Free Nightingale by Dawn Rae Miller Page B

that long under those conditions. Not with the constant below freezing temperatures, poor shelter, and lack of quality food. Surely the State knows this. It’s why the Northern Society remains largely uninhabited.
    Whistles fill the air again as the atmosphere takes on an almost festival-like feel. As if watching the sentencings of these men is equivalent to watching the performer back inside the club.
    I roll my shoulders a little and try to calm the sense of unease growing in me. Knowing that most, if not all Sensitives, are nothing more than petty human criminals, I can’t help be feel disgusted over the whole charade. And yet, I can’t tear myself from the spectacle.
    The second and third men are sentenced and hurried off the stage in much of the same way, leaving the final short man alone on the stage.  The Enforcer bobbles her head between the tablet in her hand and the man, before motioning to a woman off stage, who runs to her side. The Enforcer points at the tablet in confusion.
    It’s strange the way the two women keep checking the tablet and then glancing at the last man. He keeps his blank eyes fixed on something just beyond the audience. He doesn’t smile, or sneer, or give any indication that he’s aware of the crowd.
    Finally, the original woman shakes her head and hands the tablet to the new woman, whose mouth is slightly ajar. She looks like she may cry.
    The new woman faces the crowd and keeps her eyes down on the tablet. “Toran Mikas, son of Stellan and Sava Mikas.” The woman’s voice breaks and I’m not sure she’s going to finish. Finally, she says, “You stand accused of plotting the assassination of Malin Greene, our Vice Head. For this, you are sentenced to death.”
    Time grinds to a halt. Executions are unheard of in our Society. But more than that, this man tried to kill my Mother? Who is he?
    I study Toran as the woman finishes reading the particulars of his execution. He keeps his eyes forward and his back rigid. There’s no emotion or horror in his eyes. When the Sensitive Enforcers shove him to side of the stage, he shuffles along until he reaches the stairs.
    He lifts his head and whistles four haunting notes.
    The Alouette .
    Chills run down my spine. Either he’s a human with bad taste in music or he’s a member of the Splinter group.
    From all around me comes a response: the same slow and mournful notes.
    My heart races as I shove my way through the tidal wave of people pressing toward the stage. The song is everywhere, like an unstoppable virus, corrupting everything in its path.
    This is more than one man in the club. There are dozens of members of the Splinter Group here in San Francisco. Within feet of me. How is this even possible? Why haven’t security or the Enforcers caught them?
    With one last shove, I’m out of the suffocating crowd, emerging on the far side of the street. I gasp for air as the reality of what I witnessed crashes down on me.
    My hands bunch the once luxurious fabric of my dress and I force myself to stay calm. To walk leisurely. After all, it will only take one person recognizing me before the whole crowd is on me.
    I need to find Kyra. We should never have snuck out. 
    But even though I’m terrified out here alone, one thought pummels my mind: Mother is publicly executing Sensitives. It must not be a popular policy if even the Enforcers, whose job it is to distribute justice, have a hard time stomaching it.
    So what is Mother doing?
    A dank, repugnant odor hits my nose and I recoil in disgust. Cages filled with people line the walkway. More supposed criminals for the State to parade across the stage. I doubt many of these people are witches at all. Most are probably unfortunate humans.
    The crowd here isn’t as thick, and the attention is definitely on the cages, not me. Sneering men throw pebbles at the captives and taunt them with obscenities. A few of the people behind the bars sob while the more belligerent yell back. The hatred for these