“How do you know?” The lightening fades.
He says, “Those flower brands on your wrists. There’s talk about your people, down in Chihuahua. How you think the flower is god, think it lives in the sky.”
“It does.”
“Does the flower god sit on a throne like a king?” Laughter escapes him.
“Fireseed is god. And god is right here. Fireseed saved us.” I give the red plant beside me a loving stroke.
Thorn frowns at the guy and aims his toy dragon tail out like a sword.
“That’s Fireseed?” The bronzed guy’s eyes widen as he examines it—its winding red branches that sway, its artful sprinkle of thorns, its curving tendrils that look like dancing cacti. He lowers his bow, slides the arrow back in its quiver and loops the bow over one shoulder.
Thorn, wordless as always, packs his toy away in his latch bag.
“Why don’t you take off your mask?” I ask.
The young man shrugs and pulls down the mask to rest it on his neck. A brand marks each high cheekbone with a leaf. A matching leaf earring dangles from one ear. Twine around his neck has a shiny, curlicue gem on it. His face is deeply tanned, chiseled, with a faraway glint in his eyes. I see now that he’s not a man, but a boy about my age. He’s dressed in the strangest clothes, a suit resembling lizard skin that clings to every muscle and slope. I try not to gape but it’s hard not to. The guys at home wear loose capes that hide these things. My sly gaze follows his slim hips that arc up to broad shoulders. He’s perfectly built except for one odd-shaped leg. Wait … where that flesh and blood leg would be, his is molded from a smooth, cream-colored substance. It’s thin at the ankle and then swells out, mimicking the natural curve of his other calf. The device is badly bowed and nicked, as if it’s seen better days.
Like most things here in the desert.
When the boy sees me studying his leg, his dark brows knit. He tilts his head down and his long bangs shroud his eyes.
“I’m Ruby,” I tell him, “and this is my brother, Thorn. Do you live here?”
“No. I’m from Black Hills Sector, up north. I’m Armonk.”
Most people I know are named after desert things, like Sage, or aspects of Fireseed, like Freeblossom, Crimson and Thorn. Armonk’s an odd name but I don’t say so. “What brought you to Skull’s Wrath?”
“Private business.”
“Here? At this compound?” I ask.
“It’s The Greening.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “The Greening? I see red Fireseed plants and a sand-colored compound. Not a smidgen of green! The guy at the depot said a crazy lady lives here, says she belonged to a bizarre group of killers.”
“You have no right to talk about bizarre,” Armonk snaps. And then, as if he knows he’s veered too far into mean, he continues in a milder tone. “The lady’s an old friend of my mother’s.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t be evil then, could she? “Well, then, I’m going to see her too.”
“Suit yourself.” He gives me a hard glance as if I’m the eccentric one for changing, rapid-fire, from one extreme position to another. “Need a hand?” Offering his, in a surprising gesture that gives me gooseflesh, he helps me up, while my brother scrambles up on his own, an odd calm still etched on his face.
We weave our way through the Fireseed field. Every leaf that brushes my face is a caress and every thorn prick is a pleasant nudge. My god is here on earth!
Armonk looks down at Thorn. “You’re awfully quiet, what do you think of this?”
Thorn only stares back at him.
“He doesn’t really talk,” I explain.
“Why is that?” Armonk addresses his question to Thorn.
“No reason,” I answer for him. How can I explain when I don’t totally know?
We’re almost to the front porch of the compound, where the tarp is seamlessly attached to its roof when we hear a war whoop and a loud crashing of branches.
I yell, “Who’s stomping on Fireseed? Stop it now!” I’m bold with the miracle of being surrounded by the star-faced beauties; also, from the way Armonk is looking at me, and his quiver full of sharp arrows.
His mask is back on but I can tell by his quaking shoulders that he’s laughing. “Brazen one,” he says.
His laughter stops when we come face-to face with three burly guys who tower over even Armonk. They’re wielding clubs. For a third time tonight, my heart is up in my throat. Will they club us and boil us for stew? Could everything Armonk said about his mother knowing the owner of this place be a lie? He certainly doesn’t know these guys. This may have been a huge, huge mistake, but it’s way too late to turn back now.
Chapter 4
“Get off our property,” the biggest one snarls. I can’t see his face under his burn mask but his shoulders are massive.