An unspoken message simmers between us that no matter where we’re from we’re all the same. Or did I misread that because Blane’s voice is suddenly shrill. “Why are you here then?”
“Why are you here, if your family is so perfect?” I challenge.
He snorts, rubs his hands on his burn suit. “I saw my parents drown, if you must know. I saw my brother, Percy drown, and our dog, Cloud. They went under in a cold, black wave of death that washed over the sector, if you really need to know. I clung to a roof for two days, watching bloated bodies float by—dead dogs, cats, little children, their mouths still open, as if they were ready to scream. What do you bring to this equation, girl?” Blane’s voice is hardboiled, bitter. I imagine tears spilling down underneath his mask.
“I’m sorry to hear that. No one should see those things.” I think of the tiny ones at the branding ceremonies back home, how they screamed when the brands crackled and bubbled star-shapes into their flesh. But that was for the cause. Blane saw meaningless death. “Is that why you’re so tough on people?” I make the mistake of asking. Because Blane’s face immediately snaps closed.
A mask of armor over a jaded soldier. “Where’s Peg-leg?” he growls.
“I have no idea, and that’s not his name.” Here we are, back to battle. And I thought we’d made some human progress.
“Find him, Cult Girl.” Through the slits in his mask, Blane’s cold eyes fix on me like crosshairs on a rifle. He treads closer. His breath on my face is as hot as the scorching air. A heavy bodily threat presses in on me. I know it from Stiles, and the other men. It’s hate and sex and power, all mixed together like snakes circling my waist, their sharp scales scraping my flesh.
“I’ll do my best.” I turn away to dislodge his gaze.
Blane spins around to the front of me, even closer, demanding my attention. “Do your best at what?” he teases.
“At ignoring you,” I say, backing up. I’m scared, more for Armonk than myself.
Blane lunges for my arm. At that moment, a high whiz and burst of wind flies by.
With a dull ripping sound Armonk’s arrow tears through Blane’s pack that sits between his muscled shoulder blades.
“You …” Blane is temporarily speechless, and then madly sprinting after Armonk, who has miraculously melted into the red jungle. Armonk reminds me of an ancient savage from a myth, with sticks through his earlobes and a fusty spear in hand; one who knows the crests of rock, the sheltering caves, and every cliff switchback.
I gather up Blane’s pile of red leaves and add them to mine. Then I go find Thorn.
At dinner, I see that Armonk’s face is no worse off. The mottled purple of his bruise seems a shade lighter. Blane must not yet have caught up to him. I smile inside. Never mind that Armonk’s leg is two or three sizes to short for him. The supposed gimp has found a way to humiliate Blane. And protect me. I’m grateful for that. Armonk will pay for it though. He might need my help after all.
That night, I crawl into bed exhausted in a good way. I’ve eaten, I’ve gotten exercise, and I’ve managed to fend off Blane. I’ve checked on Thorn and Radius seems to be leaving him alone. Bea hasn’t said anything truly nasty to me today, though she’s rolled toward the wall again without a word. Now she’s breathing steadily with a soft snore.
Progress, I may not even need Oblivion tonight.
But as I lay there, staring out at the orange-streaked sky and the distant, blinking stars, my mind sinks to a dreadful reverie. I’m standing in front of the garden shelf where the red leaves are trapped under those wide stones. The Fireseed seems to be emitting a high-pitched wail. Blane is there too and he’s pressing his face into mine, his lips biting at my own lips. His meaty arms trap me. He shoves me down on top of Fireseed stalks that crack and split, sending out more high-pitched whees. As Blane’s weight pushes hard against my chest, his face becomes Stiles’—the flared nostrils, bloodshot eyes and accusing stare. “You are mine,” Stiles says. “How dare you …”
I bolt upright, sending such a flurry of fearful energy into the air that Bea chokes in her sleep. Coughing, she turns my way and returns to her steady breathing.
Her eyes could snap open at any second. She could steal my bag of Oblivion or knock it from my hands, scattering the powder over the floor. It would be lost forever. I hold my breath as I pad across the room, reach for the velvety sack in my cloak and feel the reassuring give of the powder. It’s diminishing with every dose, and I won’t be able to make more here. I need to ration it carefully. My heart hammering, I flutter into the bathroom, inch open the drawstring and shake a line onto my wrist. I inhale greedily, desperately.
Stumbling back to bed, there’s only enough time to thrust the precious bag inside my pillowcase before sweat erupts on my upper lip and my eyes roll up.
Then I bump off swollen ridges of pain as I fall deeply into never.
Chapter 8