Walk Between Worlds

by Samara Breger

  “Brella—”

  “Scratch, I am almost done. I swear it.” She swallowed thickly. “You’re so good. So brave. I’ve been a coward.”

  “You haven’t!”

  “I have. Not in taking you from the palace. Not in doing everything I’ve done to save the country that I love. But in keeping the truth from you. I told myself it would all work out, because what I was doing was right. If I was acting justly, if my goal was true, it would all be fine, right?” Her laugh was coarse. “I always wanted a love like Aunt and Uncle have. I always thought their story was so beautiful. I never considered how awful it would be to lose someone, how horrible. Because the minute you ran off, Scratch—” She choked, tears spilling from her eyes. “The very minute, I felt like all of the flowers had died. I thought . . . I thought—”

  Scratch ran, and it wasn’t even a choice.

  She kissed any skin she could reach. Hair, head, eyelids, nose, mouth, mouth, their lips parting, welcoming each other. Scratch found Brella’s hair and dug her fingers into the strands, wanting more, needing more, because she had been granted this by whatever gods were paying attention. Because Brella, like an aching flower fae, had called her home.

  She tore Brella’s shirt over her head while Brella reached for her trousers, yanking them down so Scratch could step free. They threw garments here and there until, blissfully, they were naked together, warm skin on skin, tumbling into the grass and rolling, mouths on mouths, hands on thighs and waists and breasts and cheeks and lips, spit mingling with tears.

  “Scratch, Scratch,” Brella babbled as Scratch found her nipple and held it between her fingers, “I have so much to tell you.”

  “Shh.” Scratch kissed her. “Not now. Just this.”

  “Anything, anything,” Brella murmured. “What do you like?”

  Scratch stiffened, suddenly aware of the cool breeze on her exposed flesh. “I’ve never done this before.”

  Brella pulled her head back, eyes wide and stunned. “What?”

  Honesty. It had been an untruth that had almost separated them. She wouldn’t lie, not with something as precious as this. “I was too afraid. My whole life, up until now, has been about being a good soldier. I could be distracted. It just . . . never happened for me.”

  “Did you not want it to happen?”

  “I did.” She laughed into Brella’s shoulder, hiding the inevitable red flush she felt drip from her scalp to her collarbones. “But what if I’d been distracted? What if one of my superiors was old-fashioned and found out and they had a problem with it?” And what if she loved, and that love made her see . . .

  “I get it.” Brella left a line of smoothing kisses along Scratch’s brow, which she realized then had been furrowed. “Do you not want to do this now, then? Take it slow?”

  Fear gripped her. “I do not want to take it slow.”

  Brella laughed, and it was such a relief to hear. Better than the horns that had heralded the King’s Guard’s return after they had taken the Wilds, the trumpet blares that meant she was home. “Then how about I take the lead, and if you don’t like anything, you can say?”

  Scratch nodded mutely and let herself fall. Brella was everywhere. Her body, skin freckled and warm, her hands smooth and strong. Her eyes were inescapable, hot as a brand, burning her impression into every inch of Scratch’s skin.

  It felt good, better than good, but that wasn’t the miracle of it. The miracle was that it was Brella: clever and keen, angry and just and protective. The woman who used her mouth and hands to destabilize a nation, now using those same bits of flesh and magic to soothe Scratch, to care for her, to lick and suck and touch. Her voice, low and resonant, calling for justice and action, now moaning and humming and speaking low, caring words of encouragement, “Just like that, Scratch. Yes. I have you.” Brella, a liar and a sneak, doing something so very true.

  Scratch was lost in it. She had done so much to make her name mean something and here, in this moment, none of that mattered. This was her body, small and pale and blue-veined; white skin that flushed and bruised; icy blond hair. Brella stroked and bit, bringing up redness that clearly pleased her. Brella was pleased by her. Brella, the marvel of her, dappled and nearly inhuman in her strength and confidence, brought to dazed incomprehension by Scratch, whatever Scratch was. Whatever this remade her into.

  Brella spoke, and Scratch said Yes. “Can I kiss you there?” Yes. “Can I put my mouth on you?” Yes, yes, yes. And she was rewarded with Brella between her legs, Brella’s lips and tongue on the center of her, working her while she moaned and writhed and cried out, until she came on Brella’s lips—yes, yes, oh gods, yes—in a bright shower of pleasure like sparks off metal.

  She drank in Brella’s body, strong and tall, softness spread over gentle hills of muscle. She swallowed. “Will you show me?”

  Brella obliged, leading Scratch’s hand between her legs, then placing her own hand above it.

  “Do you feel that, Scratch?” Her eyes were so bright, so honey gold. “Do you?”

  Scratch followed that body, those eyes, those sounds, repeating the things that made Brella’s inhalations speed and hitch. She touched everything within reach, soft and hard touches, pinches and strokes, because she could, because she wanted to, because this was an honor, a privilege, being here with Brella, being able to touch the woman who had awakened her like sunrise. The woman who had made her laugh and think and come, and brought her to a place out of reality with impossible creatures and soft grasses. She touched, and she listened as Brella said “yes, Scratch,” and “just like that,” and “oh-oh, yes,” and “please, please don’t stop,” and came to her climax shaking and moaning Scratch’s name as if she were a god made of starlight. Like they both were brand-new gods in a scrambled night sky, renamed over and over and over.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I want to go over it again.”

  Brella groaned, dragging her feet in the dirt. “No, Scratch. We have it down.”

  “Not nearly. I don’t want James to run. We have to be gentle.”

  Brella leaned against a tree. She had said they would reach the blood gate by twilight and Scratch was doing everything she could to delay them. It wasn’t that she wasn’t eager to see James; she was, of course. But so much had changed in the two days since they last were together. She didn’t want to spook him.

  “I know, sweetheart,” Brella cooed. Scratch preened. Brella dropped the pet name every few moments now, like pebbles marking a trail. “But he’s your best friend. He’ll listen.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” she whined, reaching for Brella and resting her head on the other woman’s chest. It was so novel, to be able to touch her like this. It felt illicit.

  “Then we’ll hold him down and shove him through, whether he likes it or not.”

  “Simple. Elegant.”

  “Yes, well.” Brella patted her on the back. “Of the two of us, I’m the real strategist.”

  “I suppose, after everything, I can’t disagree.“ The word hung unspoken in her mouth, tasting of rot: octagon.

  “It was an accomplishment, Scratch. Though, as for what it accomplished . . .”

  “You should have left me in the dungeons.”

  Brella’s hands were so firm on Scratch’s back. “It’s not about penance. It’s about doing better. Making things better for the people you’ve harmed.”

  “By fighting my own people.” She mashed her face into Brella’s shirt, feeling the warmth underneath. “Deposing my own king.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  She leaned away, peering into Brella’s amber eyes. “For?”

  “You’re in an impossible situation. I don’t envy you.”

  “Don’t pity me. I’m a soldier, remember?” She tried for a laugh as she stepped out of Brella’s grasp. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go over it again.”

  Brella rolled her eyes, but she complied. “We say, ‘Hello, James. Things have changed. Please ha
ve a seat.’”

  “Good.” She circled the area like a royal dance master, mapping out the steps. “And he sits. And I say ‘So, remember how I thought that Frances left of her own accord? I was right.’”

  “And you do so love being right.”

  She felt herself pinking. “Hush. And at this point, I expect him to be stunned silent. So I’ll say ‘Yes. She left with her real lover, another sister of Brella and Vel’s. Her name is Maisie.’”

  “Is that really what you want to lead with?”

  Scratch put her hands on her hips. “Would it be better if I opened with, ‘Guess what, we’re pawns in a sneaky game of royal chess, and we need to switch our national allegiance if we want to live?’”

  Brella shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t play chess.”

  “I find that extremely unlikely. Oh, hells.” She groaned, lying down on the ground. “Ugh. It’s rocky here.”

  “That means we’re getting close.” Brella offered a hand. “Up you get.”

  They didn’t speak as they shuffled along toward the gate. Scratch was too nervous to talk. She couldn’t guarantee words would come out; it was far likelier to be vomit. James had been as much a friend as an appendage for the past fifteen years. If he decided not to go on once he knew the truth, she wasn’t sure she could, either.

  She heard a rustling ahead.

  “Behind me, Brella,” she hissed, reaching for her knife. She crouched, readied.

  “Scratch?” James burst from the foliage, his hair puffed huge and his eyes watery. “Scratch!”

  She didn’t have time to sheathe her knife before he came hurtling at her. She tossed it to the side instead and felt herself leap into his arms. Back in the Royal City, she never let him lift her up. Today, it didn’t matter. She squished him and he squished her, and when he finally set her down, his eyes were full of tears.

  “Scratch,” he wailed, “I missed you so—did you get a haircut?”

  “It’s a long story.” She self-consciously ran a hand over the exposed nape of her neck. “I have so much to tell you.”

  “Me first.” He bit his lip. “You had better sit.”

  “I have, uh, things to tell you too.” Her hands were clammy. “You should also sit.”

  “You first.” He pointed to the ground. “Sit.”

  “No, really, James. Darling. Sit.”

  “Scratch. Come on. Get on the ground.”

  “James, please. Sit.”

  “Scratch.”

  “James.”

  “Scratch!”

  “James!”

  “It was a trap,” he blurted, hands flapping like the desperate struggle of a plummeting chicken dropped from a height of several feet. “Please don’t run, Scratch. I know you’re probably angry. But you have to listen. The things we did in Kyria and the Western Wilds . . . they weren’t so great. I mean, what you did was great. It was amazing. The octagon? My gods, what a mind you have. But us annexing those places? Not the wisest maneuver, I’m afraid. Did you know, darling, that Kyrians can’t join guilds? And that if a mother is Kyrian and a father is Ivinscontian, the child will be considered Kyrian and still not be able to join guilds? Or work in the palace, unless they’re in the Guard? Or work for any titled noble outside of a guarding capacity? And, oh gosh, forget about getting a title themselves. But, actually, speaking of titles.” He gulped, going red. “Scratch, you know how you and I both thought you would become a Lady Commander? Well, it turns out that you were closer than either of us thought. It would have happened, if not for—”

  “James.”

  “Let me get this out, Scratch.” He drew in a bracing breath. “The Shaes are not who you think they are.”

  “James, I know.”

  He blinked. “You know?”

  She nodded, her lips quirking up of their own volition. “I know, James. I know—well, maybe not as many details as you do, but I know. I know about Maisie and Frances, and about the Shaes and their family of rebels, and that I could have gotten a command if not for them.”

  “And you’re not upset?” he asked, boggled.

  “Oh, I am.” The feeling hadn’t gone entirely. But there were other feelings, bigger feelings, inching that sting out of the sunshine. “But, I’m—I’m other things, too.”

  “Oh, Scratch.” He fell onto her, knocking them both to the ground. “This is so different.”

  “Is it?” She smoothed his unruly hair from his face. He was rather sunburnt, and his skin was beginning to peel. “It was always you and I figuring out how to make our lives better. It feels rather the same to me.”

  “I suppose.” He looked up, over her head. “Though now you aren’t the only one looking after me.”

  She swiveled around to find the Shaes murmuring together, politely giving the two reunited guards a bit of privacy. They were laughing, their mirrored mouths stretched to reveal equally white teeth, their constellations of freckles like two gods in the night sky.

  “No.” She swallowed. “Nor you after me.”

  “Do you mean . . .” He whacked her shoulder. “Really?”

  She nodded, feeling her cheeks heat. “It’s new.”

  “Everything is new, you dolt. We haven’t been out here a week. Oh, Scratch, I’m so proud of you!”

  “I hate to interrupt.” Vel sat down beside them, scratching the patches of stubble that splotched his face. “But it’s time.”

  She looked up. There in the wood stood a large rectangle of stone. It was like a cliff face, or the first incline of a mountain, except that there was no mountain behind it. It reminded Scratch of a shelf of quartz from a quarry, or a slab of dough. The beginning of something, be it tiling or bread. She rose slowly, drawn to the thing, her hands reaching before she could stop them.

  “Ah, ah.” Brella grabbed her wrist. “Together.”

  “Everything all right?” Vel pulled James to his side. “We’re all comfortable with traitors and traps?”

  “When we get through,” Scratch asked tentatively, “what will we find?”

  “Frances, hopefully,” Brella said, eyes on the gate. Wordlessly, she handed Scratch the knife she had dropped. “We’ll have to figure it out from there.”

  Scratch fingered the hilt, slipping the blade into her silken sheath. “Okay.”

  “How do we . . .”

  “Both hands.” Brella’s voice was steady and soothing. “Both hands on the gate and close your eyes.”

  They lined up, all four of them, palms flat on the stone. Scratch closed her eyes and lowered her head, and—

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The stars are bright as blazes here, and they’ve left the sky.

  “Sweets,” she tells you. “They’re called Sweets.” She blows gently and one lands on your face. “They’re magic.” They’re blue and mesmerizing, little orbs of something pulsing and warm. And they’re bright, bright, bright, making constellations in three dimensions, gods forming and re-forming. Gods are everywhere here; the air tastes of them.

  “Eat this,” she says. It’s a foxfire fungus pulled from the ground, bioluminescent and powdery, depositing shimmering spores on your fingers, your clothes, your mouth and hers—and when you kiss, it’s an explosion, like a hand on your wrist and your back at once, like you’ve never been held before.

  “Kiss me,” she demands, and you do, because there could be nothing better. She tastes like, well, like a mouth, but the best one. You tell her. She laughs at you in every color.

  “There will be a door,” she says, and she points somewhere. “When we’re ready, there will be a door.” You don’t worry about it right now because you’re not ready, because you haven’t even slipped your small and sweet bodies into the water that flows here, lapping up on a grassy shore, kiss after kiss after kiss.

  You can see her how she sees you, and it’s startling.

  “You’re wrong,” you tell her.

  “About?” she asks, her moonlight mouth pouting and her hot ember eyes so open.
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  “Me,” you say. “I can see it.”

  And you can. It’s raw, red around the edges from newness, but eager and growing. She likes things about you, these wild things. You are small. You are careful sometimes, and bold others. You’re clever. Too clever. Clever enough to know how much, how often, how deeply you’ve been wrong. You’re brave. You’re cocky. You’re self-serving and a little narcissistic and she likes all of it. All of it. Not some, but all.

  “I’m not wrong,” she says. “You are.”

  “Remember,” you ask, “when you gave me your knife?”

  “Remember,” she asks in return, “when I gave you my brother’s pants?”

  James is here, too, and so is Vel, but you can’t feel them the way you can feel her. They can feel each other, though. They haven’t said, but you can see it. Vel has barely stopped crying.

  “I can’t believe this is what it’s like,” he says, over and over, spitty and bursting. “I’m going to stitch this feeling into a cloak.”

  “You’re a baby,” James says, but it’s allover fond and he’s twinkling.

  “Come here,” she says, “sit by the water with me.”

  She holds your hand and leads you there and it’s maddening, the feel of it. That you can feel her hand and you can feel your hand and you can feel your hand in her hand and you try not to think about it because you’re worried if you do, you’ll go entirely insane.

  “Hush,” she coos, touching your temple, and the madness is gone. “Look out there.”

  She points. You want to look at her finger, but you force your eyes beyond. You’re on an island. On the other shore, there are hills. And on those hills, there are houses. Little houses like mushrooms, smokestacks rolling clouds like foam into the warm sky. You can see figures bobbing about, ducking into buildings and out, and things that fly, hovering and swooping.