Petrified City (Chronicles of the Wraith Book 1) Read online

  PETRIFIED CITY

  S C GREEN

  LINDSEY R LOUCKS

  CONTENTS

  Petrified City

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Authors

  The Sunken

  Sail

  The Man in Black

  The Grave Winner

  PETRIFIED CITY

  CHRONICLES OF THE WRAITH, I

  S.C. Green & Lindsey R. Loucks

  Copyright © 2016 by S C Green and Lindsey R Loucks

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  "Lo ! Death hath rear'd himself a throne

  In a strange city, all alone,

  Far down within the dim west —

  And the good, and the bad, and the worst, and the best,

  Have gone to their eternal rest."

  EDGAR ALLEN POE, DOOMED CITY (1831)

  1

  As I vaulted over a low concrete slab choked with weeds, my foot sank into the empty cavity of a man’s chest. What remained of his bones crunched like autumn leaves beneath my boot. Flakes of skin skittered across the cracked sidewalk.

  “I’ve found another one,” I yelled back to the warden, shaking my boot to release the pieces of husk clinging to the leather. I winced as the lacunamatic – a shoulder-mounted device made from an old vacuum cleaner that sucked up the pieces of husk – banged against my shoulder.

  The warden made a dismissive gesture with his hand and turned back toward the Dimitri brothers, who were scraping up the charred pieces of another husk from the entrance of a nearby alley with long-handled shovels.

  He didn’t see me as a threat. A mistake which today might cost him his job.

  Above the warden’s head, a lone raven skittered along the drainpipe. As I bent down and adjusted the strap of my lacunamatic on my shoulder, the electronic bracelet around my wrist beeped three times, warning me not to stray any further away from the warden. If I wandered outside a thirty-foot radius of the man who’d been assigned to watch me, I would be rewarded with an excruciating electric shock.

  Today, that suited my purposes perfectly, for the warden and I needed to get up close and friendly.

  I aimed the nozzle of my lacunamatic at the husk’s caved-in chest, pulled the trigger, and gritted my teeth. The machine spluttered to life, sucking up the remains like a vacuum cleaner making light work of a cat’s vomit on the carpet.

  No matter how many times I did this, it still made bile rise in my throat.

  These husks were the victims of wraith attacks. The wraith didn’t leave a bloody, gory mess of meat like a typical human-on-human killing. Bodies were at least useful—they could be turned into fertilizer for the black market crops grown in basements and on rooftops all across the Rim. But husks were useless. All they did was fill the streets with dried, empty shells, like a trail of peanut skins in the wake of a raging cartoon elephant. We, the unfortunates who had been caught in some criminal activity, cleaned them off the streets and burned them in a giant furnace that did little to keep the Ferndale prison warm.

  The light on the side of my lacunamatic informed me it was full. I pushed down a lump of fear that formed in my throat. It was now or never. There was no time to be afraid.

  I moved past the warden toward the prison bus, keeping my gaze low as I unclipped my lacunamatic from my shoulder, hoping I looked as though I was just heading back to discharge my gruesome load. The bus wasn’t functional—no vehicles ran in the city anymore; fuel was too precious to waste on driving—but it served as a base unit for the large storage tanks we used to empty our lacunamatics.

  As I walked behind the warden, I brushed my fingers across his belt. All the wardens wore a shiny metal belt covered in leather that held the power packs for the lacunamatics and keys for our cuffs, as well as all the data on the prisoners in his charge.

  Images flashed across my mind. I peeled back the layers—the leather, the titanium casing, the circuitry—and dived into the memory board, hunting through the layers of code until I found what I was looking for.

  Bingo.

  Our bracelets were locked using an electronic key, the combination for which was individual to each prisoner and was changed every fifteen minutes. I’d managed to get ahold of my combination three times before using this same technique—a strange power I’d had ever since my late teens to see through objects—but every time it had changed before I found the opportunity to use it.

  Until now. I tore my fingers from the warden’s belt just as he whirled around.

  “What are you doing?” he barked.

  “My lacunamatic is jammed.” I batted my eyelashes at him, a half-assed attempt at flirting. I wasn’t very good at it, but the prison guards didn’t encounter women all that often. “I thought you might be able to fix it.”

  I pressed the device into his hands, and he flicked the switch on. It shuddered to life, so he handed it back.

  “Seems fine to me.”

  “Ah, you have the magic touch.” I stroked his knuckles with my finger as I took the nozzle from him. I tried to ignore the images that flooded me as I touched him, the layers of skin that peeled away to reveal clumps of fatty deposits and rivers of blood cells.

  Behind me, the Dimitri brothers sniggered.

  The warden grinned salaciously at me, then grabbed my ass. “I might show you more of that magic touch later, if you’re lucky.”

  It took everything I had not to throat punch him.

  Instead, I leaned forward, pushing my breasts together with my forearms, and whispered in his ear. “Any time you like, big boy.”

  He ran his slimy tongue over his lips, and before I vomited, I turned on my heel and stalked off to the bus, giving my walk a little jaunt just for him. After all, he had given me the code I needed to secure my freedom. But there would be no magic touching later or ever.

  The bus wasn’t operational, of course. It stood where it had been parked at a stop near the end of the street, slightly downhill from our work area, and just out of view of the warden. On the bus, I swung the heavy lacunamatic off my shoulder and attached the nozzle to the large tank in the back. It was already two-thirds full of husks. I flicked the switch on the tank, and the generator kicked in, sucking the husk’s remains from the lacunamatic into the tank. It would effectively cover any noise during my escape.

  Because I couldn’t steal the guard’s key itself, I had to input the code manually. I flipped open the panel on my bracelet and dug out the paper clip I’d managed to source in the prison yard. A few little adjustments, and I had the code entered. My bracelet slid off my wrist. I threw it on a rotting seat and bolted from the bus, heading for the nearest alley.

  The chugging generator covered the so
und of my boots pounding against the pavement as I raced toward the cover of an alley. But, of course, I hadn’t counted on another prisoner ratting me out.

  “Cale’s making a run for it!”

  I rolled my hands into fists and pumped my legs even harder. Fuck you, Joey Dimitri. I stole a case of whisky for you.

  “After her!” the warden yelled.

  Footsteps pounded after me. To my left, a shrill whistle sounded as another nearby warden joined the chase.

  My chest heaved as I poured on speed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I reached the end of the alley and bolted left. I had one advantage over the wardens. I knew all the alleys and warrens of the Rim like I knew the lines of my hand. If I could lose them, I would be home free.

  I’m coming, Diana.

  I raced across the street and down another alley, then turned right and vaulted over a stack of overflowing trash cans. I landed hard, my left foot rolling on the heel. Pain surged up my leg. Ignoring it, I sprinted between the two high rise apartment blocks, their glass windows smashed, the once pristine whitewashed walls cracked and crumbling to dust—becoming petrified, just like the rest of the city.

  Outside the safety of the high rise buildings, I darted into Cromwell Park. This was an overgrown patch of brown grass, disused flower beds, and graffiti-strewn park benches that lined the shores of the river that wound its way through this part of the city. Here, on open ground, the wardens would have ample opportunity to shoot me down. But if I could make it through, I could lose them by the river.

  On cue, a bullet zinged and ricocheted off the edging of a garden bed to my left, spraying me with concrete dust. I cried out and bolted for the bridge, sliding down the edge of the riverbed, my boots clattering over loose rubble.

  Keep going. You’re nearly there.

  The warden behind me blew his whistle, calling for more backup. He probably thought he had me cornered, but he didn’t know that beneath the bridge was a tunnel that led under the streets back toward the Rim. It was part of an old network from the prohibition where shopkeepers would secretly transport their illicit goods down to the water to be transported on to the next city where they would fetch a high price in the speakeasies. The riverbed had long since dried up, the flow diverted around Petrified City by those outside. But as of three months ago, before I was sent to prison, the tunnel was still intact.

  The entrance to the tunnel was disguised beneath an overhang of rock and obscured by thick weeds. I pushed them aside and slipped down into the gloom, pulling the weeds back over to hide the hole. I left just enough of a gap that I could watch the path leading under the bridge.

  I crouched down and listened. Footsteps crunched by outside, growing louder, and then fading again. Faintly, I could hear the wardens barking orders to spread out and search along the bank.

  “She can’t have gone far,” one of them growled.

  The footsteps were joined by at least two others, but those, too, faded as they searched for me further up the riverbed.

  Safe for now. I let out my breath and sucked in the damp air of the tunnel, waiting for my heartrate to return to normal. That was close. Now, to get back to Diana before they decide to search my place—

  I turned and came face to face with a wraith.

  Fuck. Not safe. Not at all.

  The wraith hissed from the shadows, the faint outline of its translucent skin and the glow of its eyes my only clue to its exact form and location. Its mouth hung open, revealing a deep abyss of nothing but shadow and terror.

  It blocked my only escape, my only way back to Diana.

  “You’re not taking me today, you gibbering ghoul.” I glared at the wraith, who glared back as only the undead could, its iridescent eyes glowing blue from deep within its blackened sockets.

  But there was something odd about this wraith—it wore a red scarf around its neck. Usually, the wraith didn’t bother with clothing. It didn’t seem necessary when you weren’t corporeal. But this wraith looked quite dapper in its red neckerchief. Why was it wearing that?

  The wraith took a step toward me, stretching long, skeletal arms toward my chest, ready to reach inside and pull out my life.

  I had no weapon to fight with. There was only one way out of this, and that was to go around it.

  It stepped so close that coldness radiated off its fingers as it reached for my heart. It snapped its phantom jaws.

  I dropped to my knees and rolled. A wave of frigid air arced through my body as I rolled right through its legs. I leapt to my feet and ran into darkness.

  Behind me, the wraith hurtled down the dark tunnel with alarming speed. It screamed, that cold, inhuman wheeze that sent chills through my body.

  My chest heaved. I held my arms out in front of me, my fingers scraping against the rough walls the only clue as to the direction I was heading.

  I rounded a corner, gasping for breath, urging myself onward. A faint light flickered deeper in the tunnel, growing larger and brighter before my eyes. What was that?

  A sound reached out of the darkness in front of me, frosting my blood. A low, evil hiss.

  No. It can’t be.

  Another wraith stood ten feet in front of me. A faint light behind it illuminated the outline of its head, its blue eyes gleaming. This wraith also wore a red scarf, this one wound around its head like a pirate. Behind me, the first wraith approached, and they hissed and gibbered to each other, as if hatching some kind of coordinated attack.

  They snapped their jaws as they crept closer, penning me in, moving in for the kill. I glanced above my head, hoping for a manhole or a loose brick … something, anything I could escape through. But there was nothing.

  I tensed, crouching low and preparing to run. If I was fast enough, I could probably run through the second wraith before it grabbed my heart.

  If only I could reach that light—

  I lurched forward, and the tunnel exploded.

  Orange flames leapt along the walls, surrounding me with fierce heat. The force knocked me to the ground, driving the wind from my chest and sending pain through my limbs. The wraith screamed, this time with terror, as the flames danced over them, tearing at whatever ethereal substance made up their bodies. Their mouths gaped as flames consumed them, turning their emaciated limbs to piles of dust.

  From the shadows, a raven flew down and landed on the ground at my feet. It watched the flames as they consumed the wraiths, standing silent until every last speck had been turned to grey dust. It lifted a wing, and the flames flared up, reaching right to the tunnel roof. I stepped back, holding up my hands to shield my face from the heat.

  When the heat began to fade and the flames died away, a man stood in the centre of the tunnel. He was dressed in black from head to toe—black jeans, black t-shirt, and a long black trenchcoat that swung around his ankles. In the gloom of the tunnel, his hair appeared black also, falling around his face in long waves and spilling down over his broad, muscular shoulders. A line of stubble defined his strong jaw, and he stared at me with piercing, ice-blue eyes and a thin-lipped smirk.

  He was absolutely gorgeous, and if I weren’t at that moment still recovering from a near-death experience, I might have considered throwing myself into his arms and showing him just how grateful I was for his timely intervention.

  Thankfully, I had some self-control. Well, that and the fact this man was a Reaper—one of the race of ancient raven shapeshifters who ferried the souls of the dead from this world to the next. The Reapers had always worked quietly in the background, their Order and work unknown to most people. But here in Petrified City, not even they were safe from the wraith. They were the only people who had weapons that could slow the wraith down, and they could do what this Reaper had just done and reap the wraith back to the underworld … although the ghouls never stayed dead long. The Reapers were our last line of defense, the only thing standing in the way of the wraiths completely taking over Petrified City. They were also judge, jury, and executioner in the city, and th
ey didn’t much tolerate petty thieves like me flouting the few laws they bothered to police. With my luck, this Reaper would put me on a one-way ride back on the prison bus.

  If it wasn’t my lucky day, well … I was wraith food.

  “Love the flames. Very dramatic. I had it all under control, though.” Great. I always got sarcastic when I felt threatened. And this Reaper was definitely a threat, maybe a bigger threat than the wraith he’d just killed.

  “You were lucky,” he replied, his deep, throaty voice resonating in the long tunnel. “These wraiths were seconds from turning you into a husk. They must be desperate to be hunting during the daylight like this. You okay?”

  “I can manage.” I got to my feet, my body screaming in pain. I dusted off my prison overalls, realizing too late that I’d just drawn attention to them. Not only was I sarcastic, but sometimes I was a real idiot.

  “Do I even get a thank you for saving your life?”

  “Fine. Thank you.” I hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “Can I go now?”