He looks up, startled, and I hurry to explain. "I'm afraid of the—dog. The jacanal, I mean. I don't want to walk past it alone."
He cocks his head. "You? You're afraid?"
"I'm human. I get scared like anyone else. And I can't depend on my smart mouth to get me out of trouble with a beast like that."
"I don't know. Your tongue is a force of nature." His eyes twinkle as he moves toward the entrance with me. Deathspawn eyes our every step, ragged ears pricking at our voices. I tuck my goggles on top of my head as Rak and I enter the building.
"My tongue does have its talents," I say. "I've practiced with it for years."
"Is that so? What sort of practice?" Something about the low roughness of his voice clues me in to the track his mind is taking.
"You really don't want to know," I say. "Such terrible tongue-lashings and wicked words and wanton ways. It's not for your respectable religious ears."
He flushes. "You don't know anything about my religion."
We're passing the room on the lower level where I saw those two children. They aren't there now, but the ratty blanket they were crouched on lies scrunched on the floor. Later I'm coming back down here and leaving them a can of food. Rak can buy Safi a replacement; surely there's enough left on his finance card for that tiny expense.
"Does your religion prompt you to walk by when you see ragged, starving children?" I ask, remembering how Rak urged me past that doorway the first time we entered the building.
"No. My experience with war has taught me that you can't help everyone, even if you want to."
"There were only two of them."
"But talking to them could have put us all in danger. Children like that are desperate, likely to sell information to anyone they can. I've seen good men die because a child, a scrawny beggar with pitiful eyes, sold them out for a hot meal."
"Good men—you mean Fray rebels." I stand at the foot of the stairs, facing him.
"Good men," he repeats, his eyes daring me to challenge him.
"And to whom did the beggar sell the information? The Vilor?"
"No." He keeps his eyes locked with mine. "To the Unity faction, and your so-called Peace-Keepers. We had a plan to blow up one of their supply buildings, but when our men moved in, it was an ambush instead. Three of the rebels in that unit died, and two were captured and executed. The beggar child overhead one of the men talking in an alley before the raid and sold the information to your father's troops."
"You were going to blow up a building! Of course they had to act."
"We're trying to get your people to leave!" he says. "How else can we get the message across? At least destroying a supply house involves fewer casualties than an all-out assault on troops! Is that what you want, battles and bloodshed?"
"No—"
"We fight in the shadows. We dart in and take out key points, strategic posts. We minimize the loss of life, ours and theirs. Not like the Vilor—they raid Fray and Unity towns alike, massacring and torturing. Terror is their weapon and power is their goal."
"And the Fray? What is your goal?"
"We believe in strength, independence, and self-rule, not subservience and compromise. We want to handle Emsali problems the Emsali way. But you, your father, your people—you lump us all together, Fray and Vilor. You call us all radicals and extremists, warring against each other, incapable of restraint or cooperation. You don't give us a chance to work it out."
My mouth hangs open as I listen to him. I've never heard him speak this much or this eloquently. When he's passionate about something, he's a fountain of well-chosen words.
Still, there are holes in his logic, and I can't help pointing them out. "The unrest has been brewing in Emsalis for years," I say. "You had time to work it out, and everything got worse. My father and his council let the violence escalate, waited for you to solve your own problems, and everything kept building. And then there were the bombings at Jenai, and that was our signal to step in. Do you realize what Emsalis was doing to the countries around it? Durzava throwing in with the Vilor, because they're crazy—and Thailisha and Quyanec backing the Fray, and several others supporting Unity? Without our intervention, without the Ceannan Peace-Keepers, there could have been global war."
"Maybe that's what should have happened."
"How can you say that? Do you understand what global war would do to our world? Imagine everything that's happened here in Emsalis happening to everyone, everywhere! Is that what you want?"
His eyes burn. "No! And maybe someone had to intervene. But do you know how many laws your father's Peace-Keepers have enacted since they invaded? How strictly they force us to conform to their regulations? Some of the laws go against our customs, our traditions, and they don't care. My people, the Maraj, and other tribes with their religions—we're all smashed together and forced to follow the same set of rules without consideration for our way of life. Is that fair?"
"Of course it's not fair!" I'm practically shouting in his face. "Do you think I'm stupid? I see how desperate you all are for my people to leave! Thanks to you, I understand that better than most! And I for one will not be able to get out of this crap-hole of a country fast enough!"
We stare at each other, breathing hard, my words hanging in the air between us. Then Rak turns and marches back down the hall, bright yellow rays flashing into the dark hallway as he throws open the door. When he slams it behind him, the light vanishes.
I sit on the steps and hold my knees to stop my hands from shaking. How did that conversation go so wrong? I brought him in here to talk to him, to tell him that he doesn't have to stay with me. That he can leave, and go to his family and protect them. That I'll find a way to give him the reward later.
I was going to set him free.
Maybe now I won't have to. After this, he isn't going to speak to me again.
We're too different. We have nothing in common—except our shared admiration of each other's grit and boldness. Except for the times when our smiles answer each other for no reason at all. We push and prod, pressing the right triggers to bring out each other's courage at needful moments. And I thought we were building a kind of trust between us.
But the landslide of our differences has crushed whatever fragile bridge we were beginning to build.
When the front door opens again, I look up, startled. Rak bolts inside, a growling menace behind him. Deathspawn crashes into the door as Rak shoves it closed. For a second they struggle, and I think the jacanal might actually get in and rip us to shreds. I leap up and run forward, adding my weight to the door, my skinny brown arm brushing against Rak's muscled one. Together we heave the door closed.
"That thing is strong!" I gasp. "Why didn't Safi call it off?"
"She isn't out there, and neither is Alik."
My chest tightens around my lungs. "Do you think they're going to turn us in?"
He shakes his head. "No, you're paying more than the Fray sympathizers in this little town ever could. Safi will be loyal until she gets her money, and Alik is using us for protection, and maybe as human shields. They probably went to buy that fuel they were talking about. I think Alik offered to pay for it."
"Why would he do that?"
"My guess? He's working on a backup plan for himself in case anything goes wrong before your father's men arrive."
"And the Cranky Old Bastard is part of that. A getaway vehicle."
He nods. "You can stop pushing on the door now. Last I checked, jacanals don't know how to work handles."
I step back from the door. "How do those kids get in and out of here without being eaten alive?"
"Maybe they have a secret exit. Or a secret word to calm the beast." His tone is gentle, like he's saying something entirely different to me.
My hands disconnect from the door. I'm not sure what to do with them, so I stuff them into the pockets of my shorts and I stare at the rough walls, at the rust-streaked metal door, at my wrecked shoes—anywhere but at Rak.
I've been in my fair share
of family explosions, breakup arguments, squabbles with friends, fights with my older brother. Occasionally I've regretted words that I spewed in the burning rush of emotion. Rarely, I've mentioned the regret to the person I hurt. I can count on both hands the number of times in my life that I've actually apologized to someone after a fight. Usually I prefer to be the one getting the apology. That, or I pretend the argument never happened.
But fighting with Rak is different, like several notes out of place in a familiar tune, like sand in my eyes, like a data stream interrupted. It bothers me. I can't stand being out of sync with him, so I force the words out. "I shouldn't have said those things to you. I should have been more understanding. I'm sorry." I fight the gag reflex that rises with the last word.
He doesn't answer. Finally I look up, and his mouth is crooked in a half-smile. "That was painful to watch."
I punch his chest. "Idiot."
"No really, I've never seen you work that hard at anything. Did it hurt?"
"You're impossible." I stalk to the stairs and climb them. He follows me, his footfalls heavy but swift. As I reach the top step, Rak's fingers close over my hand and he spins me around so fast that I almost lose my balance. He's one step lower, which puts our faces at precisely the same level. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, lips to lips.
I can barely see the outline of his features in the darkness. In the stagnant heat of the airless stairway, his breath flutters over my face. His rough fingers twine with mine; his other hand glides warm at my waist. A thrilling surge in my chest, and my heart throbs, flooding my skin with heat.
"Rak—" I whisper.
"For once in your life, shut up."
"Make me."
He presses his mouth to mine.
His lips are rough from the baking sun, but sweet and supple. His mouth molds to mine for a few brief seconds before he tips his head back, opening space between us.
No. Not long enough.
I cup the back of his neck and pull him forward, until I taste those full lips again. Lightly I run the tip of my tongue over the swell of his scars, and he breaks away, startled. I smile at him, a flash of teeth in the dark, and he gathers me to his chest with both arms, the softness of me against the hard muscles of him. His lips worship me, gentle and sweet, but an undercurrent of restrained ferocity pulses through each kiss and I press harder against him, wordlessly urging him to give me all that passion he's hiding away.
And then I realize what we're doing—what I'm doing. I struggle in his grip, and he lets go immediately.
I back away down the hall as he mounts the last step.
"Zilara, what is it?" he says.
"What are you doing?" I hiss at him. "Why would you do this now, when I'm leaving in a few days? You made it clear you didn't want me to 'get the wrong idea' about us! And then you kiss me? What is wrong with you?"
"Many things." He scrapes his shaggy hair back behind his ears. "I'm sorry."
"You should be." I'm shaking, partly with anger at myself, and partly because I want him to touch me again and never stop.
But I'm not a swooning romance vid heroine. I won't let him inside my heart when I'll be leaving him behind in three days. Love isn't something you fall into, after all; you can feed it and let it grow, or starve it until it withers. For me, the starvation process needs to start right now. That means I can't touch him, or kiss him, and I definitely can't sleep with him—because like it or not, my girl parts are wired to my heart and I've never been able to dissociate the two when one is compromised.
Just thinking about being with him that way is enough to turn my legs quivery and useless. "Open Safi's door," I snap at Rak, and I back up another step, giving him plenty of space to enter the code.
When it unlocks, he waits, holding the door open, and I edge past him, walking to the far side of the little room, to the window that's half cooling unit, half broken slats streaming light between them.
"I was going to tell you something earlier," I say. "I think you should leave. Go see about your family, and protect them. I'll find a way to get the finance card to you."
Rak crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. "How? You don't know where I live."
"I'll figure it out. I'll give you my wave-code, and you can call me when I'm back home." I pry the window slats apart and peer out into the bright day.
"You want me to call you?"
"So I can get your location and send you your reward. That's all."
"That's all?"
I risk a glance at him, and then I wish I hadn't, because he's watching me with tenderness and pain in those dark eyes.
"Rak, don't look at me like that," I say. "You were fighting it. Just keep fighting it, and I'll be gone soon. We'll both be better off that way."
He releases a sigh so heavy I'm surprised it's not corporeal. "I'm so tired of fighting."
Maybe I should hug him. Those bowed shoulders of his, that hopeless look in his eyes—he could really use a hug right now.
But he locked me into bio-cuffs. He held a gun on me. His people drugged me, captured me, tore out my skull-port, smacked my face, threatened my parents, groped me, shot Vern, sealed my mouth with a nano-patch, and probably would have killed me.
Each truth is a new section of the wall I'm erecting around my heart. I started building it when I was a child, added more layers after Gareth, and I've worked on it little by little since then. Somehow I let it weaken, here, in this war-ravaged country of all places. It should have been thicker and stronger than ever. How did Rak manage to get this far through my defenses?
I turn away from him, and I stare out the window again. There's nothing else to do. Back home, not a moment passed without something to fill it—a vid on my holo-screen, a blink message from a friend, a new line in my newsfeed, an assignment, someone coming by my room to complain about boys, or girls.
Here in Ankerja, life is painfully empty and slow, as if the heat drinks human energy and weighs down time.
When I finally sneak a glance at Rak over my shoulder, many long minutes later, he has sunk down on the floor against the wall, his head tilted back again, eyes closed. Asleep, or pretending to be. I suppose it's part of his soldier's training, to rest when he gets the chance.
Sitting cross-legged opposite him, I memorize the sweep of his cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, the dent in his chin where the tip of my little finger would fit perfectly. If I had my skull-port device, I would whip out the holo-cam and take a vid of him, to remember him by. But my memory will have to do. The vid wouldn't be able to capture the smell of him when he came from the shower yesterday, or the faint spice of his breath, or the warm scrape of callused fingers against my skin.
My eyes fall to the red handprint again, and I curse in my head. What was I thinking, doing that to him? At the same time, why should I feel guilty about it, after what he and his people did to me? I tighten my hands into fists, because nothing is clear and straight anymore, it's all blurry and bent and double-sided.
A sharp bang from outside sends Rak and me to our feet in an instant, exchanging panicked glances. The window doesn't face the courtyard, so we creep downstairs, Rak's hand on his gun grip.
I let him open the door first, since he has the gun, and I peer over his arm. Safi is looping a chain around Deathspawn's neck, nearly losing a finger in the process. Behind her, two red fuel canisters sit on the sandy ground, and Alik is trundling a low cart with three more canisters. He sets them down as Rak and I descend the steps.
"We bought all the fuel in town," says Alik, wiping his glistening face and neck with a soggy scarf.
"Weren't you afraid someone would recognize you?" I ask.
He wraps the scarf around his head and face. "I wore this."
"Clever. You look like someone with absolutely nothing to hide."
His blue eyes sparkle at me over the cloth. "Better than nothing. You should disguise yourself too."
"Even if I tried, this is kind of a giveaway." I point to my facial tatto
o.
"Part your hair deeper, on the other side, and you'll be able to cover it," says Alik. "And we should get you a headscarf too, to go with the goggles. What do you think, Rak? A string of beads in her hair, and we'll have her looking like a Maraj maiden."
"Maiden?" I snort.
"A madam, then." He winks at me.
"Shut up and help me load these." Safi picks up a fuel canister, and Rak takes the other, plus one of Alik's. He hoists the double load into the COB's bin with ease, the muscles of his arms and back flexing under his sweat-damp shirt. It's a beautiful sight. Again that thrill, starting in my heart, going all the way down.
"He's hot for you, too, you know." Alik's voice is low at my ear. "You should get into that. Plenty of empty rooms."
"Rooms without cooling units. Rooms full of sand-spiders and scourgelings and who knows what else," I whisper back. "Besides, it's no use. I'm leaving in a few days."
"And you can't enjoy a few days of fun? There's not much else to do around here."
Rak is looking toward us.
"He's wondering what I'm saying to you," whispers Alik. "Don't worry, darling—it's the Sky-born beauty I'm after."
Safi certainly has the face and body of one of the mythical, winged Sky-born—though how she looks this good living in the entrails of this butt-ugly town, I'll never understand. She's on her knees, tightening the screws on one of the COB's metal plates, giving us a full view of her shapely backside.
"Thank you, divine entities of the Otherworld," groans Alik.
"You're an animal," I tell him.
"Aren't we all?"
Suddenly Safi whirls around, eyes wild. She crouches, pressing both palms to the earth.
Rak lifts the last canister into the COB's holding bin. It clanks loudly.
"Hush!" she snaps.
"Safi, what—" I begin.
"Shut up, will you? Everyone shut up!" Her voices rises to a panicked shriek.
We all freeze, hardly daring to breathe. Safi stares at the ground, and then she lies down, pressing her whole body along it, closing her eyes. After a minute she leaps up, terror in her eyes. "They're coming."
Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1) Page 13