by Adi Rule
I devour them. My snowflake, which I think is just ice water with a bit of mint, also disappears quickly.
Zahi sips from his own blue glass. “So tell me about your family.”
“I’d rather hear about your family,” I say, crunching a briny carrot.
He tips his head back. “Everyone knows all about my family, don’t they? I think it’s actually required knowledge to graduate Third School.”
I move closer to him. “I failed Third School.”
“Ah, I knew you had a dark secret.” He touches my face. I want to steer the conversation toward the bonescorch, maybe the Beautiful Ones. But I also want him to keep touching my face. “Well,” he says, “my mother is the leader of the nation and my father commands her armies. A love story as old as time. I’ve got an older brother, who isn’t nearly as handsome as I am, who is next in line for the throne, and I hope he lives a very long time so I never have to have any responsibilities.”
“Except the Temple,” I say.
“Right, the Temple.” He leans in and presses his lips against mine. And just like that, everything is dull and muffled and far away except him—warm, close, real.
It doesn’t last as long as I’d like, but it is a kiss the world can never take away. Zahi leans back. “I think this whole Temple thing might be a phase I’m going through.”
And his smile is so pretty, and so sly, that suddenly I can do nothing but lunge forward for another kiss, which turns into two and three and more, each deeper and more searching until I realize I’ve worked all the buttons on his shirt open and he has his arms around me and his fingers are starting to slide the smooth blue fabric of my priest’s robe away from my neck—
My scars.
I can’t let him find my scars. It takes all my will to pull away from him. He blinks, relaxes, pulls back.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I—”
“No, please, I’m sorry,” he says. “I must have misread your … signals.”
We both unconsciously look down at his naked chest. And laugh.
“Oh, Rasus,” I say. “That shirt’s probably worth more than my whole wardrobe.”
“It probably is,” he says.
I get to my feet. “I should go.”
He rises as well, and nods. A sad half smile flickers. “I understand.”
I take his hands. “No, you don’t,” I say. “But maybe someday you will.”
eleven
The sun is well below the horizon when I approach our house on Saltball Street. I don’t mind traveling in darkness; as well as these blue robes disguise me, they are rather conspicuous. At least the hood hides my face, though it is not customary for brothers and sisters to wear their hoods up all the time.
I am surprised to find the house dark, and a queasiness slips around in my guts for just a moment. Calm yourself. No reason to think anything is amiss. Despite Bonner’s threats, the human sibling of a redwing is blameless. Anyone who has ever read Mother May can tell you that. That child is as innocent as a sunrise and, if anything, is to be pitied and protected because of her despicable twin. Now that I am dead, Jey has nothing to fear.
She has gone out with friends tonight, taking advantage of Papa’s absence to exercise her freedom, that is all. Just as I have. I must confess I am a little hurt she can be out reveling while I am, as far as she knows, still missing.
But my mind is uneasy as I walk the path to our door. Some part of it sees the overturned flowerpot, the kicked-up stones, but I don’t let myself admit something is wrong until I depress the latch on our door to find it swinging from one hinge.
A strange smell hits me as I enter the kitchen. No, more like the absence of smells. Papa’s earth-covered boots, the floral fragrance that clings to him, Jey’s perfume, coal dust from the cookstove, the lingering scents of breakfasts and suppers.
I take in the room. The heavy table askew. A chair on its back. The door to Jey’s room open wide, as she never would have left it.
No.
I rush through the doorway to find her bed unmade and her armoire full. A graceful, curving vase—a prized birthday present from our father—is in pieces on the floor, Jey’s meticulously ash-grown blue daisies scattered and broken.
She is gone.
Stomach churning, I gather what remains of the daisies and bring them into the kitchen. At the sink, I fill a tin cup with water and cut the broken stems with a pair of sharp scissors. My efforts don’t matter; their lives ended days ago. Still, as my nerves prick my skin and my mind swirls, it helps to do something.
I right the chair and lean forward, nausea overtaking me in little waves. The wood grain squirms as I gaze vaguely at our kitchen table.
I should have run back here.
As soon as I woke up in that pile of worms, I should have run to Saltball Street. Why did I waste so much time at the Temple? What terrible things were happening to Jey while I kissed a young man who shouldn’t even know I exist?
I sit, running my hands over the table’s uneven wooden surface. I’ve never been connected to a name before, the name this house bears, and now people know who I am—the Beautiful Ones, Nara Blake, Zahi, who knows who else? I have taken risks and exposed myself, and now my sister is gone.
But I will find her. And the first person I’ll ask is that son of a stritch, Bonner.
I rise, determination burning my lungs, and take two steps toward the door. A sudden crash from the Dome freezes me. Someone is here.
I move carefully to the ladder at the back of the kitchen and place a hand on a metal rung at shoulder height. I cast my ears into the ringing silence. Nothing more. Probably one of the raptors knocking my books over again.
I peer up into the darkness. “Jey?” The Dome breathes only silence for another moment, then—
CLANG.
The ladder shudders as a body thumps down, two rungs at a time, landing with a jarring knock. The woman is thin-framed but formidable, towering over me in a long, tight coat as black as night fog. “There you are,” she snaps; then her red mouth frowns. “What the hell happened here?”
I cross my arms. “Uh—you trashed my house?”
“Enough of this.” She draws a dull-surfaced pistol from a holster around her hips.
“Mol’s bulging coin purse!” I yelp, skidding across the floor toward the broken doorway.
“Damn it!” the woman yells, her voice edged with a rasp. “Get back here!”
No one in the history of the world has ever turned around in response to “get back here,” especially not when it is said in a menacing tone by someone holding a pistol. However, any inclination I might have had to accede to her request dies quickly when a bone-rattling explosion rocks my ears. She has fired the damn thing at me!
I kick the swinging door out of the way and stumble out into the night. A couple of raptors take off from the pitch of a roof across the street as I sprint through the beams of the streetlamp that guards our fence, the woman fast behind me. The cobblestones push on my feet, heavy with the gardener’s boots that miraculously survived the boiling lake.
The second bullet doesn’t miss. I feel the piercing flame the moment I hear the shot, an eruption of pain that staggers my whole body. At first, as I fall sideways into a low stone window frame, I don’t even know where I’ve been shot. But when I try to push forward, my left leg buckles. The ball is lodged somewhere in my thigh. Sweet Rasus, let it not bleed very much. This is the first prayer my brain slings forth. Boil me, slice my ears, cover me with maggots if you will. But black blood pouring from a bullet wound—no robes in all of Caldaras would cover that up.
I brace myself against the wall. No open doors, no busy market, no public park that might have offered a hiding place. I either run, or I—don’t.
I run. Left and right, through lamplight and shadow, the tilt of Caldaras City keeping my mind slanted and my elbows flapping for balance. My thigh screams, dripping hot down my leg under my robes, but I have no other choice. I lurch past couples, lad
ies in deep conversation, and dapper gentlemen, some of whom look at me sideways as though I might be a purse snatcher. But my priest’s attire is enough to keep the suspicious looks from becoming cries for a city guard.
The nighttime mist dampens my face. The woman in black keeps pace about a block behind me. Maybe she’s waiting to see where I run to, which is a decision I need to make quickly.
I think of Nara Blake. She wanted my help, promised to help me in return, but do I trust her? If Bonner does have something to do with Jey’s disappearance, my path probably leads back to the Temple of Rasus. Nara Blake has no love for priests; that much was clear. And I have to go somewhere.
The street spills out, as they all seem to do sooner or later, onto High Ra Square. Even after dark, when most citizens are indoors for fear of the rest of the citizens, the square is quietly humming with activity. Common people and priests of all ranks wander the smooth white flagstones, taking advantage of the city’s version of a pleasant evening. I slow down, insinuating myself in between two groups of priests and casting a glance over my shoulder, before mustering a final effort to sprint toward the fountain of Dal Roet and throw myself behind it.
I peek out from behind the curved marble. Priests everywhere. Blue, purple, a few black, all sizes and descriptions. Gentlemen and ladies, urchins and wealthy brats, stritches, pet parakeets, and showy, fat raptors. No figure approaches the fountain in a purposeful way. Is it possible I have lost my attacker?
I straighten up, one vertebra at a time, my thigh searing pain up and down my body. The fountain spits and bubbles; people speak easily amid patches of warm fog. I chance a few steps toward the edge of the square, where a dark alley promises some small measure of concealment.
Two priests in black stop speaking and regard me as I limp too close to their private sphere. I pause and nod briskly, muttering, “Breathe easy, Beloved.” The words come out a bit wincing and strangled, but I flash what I hope is an innocent smile.
The high priests’ faces are inscrutable for a moment, before one returns my nod and the other follows suit. “Breathe easy,” they say in unison.
At last, I reach the mouth of the alley and cast one final look over High Ra Square. Three young people sit on the edge of the fountain now, two boys with weak chins and a girl whose high-collared shirt is unbuttoned to well below her clavicle. They could easily be Jey and her friends, I think with a pang. But they are not. I know in my heart that, at this moment, Jey is not with anyone who could be called a friend.
My distraction has betrayed me. Eyes on the other side of the square flash in the light from the holy beacons set in the wall of the great Temple. The woman in black has found me.
I duck into the alley, weaving around old crates, stritch manure, and leaning sheet metal. It opens onto another, familiar alley. I press my back against a grubby wall and scan left and right.
Rubble is still strewn at the place where I melted the brick wall—I am close to the back door of the Daily Bulletin. I stagger to the gated end of the alleyway and yank on the door. Locked. In desperation, I pound my fists against the dented surface. “Hey! Daily Bulletin! I’m at the back door! Hey, there!” Bang, bang, bang. Nothing.
Waves of dizziness wash over me. I’m unsure how much longer I can remain vertical, and the woman in black will emerge at any moment. I doubt she will miss her shot here, and I have a strong suspicion that one bullet lodged in one’s flesh is more than enough.
A swell of laughter intrudes on the quiet, and I remember the Pump Room tavern—it must also back onto this dirt-packed passage. I find the door about halfway down, where the sounds from the pub start to mix with the muted buzz of Mad Lane.
This door is unlocked, and I pop it open with a clank. I close it behind me and, with much effort, shift the inside handle to the locked position. It is a bit corroded, and takes a couple good shoves with my shoulders before it creaks into place. Finally, a moment to breathe.
Or a moment to fall to the floor in agony.
Mol’s blazing buttocks! I pull up my robes and examine the wound on the outer part of my thigh. It is not too bad, actually. It’s bleeding, but not excessively. I poke at it a couple times with dirty fingers, but there is no sign of the little deformed piece of metal under the surface. I can remove it later, but for now I can at least get it bandaged.
Wash it first. I take in my surroundings. This back storage room is dim, crowded with barrels and crates, and the sound of the Pump Room’s evening crowd filters in through a slatted inner door. I crawl over to a shelf of jugs and grab the first one within reach. The golden liquid within stings down to the bone, but washes my incriminating blood away onto the straw-strewn floor.
I sacrifice a small sack of oats for a bandage, whispering apologies to the tavern keeper and dumping the evidence behind a stack of crates. Wrapped tightly in burlap, my leg feels a bit better, and I pull myself to my feet and wobble over to the inner door.
I peer between the slats, holding my breath. At the other end of a short hallway, I glimpse a crowded room, low lights, lots of movement and sound and color. The few faces I catch are flushed and bulging with laughter. I don’t see any other priest robes, but surely a place like this is for everyone. It’s just a matter of sneaking in when no one is—
A man starts down the hallway toward this storage room. I give a start, backing away from the slatted door. The last thing I want is to be mistaken for a thief and handed over to the city guard.
I have only seconds. Think, think. Hide. A row of large barrels stands against one wall, and I scramble into one and crouch, wincing. It would be nice to cover myself, but there is no time. The sides of the barrel are high enough to hide me as long as the man doesn’t look in.
As soon as I crouch down, I hear the slatted door open. The man saunters to the other side of the room, and after a moment, I hear the dull rasp of small wooden barrels—kegs, most likely—being shuffled around. I don’t dare breathe except with shallow sips, and I hold my knees to stop the fabric of my robes sliding against the edge of the barrel.
It isn’t long before the man’s footsteps take him in the direction of the slatted door once again, and I hold my lungs and my hands very still. Once he returns to the noisy common room, I’ll wait a few minutes and then try to slip in unnoticed. I wait for the sound of the slatted door clicking back into place.
But it doesn’t come. Could the man have left the door open and gone back down the hallway without my hearing him? I close my eyes, listening.
Two thudding footsteps, and a stern voice says, “What in wet hell are you doing in there?”
I gasp, startled, and raise my head a little.
The man is looking at me over the edge of the barrel, arms crossed. He reminds me of the stout, rosy-complexioned fruit vendor my father sometimes stops to talk with when we are out together. Only he wears an expression that promises wallops rather than peaches.
“You—you mean me,” I say.
“Your powers of deduction are staggering, Sister. What are you doing in my barrel?” he says gruffly. “Rather, what were you doing in my barrel, because you cannot possibly be sitting there still, even as I am preparing to call the guard and have you hauled away.”
I stand. “Oh. Right. I just—” I throw my good leg over the side and try to hoist myself out, but my robes catch the edge and the barrel tips over onto the floor with a crunch. “Rasus’s flaming ass!”
The man raises his eyebrows. “Not very nice language for a woman of the Temple.”
Shit. “Oh—” I scramble to my feet, the pain in my leg making my breath catch. “—well, I’m only a—” I look down at my robes. “—a blue one.”
The man nods. “Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “You mean a postulant?”
“Postulant! Right. I knew that.”
“That gives me hope for the future.” He leans back against the slatted door, eyes twinkling despite his stern expression. “What’s your name, Postulant? And think of a good one, or I�
�m calling the city guard. That was my favorite decrepit barrel.”
“I—” My mind is paralyzed. I won’t give him Jey’s name and I can’t give him my own, since I don’t have one. But he already knows I’m going to lie, so—I search my memory for a name, any name. “Nara Blake,” I say. “My name’s Nara Blake.”
The man straightens up. “What?” His tone is no longer light, and he peers at me shrewdly. “Did you say Nara Blake?”
That was apparently the wrong name. “No,” I stumble. “No, I said Dal Roet. My name’s Dal Roet. After my great-great-great-great—”
The man steps toward me and puts a callused hand on my shoulder. “How do you know Nara Blake?”
I back away. “I don’t! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”
“Get the hell out of here, Sister,” he spits. “Before I smack your head off your shoulders.”
“Sounds like a deal.” I limp over to the outer door, imploring all the gods I can think of to have sent the woman in black away by now.
“Mr. Orm!” a girl calls down the hallway. “Any more gin? We’ve got a wedding party!”
“Coming!” the man bellows back. But something sticks in my brain.
“Mr. Orm?” I turn around. Why do I know that name?
“Well,” he says. “Now you have the advantage of me, clearly. Nevertheless, I’m calling the guard in thirty seconds.”
“No, I— You know Nara Blake, don’t you?” My leg throbs and I put a hand to the warm wall, praying I don’t pass out.
“I know I don’t like questions.” Orm scowls, but he doesn’t move. He’s listening.
Risking everything is getting easier. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. But I have nowhere to go, and Nara Blake is the only person in this city who has offered me protection. Whatever her motivations are, she has to be a better bet than the guard or the temple. Or the gutter.
“Orm,” I say as the memory slides into focus, “did you help Nara’s brother Corvin after he was beat up in an alley? She was going to ask you to look in on him.”