by Thia Mackin
When the door to my cell opened again, I was relieved—but unsurprised—to find a family being moved in. A young girl—blonde hair darkening to brunette, probably ten or so—and a woman—brown hair with dark eyes—each clung to one arm of a black-haired man as though terrified of being separated. Though I had never been relocated to a different cell myself, I had the distinct impression from others’ coming and goings that it was a natural event. I wondered idly whether our jailors had any idea who anyone actually was or what their Gifts might be.
The man was going to be trouble. I could taste it. Not the type who wanted to fight, though. The kind whose love for his family was immediately evident. He wouldn’t live long, because he was bound to do something utterly idiotic trying to save one or both of them. And while I dealt with the other deaths, this one would be the most traumatic of the cellmate disasters.
My plan for minimal interaction with the family failed from the start. That evening, the woman curled up with her arms around the girl. As the man sat watch, she sobbed and held onto her daughter as though she had already lost her. The next morning, the little girl introduced herself as Leara. She asked me where the rest of my family was. Torn, I debated if it was kinder to tell her my parents were dead or that my lover was safe. Finally, I decided to keep it simple. “Gone.”
At breakfast, I let the three of them split the two bowls of slop. However, Leara brought me her bowl, still half-full. “It doesn’t taste very good, but Mama says we have to keep up our strength. Eat up,” she encouraged in her preadolescent voice. Her red-brown eyes held such maturity, like an old soul resided in her young body. I forced myself to swallow the mouthfuls of gruel.
Her mother called her over for lessons, and I half-slept through multiplying fractions and recitations of the periodic table. When they began advanced Latin, though, my ears perked up. Silently, I answered the questions with her. Then they moved to Raspea until the little door opened to deliver lunch.
Leara distributed the food among all of us, counting out pieces very precisely. Then she made sure to use all of our names, as though introducing us to each other. Afterwards, her mother—Liza—initiated a memory game where each person named an item they would take on a picnic but had to list all the items that came before in alphabetical order. The second round of the game, Leara invited me to participate.
Sometimes, the guards brought in other prisoners. However, they typically moved them back out within hours. Weeks passed, and the little girl’s chatter remained hopeful. She smiled happily every day and often comforted her mom in the quiet of night as Liza sobbed. Her father, Jeremy, demonstrated an unshakeable practicality and overprotectiveness. As I’d worried, he bristled at any newcomer who entered. Eventually, I started giving up my pallet and playing mediator to keep him from inadvertently stepping on anyone’s last nerve.
For a couple months, a surreal normality lulled me between meals and lessons and Leara’s unshakeable optimism. Then, for the first time since before my capture, my Gift twanged in my sleep. In the vision, Jeremy attacked a guard, trying to prevent him from taking Liza from the room. The guard emptied his clip into him. A second one shot Liza as she fought to get to her husband. Leara ran to the door, and one of the guards grabbed her arm and pulled her out. Once they removed the bodies, I stood alone in the corner. Then sweet, tiny Leara reentered the room, her hands zip-tied behind her back. The glassy expression behind her eyes didn’t recognize me.
I sat bolt upright, the only one awake in the wee hours of morning. Time dragged along as I tried to phrase in my head how to convince Jeremy to let them take his wife for the sake of his daughter. The child deserved to be protected, at any cost.
Jeremy awoke earlier than Liza and Leara. Once he appeared mostly aware of his surroundings, I motioned him toward the farthest corner. “What I’m going to tell you is going to be very difficult for you to imagine. However, for the sake of your daughter, you have to make the impossible choice.” Already, his body language reflected his reticence. “I am Gifted with Prophecy. Last night, I Saw the guards come to move your wife to another cell. When you fought them, your actions ended in both your deaths. Then they took Leara and did terrible things.” I lowered my voice, glancing at where the two slept still. “I know how unbearable this seems. But you have to make the right choice. Let Liza go or lose them both.”
His jaw hadn’t unclenched from the moment I’d started speaking. Without acknowledging anything I said, he moved to the pallet behind his wife and wrapped his arms around the two. Exhaling softly, I moved back to my pallet to wait. A weight settled on my chest, but this was all on him now.
Breakfast arrived at the normal time; however, neither Jeremy nor I ate. The morning math lesson raised anxiety in me, because I had no way to affect the outcome. I’d already done what I could. Goddess, I prayed, watch over her.
A jolt of energy up my spine sent me to my feet, and Jeremy followed suit. He glanced anxiously at his wife, who patiently conjugated Latin verbs with their little girl. A clang sounded at the door, and it opened. Mr. Stoic entered first, his gun trained on me. Arms at my side, I showed him my palms. However, my gaze kept sliding to Leara.
Two other guards had entered behind him. For an instant, I wondered if I could get past Mr. Stoic to the men standing so sedately in the doorway before he killed me. They looked like nothing scared them, and I ached to give them at least one thing, one person, of which to be very afraid. Instead, I waited for Jeremy to make his choice. Ignoring the presence of the armed guards, I watched the loose cannon.
“You,” the bulkiest of the three guards snapped, pointing to Liza. “Come with us. You’re being moved.”
No other single prisoner relocation had involved so many guns. They knew before entering the room that their order would cause trouble. Unsurprisingly, the third one kept his weapon on Jeremy. His eyes watched everyone. While he trusted Mr. Stoic to keep me contained, he was the manpower who’d keep the deaths limited to paranormals. Nothing distracted him from the male prisoner in the room, not even Liza and Leara standing slowly. Liza looked toward her husband for instruction. Mr. Watchful casually flipped off the safety on his weapon at her first headshake.
“I’m sorry, Liza,” Jeremy murmured. “Go with them.” He gestured slightly toward Leara, who appeared lost. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Hesitantly, the confused child walked to him. He urged her to his right side, closer to me and farther from the two guards. I exhaled softly, relieved though sad. Liza, however, did not budge. Her feet had rooted in place, and she kept whispering “no.”
“Lady, walk toward me now, or I’ll be forced to shoot that pretty little girl.”
I blinked. That hadn’t been in my vision. Was this another situation where the outcome had been predetermined? I scanned the room, trying to determine any possible option to save the single innocent in the room.
“Count of three, lady. One. Two.”
Jeremy lunged for the counting guard just as Liza began to walk toward him. The man who’d been avidly watching everyone in the room fired twice at the main threat. Jeremy fell backwards. Reacting to the gunfire without assessing the situation, the second guard also pulled the trigger. I sensed more than saw Leara move toward her parents.
Sending up prayers to the Goddess, I snatched the girl’s hand in mine and pulled her into me. Turning her closer to the wall, I shielded her body with mine and waited. Blood pounded so loud in my head that only the beating of my heart could be heard. Boom. Boom. Boom. A hand on my shoulder caused me to start, hard. Then it pushed us backwards toward the corner until Leara was protected on all sides.
I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Mr. Stoic walking backwards, gun still aimed in our direction. He paused mid-room, unmoving as his comrades carried out the two bodies, hosed down the floor, and replaced the pallet with a cleaner one. Once they finished, Mr. Stoic waited until they cleared the door. Then he nodded to me, the slightest tilt of his head, and walked out. Chest tight, I r
eturned the gesture, knowing we lived because he didn’t have the same trigger-happy reaction as his peers.
The pressure in the room increased as the door slammed shut, but I still didn’t move. Gradually, my pulse slowed until sound filtered through. In my arms, Leara sobbed, broken noises coming from her shaking body. Godsdamnit, Jeremy. Couldn’t you have stayed strong for just another minute? For her?
Small arms wrapped around my waist, and I rested my hand on her head.
Goddess above, what was I going to do with a kid who’d just watched her parents die?
Chapter 29
The next morning, we both awoke with red-rimmed eyes and no clue what the day would hold. I pulled my knees to my chest, arms crossed on top and chin resting on my wrists. Across the room, Leara mimicked my stance. Her sienna eyes peered at me through a curtain of brown-gold hair, brimming with unshed tears and heartfelt pain.
“It’s time for math,” she whispered after breakfast arrived, though neither of us moved to collect the bowls.
I snorted. The last thing I needed was to teach a kid something I hated. “How old are you, Leara?”
“Twelve… I’m older than I look,” she added defiantly.
Poor kid. Even I’d been older when I lost my parents. And I’d had Uncle Dukon. She… Gods, she only had me here. Maybe, though, his methods would work with her.
“Twelve is old enough, I think. We are going to skip fractions today and practice self-defense.”
Her eyes widened. “Mom said I’m not allowed to learn how to fight. My brother is a fighter, and she worries about him constantly. She doesn’t ever want to worry about me.”
I stood, dusting off my hands. Leara definitely needed a distraction. “For now, you are going to learn how not to fight. You can decide later whether you want to learn more. Afterwards, we’ll practice your Latin and Raspea. If you want, we can throw in a little Welsh too. I’m not fluent in it myself, but some of my family came from Wales. I started learning it to surprise them.”
Her eyebrows knitted as she thought hard. Her loss of her mother was still too fresh for her to defy her rules, so she needed to decide for herself whether my distinction made enough of a difference. A quiet minute passed before she nodded. Decision made, she balled her fist and squared up to me.
I smiled softly, terribly proud of her fight. “Nah, warrior-girl. We have long way to go before we get there.”
She perked at the nickname, probably the same way I had when Rankar called me “soldier-girl.” I wanted this young woman to feel that respect and dignity from someone acknowledging her force of will. Kneeling in front of her so we were on the same level, I looked into her eyes. “Self-defense is about disengaging from your opponent. You get free, and you flee.”
She frowned at me. “What about in here? There’s nowhere to run.”
I caught myself frowning back. “Outside of this place, the rules are different. In here, we can’t Gate. But you have a chance out there, when we get out.”
Hope entered her eyes, and it filled my chest with pride. She’d survive. When this was over and we escaped, she’d still love and trust and live. If I could keep her alive long enough, she’d be our future.
When she slept that night, I carved her parents’ names in the wall.
“Again,” I ordered, wrapping my arms around her torso in a bear-hug. She fought like a wolverine the first few times we ran the exercise, all teeth and terror. However, when biting me had only filled her mouth with blood and hadn’t freed her, she had panted, exhausted, in the hold. Calm finally, she had asked what to do. And after three days of almost nonstop practice, she immediately dropped her weight to put me off-balance and horse-kicked toward my knee as she lifted her arms upward.
I grinned at her success, and she smiled back. “Are you ready for Latin lessons, warrior-girl, or do you want to try a different hold?”
“Hold,” she answered, no hesitation.
I gripped her wrist in my much larger hand. Her eyes assessed me, noting things like distance between her and me. Her legs weren’t long enough in this instance to deal a forceful blow to my knee. Similarly, she couldn’t reach any of my soft spots with her arms.
“What do I do?” she finally asked.
Nodding my approval at her logical assessment, I walked her through the steps to use my thumb to leverage my hand off. She gripped my wrist, and I demonstrated multiple times until she called to switch. Then she practiced in slow motion, exploring the best angle and most effective pressure points. When she seemed to have a fair grasp, I called it. “Now for languages.”
We always led the night with Latin, but Raspea and Welsh were alternated each evening. She had a quick mind, and her mother had taught her well. She compartmentalized the languages as well as I did, never confusing one with the other. With time and patience, she could easily learn a dozen languages without confusion. However, her interest definitely lay more with combative training than linguistics.
Gods, she reminded me of me. Pity the person who raises her when we escape.
That night, she asked me to tell her a story about life before the camps. My mouth dropped open, but every story included violence and death. We faced enough of that in this ten-by-ten room. What did I have to give her? When we escaped this place, would she find her brother still alive? How badly would someone like me raising such a hopeful, smart child mess up?
Her hand patted my knee from where she sat beside me. “How about, I’ll tell a story?” Relieved, I leaned back against the stone wall and gestured for her to continue. “My parents began traveling in caravans long before my birth. My grandma never approved of the nomadic lifestyle, until Mom and Dad realized my older brother—then three years old—was not cut out for it. They offered to let Grandma keep him for summers when things were busiest or decided they would return to the Sithen until he was old enough. Grandma loved the idea of raising her grandchild and hated the thought of him being in the Sithen where she did not often visit. However, when I came along years later, they tested the waters again. Mom says I adjusted to life in a wagon better than even she and Dad. So they took me along.”
She rested her arms across the top of her knees, mimicking my pose. “I enjoyed all the new places, even though we went to the same markets almost every summer. The colors seemed so much more vibrant each year. Maybe my memory just couldn’t hold on to such brightness all year long without dimming it.”
I grinned. “The Qalildre market blinds me every time I go. It’s like someone tried to put every color in the entire world in every single booth.”
Her teeth shone white in the semidarkness of the room. “I don’t even think English has names for all the shades of blue they created.”
The silence as we mulled what we might never see again only lasted a few seconds. She cleared her throat, straightening her back. “Mom enchanted jewelry she handmade, usually minor spells more for convenience than true magic working. However, not all demon breeds can do actual spells or warding. It made her Gift profitable. Plus, Dad had a talent for finding semiprecious gemstones that held energy well. So they developed a reputation for long-lasting, genuine work. We began to spend more and more time on the circuit, which suited me better than fine. I always had demons around to practice my Raspea.
“We joined a larger caravan, hitting a few new cities. Really, we’d only ever dealt with minor skirmishes. But we had started with a lot more guards, which seemed like a red flag. Mom and Dad tried to limit me to the wagon during the day. We did a lot of lessons during the travel times. At night, once camp was established, I had free time to play after my chores. They kept a close eye on me, not letting me leave their line of sight, especially after I returned from visiting Grandma to find out they’d fought off an attack.”
I understood her parents’ logic. A caravan would never fund an unnecessary contingent of guards unless they expected trouble on the route or transported particularly valuable merchandise. Something flashier and more expensive than fine jewelr
y with everyday magic. If they’d had one large attack, a second one was likely.
“The desert particularly sucked for spending long hours inside a wagon with no airflow. When Dad shouted for Mom to focus on our shields, excitement filled me. Surely, I’d be able to go outside and get some fresh air once the issue was fixed! However, the sounds of fighting came closer and closer. People shouted in anger, in pain. I knew by the fear on Mom’s face that this was worse than anything she’d expected.
“She would never leave without Dad, and he hadn’t come inside. I sat in the corner with my hands over my ears, but I still heard my dad shouting. Mom opened the door to check on him, and someone pulled her out. Another man came in, probably to search for valuables. However, when he saw me, he grabbed me and took me out to another man who seemed to be in charge. They’d already tied up Mom and Dad, and the man put me with her to stop Mom’s crying.
“Everywhere around us, the bad guys were winning. More people were put with us, prisoners. They kept searching the wagons. Dad said they were looking for something specific, because they ignored thousands of dollars’ worth of gems and jewels in our wagon. They just kept moving from one to the next to the next.”
She paused, swallowing. “A Gate opened. Two women rode through on horses like Amazons of legend. One had Tuatha de red hair that streamed behind her like blood flowing from her curved sword. Fearless, she slid free of her horse and waded into the group of people holding us captive. Every time she struck, her blade hit home.”