Blackout (Darkness Trilogy) Read Online Free
Author: Madeleine Henry
and see her beauty in beaming light. Hell, I could even save Wick’s life. But I can’t do any of that right now because I’m as powerless as ever.
Star and I are quiet the whole way back. I doubt either of us wants to admit how devastated we are at the way this night has turned out. How close we came to power—and the horrible emptiness at having it slip away. We curve around a pickup truck abandoned in the middle of the street. Its hood is still popped from when DZs stole its batteries.
B ack at Silk, I open the door for Star just a few inches. Any more and it would creak and wake Mrs. Windsong and Wick. This is where we’ll separate for the night. As usual. I pause and gaze into her blue eyes one last time. So beautiful. Still shaken.
“Will you spend the night?” she asks softly.
My heart leaps.
3
Star has never asked me to spend the night. Not even in snowstorms. I’ve dropped her off in freezing winds and had to crawl my way home, but that’s Mrs. Windsong’s only rule: Don’t spend the night, Phoenix. No matter what. Star’s always listened to her mom, and I never wanted to come between them, so this is the way it’s been. To invite me now, Star must be much more scared than she seems.
I take her hand firmly, and we creep inside Silk on tiptoe. The whole first floor is one spacious room made for dancing, apparently. Useless spotlights jut from spiderwebs of iron bars spread across the high ceiling, and creaky stairs lead up to the “VIP Lounge” where Star sleeps with the rest of her family. And now me. Star beckons me after her into the Lounge and together we enter the circular room. An old bar hugs a wall, and one mattress sits in the center. I could’ve gotten them more than one, but Star didn’t want to feel excessive. I indulged her because I figured they’d share body heat better this way.
O n the mattress, in sleeping bags, Mrs. Windsong and Wick curve in C-shaped lumps next to each other. Ready to discover us at any second. Star takes her boots off one at a time, pressing down on each heel with the toes of her other foot. She places them with her backpack on the bar top, and I do the same to respect her home. When she crawls into her sleeping bag, the mattress bends beneath her weight and jostles her family slightly. Watching Mrs. Windsong roll over in her sleep, I almost swallow my tongue. This is worse than being at gunpoint. Star unzips the bag so I’ll be able to fit with her. Every click down the zipper makes me wince. Her hair falls in front of her face, and I’d tuck it behind her ear if I weren’t paralyzed with fear that any second Mrs. Windsong might wake up. Star nods when she’s done, and I slide in next to her. She rests her head softly on my chest and melts in the security of my arms.
“You’re warm,” she whispers.
You too, Star. And I’d say it out loud, but—your mom.
Her body relaxes as she drifts toward sleep, but I can’t join her yet. Unwilling to let my guard down, I nervously keep the back of my head raised an inch above the mattress. Mrs. Windsong breathes deeply then exhales a small, white cloud. She could wake up right this minute and I’d be doomed. I stare at my backpack to distract myself. The barrel of my rifle—nicknamed Magic—sticks straight out of the top. I always carry it like that to keep my hands free. It lets the butt bounce rhythmically against my back when I walk, so I always know it’s there. I let my head drop slowly, still eyeing my gun.
Everyone in Da rk DC has a weapon of choice, and Blaze pointed his in my face tonight. Took aim. I’ve never pointed Magic at another DZ—well, not a living DZ anyway. Once, and just once, it happened during target practice. I was shooting an old statue when Dad’s arm suddenly reached over my shoulder. He shoved the barrel down, yanked my wrist and squeezed it hard. He told me to have some goddamn respect. This was the Lincoln Memorial. Before the Blackout, it symbolized something
Star and I are quiet the whole way back. I doubt either of us wants to admit how devastated we are at the way this night has turned out. How close we came to power—and the horrible emptiness at having it slip away. We curve around a pickup truck abandoned in the middle of the street. Its hood is still popped from when DZs stole its batteries.
B ack at Silk, I open the door for Star just a few inches. Any more and it would creak and wake Mrs. Windsong and Wick. This is where we’ll separate for the night. As usual. I pause and gaze into her blue eyes one last time. So beautiful. Still shaken.
“Will you spend the night?” she asks softly.
My heart leaps.
3
Star has never asked me to spend the night. Not even in snowstorms. I’ve dropped her off in freezing winds and had to crawl my way home, but that’s Mrs. Windsong’s only rule: Don’t spend the night, Phoenix. No matter what. Star’s always listened to her mom, and I never wanted to come between them, so this is the way it’s been. To invite me now, Star must be much more scared than she seems.
I take her hand firmly, and we creep inside Silk on tiptoe. The whole first floor is one spacious room made for dancing, apparently. Useless spotlights jut from spiderwebs of iron bars spread across the high ceiling, and creaky stairs lead up to the “VIP Lounge” where Star sleeps with the rest of her family. And now me. Star beckons me after her into the Lounge and together we enter the circular room. An old bar hugs a wall, and one mattress sits in the center. I could’ve gotten them more than one, but Star didn’t want to feel excessive. I indulged her because I figured they’d share body heat better this way.
O n the mattress, in sleeping bags, Mrs. Windsong and Wick curve in C-shaped lumps next to each other. Ready to discover us at any second. Star takes her boots off one at a time, pressing down on each heel with the toes of her other foot. She places them with her backpack on the bar top, and I do the same to respect her home. When she crawls into her sleeping bag, the mattress bends beneath her weight and jostles her family slightly. Watching Mrs. Windsong roll over in her sleep, I almost swallow my tongue. This is worse than being at gunpoint. Star unzips the bag so I’ll be able to fit with her. Every click down the zipper makes me wince. Her hair falls in front of her face, and I’d tuck it behind her ear if I weren’t paralyzed with fear that any second Mrs. Windsong might wake up. Star nods when she’s done, and I slide in next to her. She rests her head softly on my chest and melts in the security of my arms.
“You’re warm,” she whispers.
You too, Star. And I’d say it out loud, but—your mom.
Her body relaxes as she drifts toward sleep, but I can’t join her yet. Unwilling to let my guard down, I nervously keep the back of my head raised an inch above the mattress. Mrs. Windsong breathes deeply then exhales a small, white cloud. She could wake up right this minute and I’d be doomed. I stare at my backpack to distract myself. The barrel of my rifle—nicknamed Magic—sticks straight out of the top. I always carry it like that to keep my hands free. It lets the butt bounce rhythmically against my back when I walk, so I always know it’s there. I let my head drop slowly, still eyeing my gun.
Everyone in Da rk DC has a weapon of choice, and Blaze pointed his in my face tonight. Took aim. I’ve never pointed Magic at another DZ—well, not a living DZ anyway. Once, and just once, it happened during target practice. I was shooting an old statue when Dad’s arm suddenly reached over my shoulder. He shoved the barrel down, yanked my wrist and squeezed it hard. He told me to have some goddamn respect. This was the Lincoln Memorial. Before the Blackout, it symbolized something
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