The Canopy Keepers by Veronica G. Henry

Author:Veronica G. Henry [Henry, Veronica G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Rhiza

September 2042

Syrah awakens on the tail end of terror. Her dreams filled with images of a world in which whole cities are flattened by meteors, waves as tall as the tallest trees washing over people fleeing in all the wrong directions. A great fire ravishing what little land remains. Before her eyelids flutter open, an earthquake breaks the world.

Absent are the usual suggestions of moonlight pooling around the top and side edges of her blackout curtains. This room is closer, inky dark. The bed feels more like a box spring than a mattress. Her weighted blanket replaced by something lighter but no less warm. It smells sweet, almost like almonds. Husky voices on the other side of the door.

She’s not at home. She’s still here.

Rhiza.

Syrah sits up, and the murkiness of restless sleep clears. Taron dropped the name of the other topsider, Cathay Williams. And then did that thing she does, where she gives as little information as possible. Syrah will research it herself when she gets back home.

She stands and stretches, works the kinks out of her shoulders and neck. In a way that she can’t quite pin down, Syrah feels better. More than a good night’s rest better. Is it the air? Her stomach rumbles in response, and she walks over and opens the door. The chatter stops. The one that brought her the soup is there, with a few others. Artahe’s skin is more pallid than the others’. She needs more sun; come to think of it, this whole group has the same odd cast to their skin. Two stand out, though, among them—a woman, very pregnant, and a child, teenager? Someone shorter than her. Both stare at her with open hostility.

“Why don’t you go back to where you belong,” the youngster says. His voice is a little too high-pitched to pull off what he thinks is intimidation. The adults don’t correct him, only watch impassively. All except—

“You must be hungry.” Artahe slips her arm into Syrah’s and gently guides her away. Something hard and solid smacks Syrah between the shoulder blades. She turns to see on the ground what looks like a perfectly crafted snowball made of dirt.

The young one snarls at her. The pregnant woman beams down at him, probably his mother. The adults laugh. Syrah allows herself to be guided away before she stops and, in one swift motion, picks up the dirt ball and drills it straight into the young one’s chest. She realizes she’s made a mistake as soon as the shocked expressions leave their faces and they barrel toward her.

Artahe steps in front of her, hands out. “You do not want to do this,” she pleads.

“Oh, but we do,” says one of the adults. Syrah scours her surroundings for a weapon, but the smooth walls and ground have nothing to offer her.

“At least one at a time,” Artahe says.

“What?” Syrah reels on her. “I can’t believe—”

“He can handle this human alone,” another of the adults suggests, superiority dripping from her words like sap.

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