The hallway is almost completely dark, except for the weak twilight streaming through the open door to the penthouse. The Nahx kneels there, facing me, though for all I know his eyes could be closed. I try to get a good look at him, but it’s too dark and my vision is beginning to blur again. He doesn’t seem as large, kneeling and close up, but his armor and mask, if that’s what it is, still seem to suck what little light there is. The armor makes a dull clicking noise as he moves, and his breathing is a low buzz, halfway between a sick wasp and the purring of a cat.
The face of his mask is vaguely humanoid, large, glassy, reflective black eye shapes, a ridge where the nose would be, and a kind of grille over the mouth. It reminds me of a gas mask from World War II. There’s no sign of the movement in the segmented plates that I remember, no sign of the sharp spines on his face. Maybe that’s something that happens during an attack, or when he’s frightened. And why would he be frightened now? He could kill me with one finger.
Neither his helmet, mask, nor the rest of his armor looks shiny or new. Instead, it’s dirty and there are marks and abrasions like healed scars all over him, including a star-shaped mark on his chest. Is it possible this is his skin? Does it heal? I consider the arrow hole in his shoulder. The bleeding seems to be slowing down. But it doesn’t look like blood.
What is he? What does he want? The possibilities are too much to contemplate.
I realize I’ve been holding my head up. My neck spasms, and I lie back, saying the first word that comes to my mind.
“Tuck . . .” Then the tears are pouring out of my eyes. I stare up at the dark ceiling and give in to it, crying out all the horror that I haven’t given full vent to since that day we buried him. The Nahx watches me for a moment, then stands, and leaving the door propped open so some faint light can trickle into the hallway, leaves me there and goes inside.
Who knows how long I lie there? Maybe I pass out from blood loss, or maybe I fall asleep from exhaustion, but when I wake up, I’m lying on a bed, my good wrist shackled to the bedpost.
EIGHTH
I watch her in the dim light from some candles I found and left burning on the little table by the bed. It feels wrong to touch her as she sleeps, but I want to try to treat her injuries. I seem to know things about treating injuries, without knowing how. I focus on her, on the details of her, her smell. Without that effort I will lose myself.
She twitches and gasps. Before I even reach her, she’s wailing and tugging at the restraint.
“No . . . uhh, no . . . untie me, please. . . .”
As I kneel beside the bed, she pulls herself as far away as she can get, her shackled arm stretched out. The speed and strength of her emotions is slightly surprising to me. She’s crying and furious at the same time.
“Untie me, you piece of shit! You son of a bitch!” Then she closes her eyes and turns away from me, curling up, her bleeding ankle leaving a streak of blood on the sheet. I move to the other side of the bed to face her, but she turns away again. I move back and she turns away. Finally, in desperation, I grab her face and turn it to me. She snarls something I don’t quite understand, then spits on me.
I won’t hurt you, I sign.
Her good leg swings up and curls around my neck. Before I know what is happening, she has flipped me down on the bed and is crushing my neck between her knees. As I pry them apart, she kicks me hard in my injured shoulder and then in the side of the head. I tumble backward on the floor, my helmet banging on the edge of a chair as I fall.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” she yells. I stand, head throbbing, shoulder stinging, and take two steps back. Focus now. This is going to be harder than I thought. I didn’t really think at all. I just grabbed her and ran. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I take a moment to reconsider my options.
I could leave her, let her die.
No, I can’t do that. Not after finding her again. That has to mean something.
I could hope that her injuries aren’t as bad as I think they are.
I’m pretty sure they are.
I could try to find her people.
They would kill me. Or worse, my people would kill her.
I could try to knock her out again, like I did in the trailer.
Ah no. Anything but that. Think.
I can overpower her. I’m much stronger than her, despite her fighting spirit. But the thought of it makes me feel sick. There will be screaming and crying. As it is, the scent of her fear nearly chokes me.
Please, I sign. But of course she doesn’t know the signs.
Her face is soaked with blood, mucus, and tears. She lifts her injured arm to wipe it, but I think both the bones of her forearm are broken. She gasps and whimpers as her hand flops unnaturally.
There’s a bath in the next room. I step in there to grab towels, and when I come back she has hauled herself up to the bedpost and is biting at the binding on her wrist. Her mouth is already bloody.
Stop. Stop, I sign. I drop the towels and try to pull her teeth away. She twists her head and bites down on my hand. Hard. There’s no way she could bite through the armored glove, but I feel it well enough. I could break her jaw trying to peel her off me. Instead, I pinch down hard on her cheek. She yelps and releases me. A bright red welt blooms on her face. My fingerprints.
Sorry. Sorry. Very sorry.
“Can’t you talk? I don’t know what those signs mean!” she snarls through bloodied teeth.
Of course she doesn’t. I could try to teach her some of them, but I don’t have time. Her leg is still bleeding, her pant leg and boot now soaked with blood. Her arm must be excruciating.
Kneeling again by the side of the bed, I reach forward with one of the towels. I think perhaps she’s too tired to move, because though she tenses, she lets me wipe some of the blood from her mouth.
“What do you want from me?”
I set the towels down on the bed. I want to fix you.
“What does that mean?”
I point to her arm. Broken. That’s an obvious one. Broken.
“My arm is broken. Yes, I know.”
I turn the “broken” sign upside down and do it again, backward.
Fix. Broken. Fix. Broken.
“You want to fix my arm?”
Ah, thank you. I nod. I point to her leg and hold up one finger.
“First my leg?”
My mind floods with giddy relief. I can do this if I can make her understand me. I rest my forehead down on the bed, nodding, trying to keep my thoughts from swirling into vapor. When I look up, she’s staring at me, eyes wide, swollen, and red rimmed.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nod.
She looks sick as she begins to speak, and what little color was left drains from her face. “Did you do this to me? In the stadium? Was it you who beat me up?”
RAVEN
He lurches back, like he’s been punched. Holding both hands out, palms up, he shakes his head over and over, slowly at first, then faster. I guess that’s a no. He lifts his hands up and lets his head fall into them, holding it there, still on his knees by the side of the bed. My mind suddenly flashes back to the video of the Nahx girl being decapitated. It’s frighteningly vivid, almost like a waking dream. I must gasp, because he looks up sharply.