Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Pronunciations and Meanings

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Loved the book?

  Other Books by Frankie Rose

  SOVEREIGN HOPE (Book 1 in the Hope Series)

  ETERNAL HOPE (Book 2 in the Hope Series)

  COMING SOON

  DEC 2013 LOST HOPE (Book 3 in the Hope Series)

  FEB 2014 RADICALS (Book 2 in the Blood & Fire Series)

  MAR 2014 STONE

  FEB 2014 THE ACADEMY SERIES (Mini series)

  Copyright © 2013 Frankie Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Frankie Rose

  For my cheerleaders, I love you all.

  Thank You.

  Pronunciation and Meanings in Halo

  Halo- A collar-like device which controls the wearer’s emotions and pain.

  Falin- (fah-LIN)- The Sanctuary’s fighting caste. Falin wear halos, and are trained from a young age to fight in the Colosseum

  Elin- (eh-LIN)- Pureblooded children of the Sanctuary. The Elin do not wear halos.

  Trues- Owners of the fighting houses in the Sanctuary. Parents of the Elin.

  Therin- (the-RIN)- Servants of the fighting houses. Therin wear halos.

  Tamji- (Tam-Gee)- Freetown’s most common fighting caste.

  Mashinji-(Mash-IN-gee)-A rogue fighter level. Mashinjis can be called to fight by whomever wishes to match them, and there is no limit to how many matches they can fight in one sitting.

  Kansho- (Can-SHO)- The highest level of fighter in Freetown.

  HALO

  The technician’s hands are cold this morning. Everything is cold. The metal gurney pressing against the backs of my naked thighs feels like it’s been kept in one of the storage freezers. A clock on the wall, simple and white like everything else, ticks out a long minute while the short woman with the neat brown ponytail fiddles with my halo. She runs her icy fingers around the rim of the metal where it meets my skin, circling my throat. She looks pleased.

  “You’re competing again today,” she says. This isn’t so much a question as a statement. I compete in nearly every amphi-match. They’re held once a month on the first Saturday. Today is the seventh of March, and it’s a match day. I nod my head and the paper gown they’ve given me to wear rustles like dried leaves. She notes something on the tablet in her hand.

  “Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions. Please answer them as honestly as possible.”

  I nod again. There is no requirement for me to speak yet. She purses her lips into a tight line as she glances down at the tablet, clearly trying to pick a question at random. I’ve been here so many times that I know them all by heart.

  “What did you do this morning?” she asks.

  I flex my feet, noticing the skin under my toenails is a violet bruise instead of flushed pink. “I rose with my alarm. I helped my mother―”

  “Your mother?” she interrupts. She knows Miranda, the woman I should rightly call Mother, would never need my help with anything. She wouldn’t be caught interacting with Falin.

  I huff, realising my mistake. “I helped my birth mother organise the children for education. Then I met with Falin Asha and we trained for three hours. Following that, we both proceeded here in answer to our call for halo maintenance.”

  The technician taps some more on the screen. I don’t think I’ve had her before, but it’s difficult to know for certain. The technicians follow a script; nothing about them defines themselves from one another, just like everybody else in the Sanctuary. I study her for a moment while she picks another question, wondering how old she is. She could be any age. I’m nearly certain she’s never competed before. If she were Falin, her hands would be scarred, and her skin is entirely unblemished. My palms and forearms have been cut to ribbons over and over, rick-racked with slices that have all shed my blood at some point or another. Defensive wounds. My halo’s healing components took care of them all.

  The technician clears her throat. “Your brother is not competing today, but humour me. How would you feel if he fought and was not successful in his match?” Her voice is flat and monotone, yet there seems to be some open curiosity there. Curiosity isn’t outlawed, but it certainly isn’t encouraged. I give her a look that tells her I’ve heard it.

  “I would be regretful that he had not applied his training in such a way that ensured his victory.”

  “You wouldn’t be sad?” The technician is already tapping away, and I don’t really have to answer. I do anyway, because I am supposed to.

  “I wouldn’t be sad. My brother and I are both Falin. We know our duty to the Sanctuary and we carry it out accordingly.”

  “Good. And how do you feel about participating in your own match today? Are you afraid?”

  I shake my head. Pull a tight smile. “I have no reason to be afraid.”

  She makes a small grunting sound that could be construed as a laugh. She knows as well as I do that it is illogical for me to be scared, even if I were capable of it. I am amongst a select few who have never lost a match, even before, when I was a child. Under the age of thirteen, we Falin are pre-mortas, and our matches are a different kind of fighting. All a competitor has to do is land ten points on his or her opponent to be declared victor. Those ten points don’t guarantee that the opponent will die, but they usually do. Our knives are sharp. After our thirteenth year, Falin children become post-mortas, and there’s no such thing as a ten-point victory anymore. Only the rumble of the Colosseum and blood-soaked dirt. Only death.

  The technician frowns and makes sure the leads connecting the electrodes on my temples, over my heart, and on the insides of my wrists are securely attached. She pul
ls her cheek up to one side in a way that suggests she is confused. They do this sometimes, when they can’t work out if I’ve tricked the equipment or if it is broken somehow. I give nothing away.

  “I would have thought some concern would be in order, going into this round, Falin Kitsch, given who you are fighting,” the technician muses. The clock ticks out loudly, marking away another minute.

  “It doesn’t matter who I’m fighting,” I tell her. “Only that I win.”

  “True. It must be difficult to deduce a strategy, though, what with Falin Asha being your training partner. He will be able to anticipate your every move, will he not?”

  I snap my head up and narrow my eyes at her. Falin Asha? I have fought and bled with Falin Asha day in, day out since I was old enough to remember. I didn’t know I was to be pitched against him today, and the look on my face tells her so. Somewhere, for the very first time, a machine blips. Just once. The technician looks relieved. She slowly nods her head, as though she approves of the fact that I’m not a sterile, emotionless monster of my own volition, and my halo does do its job when it’s supposed to. I touch my fingertips to the metal, feeling it warmed and rigid against my skin. I’ve never responded to the questioning before, and to hear the evidence of emotion spike within me is strange. For some reason, I have always assumed I wouldn’t need my halo if I didn’t have it. Apparently, I was wrong. The tiny gears inside whir as they recalibrate, something that happens once a day regardless of whether I feel something I shouldn’t, and I push my chin down so that it rests on the metal.

  The technician hands me a signed slip stating that I comply with current emo-control standards, and gestures me to the door. I pad barefoot into the small changing room, lit with a blazing, stark white light, and get dressed.

  My brother will have been here earlier, too. They tend to process the Falin by their Houses, an easy task where mine is concerned, since there are only the two of us. My brother is a year younger than me, but he is quick and agile, and very skilled with his blades. I often think about who would win a match between us. The Sanctuary have been known to pitch blood against blood, and it’s with a cold interest that I calculate who would come out on top. Most days I think it would be me. Conversely, I have never thought about who would win a fight between Falin Asha and myself. I suppose tonight we will find out.

  I slide my legs into my stiff brown trousers and hike them up, pulling my belt tight. The material is the same as the rest of my combat clothing, taut and heavy duty, difficult to slice with a knife. Once I’m dressed, I leave the changing rooms and head into the compound corridor, where Falin Asha is waiting for me. He leans back against the wall in an odd way that looks like he’s slipping down it. Wavy dark brown hair falls into his face, hiding his expression, but I know he will be biting on his lip. His tics might as well be my own; I know them inside out.

  His hands are shoved into his pockets. When he sees me coming, he pushes away from the wall and smiles. Warm brown eyes greet me, and I can see myself reflected in them, or at least I can see the gleam of the sun flashing off my halo, anyway. His is hidden beneath the collar of his ratty khaki shirt. I offer out my hand and he takes it.

  “So, we’re fighting each other today,” he says. I look up at him and hear my halo whir, knowing it shouldn’t be doing that after only recalibrating a second ago with the technician. He gives me a small smile, pretending he doesn’t hear—the polite thing to do.

  “I hear we are,” I reply. He pulls me towards the exit, down the metal walkway that leads out of the Sanctuary testing area and into the community square. Our footsteps echo off the high walls of the Sanctuary administration buildings, constructed out of grim-looking grey boxes. We hug the wall for no reason other than we’ve been told to always make sure there’s room for other more important people to pass us by. The outskirts of the compound are inhabited, bordered by the low-lying, single storey dwellings of the most important Houses. Beyond those brick buildings lies the Sanctuary’s inner boundary, a nine-foot tall wall that is decorated on this side by wooden trellises that drip with sunshine-yellow flowers. The other side is decorated with barbed wire and the occasional patch of graffiti where a Radical has slipped through in the night and tagged the crumbling concrete.

  Beyond, a thousand homes spiral outwards from the city’s main focal point: the Colosseum. The towering sandstone building soars up on our right hand side as Falin Asha and I navigate our way through the gardens of the Sanctuary’s elite, approaching the inner boundary, just like we’re supposed to once our business with the technicians is at an end.

  A guard with a riot visor and a baton gestures us quickly through the gate, as though our very presence is an offence to the peace and quiet of the hierarchy this side of the wall. We pass under more jagged razor wire that tops the doorway the guard opens for us, and then we are thrust into the real Sanctuary. The city is a dirty grey stain that its people are always trying to paint white. It doesn’t matter how hard they try, though. The elements have been conspiring against their attempts to beautify this place for the longest time, and for the most part the wind, rain and sunshine have been winning.

  Falin Asha and I stand and stare at it for a moment—the smoke pouring up from the chimney tops; the narrow pathways that snake down the hill we stand upon, which lead to tiny market squares and water fountains; the crowds slipping in between the buildings, all Therin caste mainly, performing the menial labour required for their Households that others are too high-born to carry out. Huge screens adorn the sides of buildings, and smaller ones are erected in the squares, each displaying a rogues’ gallery of the fighters who will compete tonight. Details of the current betting odds follow each fighter, a series of spinning numbers that even the youngest inhabitants of the Sanctuary know how to read.

  Groups of placid-faced children run between the trees lining the walkways, tying red ribbons on the branches they can reach and awkwardly lifting each other at the waist in order to dress the ones they can’t. The ribbons symbolise that it will be raining blood later this evening. Falin Asha pulls me forward and asks a little boy for a couple of the ribbons. The boy’s halo is tiny, so small it looks like it would be nothing more than a bangle around my wrist. It’s green. There are special instances when they will do that― make the children’s halos different colours. It shows that the boy can’t be more than four years old, and it also shows that he is Falin. He will be a fighter one day, like us.

  He stares up at us with wide eyes and hands over some ribbons almost reverently. I hear his halo clacking away, and this is no great surprise. Children so young can hardly be expected to have mastered their emotions. Falin Asha takes the ribbons and passes me one, and the little boy’s expression evens out as the halo’s drugs kick in. He turns and wanders back to his task, tying messy bows around the very lowest branches of a young oak sapling. We tie one higher up for him and then move on into the city.

  “Are you worried?” Falin Asha asks me. For the past twelve years he has walked me home from training, and today isn’t an exception. I twist a red length of ribbon around my finger and don’t say anything. I’m not worried, but it would be impolite to directly tell him so.

  He bites his lip and stares up at the Colosseum. Red flags flutter from the arched tiers, waving on a breeze that never really penetrates the complicated mass of the city at ground level. It’s hot here, which seems at odds with how cold it was in the technician’s compound. I look up at Falin Asha.

  “Are you worried?” We ask each other these questions, because it’s sort of expected of us. It’s everyone’s job to make sure those around them are complying with the emo-control standards. Occasionally, though, I half-expect him to admit to something. Occasionally, I think I will, too, even though it’s not true. He gives me a blank look and drags me through the crowds.

  The streets are busy on match days. Scores of touts, Therin who have been tossed out of their houses for not working hard enough, sell twists of red tickertape and swatches
of crimson cloth. The very poorest of people sell the faded, washed-out rags from match days gone by, having collected them off the floor once the fighting was over. No one really buys from them, and their rags get pinker and pinker and the people get thinner and thinner. You can usually tell when you’re unlikely to see a particular tout selling the next month.

  Falin Asha holds his hand up as we weave through the sea of people, displaying the fact that we already have our red so no one will bother us. As we travel farther down the hill, reaching the mid-city, we veer off towards the river, where the richest people live beyond the boundary walls. Where I live. Falin Asha, too.

  People nod as we pass them by, showing us respect as fighters of high status. The looks they give us are knowing, and I wonder if they’ve already been told that we are fighting. Have our faces already been doing the rounds on the betting screens? No one will be surprised. The Kitsch and Asha families have been playful competitors for many years. My True father, Lowrence, has probably been waiting for this day for a long time. He likes to win, and a lot of time and money has been invested into turning me into a well-honed weapon. It was probably all in preparation for this specific match.

  The Kitsch house borders the waterfront, a position of high power. When we arrive, Falin Asha pulls me away from the glossy red front door, which I’m not supposed to use anyway, and drags me down to the embankment. Sitting on the bank has been a ritual we initiated eight months ago, one we stick to religiously, but today I don’t feel like dipping my feet in the water. It’s only noon, yet for some reason it feels like time is slipping away and it will be nightfall before I know it.

  “What are you thinking?” Falin Asha asks, as he lets go of my hand and sinks with a complete lack of grace onto the grass. I flop down beside him and lean against his shoulder.