Walk Between Worlds

by Samara Breger

  “I’m better now,” Vel offered.

  “Yes.” James arched an eyebrow. “We can see that.”

  Scratch was stuck inside her own head. There was no Brella without Vel; she was his Umbrella. What was it like, she wondered, to be so connected to someone else? It sounded warm. Safe.

  When she had beaten the boy at the Academy, she had beaten him alone.

  “We should sleep,” she announced, skin prickling. She had barely touched her portion of rabbit. “I can take first watch.”

  No one objected. While James and the Shaes slipped inside their bedrolls (which Scratch had so expertly laid out), she found a good, mossy spot under a thick maple and settled herself. Through the leafy branches she could just make out the stars. They looked strange out here, as if they had scrambled just to unmoor her. Where was the God of Dirt, with his giant feet of mulch twinkling overhead? Where had the God of Stillness run off to? And, horrors upon horrors, where in the infinite hells was the Cheesemonger?

  Deep breathing speckled with snores drifted up from the bedrolls. Now she was truly alone.

  Her name was Scratch, and she had earned it. She had every reason to be proud of escaping that first fight and every subsequent challenge with her dignity intact. But there was a reason the story made her skin itch tonight, a snag in the fabric of it. Alone, under the stars the gods had abandoned, she opened herself to the why of it: the boy. Pathetic. Ruined. Stripped of his dignity so that she could take her first hard-won step toward a life of her own. To best him had been the only way forward. Now, sitting alone and lost in an unfamiliar wood, with no title to her name and no home to speak of, it felt like a terrible waste. He was destroyed so that she might thrive, and to look directly at the memory of him meant the weight of her victory nearly choked her.

  She had learned afterward that his name was Heiryn. He’d left the next day, sent home in shame. Soon, the only mention of his name was in the story of how Scratch had earned hers.

  Chapter Seven

  Scratch woke at dawn. The fresh blue light of early sunrise tinted the campsite, washing it in dew-damp refreshment. She greedily sucked in the morning air like cool, cleansing water.

  Brella slept beside her, her brown skin glowing faintly in the morning light. She looked younger while she slept, her face smoothed of the little tics and tensions that shaped it into something sharper. Her freckles stood out like bits of spice on a pound cake. There were so many, some crossing the friendly border between skin and the darker, softer expanse of lip. Scratch couldn’t help but think of stubborn shoots that sprouted between cobblestones, nature so wild it burst even in the inhospitable landscape of the Royal City.

  Umbrella Shae wasn’t a fighter. She was a brewer, and she was sleeping on the forest floor on day two of the rescue mission for a kidnapped princess. A dangerous mission, one touched by conspiracy and unknown threat. Still, if Brella was to be believed, she was determined to bring Frances back, and to do it herself.

  Why? Yes, Brella’s sister was the princess’s lover, but there had to be more to it. Brella was strong-jawed and fierce. Charitably, Scratch could conclude that Brella was doing the work because no one else would. Still, even if Scratch had been prone to such generous conclusions, it was a stretch. There had to be a simpler answer. Unfortunately—and infuriatingly—it seemed to be just out of reach, a butterfly mockingly darting inches beyond her grip.

  The bright crack of a twig splitting by the tree line cut through her butterfly-crushing thoughts. She scrambled to her feet, then crashed to the ground with an unceremonious thud and a very undignified shriek. She was still in her bedroll.

  “I feel so much better knowing I’m traveling with a real-life King’s Guard solider.” James grinned at her from his seat between the exposed roots of a thick, old oak. “You’re a true inspiration.”

  “Shut it.” She rubbed her bonked rear as she made her way over. “Are you reading?”

  “Yup.” He closed the book he had been paging through and laid it in his lap. “Don’t be cross. No one is coming for us in this glen. I half expect a kindly bird to fly down with a little cake for me.”

  “What is it?”

  He shamelessly handed over the clothbound, pale blue book.

  “Really, James? The Centaur and His Boy again? You know, the same thing happens every time you read it.”

  “Yes, well, I like what happens. And maybe something different will happen this time around.” There was a wink to his voice. “There are fae about.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  He leaned against the tree, closing his eyes and breathing deep. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the blade of grass.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not jolly enough for your liking.”

  He smirked. “I shan’t.”

  “They’re lying, James.” She rested her head on his shoulder. It was, as usual, far too bumpy. She often requested he eat more so that he could better reach his highest calling, becoming her pillow. “I don’t think they’re lying about the blood gate and all that, but there are missing pieces.”

  “Oh, Scratch.” His chuckle sounded irritatingly put-upon. “I expected this, you know.”

  “What?” She lifted her head to glare at him. He stared off, green eyes soft in the shade. “You think I’m wrong?”

  “Of course you’re not wrong.” He lifted a shoulder. “I just don’t see why it matters.”

  “James. If we don’t prepare—”

  “Then it’ll be our fault when we lose. I know, I know.” A big yawn cracked his jaw, and he stretched up against the tree bark. “But we’ve already lost. We aren’t King’s Guard anymore. Inevitably, there is a price on our heads. I don’t see a way of preparing for anything because there’s no way of knowing what’s ahead.”

  A jolt of annoyance stiffened her shoulders. “James. It isn’t over. We could bring Frances back and bring her story to the people and—”

  “And what? Depose the king?” He shook his head, smiling softly. She wanted to hit him. “Aren’t you tired?”

  She bit back the reflexive no. “Of?”

  “Of fighting, Scratch. It’s all we’ve ever done. Don’t you want, I don’t know, something else?”

  Tension bloomed across her brow. “Not you, too.”

  “Look around.” He swept an arm out. The forest glowed, blankets of moss crawling up trees and over stumps, green and vivid and inviting. Birds chittered on branches, tweeting their morning missives, visiting and departing. The air smelled of split-apple freshness, wet and sharp and brand new.

  “The way I see it,” James murmured like a visitor in a quiet temple, “there are no paths for which we can prepare. That doesn’t mean there’s nowhere to go from here, darling. It means there are so many possibilities, we can’t possibly plan for all of them. Like it or not, we’ll be surprised.”

  Her heart felt heavy, low slung and drooping behind her ribs. “I’m very angry at you.”

  “You need a distraction.” He arched an eyebrow. “Brella would suit.”

  “If I had a pillow, you’d be fighting your way out from underneath it right now.”

  “She’s lovely.” He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Yes, a bit prickly, and doesn’t seem too fond of soldiers, but it looks like she’s grown to tolerate you.”

  “Oh, yes. All girls dream of tolerance.”

  “Naturally.” He elbowed her lightly. “It could be fun.”

  “I don’t date.”

  “Wrong. You haven’t dated. And I’m not talking about dating.”

  “You’re talking about getting inconvenient splinters.” She fixed her gaze, trying hard not to look at the woman sleeping at the other edge of the glen. “It’s not something I do, Jamie. Even if I wanted to, it’s too much of a—”

  “Distraction, I know.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “I swallowed that excuse for years, Scratch.” He pitched his voice higher. “I can’t step out with a woman because I can’t be distracted, darling
. I’ll find someone to kiss after I get my knighthood.”

  “I don’t sound like that.”

  “You do rather.” He squeezed her. She took it, unsmiling and squished. “But there’s nothing to get distracted from anymore. And besides, you’re a romantic, at heart.”

  “You’re a puddle, at brain.”

  “Well, if I can’t convince you to make a move on Brella, could you do a bit of something else?” He tapped the book. She had forgotten she was holding it. The cloth cover was stiff and jarring between her fingers.

  “No, James.”

  “If you—”

  “No, James.”

  “But you could—”

  “No, James.”

  “Fine.” He snatched the book from her, dropping it in his lap and folding his arms across his chest. He pouted.

  She waited a moment before admitting defeat.

  “What part are you up to?”

  He grinned, handing her back the book and opening it to a page about a quarter of the way through.

  “The man just escaped the ogres.” He eagerly tapped a section of black print. “Start there.” He cuddled into her side, tipping his head up to give her a meaningful look. “Go on then.”

  She sighed and did as she was told.

  The centaur studied the traveler who had entered his magical glen. He was frail, probably having run for days from whatever creature, man or magical beast, had been in pursuit of him. His clothes were torn. Through the large rip on the front of his shirt, the centaur saw a set of well-formed abdominal muscles, dusted with a light smattering of fair hair.

  “What ho, human,” he called. “Why do you traipse through my magical lands? No human is given welcome here!”

  “I have nowhere to turn.” The human was on his knees, hands clasped in a sign of prayer. “Please allow me safe rest and I will be forever indebted to you.”

  The centaur scratched his chin and ran his fingers through his short magical beard. On his knees, the traveler was at his mercy. He could bring the man back to the Council of Centaurs, which was magic, and receive a magical reward. And yet, something about the man drew him in. Perhaps it was the openness of his wet mouth, or the flush of his pale cheek. Or maybe, and most likely, it was the erection tenting the front of his tattered trousers.

  “I have never seen a centaur before,” said the man, bringing the heel of his hand to his member and pressing down. “You are unlike any other creature I have laid my eyes upon. Is it . . .” the man bit his lip, “true what they say about centaurs?”

  “That we have the girth of the horse? That our manhood is solid like a rod of brass? That we can give a man pleasure so great it will ruin him for human men? Ha! All true. Also, we are magic.”

  The man was panting now, wantonly rubbing his hand along his turgid length. “And that you have a stamina so great you can spend hours, even days, making love?”

  “Why don’t you come here and find out, weary traveler?” purred the centaur, beckoning the man like a fish to a magic lure.

  She reseated herself and winced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Fell. In my bedroll. Perhaps you remember. It was your fault.”

  “Was it?” He smirked. “Because I broke the twig?”

  She snapped the book shut. “You did that on purpose.”

  He tilted his head with a completely unconvincing moue of innocence. “I could see you were awake. I wanted to get your attention.”

  “Yes, well. My ass thanks you.”

  She glared at him. He smiled back serenely.

  “Shall I tend to it for you, darling?”

  “I think Vel would take objection. Speaking of, what’s going on between you two?”

  James blushed, turning to hide his face. “Nothing is going on.”

  “Nothing? You always tell me about this sort of thing. Are you sick? You look flushed.” She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.

  He swatted her away. “No. I’m just choosing to exercise a little restraint. Haven’t you told me to keep things to myself from time to time?”

  “Yeah, but that was when you were telling me about that time you went home with the vegetable seller and he took out that big carrot and—hey!”

  In one practiced move, he had her pinned, his weight pressed against her forearms. She struggled against him, her back rubbing uncomfortably against the roots of the tree.

  “Get off me, you ass.”

  “Make me, speck.”

  And they were off, twisting and turning, pressing and rolling, wrestling like they hadn’t done since their teens. They were punching and kicking and pushing and then, all of a sudden, laughing, breathy and gulping, run through with giddy freedom and exertion. Their moves grew increasingly ridiculous, and as they scrapped Scratch felt warm, liquid calm seal a few of her tension cracks. So she went harder. She threw a handful of leaves into his face. He sat on her head. She got a finger up his nose. He threw her into the woods.

  “Ouch!”

  “Oh, sorry. Did you fall on a rock?” he panted, wiping sweat from his eyebrows, which now resembled snarled skeins of wool. He was certainly missing the bespoke golden eyebrow comb she had bought for him. She treasured the memory of the jeweler laughing aloud when she explained what sort of comb she had wanted made, and what its absurd purpose would be.

  “No,” she told him. “Just fell on my ass. The same spot from earlier.”

  “Earlier? Oh, you mean when you fell in your bedroll like a complete fool?”

  She led with her shoulder as she ran, colliding into his midsection and lifting him up so that he was slung over her back, head and feet dangling on either side of her body. She rocked back and forth so he swung like a gangly human pendulum, the tips of his fingers grazing the earth on each pass.

  “Put me down! Put me—oh.”

  He was staring through her legs, so she had to turn to see what had caught his attention. Both Shaes were awake. They sat up, mouths open, staring.

  Without thinking she dropped her burden. He tumbled into the grass in a bundle of limbs and fabric with a muffled oof.

  “Well.” Brella yawned deliberately, exposing a pink tongue and white molars. “When Vel suggested we bring you along, I wasn’t convinced. But seeing the fighting prowess of two of our nation’s best up close, well . . .” She smirked. “I’ve never felt safer.”

  Chapter Eight

  The canopy was denser today, filtering dappled sunshine that illuminated the party like scattered gold flake. James and Vel gravitated toward the front while Scratch and Brella lagged behind. James looked entirely at ease, which was hardly fair. He barely seemed bothered by Scratch’s fully formed, totally unassailable assertions of treachery. It was as though he didn’t care, which was patently absurd. He had to care. He must have been just as tangled as Scratch was over it all.

  “It’s the tragedy of the centaur, you see,” he explained to Vel, waving around that damned book. “Even though he has an irrepressible sexual appetite, he can’t touch himself because his hands are all the way up front.”

  “Halt!” shrieked a little voice.

  At the command, all four travelers stopped in the middle of the road to watch a small figure drop from a tree directly ahead. They wore a wide smile on their youth-pudgy, dirt-smeared face. Bits of tree bark clung to their hodgepodge clothes, the thin fabric littered with mismatched patches. Their mouth was stained pink, likely from stuffing their face with wild berries.

  Wow. Were all bandits this adorable?

  “I’m terribly sorry, my friends,” the sweet confection of a woods rogue apologized in a chirrupy voice, “but I will be requirin’ your purses. Quick as you like now.”

  Scratch opened her mouth to talk—well, to laugh and then talk—but Brella got there first.

  “Lollie, is this one of yours?” She craned her head around, squinting up into the nearby branches. “She’s cute, I’ll give you that.”

  “Shit.” Another bandit, this one lar
ger than the first, fell from above, landing deftly on the forest floor. “Call it off, gang. These folks don’t have two coppers to rub together.”

  “Lovely to see you too, Lollessandra,” Brella said in dry greeting.

  The cute bandit let out a sharp, bright pulse of laughter. “Is your name really Lollessandra?”

  “Shove off,” mumbled the larger one. “This one’s called Umbrella.”

  “Naw, really, Lollie? That ain’t a name. That’s a household item.”

  “Excuse me.” James raised a hand. “Can someone please clue me in on what’s causing this little diversion?”

  The larger bandit—Lollie, the little one had called her—strolled around, planting herself in front of James. She was tall and slender, fair skinned with dark hair cropped to her chin and a small, peaked hat perched jauntily on her head. Someone had patched the elbows of her hide jacket with a green checked fabric that matched the pale hue of her canny eyes. Scratch felt those eyes take her in, sly and assessing, as the woman ran her tongue over her teeth and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her trousers.

  “This your new one, Brella?”

  Brella scowled. “None of your business, Lollie.”

  Lollie opened her eyes wide and took a step back. “I know who she is. There’s a bounty on her head.”

  Scratch’s stomach sank. She knew that there would be some commotion back in the Royal City over her and James’s disappearance. She had hoped—foolish, foolish—that it might not find her out here.

  Her hand hovered over her knife. She could take Lollie easily (she didn’t even want to think about fighting the adorable baby bandit), but there had to be more adversaries around. She could sense eyes on her, burning hot on the top of her pale head. What if they were kids, too? Yes, soldiers weren’t poets, but they weren’t child killers, either.