Red Queen (Red Queen 1)

Before I know it, we’re sitting on a closed balcony above the stage. The seats below us teem with people, many of them children, all of them Silver. A few Reds rove between the rows and aisles, serving drinks or taking tickets, but none sit down. This is not a luxury they can afford. Meanwhile, we sit on velvet chairs with the best view, with the secretary and the Sentinels standing just beyond our curtained door.

When the theater darkens, Maven throws an arm across my shoulders, pulling me so close I can feel his heartbeat. He smirks at the secretary, now peeking between the curtains. “Don’t disturb us,” he drawls, and he pulls my face to his.

The door clicks behind us, locking shut, but neither of us pulls away. A minute or an hour passes, which I don’t know, until voices onstage bring me back to reality. “Sorry,” I mutter to Maven, standing up out of my chair in an effort to put some distance between us. There’s no time for kissing now, no matter how much I might want to. He only smirks, watching me instead of the play. I do my best to look elsewhere, but something always draws my eyes back to him.

“What do we do now?”

He laughs to himself, eyes glinting mischievously.

“That’s not what I meant.” But I can’t help but smirk with him.

“Cal cornered me earlier.”

Maven’s lips purse, tightening at the thought. “And?”

“It seems I’ve been saved.”

His resulting grin could light the world entire, and I’m seized by the need to kiss him again. “I told you I would,” he says, his voice oddly rough. When his hand reaches for mine, I take it without question.

Before we can continue, the ceiling panel above us scrapes away. Maven jumps to his feet, more startled than I am, and peers into the black space above us. Not even a whisper filters down, but all the same, I know what to do. Training has made me stronger and I pull myself up with ease, disappearing into the dark and cold. I can’t see anything or anyone, but I’m not afraid. Excitement rules me now, and with a smile, I reach down a hand to help Maven. He scrambles up into the darkness and tries to get his bearings. Before our eyes adjust, the ceiling panel slides back into place, shutting out the light and the play and the people beyond.

“Be quick and quiet. I’ll take you from here.”

It’s not the voice I recognize but the smell: an overpowering mixture of tea, old spices, and a familiar blue candle.

“Will?” My voice almost cracks. “Will Whistle?”

Slowly but surely, the darkness becomes easier to manage. His white beard, tangled as ever, comes into dim focus. There’s no mistaking it now.

“No time for reunions, little Barrow,” he says. “We have work to do.”

How Will came to be here, traveling all the way from the Stilts, I don’t know, but his intimate knowledge of the theater is even more peculiar. He leads us through the ceiling, down ladders and steps and little trapdoors, all with the play echoing overhead. It’s not long before we’re belowground, with brick supports and metal beams stretching high above us.

“You people sure like to be dramatic,” Maven mutters, eyeing the gloom around us. It looks like a crypt, dark and damp, where every shadow holds a horror.

Will barely laughs as he shoulders open a metal door. “Just you wait.”

We tramp through the narrow passage, sloping downward even farther. The air smells faintly of sewage. To my surprise, the path ends in a small platform, lit by only a burning torch. It casts strange shadows on a crumbling wall set with broken tiles. There are black markings on them, letters, but not from the old language I’ve seen.

Before I can ask about them, a great screeching sound shakes the walls around us. It comes from a round hole in the wall, rumbling up from even greater darkness. Maven grabs my hand, startled by the sound, and I’m just as frightened as him. Metal scrapes on metal, an earsplitting noise. Bright lights stream out of the tunnel and I can feel something coming, something big and electric and powerful.

A metal worm appears, coasting to a stop in front of us. The sides are raw metal, welded and bolted together, with slit-like windows. A door slides open on shrieking tracks, spilling a warm glow onto the platform.

Farley smiles to us from a seat inside the door. She waves a hand, gesturing for us to join her. “All aboard.”

“The techies call it the Undertrain,” she says as we shakily take our seats. “Remarkably fast, and it runs on the ancient tracks the Silvers never bothered to look for.”

Will shuts the door behind us, slamming us into what feels like nothing more than a long tin can. If I weren’t so worried about the under-thing crashing, I’d be impressed. Instead, I tighten my grip on the seat below me.

“Where did you build this?” Maven wonders aloud, his eyes sweeping over the wretched cage. “Gray Town is controlled, the techies work for—”

“We have techies and tech towns of our own, little prince,” Farley says, looking very proud of herself. “What you Silvers know about the Guard couldn’t fill a teacup.”

The train lurches beneath us, almost tossing me from my seat, but no one else even bats an eye. It slides along until it reaches a speed that smacks my stomach into my spine. The others continue chattering, mostly Maven asking questions about the Undertrain and the Guard. I’m glad no one asks me to speak, because I’ll certainly throw up or pass out if I do much more than sit still. But not Maven. Nothing gets by him.

He glances out the window, gleaning something from the rock blurring past. “We’re heading south.”

Farley sits back in her seat, nodding. “Yes.”

“The south is radiated,” he barks, staring down at her.

She barely shrugs.

“Where are you taking us?” I murmur, finally finding my voice.

Maven doesn’t waste any time, moving for the closed door. No one stops him because there’s nowhere for him to go. No escape.

“You know what it does? Radiation?” He sounds truly afraid.

Farley begins to tick off the symptoms on her fingers, a maddening smile still on her face. “Nausea, vomiting, headache, seizures, cancerous diseases, and, oh yes, death. A very unpleasant death.”

Suddenly I feel very sick. “Why are you doing this? We’re here to help you.”

“Mare, stop the train, you can stop the train.” Maven drops in front of me, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Stop the train!”

To my surprise, the tin can squeals around us, coming to a very sharp and sudden stop. Maven and I tumble to the floor in a tangle of limbs, hitting the hard metal deck with a painful thunk. Lights beam down at us from the open door, revealing another platform lit by torches. It’s much larger and leads far back out of sight.