This Book Sucks Blood

Chapter 1: Give Him Face

Naomi tucked the evidence of her crime in her backpack and waited for the sound of boots to disappear. Above her head, the biosphere sky crackled ink-black. An animated spaceship slipped across the hexagonal panels, and she watched it longingly.

It was rare for her to be out at night, and she couldn't help but take in the beauty of the street, the crispy smell of new plastic, and the sound of artificial rain being washed down into the gutters. She stared up at her tenement building across the street. Six feet. That's all there is between me and freedom.

A minute passed as she crouched on the ground. A wheel-less coach whooshed down the street, its magnetics humming as they repelled off the tracks. The crossed ray-gun emblem of the Emperor's police glistened on the back window.

As soon as it turned the corner, she ran. Her tenement building stood in a wall of concrete and squat windows; tenements as far as the eye could see. She rushed up the brick steps with her key card in her teeth and tip-toed over the linoleum floor. The chandelier flickered, a tin cowboy swinging from a gold arm in the A.C. Behind her, she heard another coach screech  to a halt. She hid a smile beneath a cupped hand as she rushed up the service staircase and into her apartment. She didn't even need her keycard; Pauline had left the door open. Again.

Naomi's twin had missed the bed and was sprawled, snoring, across the floor. She looked lovely; the moonlight caught her button-nose, and her long lashes fluttered with each dreamy sigh. Her pink dress looked like a soap bubble, big, round, and shimmery beneath her. Naomi threw her backpack beside Pauline and jumped into bed, not bothering to remove her all-black ensemble. What would the point be when the police came?

She pulled the sheets over her head, staining the quilts with blue paint. She thought she wouldn't sleep, but it trickled in—dreams of cowboys on dusty planets and insects with wings made of paint. And then the rapid knocks came to the door. Pauline shot to her feet, flouncing her pink skirt.

"Pauline—"

"Hello, officers! What can I help you with?" Sometimes Naomi marveled at Pauline's voice. They were identical twins, which meant they should sound identical. But Pauline's voice was a whirly, breathy thing. She sounded like the old queen. Naomi rushed behind her sister, swiping blue paint on Pauline's slim shoulder.

There were three police in the doorframe in stark black uniforms. Naomi couldn't focus on their faces, her heart was beating too fast. She could only push her twin out of the way, her wrists pressed together and held out like a present.

"I know what you're here for. I'm sorry. I don't—"

"You're Naomi Elkens." Three words. No emotion.

"Yeah?" Her breath hitched.

The officers bowed. "I'm sure you've heard about the queen?" asked the one in front. His thick black brows were deeply furrowed.

"It was a very sad day," offered Pauline, her dark eyes wide as she surveyed the officers. 

"Yeah, horrible," Naomi quickly added, staring at the men's shiny boots.

"Emperor Haldyn and Diplomat Mystique have chosen you as one of eight contestants to compete for his hand. We'll give you a camera. Tommorow, we'll return for you and your short video introduction."

Naomi had spent her life in the grueling heat, her eyes trained over a magnifying glass as she searched thousands of pounds of fabric for flaws. A ragged hem. A broken stitch. A loose thread. And never once had she experienced this. A burst of tiny fractals before her eyes, her legs giving out like wet noodles. Her hand caught Pauline's as she hit the floor.