Page 155 of Silver Elite

“I’ve never been there,” I prompt. “I’m curious.”

I think she knows I’m trying to distract her, because there’s a trace of gratitude as she says, “It used to be a lot better.”

“How so?”

“The controllers were nicer. Gave us more leeway, like looking the other way if we missed curfew. But it turned to shit when we got rezoned. After K merged with L, their ward chairman took over.”

It happens often, the rezoning. There were twenty-six wards whenthe system was first implemented. I believe we’re down to eighteen now. Some were integrated with their neighbors because of population decline. But most wards were swallowed up by natural disasters, as the coastline slowly tries to eat its way onto the Continent. The seawalls the General has the Company engineers tackling won’t hold forever.

“It’s really beautiful there,” Ivy continues, sounding wistful. “You’d think being so close to the Blacklands would be creepy or something, but honestly? The black mist in the distance actually makes for some gorgeous sunsets.”

“Did you ever go to the Blacklands?”

“No.” She’s horrified by the notion. “I don’t know anyone who’s gone in there and come out alive.”

“Roe,” I say. “Have you?”

His voice floats toward me. “Only to the edge. Maybe ten feet into the mist. It was Travis’s idea.”

“He took you there?” Ivy sounds surprised.

“The General had business in K when I was twelve. He brought us along, but we got bored and snuck off. My brothers dared me to walk in. Travis said it wasn’t a big deal if you had your flashlight. Asshole didn’t tell me they don’t work in there.”

Don’t I know it. There’s something wrong with the way the light reflects in the Blacklands. As in, it doesn’t. Everything is black. Always. Jim and I learned that lesson when he tried to bring various light sources on our hunting excursions. Flashlights didn’t work. Torches. Even his lighter.

It was fascinating to me. Each time he flicked that lighter, it wouldn’t work, but when we were in the clearing’s rare pocket of sunshine, he’d flick it to spark a visible orange flame. I wish we could study the phenomenon and find out why it’s like that. Or maybe the Company already has, and they just don’t want to share.

“Do you like Travis?” I ask Roe.

“I suppose.” His tone is grudging.

“How is he different from the captain?” I hate revealing my curiosity about his family, but it’s a dynamic I still haven’t been able to figure out.

Roe thinks it over. “Travis is very practical. Calculated. He does shit to test you, to see if you’ll be of use to him. He’s got a scientific mind. He doesn’t rely on emotion like Cross.”

Ivy snorts. “Crossandemotionare not two words I’d put in the same sentence.”

“You don’t know shit about my brother. Either of them,” he sneers. “You didn’t have to grow up with them.”

“You barely grew up with them. You lived with your mother until she died.”

“I spent enough time at the estate to know what they’re like. What all of them are like. Especially her.”

I frown in the darkness. “Who?”

He makes a disparaging sound. “You know she never comes down when I’m over? Not even once.”

“Who?” I ask again.

“The General’s sainted Vinessa. My stepmother. Bitch won’t even venture down the stairs when I’m there. Doesn’t acknowledge my presence. When I visited as a kid, I remember being ordered to stay in the living room while the General was upstairs with his real family.” Roe lets out a harsh laugh. “Sometimes he’d keep me waiting for hours. Sitting there like some unwanted guest.”

Bitterness simmers beneath his words. I can hear the weight of years of hurt and rejection in his voice, but I can’t muster up much sympathy. He killed Betima without a shred of repentance. This is not a misunderstood little boy. He’s a dangerous man.

“I could never understand why she hated me so much. Sure, my mother worked in Human Services, but it wasn’t Mom’s fault the General developed a liking for her. Wasn’t her fault he knocked her up. Birth control wasn’t even mandatory back then.” Roe makes a derisive sound. “He’s the one who couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

“Will you be telling us your sob stories the rest of the time we’re here or are you finished now?” I ask in a polite tone.

“You’re a real quat, Darlington.”

---