Since I was little, I’ve seen his sneaky side-glances at me as if he was picturing what I was wearing under my red tunic, even before my flat chest blossomed into buds. I shudder. Over the years, Stiles wasn’t the only man to do that. I’ve often cursed my huge brown eyes and soft skin. Beauty’s a liability. I’ve even tried to chop off my hair that flies around me like an electric halo and the frizz of curlicue bangs that float above my forehead. The elders gave me the third degree for cutting it.
“Our girls should take pride in their hair,” Stiles said to me then. As though he already had dibs on my every breath. He did, sad to say. One of the powerful elders, he claimed me early, when I was a child. If only I could choose my own partner I might choose Sage, who I built sandcastles with and who teaches me math. He’s too loud and always has a strong opinion but at least he’s eighteen, my own age. I look over to where Sage is standing with the other eighteens, in the crowd pressed into a five-pronged star shape. Each prong stands for an oath: faith, family, fire-in-the-heart, fidelity and ferocity. Sage is talking to his friend, Dusty. They look over at me with a mixed expression of pride yet sadness—I’m not sure if they wish they were in Stiles’ shoes, or it’s more they feel bad for me. Either way, even Dusty would be a better partner than Stiles. He has a fetching smile and he’s good with running games, which is how he got his nickname. He left everyone in the sandy dust when he ran.
I have no choice in the matter though. Not as long as I remain here. And where would I go in this vast desert? The elders always told us there is little but chaos and death outside of our compound. They swear that roaming nomads would eat me if they were hungry enough. That desert nomads have no god and live only by their thieving, bloodthirsty hands.
Besides, I could never leave my brother Thorn here. They used to think my brother was a saint, because his birth was auspicious. He was born two years to the day that the raging sandstorm blew in Professor Teitur’s son, Varik. The elders at first thought Varik was the second coming, but when they realized that he was a false prophet who only wanted to escape, they decided to make my own infant brother a saint instead.
To mark the day.
They worshipped Thorn until he reached four and he still wasn’t speaking. The elders scratched their heads at that, and called him slow. Two years later, they were beating him and searching the skies for the next saint that never came. Even yesterday, they gave him a fresh burn on his already-scarred forehead for being too slow at numbers.
They’d surely kill my brother if I left without him.
“Daydreamer, hurry up,” Stiles grumbles as he tugs on my arm. I’ve heard stories of what happens to young women on Founder’s day. I’d keep him waiting forever if it were up to me.
Reluctantly, I shadow him as we wind past the torches, to the dark sandy dunes behind the podiums, and further, into the warm desert blackness. To keep from shaking I focus on the steadying thrum of beetles, as they settle into their creviced hideaways for the night. My hand goes to the bulk on my hip, under my red cloak. I take a deep breath inside my steely mask.
“Want a little drink?” I ask, as I move close to Stiles. Pat my hip to show him I have a hidden treat. “To get you in a celebratory mood,” I add, swallowing my repulsion at the idea.
“Oh?” His greedy eyes follow my hand down. “What is it?”
I giggle. “Only the best of my father’s elixir for my … partner.”
At the word partner he grins, raises his mask and licks his lips.
We are almost to our gazebo, shrouded by red heat fabric, to allow us privacy.
Privacy that I dread.
He pauses at the curtained doorway. “Show it to me,” he says greedily.
With my good hand, I swill the liquid around. Before my father passed on, he brewed many bottles of hard liquor from beetles and sea-barley pellets he bought from a black marketeer trekking south. Called it the Cure. His secret recipe was burned along with his body. My mother saw to that; no elders would copy it. Since it’s so rare, the liquor is still prized among them. My mother doles it out slowly, only on special days to stay in good graces with the leaders of the camp. Even so, she’s not been able to loosen Stiles’ claim on me for a precious carton.
I imagine the Oblivion Powder swimming in the Cure as I place my hand on Stile’s chin and tip it up suggestively. To make sure he swallows it all.
“You clever tart.” He sticks out his tongue, allowing the foul mix to slide so fast down his gullet that my job is made easy.
But not so easy after all! Once we’re behind the curtains, he grabs my arms and pins them behind my back so swiftly I have no ability to fend him off. “I’ve waited so long for this,” he murmurs and plants his lips on mine. They’re every bit as horrid as I imagined them—like gluey, smelly dish sponges.
Fear seeps through me. Will the Oblivion mix work fast enough? Maybe I didn’t put enough in to knock him out. Will it work at all? I clench my jaw to swallow a scream. Forcing a smile of devious warmth I whisper, “Let my arms free and I’ll stroke your head.”