Intermix Nation

by M. P. Attardo

  Cato sighs. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m not trying to pry!” Nazirah says. “But Lumi is beautiful, strong-willed and opinionated. She can even be sweet sometimes, especially to you. I think you might be good together.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Well, as long as you approve.”

  “Once we’re all back at headquarters,” she continues, ignoring his sarcasm, “maybe you two can give it a shot.”

  “And what if I don’t want to give it a shot with her?” he retaliates. “What if I want to give it a shot with someone else?”

  “That’s … fine too,” she says, playing with the tassels on the duvet. “I just want you to be happy.”

  Cato grabs her chin, forcing eye contact. There’s pain in his eyes. And a deep longing that Nazirah has never seen before – at least, not in person. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

  She tries in vain to pull her head away. “Don’t say it,” Nazirah tells him.

  “I know you know,” he pleads. “If you didn’t before, you knew after watching that memory.”

  Nazirah winces from his grip. This isn’t Cato. This is a stranger, someone who has repressed his feelings for too long and is now on the verge of exploding. “Don’t say it!” she warns again.

  “Why shouldn’t I? Afraid you might feel something back?”

  “Stop it!”

  This has to stop, now, before it’s too late. Before one of them says something they can never take back. “Irri, please,” Cato begs, running his fingers frantically over her face. “I’m in love with you.”

  And there it is.

  And now nothing can be the same between them. Because Nazirah loves him, but she isn’t in love with him. And pretending will only hurt him more.

  “Cato …”

  “I love you so much.…”

  “Cato …”

  There are tears in her eyes. But he isn’t focusing, isn’t listening. He is too absorbed in his own raw emotions, in bottled pain, in years of unrequited feelings to hear her now. He leans in, kissing her softly, timidly. It is grass and peppermint and sweetness … everything she should want. But Nazirah doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want it at all. And it breaks her heart.

  Nazirah presses a firm hand to his chest, ending the kiss. Cato pulls away abruptly. “What is it?” he asks.

  “You’re my best friend,” she says. “And I do love you. I care more about you than anyone. But I can’t give you what you want. I’m sorry.”

  Cato glares at her coldly, rising from the bed. “You are so completely fucked up,” he says. Nazirah shakily stands as well. He holds up his hands, waving them in her face. “What is it? Am I too clean for you? Not scratched enough?”

  “What are you talk –”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about!” he shouts. “I can’t believe you would choose him over me, with all our history!”

  “I’m not choosing anyone over you!” she cries, needing for him to understand. “I just can’t be with you!”

  He’s in her face now. “Don’t lie to me, Nazirah! You know what you are? You’re a tease. I saw how you were looking at him last night, and today. You’ve been acting weird for weeks! But I never thought you could sink so low!”

  “I’m not –”

  “It’s absolutely pathetic to watch,” he continues. “He’s using you! Are you honestly that insecure? You only feel like a big girl when he’s fucking you into the floorboards?”

  Nazirah slaps him across the face, so hard she can almost hear his skin stinging. “Leave,” she says.

  “With pleasure, Nation,” he spits, walking to the door.

  “And you might want to take a look at yourself before talking about users.”

  Cato’s face blanches and Nazirah knows Adamek did not lie to her. “Whatever I’ve done,” he says, “it was only to get my mind off of you.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “I’ve been there for you through everything!” he lashes out. “I’ve sacrificed everything … my family … my home … my life! I would die for you, gladly, a thousand times over! But you are selfish! You may not want to admit it to yourself, but your attraction to Morgen is there. Everyone can see it! You’re playing with fire, Nazirah. And you’re about to get burned.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Nazirah doesn’t leave her room for three days. She doesn’t sit on her balcony, doesn’t read. She just wallows in bed. She tries to resurrect that blissful numbness she once felt. But it is dead and buried. Solomon brings her tea and meals. She barely notices.

  On that first evening, Solomon gently tells her Cato has returned to assignment a day early. She sobs into her pillow. Solomon informs everyone in the riad she’s recovering from a concussion, and needs several days’ bed rest. Nazirah is grateful, although entirely certain no one believes him.

  Solomon keeps Nazirah abreast of life outside her door. Adamek’s arm is almost fully healed. Aldrik has met with the Red Lords. Their alliance with the rebels has been sealed. Nazirah doesn’t tell Solomon why she and Cato fought. But he is smart and observant and guesses for himself. He assures Nazirah that people deal with stress and jealousy differently, reassures her that Cato will come around eventually. He says that she has a heart of gold, which Nazirah doesn’t believe or want or need. What she has is already too heavy.

  Nazirah wants no heart at all.

  She makes an appearance at breakfast on the fourth morning, showered for the first time in days. But nothing can hide the dark circles that rim her eyes or the redness in her face.

  “Look who’s finally decided to grace the campaign with her presence,” Aldrik snaps, before returning to his meal.

  Nazirah takes her usual seat across from Adamek, briefly glancing at his healed arm. “I was recovering,” she mutters.

  “You look pretty rough,” Aldrik says. “That’s for sure.”

  Solomon clears his throat loudly. “We are all very happy to see your healthy return.”

  Aldrik ignores Solomon. “We’re leaving Rubiyat in two days, Nation,” he grunts, “which you would know if you ever bothered to leave your room. We’re tying up some loose ends with the Red Lords and then setting out for Shizar.”

  “Is that in Zima?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he grumbles. “Shizar is in Zima.” He coughs. “We’re staying with our ally there, Luka. Shizar is Luka’s Lordship.”

  “Lordship?”

  “Did you never attend Territory History?” Aldrik snaps. “Ever? Or is the village idiot act not an act after all?”

  Solomon quickly intervenes. “In Zima, every Lord presides over a Lordship,” he says. “Think of it as a small, self-contained city. Zima has the harshest climate in the country. Lordships are how the citizens survive, in a sort of feudal system. Shizar is the Lordship farthest North. We are hoping you will be safest there, since the Medis have the least access to it.”

  “Got it.” Nazirah sighs, remembering how dangerous the rest of campaign will be. Sulking over Cato made Nazirah temporarily forget how dead the Chancellor wants her.

  Solomon suddenly claps his hands. “That reminds me,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I have a special announcement to make! I was waiting until Miss Nation was in better spirits to tell the three of you together.”

  “Tell us what?” Aldrik asks suspiciously.

  “Tomorrow night,” Solomon says, “the evening before you depart Rubiyat, I will be throwing a goodbye party here in your honor.” Solomon sees Aldrik’s startled face, tries to reassure him. “Do not worry, everything is already planned! I have only invited a few of our allies, the Red Lords and their families. It will help us maintain our accord. And, of course, celebrate Mr. Morgen’s win.”

  Aldrik immediately starts arguing with Solomon, citing the long journey they’ll have the following morning and the potential threats to security. Solomon will hear none of it. They begin a heated debate over the breakfast table, which Nazirah promptly ignores
. Under normal circumstances, a party would be nice. But she is in no mood for celebration.

  Nazirah fondly remembers the parties in Rafu … a few stolen bottles of tequilux, the old boardwalk, dancing on the beach with only the stars for chaperones. She longs for something like that again. But thinking of those endless nights, those sanguine mornings … it hurts too much.

  “You look like shit, Nation,” Adamek says from across the table, grabbing some bread.

  “You don’t look so hot yourself,” Nazirah retorts, unfazed.

  “Caal left in quite the rush.”

  “I’ll tell him you miss him.”

  “What happened?” he asks. “Didn’t feel like putting out?”

  His words are crude, but his tone is unusually lighthearted. Like he’s saying it just for the sake of saying it. Like he’s trying for some semblance of normalcy, which would be the two of them arguing. Nazirah briefly glances at Aldrik and Solomon, still quarrelling at the head of the table.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Nazirah flips his words around in a bored voice. She casually reaches for some yogurt. Adamek gets a rare smile on his face, cheeks dimpling. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  Nazirah thinks she may have been better off eating in her room after all. She excuses herself from the table, rising swiftly. Adamek looks at her curiously. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says before leaving.

  #

  Nazirah spends the day in her room, packing or reading on the balcony. She tries to stay occupied, keep her thoughts off of Cato. Although Nazirah hates to admit it, he is right about a lot. She is a tease, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Nazirah knew how he felt, knew what buttons to press. She led him on with her silence, and Cato is understandably fed up. Nazirah knows she has hurt him. But he has hurt her too! His disgusting words, the things he accused her of! She doesn’t know how they move forward from here.

  The night of the party, Nazirah hears pounding at her door. Opening it reveals three women wearing crimson headscarves, clearly Solomon’s servants. Nazirah quickly jumps aside as they schlep in an assortment of boxes, oils, and jewels.

  “Hello,” the oldest woman, hunched over, says in a heavy accent. She’s as wide around the middle as she is tall. “I Padmakali.” She points to a middle-aged woman beside her. “This my daughter, Padmalaya.” She then points to the youngest, rail thin girl. “Granddaughter, Padmini.”

  “I’m Nazirah,” she says, knowing she will never remember their names. “Nice to meet you … all.”

  “Here.” Padmakali pushes Nazirah towards the middle of the room.

  “What are you doing?” Nazirah asks the granddaughter.

  “They are not speaking the language of you,” Padmakali tells her harshly. “Master Salaahi is asking that us arrange you.”

  “For the party?”

  Padmakali nods, says, “Strip.”

  She looks at Nazirah expectantly, sausage fingers poised and waiting. Nazirah blushes red as dust, but pulls off her clothes and hands them to Padmakali. Padmakali nods, noticing the amnesty pendant around Nazirah’s neck. She gestures for Nazirah to remove it as well, but Nazirah shakes her head.

  “I’d rather keep it on, if that’s all right.”

  “Is fine.”

  Much to Nazirah’s chagrin, besides overseeing, large Padmakali is also responsible for waxing, lotioning, and oiling. “This is really … ow… unnecessary … ow.” Nazirah grimaces as Padmakali relentlessly tweezes and plucks every last stray hair.

  “No sense,” Padmakali says, retrieving lace undergarments from one of the boxes. Nazirah yanks them on quickly, eager to wear something besides skin. “Master Salaahi is wanting you have full luxury treatment.”

  She forces Nazirah into a chair, barking at her daughter. Padmalaya hurries into the bathroom. She fills a basin of water, adding scented oils, then rushes back and begins vigorously washing Nazirah’s hair, scrubbing and yanking and tugging. Padmini takes out a palette and several brushes, skillfully mixing Nazirah’s makeup.

  Three generations of Padmas hover around Nazirah like nesting dolls, relentless lotus flowers of birth and rebirth. Padmalaya curls Nazirah’s long hair slightly, braids some of it, lets the rest fall in thick copper waves down her back. Padmini applies the makeup, concentrating hard even with her grandmother shouting in her ear. She straightens up, grabbing Nazirah’s wrist and spraying it with perfume that makes Nazirah cough. Padmini glances at Nazirah’s arm strangely and says something to her grandmother. Nazirah doesn’t need a translator to understand what she asks.

  “No tattoo,” Nazirah says bluntly. “Intermix.”

  Padmakali slaps Padmini’s arm, scolding her. Padmini looks away, abashed. Nazirah is reminded that even in the Red West, where intermix probably have the most freedom out of all the territories, she is still considered subservient to everyone else. Nazirah touches her arm self-consciously.

  “Most sorries, Nazirah,” Padmakali says. “Padmini is not of the badness. We are not often pampering intermix.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I know she didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Padmalaya pulls out Nazirah’s dress and the three lotuses help her into it. It’s made entirely of scarlet lace, cinching at the waist and flowing freely around her feet. Long sleeves elegantly cuff the wrist. There’s a high neckline in front, while the back plunges open, stopping just above the base of Nazirah’s spine. It’s breathtaking and Nazirah knows it probably cost more than Kasimir made in his most productive years combined.

  Padmini enviously hands Nazirah a pair of nude heels. Nazirah slips them on, wobbling slightly. Clearly impressed with their handiwork, they push Nazirah towards the floor-length mirror.

  Nazirah spins happily in the dress, whipping it up behind her like a dust storm. “Thank you so much,” she tells them honestly. “It’s beautiful. I could never do it justice.”

  Padmakali shakes her head, forcing Nazirah to really look at herself in the mirror. Her hair is styled similarly to Riva’s. Her skin is luminous, cheekbones prominent and rosy from Padmini’s delicate touch. Her eyes are heavily lined with kohl, lashes long and thick, bringing out the natural flecks of gold in her irises. Her lips are nude, full.

  She is striking.

  Nazirah sees it all, but none of it matters. What matters is she has never looked this much like Riva before in her life. She touches her face, speechless. Having her mother here, with her in this small way, means more to Nazirah than beauty ever could.

  “I have grandson for you,” Padmakali says seriously. Nazirah laughs, the tinkling of bells. From the final box, Padmini removes a large gold bangle. She slips it on Nazirah’s arm, right above the bracelet from her first trip to the Deathlands. It’s embellished with a dozen red suns, inlaid with rubies. Padmini says something to Nazirah, happily grabbing her wrist. “Padmini is saying you now are Deathlander too,” Padmakali translates. “You are having the red sun like us.”

  Nazirah is touched by Padmini’s heartfelt words. She begins tearing up, but Padmakali shouts at her “Not to be ruining the makeup.” Nazirah hugs those three nesting dolls tightly before they leave, feeling closer to them than she dreamed possible when they first marched through her door. She walks to the mirror again, tucking the pendant out of sight. Standing before the mirror, she puts a slow hand up to her reflection. Nazirah traces the lines of her face, of Riva’s face, heart-shaped and honey-eyed.

  Nazirah finds herself in that mirror. She may look like Riva, but she is not Riva. She is not Kasimir. She is born of them, but entirely her own.

  She is Nazirah Nation reborn.

  There is soft rapping at her door. Behind it is Olag, dressed in a suit with diamond studs in each ear. “You’re looking especially dapper tonight,” Nazirah says, taking Olag’s proffered arm. Nazirah doesn’t think he understands her, but Olag flashes the first real smile she’s seen him wear. Nazirah returns the smile, letting him lead her to the celebration.

  #
<
br />   The party is lively and intimate, like Solomon promised. But it is nothing like Nazirah expected. For the past two days, Nazirah assumed Solomon’s celebration would resemble Victoria’s gala. That party was luxurious and strange, uptight and stuffy. But this is the Deathlands, not Mediah.

  She should have known better.

  The first thing Nazirah notices is the music. It is throbbing, pulsating, intoxicating. Cymbals crash. Camel leather guitars strum, vibrating deeply. Lutes serenade. Drums bang. Men play the cane flute, while women sing loudly. Partygoers everywhere chant in Deathlandic, crooning and rhythmically handclapping. They sway their hips, gyrating, alternating between sharp and flowing movements. Some people jump acrobatically to the music in a circle. Veiled women with bright saris and bare midriffs belly dance through the crowd. People smoke hookah in a corner.

  Solomon sees her, rises in greeting. “Look at you!” he exclaims. “You are exquisite, the jewel of Renatus!”

  Nazirah blushes. “Thanks for lending me the dress and bracelet, Solomon,” she says. “They’re absolutely gorgeous.”

  “You are mistaken,” he replies kindly. “The gold will fade and the lace will unravel. You are the true beauty. And they are yours to keep. Mementos of your time here.”

  Nazirah is floored. “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “Of course I am!” he says, guiding her through the crowd. “How do you like the festivities?”

  “They’re amazing!” Nazirah shouts, struggling to be heard over the music. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “A truly Deathlandic event!” he cries, leading her to a large table with the rest of her campaign members. “As promised!”

  Nazirah spots Adamek speaking to a dark-skinned beauty with purple lips and gold bangles up her arms. He is dressed in a metallic sharkskin suit with an open white shirt. Aldrik, bouncing an obscenely young ingénue on his lap, leans over and says something to him. Adamek laughs. Nazirah has never seen him look so relaxed, so approachable before. Several exotic girls, and quite a few boys, gather around him like moths drawn to a flame. Because he is the flame, the fire everyone wants to be burned by.