Heart of Tartarus (Sky Cities Book 1) Read online

  Heart of Tartarus

  Sky Cities Series: Book One

  Lucy Smoke

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  1. Guns & Messengers

  2. Steamer Town & Hollow Pointe

  3. Ghost Fighter

  4. Vincent Diamond

  5. The Architect

  6. Down the Rabbit Hole

  7. Information is Key

  8. Losing Control

  9. Dark Ghost

  10. The Tanks

  11. The Return

  12. A Familiar Face

  13. Impossible Love

  Epilogue Part 1: Noaz

  Epilogue Part 2: Cassandra

  Peaceful Eyes: Sky Cities Series Book 1.5

  Dark Dreams

  Kida’s Goodbye

  Holding On

  A Little Bit of Relief

  Grief, Fear, Love

  Bad Wishes

  Strength & Loss

  Letting Go

  Also by Lucy Smoke

  Copyright © 2018 Lucy Smoke LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s rights.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no endorsement, implied or otherwise, if any such terms are used.

  Heart of Tartarus is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The author holds all rights to this work and it is illegal to reproduce this novel without expressed written consent from the author herself.

  Cover Design by Covers by Combs

  Acknowledgments

  It is always difficult to start a new world. World building is possibly one of the hardest things to do and one of the most rewarding. Heart of Tartarus has been, by far, one of the craziest experiences yet. And I wanted to give a big thank you to everyone who has helped make it a reality.

  As always to my amazing team of support. My beta readers. Kristen. Jen. To the amazing authors who sprinted with me, advised me, needled me and more. To my best friends. To my family. I’m going to keep writing, so you should keep expecting to appear in this section again and again.

  To two of the most amazing women I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Elizabeth and Desireé. Even if the world crumbles to dust, our friendship will remain.

  One

  Guns & Messengers

  Tartarus, city of criminals, usually smells like a combination of garbage, smoke, and desperation. Tonight, though, after another lightning storm, the sky city’s walkways and steel buildings are left soaked with an after mist of the rain. A sugary-sweet scent filters up from below the hovering, cranking, machines that keep Tartarus and its half a million residents afloat. It’s the scent of the farming villages with old Earth soil mined from the destitute planet even farther below. The crops grown there, like cane sugar, are sweet and so vastly different from the city. Usually, I would have had to stand at the very top of my pod complex building just to catch a whiff of the clean smells on the wind.

  I crack my neck before darting across the alley, the low beams of hovering vehicles cutting through the smog as the drivers honk me out of the way. One barely misses clipping me on the side. No one cares about pedestrians here on this lonely criminal sky city. Inside Lionheart’s, raunchy jokes and the stench of sewage workers fills the room. The owner, Richie, mans the bar, his sharp eyes watching the drunken crowd.

  I perch myself at a barstool, tapping my short nails against the touch screen metal bar top. It doesn’t allow access to order until I scan a card or an implant chip over the screen, but I’m not here for a good time. Nor am I stupid enough to believe the government when they say implant chips are the way of the future. So, for now, the screen simply glitters with a dark swirling background as I wait impatiently for Richie to recognize and acknowledge my presence. I people-watch on my stool, every so often checking the scanner on my wrist that alerts me to enforcer aircrafts in the nearby vicinity. I’m not on the arrest list at the moment, but it’s a habit that I’ve developed over the last five years—ever since I ran away from a place that was never really a home to begin with.

  “Oi!” I smother a smile as Richie spots me and the dangling metal wing charm hooked in the lobe of my right ear that proclaims my status as a messenger. He starts to wave one meaty fist in my direction, drawing the gazes of several patrons. “Don’t ya go sittin’ at my bar,” he snaps, barreling towards me. “I ain’t servin’ ya. Not only is ya underage, but this a man’s place.”

  I give up on not smiling and let a grin slip through. “I’ve got a message for you,” I reply coolly.

  Richie stops a few feet away from me, his gaze turning calculating and wary. Most of my clients’ recipients don’t give a shit what I have to say unless they’re expecting me. Richie isn’t and he’s no different. A messenger at their door doesn’t usually mean good news, but I get paid a living wage and I don’t have to sell my body or marry some fat, bulbous sewage worker or crime underling—both of which like to use their fists on those that warm their beds a little too much. I wait to see what Richie will do next.

  “Who’s it from?” Before he even finishes his demand, I’m already shaking my head.

  “You know that’s not how it works,” I say, holding my hand out. “Fee first, then message.”

  His dark eyes squint at me in irritation. I raise an eyebrow as his gaze narrows.

  “I ain’t pay’n ya if I don’t know what this is about,” he decides with a firm nod.

  I blink and then put my hand down with a sigh. “Alright then.” I hop off the bar stool and make my way to the front door, waving a hand over my shoulder. “I’ll tell Jolene you send your regards.” I smirk as I round a particularly raucous group near the front windows.

  “Now, hold up there!” Richie hollers, stopping me as I reach the tavern’s entrance. I turn back and wait for him to make up his mind. He grumbles and rummages around under the counter for a moment before his fist slams a handful of bills and coins that make up my messenger receiving fee onto the bar top. “‘Eres ya damn fee. Now, tell me what my damn child got ‘erself into this time.”

  I walk slowly back to the bar and pick up the money, counting it quickly before I answer. His face watches me, growing redder by the second. Customers call for beers and liquor. He holds them all off with a glare until I’m finished.

  “Jolene’s in a pinch,” I say slowly. “Seems she’s made a deal she can’t make good on and she’s borrowed a bit too much. Tanks are gonna be sending their boys after her real soon if she can’t pay up.”

  “That little bitch wants money?!” Richie’s face is redder than spilled blood, eyes bulging out of his head. The bell at the front door dings as two new patrons enter.

  I shrug. “It’s either that or let the Tanks have her.”

  It wouldn’t be a pretty sentence. Of the many gangs that fill the streets of Tartarus, Tanks are among the worst. They’re known for their brutish looks and cruelty towards women, especially women who can’t pay back their loans and interest. Only the desperate would even chance going to those murderers for a loan. If or when they got ahold of Jolene, she’d be sold to make up for their losses and if no one wanted to buy her…well, black market organs had to come from somewhere. Sucks, but it’s the way of life on Tartarus.

  “Dammit,” Richie curses. “Give me my money back, bitch! I ain’t paying for that w
hore daughter o’ mine.”

  I step back with a scowl as he reaches for me. “Not happening,” I snap with force. I learned well enough from Kida that to be a woman in this world, you can’t be afraid of standing up for yourself and making a few people angry. Richie would never even think of demanding his money back if I were a man. “You wanted the message. You got it. That’s what you paid for. No refunds.”

  “Hey, yo!” a masculine voice calls over my shoulder distracting Richie for only a moment. He scowls at the newcomer once before returning his attention to me.

  “I want my money back,” he repeats.

  “Too fucking bad,” I say, stuffing it down the front of my shirt and into my bra cup. “You want it back, you’ll have to earn it.”

  His eyes widen, before his face slowly morphs into a relaxed, smug grin, showing a row of dirty, rotted teeth. The sight leaves me feeling more than a little uneasy. “Ya a bettin’ girl then, are ya?” he asks.

  I pause, narrowing my eyes. I hadn’t exactly meant it like that, but his tone of voice suggests that there’s something he’s talking about that I don’t know. I hate not knowing. “I’m a winning girl,” I clarify, pursing my lips.

  “Well then, I bet I got something your pretty little eyes will wanna wager on.” Richie reaches behind him and pulls out a classic Smith and Wesson revolver and places the firearm on the bar top. My eyes widen.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” I demand a bit breathlessly. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. My eyes shoot left and right, noting that we’ve caught a few interested onlookers and I press myself closer out of instinct. There’s no fucking way this thing is real.

  Guns are hard and dangerous to come by. Only enforcers are technically allowed to have them. When Arawn and its four undercities had been launched into the skies with the last of humankind, nongovernmental weapons such as guns were forbidden from being brought on board. Of course, there were still people who disregarded that declaration; the evidence sat right in front of me.

  It’s old, dirty, and probably wouldn’t fire worth shit if its owners for the past several hundred years hadn’t taken care of it, but still, the hunk of metal is a thing of beauty. I want it so much my hands itch to take it. I try to beat back the desire in my eyes that I’m sure Richie can see.

  Is it worth it? I ask myself. If I’m caught with contraband like a gun in my possession, I’d be sent back to a sky village below the great cities. I might never be allowed back on Tartarus. And if I’m not allowed back on Tartarus, there’s no way I’d be able to make it to the other cities or to find Kida. And I have to find the only person who’s ever given a shit about me, without exception.

  Just having the gun will make others wary of me. Even if I have to dump it on someone else, it’ll be a great bargaining tool. For the love of humanity, it could be my ticket off Tartarus! It could be Kida’s ticket too! The money I’d get from selling it alone would be enough to get a ticket to any of the other cities and it might even jump start a new life.

  “Hey, Rich! I got a favor to ask!” The same voice from before interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to the rude bar patron only to glare up at a gruff, pale face. I blink, startled; he’s a lot taller than I expected with big, brown eyes and a head of curly, dark hair that stops an inch or so above his shoulders.

  Doesn’t matter, I snap at myself. He’s ruining a possible deal.

  “Back off,” I practically growl at the guy before turning back to Richie. “Now, tell me, where’d you get it?”

  “Who pissed in your slop?” the guy behind me mutters, but I ignore it.

  Richie’s grin widens. “I’ll tell ya. For a challenge.” I debate with myself once more. Revolvers are easy to use—simple pea shooters. Point and shoot. Firearms are illegal for common citizens, but that doesn’t mean much here in Tartarus.

  “You want your damn money back?” I ask. “Fine. The revolver for the fee.”

  “I ain’t givin’ ya this beauty here fer no pocket change,” Richie scoffs.

  “What’s going on here?” I almost growl as the damn annoying curly haired man from before inserts himself yet again. I snarl his way and slip a hand into my coat pocket for my switchblade. “Whoa, nice piece there, man!” His eyes run over the revolver with interest.

  I curse as several of the interested eyes from before move closer “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say loudly, leaning forward, tugging my hand out of my coat pocket sans knife, to cover the revolver. Richie yanks the gun out of my reach before I can even brush my fingers across the metal barrel. I don’t blame him. Most people in this city are thieves whether they’ve got honest work or not. Most people were raised that might makes right.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Richie wags a finger at me dramatically. A muscle ticks in my eye. Is he trying to draw a crowd? He firmly tucks the gun away in the back of his waistband. “That ain’t how ya go after what ya want.”

  “Rich,” the stranger says, trying to catch the bar owner’s attention again.

  Richie turns to the man and sighs. “I’ll talk to ya in a bit, Thayer. Let me deal with business first, eh?” The man nods before stepping back, though he continues to linger, curiously watching the exchange.

  “Alright,” I say, giving in. “How much?”

  Richie smiles, reaching across the bar to snatch an apple from a burly leather skinned man. The man stares, debating whether it’s worth a fight before Richie slams a beer in front of him. The words “on the house” has him nodding and walking away with a tall glass of piss-colored liquid without batting another eye. Richie tosses the apple in the air before catching it again and rubbing it on his shirt to clean it for a big bite.

  “Ya gonna pay whatever I ask?” he asks as he chews.

  “If you’ll tell me what you’re damn well asking,” I say through gritted teeth. “I might.” His grin widens as he reaches under the counter and pulls a big bottle of clear moonshine out from under the bar. I blink at the full forearm sized bottle, glancing between him and the firewater.

  “If ya can outlast me, it’s all yours. If ya can’t, I get my money back, I keep the revolver, and I get to take a shot at ya with it. Deal?”

  “Rich, she’s just a girl. There’s no way–”

  This, I can handle. “Deal,” I snap, interrupting the man—Thayer, Richie had called him. I turn my glare on him as Richie smirks and reaches back under the counter for two shot glasses.

  Thayer is tall, broad shouldered, and looks like he belongs in the underground fight ring that meets every so often in the basements of various pod complexes. Just last month, I had stumbled upon one several floors down from my own pod. There’s no denying that this man is gorgeous, and his dark, synthetic-coffee, brown eyes are sharp too. There’s no dull haze from intoxication or stressed irises from the addies—too many users end up with that stressed out, hollow look. He’s so far from hollow, he’s practically vibrating with vitality.

  With that ever-present smirk of his, he knows he’s beautiful and just for that, I glare all the harder as I take my seat at the bar and slam back the first shot Richie hands me. His eyes widen when I don’t even flinch as the burning liquid scorches a path down my throat.

  “Maybe I should keep you two company,” he says slowly as he slides onto the stool next to mine.

  “Fine by me,” I reply. I’m not going to let him distract me, I tell myself as Richie leans over and takes his own shot. The older man blinks once before refilling both of our shot glasses.

  “What’s your name?”

  I suck back another mouthful of clear alcohol before answering. “Depends on who’s asking.”

  Thayer watches as Richie takes his next shot and I take mine. The more I drink, the easier it goes down. But there’s a reason this type of alcohol is called firewater; nothing can erase the hard bite to the liquor’s taste or the acidic aftertaste that lingers on the walls of my mouth and throat.

  “Thayer Stone.” He holds out his hand.

  I s
hake my head and swallow more firewater. “Then I’m no one,” I say after a breath.

  He drops his hand when it becomes obvious I’m not going to take it. The remaining grin on his face only deepens.

  “And why’s that?” he inquires, lips twitching in amusement.

  “Because,” I slam back a shot and so does Richie, wobbling a bit as he stands across from me, murky eyes glaring, “you’re a little bit too cocky and I don’t like cocky.” I grip the edge of the bar top.

  “How did I say–” He breaks off, shaking his head as I slap my shot glass back onto the counter with more force than necessary. “Never mind.”

  Swallowing against the numb muscles in my throat, I feel the churning alcohol in my stomach. A glance at the bottle tells me we’re almost at the halfway point. Richie curses after his next shot and yanks a bar stool around to the other side of the counter before collapsing onto it.

  “How ya doin’ over there, Rich?” I blink furiously as spots of light and dark blurs dance in front of my eyes.

  “Ja’ fine.” Richie pauses, leaning into the bar top, wavering even on his stool as he attempts to formulate his next words. He mouths them slowly before they come out clipped at each end as he over enunciates each to keep from sounding as drunk as he is. “Take. Your. Shot.”

  “What’s going on?” The low modulated voice comes from a blonde intruder. I suck back another mouthful, my eyes watering as I hold it on my tongue for a second before swallowing.

  The newcomer sidles up next to Thayer, hazel eyes bouncing between Richie and me. Thayer turns slightly, keeping the both of us in his sights as Richie downs another shot. I pray to the universe that he’ll pass out soon. I’m not so sure how much more I can take. Thayer says something to the newcomer and I blink because whatever he says is lost to me. I can’t hear him. In fact, I can’t hear anything anymore. Not Richie choking on his next shot, not a bar patron—who had been watching quietly from several seats down reach for the glass bottle with barely any alcohol left. And certainly not the scanner on my wrist alerting me to nearby enforcers. The next shot is my last.

  Smog curls into the night sky above my head, and my body sways slightly as someone carries me. For a moment, I wonder if the night looked the same hundreds of years ago when people lived on the ground. Sometimes, it feels like I’m so close to the stars, I can reach out and touch them.