I managed to steal. I may be the thief, but I’m regularly robbed of rest.

Persistent per usual, Adena then switched her strategy, deciding to pelt me with rough scraps of fabric until I finally raised a white cloth in surrender.

The sun, lazy as ever, is slowly struggling to peek over the run-down buildings, casting Loot Alley in morning shadows while I make my way down the cobblestone path. As the street comes alive with the hustle and bustle of merchants haggling while beggars plead with anyone who spares them a glance, I easily blend into the chaos that surrounds the slums.

My hands itch to snatch some food to quiet my grumbling stomach and to bring back for Adena. My eyes flick across the street in search of my next unfortunate victim to rob when—

Something’s not right.

Fourteen. There are only fourteen Imperials lining the street.

But there should be at least sixteen today.

I would know, seeing that I’ve memorized their rotations.

I spot Egg Head and Hook Nose in their usual spots outside of Maria’s shop, along with several other Imperials with equally accurate names. With the white, leather masks obscure half their faces from view, it’s rather difficult to come up with creative nicknames for the bastards, so I pride myself on the few I’ve invented.

Normally, the prospect of fewer guards would be a relief, and perhaps it’s my Psychic abilities kicking in, but the sight worries me.

My stomach growls angrily, impatient as ever.

Food first, funny feeling second.

I zigzag through the crowd with ease, swiping apples from the cart that ran over my toes, the revenge as sweet as the crisp fruit I bite into. Leaning against the crumbling wall of a shop, I spot what looks to be a young apprentice haggling with a tradesman. I watch as he fixes the merchant with a glare before throwing down several coins and snatching up a bundle of what can only be black leather. My eyes skim over the shillings as they roll on top of the cart, counting them quickly to find far too many coins there for leather.

He’s in a hurry. That’s why he’s willing to pay double what he should rather than take the time to negotiate a cheaper price. And he has the money to spare.

The perfect target.

I step onto the street and head for the boy now quickly shoving through the crowd while I pull at the leather strap holding my hair out of my face and off my neck. It falls down my back in a cascade of messy, silver waves while I curse the sweltering heat that already has my neck sticky with sweat. Letting a curtain of hair fall over my shoulder and into my face, I morph myself into the perfect picture of innocence.

“Make them underestimate you. Make them overlook you until you want to be seen.”

It’s been so long since I’ve heard my father’s voice that the soft sound of it threatens to slip from my memory and drift into death with him.

The thought shatters when we collide.

I stumble, scrambling to grab hold of the unsuspecting apprentice as I let myself fall. Gathering a fistful of his shirt in one hand, I slip the other into his vest pocket where I saw him grab his coins. I can feel six shillings there and resist the urge to grab all of them before only palming three.

Greed is not an easily tamed emotion, but I force myself to leave the other coins, knowing that he’s likely smart enough to feel the lack of weight in his pocket if I take them all. And I don’t need to add any more scars to my back for getting caught.

But right as I’m about to pull out my hand and ramble an apology for nearly running the boy over, my fingers catch on the inside lining of his vest. No, not just the lining—a secret pocket. I feel a folded piece of parchment within, and on an impulse I can’t explain or justify, decide to palm that too before sliding my hand out and shyly looking up into the apprentice’s face.

His brown eyes are wide as I stare up at him through the strands of hair blowing across my face. I arrange my expression into that of utter embarrassment and quickly uncurl my fist from his shirt.

Blowing a strand of hair from my eyes, I take a step back to put some space between us. “I am so sorry, sir!” I force myself to sound breathless, embarrassed, harmless. “I’m quite certain I am the only person in all of Ilya who is capable of tripping on air!”

Go on. Underestimate me. Overlook me.

He runs a hand through his curly hair and chuckles. “No worries. Guess you have quite the talent then.” He wears a smile, but his gaze lingers a little too long for my liking. So, I offer him a grin and a nod of my head before turning on my heel and vanishing into the crowded street.

The sugary scent of sticky buns wafts down the busy alley as I stroll past Maria’s shop and sidestep into one of the many small alleys branching off Loot. The note I nicked grows damp with sweat as I grip it in my palm. What could possibly be written on this little piece of paper that warrants it to be so hidden?

I intend to find out.

Flattening my back against the grimy brick wall, I unfold the edges of the paper to reveal a scribbled note:

Meeting begins quarter past midnight.

White house between Merchant and Elm.

Bring the supplies.

I stare at the note, blinking in confusion while my heart races in anticipation.

That’s my house.

Well, that was my house.

I can tell by the slant of the letters and the smudging of the ink that whoever wrote this was likely in a hurry to hide the note from prying eyes.

Prying eyes like mine.

Dozens of questions flood my mind, each one more confusing than the last. Why on this Plague forsaken earth are meetings being held at my house?

Former house. You left it, remember?

And to meet there in the middle of the night with supplies—?

The leather.

I trip over the uneven cobblestone, ripping me back to reality and the realization that I’ve been pacing this whole time. I shove the crumpled note back into my vest, mind still reeling as I step out onto the busy street now bathed in sunlight. I shake my head, trying to clear it as I push through the throng of people bartering, gossiping, and cursing.

Beginning to wind through the merchant carts once again, I fall into the familiar rhythm that is my honest occupation—thieving. My mind wanders as I work, leaving me to wonder whether Adena is having any luck selling her clothes on the other end of the long street.

I steal, she sews.

And that’s been our lives for the past five years. I was barely thirteen and utterly alone in the world when Adena quite literally ran into me. Well, she phased right through me. I’ll never forget the look on the Imperial’s face as he sprinted after her, screaming about stolen pastries. And without a second thought, I didn’t hesitate before sticking my foot out into his path. As soon as I got a glimpse of the guard’s face meeting the pavement, I was chasing after the gangly, curly-haired girl who ran right through me.

An uneasy alliance was born that day, one that was supposed to stay that way.

My hand freezes mid-air, hovering over a plump grapefruit when a chilling scream cuts through the mayhem of Loot. I twist around, fruit forgotten, searching through the throng of bodies to find the source of the noise. My eyes scan the crowd before snagging on a small, slumped figure crumpled against a wooden pole stained red at the center of the street. An Imperial hovers over the small boy, whip in hand, looking disgustingly pleased with himself as he stares down at the child. I know that look all too well. I’ve been that bleeding child far too many times.

He got caught.

I wonder what it was that he stole, what it was that could possibly justify such a beating. Some fruit? Maybe a few shillings from a merchant? I remember slumping up against the wooden pole, shaking with the pain caused by each crack of the whip while I bit my tongue to keep from crying out. The pain fades, but the scars remain as a reminder to do better.

The young ones always get caught. They’re needy. They haven’t learned to control their greed or live with their hunger yet, making them easy targets for the Imperials to use as an example.

There’s nothing you can do for him.

I have to beat those words into my head to ensure my feet don’t find their way to the boy. Because I tried once. Tried to step in and help a little girl who reminded me of myself. So scared, and yet, so determined to never show it. When she looked up at me, the fire in her gaze reflected my own. In the end, my attempt to help only ended with extra lashings for the both of us.

I grimace and quickly turn away from the gruesome scene only to get a mouthful of starchy, crumpled uniform when I slam into the lowlife wearing it.

The Imperial stares down at me, amusement flickering in his eyes surrounded by that white mask. Though he looks to be at least ten years my senior, blond hair sticking up at odd angles, he takes his time lazily trailing his gaze over my body. I bite my tongue before I can say something he’ll likely make me regret.

Imperials aren’t known to be gentlemen when it comes to young girls—or to anyone for that matter—and I don’t intend to find out if he is the exception. “So sorry, sir. I seem to be madly clumsy today,” I say, planning my escape into the crowd.

A clammy hand wraps around my wrist and spins me back around. I summon every bit of strength I have to suppress the fighting instinct that screams at me to knee him in the groin and bash his head into the stones beneath our feet.

“Why in such a hurry?” His toothy grin and black eyes send a shiver down my spine, and the foul stench of alcohol on his breath only adds to my unease.

I smile and force myself to be polite as I shake out of his grasp. “Just trying to run some errands before the market gets too crowded, that’s all.”

“Hmm,” he grunts, eyeing me skeptically. “Say, what’s your power, girl?” I fight the urge to stiffen as he continues with a grin, “By decree of the king, I’m to question anyone I feel … should be questioned.”

He loves being in control. Having power.

“I’m a Mundane,” I say simply, stating my tier on the Elite’s food chain to prove that I am of little threat and importance to him. “A Psychic.” I look him right in his black eyes as I say it, willing his black heart to believe me.

“Is that right? I’ve never met a Psychic before.” He chuckles darkly and takes a step towards me, bending his head close to mine so I get another whiff of the alcohol clinging to him. “Prove it then.”

I’m growing quite tired of that demand.

I meet the Imperial’s eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m concerned, though my pounding pulse proves otherwise. “I’m sensing anger and … regret from you. You’ve … You’ve just split up with your wife. Well, actually, she left you.” The look of utter shock on his face brings a small smile to my lips. “And if you really want me to be specific, because, well, you told me to prove it, it’s because you …” I stop mid-sentence, squeezing my eyes shut while pressing fingers to my temple, putting on a convincing show. “… You cheated on her? Wait, I’m getting something else …” I peek up at his face, now red with rage, as I continue rubbing my temple. “You … you want her back. But she doesn’t want you—”

I’m prepared for the backhand before I feel the sting of it across my face.

Blood flies from my mouth, and I keep my head turned away from him as he growls close to my face, “Bloody witch is what you are. Get out of my sight, Mundane.”

I spin on my heel and smile, blood pooling in my mouth and dribbling down my chin. I force myself to stumble back into a cart, snatching some fabric hanging off the edge from behind my back. I turn around quickly, clutching the bundle to my chest as I tear off a corner with my teeth to wipe up my bloody mouth and chin. I’ll use part of the fabric as a napkin, and the rest can go to Adena. Two birds with one stone.

Shoving the remaining cloth in my pack, now stuffed full of food, coins, and other stolen goods, I head back towards the Fort all while replaying the last five minutes over in my head.

It wasn’t hard to get under the Imperial’s skin, and I knew once I had, he’d slap me silly and let me scurry away. This wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve let that happen. And proving my Psychic abilities was hardly difficult considering that the evidence was written all over him.

The thin tan line on his now empty ring finger was my first clue that he was formally married. Then, there’s the fact that he moved his wedding band to his other hand rather than pawning it off for money, telling me that he still cares for his ex-wife and is probably still pining over her. The disheveled hair, crumpled uniform, and smell of whiskey on his breath further prove that he is obviously a single man who no longer has a wife to make him look presentable.

Men would likely go extinct without women to coddle them.

As for the part where he cheated on his wife, well, that was more so an educated guess based off the way he looked at me along with the stellar reputation the Imperials have made for themselves. Clearly, the assumption hit a nerve before he hit me.

The midday sun beats down on me as I make my way back to the Fort to meet Adena for lunch just like always. I take my time meandering down Loot, gnawing on an apple while hunger gnaws at me.

The salty smell of fish basting in the sun atop merchant carts hangs in the air. Children scuttle in front of my path, laughing as they chase each other down the street. The sound of voices haggling and cursing is like a chorus to me, a tune I’m all too familiar with.

A large, colored banner catches my eye as it begins to rise above the crowded alley, strung between two shops by a Crawler. He scurries up the wall as though there’s glue on his palms and feet, allowing him to climb up the smooth shop with ease. As he secures the rope connecting the banner to the wall, I turn my attention to the words scrawled on the green tapestry in large, black lettering:

The sixth Purging Trials is about to begin

Remember the purging. Thank the plague.

Honor to your kingdom, your family, and yourself.

You could be the next victorious elite.

I snort loudly, nearly choking on a chunk of my apple. Although the Purging Trials are nothing to laugh about, I can’t help but find it comical that they are meant to be a celebration. In honor of the Great Purging over three decades ago, the Trials were created to showcase the peoples’ supernatural abilities and bring honor to the only Elite kingdom.

I wouldn’t say murdering innocent people brings honor to me, my kingdom, or my family—not that I have any left to bring honor to. And yet, every five years, young Elites are chosen to compete in these games for both the glory and enough shillings to build your own comfy castle while you try to escape the trauma the Trials caused you.

But the part that has me shaking with both laughter and rage is that the lesser Elites, those with Defensive and Mundane abilities, are made to believe that they have a chance of winning these twisted Trials. I feel suddenly numb as I look at the excited faces surrounding me, all crowding under the sign, grinning and pointing.

We are the first to die.

The Elites who compete aren’t chosen, but rather, born into their fate. It’s always those of royal blood or of higher status on the Elite’s tier of power. I scan the crowd, eyes skipping over the smiling faces of Mundanes who are only thrown into the Trials for entertainment after the king allows us to pick who we wish to represent us.

Despite the king insisting that the killing of fellow Elites in the arena is frowned upon, it’s no secret that Death itself is a contestant in the Trials. Dying teenagers apparently make things exceptionally more entertaining, and if the Elites won’t do the killing, the king will pull the strings in the arena.

I push through the throng of people gathered under the sign, all talking over one other about who will represent Loot and what they would do with the prize money.

There have been very few times in my life when I haven’t envied the Elites. But at the thought of competing in the Purging Trials, I’ve never been more thankful to be nothing and no one of importance.

Completely Ordinary.