Frozen hod-1

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “What else can you do?” he said, hugging her closer to him.

  “Not much,” she said, as she snuggled against him. “It just comes and goes. I mean, when bad things happen, it saves me—I jumped out the window at MacArthur and it carried me, but I can’t make it do anything unless . . . I feel something strongly, then it just comes out. I’ve never been able to control it. Except . . .” She hesitated, shy all of a sudden. “Except when I pulled you from the water. It was as if I could hold it, I could use it.” Crystal clear and in control, that was how she had felt, when she had saved him.

  “Huh.” Wes thought it over. “I think you’re afraid to use it, and that’s why it’s unpredictable. I think you have to embrace it. You can’t fight it. Don’t resist it.”

  Resist it? It was true. She had resisted it. She had tried to hide from it. Tried to outrun it. But it was there. It was always part of her. The voice is mine. I am the monster. Hadn’t she known that from the beginning? Why was she fighting it?

  Wes spoke directly into her ear, his strong arms around her, and she had never felt safer. “You have to accept who you are, Nat. Once you do, you can do anything you want.” He chuckled softly. “Or maybe, to tap into your power, all you need to do is think of me.”

  41

  NAT FELT SHY THE NEXT DAY, WHEN SHE woke up lying next to Wes, his arm still slung across her torso. She picked it up gently, trying not to disturb him. She heard the sound of far-off gunfire and she walked to the door, to look through the slit to see what was happening. Wes woke up and stood next to her. “What’s going on?”

  “More captives, it looks like. More smallkind,” she said. She moved away from the window so he could see. “And the Ear is back. His ship mustn’t be too far from ours.”

  The smallmen were shivering on the deck of the ship. Their hands were unbound; they wore no chains or ropes. There was no need—the slavers had simply removed their coats, exposing them to the cold. The frozen air was its own shackle, crippling the smallmen, forcing them to obey.

  There was a barrel full of ice and slurry, and it looked like the slavers were playing one of their favorite games: making Popsicles. They threatened to dunk anyone who dared to disobey their orders. At this temperature, the water would immediately freeze on the skin, and death would not take long.

  Wes prayed that the smallmen would obey, and then looked away; he’d seen too much already. He tried not to listen, but there was no way to block out the Ear’s braying laughter as it carried over the sound of screaming. The bald slaver was joking with the Slob that now he had enough for a tiny circus.

  The next few days were the same, and the weariness and the claustrophobia began to take its toll. There were no more new captives, and the mercenaries became restless and frustrated, taking their rage out on the prisoners. The small cups of gruel that had arrived once a day disappeared, and Wes noticed the bitter joy the slavers took in the cries of the young and old among them.

  They were down to their last Bacon Fruit, Wes’s jacket was almost flat, and although he tried not to show how cold he had become since they had resorted to eating his clothing, Nat could see the blue flush on his cheek, his frostbitten fingers. He spoke less, and when he did, his words were slow and calculated as if each syllable was a struggle.

  The weather had worsened as they made their way toward Olympia City, the center of the flesh markets. Sudden showers of snow poured from the sky and a constant fog filled the air. The water was rougher as they neared the outlaw territories, and trashbergs swirled around the ship.

  Wes was visibly trembling and, more than once, he asked Nat if it was day or night—his eyes were bothering him. He had chosen to eat rather than to be warm. Nat tried to make him wear her coat, just for a minute, but he adamantly refused.

  Nat knew she had to do something before they plunged into despair. Wes was deteriorating before her eyes. “Liannan,” she called. “Tell us a story about the Blue.”

  The sylph’s voice carried over. Her voice was weaker than the last time they had spoken, and Nat knew that the imprisonment was taking its toll, the iron slowly sapping the strength from the lovely being. “It’s beautiful. Everything they say about it is true. Your throat does not burn when you inhale; the water is as clear as the air. The sun still shines in the Blue . . . and the grass is the green of emeralds.”

  “How do you know? You’ve been there?” Wes challenged.

  “I am from Vallonis.”

  “So why are you here, then? Why leave?” he asked. Nat wondered why he was being so aggressive. He had never acted that way toward Liannan before.

  “The Blue is part of this world, it has always been part of it, and once, very long ago, it was this world. A shining civilization: Atlantis, a world where magic and science existed peacefully together. But the promise of Atlantis died during the First Breaking, and the Blue faded into the mist, until the Second Attempt in Avalon. But Avalon died as well, and the world of magic was closed to this land. When the ice came, it is said among our people that the Return was finally upon us. That the Age of Science was over, and the Third Age of Vallonis had finally come. Our people have returned to this world, but . . .”

  “But?” Nat prompted.

  “Something went wrong. This world is killing our magic and killing us, causing what you call the ‘rot’ . . . and so we sent scouts out, to bring our people back to the doorway, back to the safety of Arem. But it will not be enough to hide in the Blue. Our worlds are colliding, becoming one again. The Blue must cover the land once more and magic have its proper place.”

  Nat frowned. “Or . . . ?”

  “Or everything will be poisoned, not only this world, but Vallonis as well . . . until everything is lost. I was sent to the gray lands to find the source of the sickness. I chanced upon the pilgrims and thought to lead them to safety first, but afterward, I must resume my search.”

  “See? She’s not giving up,” Wes said, finally a ghost of his former smirk appearing on his drawn, handsome face. “So you don’t either.”

  She smiled back at him, but the smiles left their faces when the door to their cage opened with a bang and the guard pointed to Nat. “You’re up.”

  “Hold on!” Wes said, sticking his foot through the door before the man could slam it closed. “What’s going on?”

  “What do you think?” The guard smirked. “Traders are here. Shopping. Get ready.”

  Nat glanced at Wes.

  “No, hold on, hold on now,” Wes said. “Avo said he wouldn’t harm my people in any way . . .”

  The guard laughed. “And you believe that, lover boy?” He kicked away Wes’s foot and slammed the door. “They’ll be here in five!”

  Wes clenched his hands into fists. “When he comes back—listen, when he opens the door, I’ll hide behind the shadows, and I can deck him from behind, then we’ll get out of here, get Liannan out, get to the lifeboats. I think I know where we are—we can’t be far from the port at New Crete.”

  “No, Wes,” she said slowly. “It’s too dangerous. There are too many men out there. You don’t have a gun, we don’t have a ship—if you fight him, they’ll kill you.”

  Wes shook his head. “No—listen to me, Nat. I’m not going to let them take you!”

  “It will be all right,” she said bravely. “Maybe . . . maybe they won’t want me.”

  “NO!”

  The guard opened the door and handed her a metal collar linked to a chain. “Put it around your neck, just in case you try anything funny.”

  The collar was tight against her skin; it was made of iron, dull and heavy.

  “Come on now,” the guard said, tugging at her chain. “Come on, get a move on. Say good-bye to your boyfriend.”

  Good-bye? Then she realized—if the traders took her—this was it. She would never see him again. This might be their last moment together. It came upon her so suddenly, and seeing the stricken look in his eyes, she couldn’t help but tear up as well. But what could they do—they
were trapped here. She didn’t want him to fight them, she didn’t want him to get hurt, and so she would go quietly and say good-bye. “Well, I guess . . . good luck, then?” she said, trying to appear nonchalant even as she swallowed the lump in her throat and walked toward the door.

  “Nat, wait . . . ,” Wes said, and before she could take another step, she felt Wes’s hand reach for hers. He turned her toward him, his dark eyes burning.

  Without a word, he leaned over and kissed her.

  Nat was startled, but she raised her mouth to meet his, and as his lips pressed on hers, she felt his arm encircle her waist, pulling her close, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if they fit together and always had. She could feel his heart beating in his chest, the heat between them—and the desperation. She ran her fingers through his soft hair—something she had yearned to do since they’d met. His kisses turned hard, passionate, and as she inhaled his sweet scent—felt his body against hers, she felt the strength in him. She could keep kissing him forever, she thought . . .

  Why had they waited so long for this? There was so much she wanted to say but so little time to say it. She fluttered her eyes open.

  Wes had a hand on her cheek, looking at her with so much feeling. “Nat—” he said, in a strangled voice.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I can take care of myself.”

  “So you keep telling me,” Wes said, his voice strained and hoarse, as the guard pulled her away. “But see, the thing is, it doesn’t matter that you don’t need me, because . . . I need—”

  But before he could finish his sentence, the guard pulled her away from him. With a great roar and a look of deep and unfathomable anger on his face, Wes kicked the gun from the slaver’s hand and pummeled him with his fists, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  “Nat, run!” Wes yelled.

  A group of slavers were upon him, and Wes fought ferociously—ten of them were heaped on the deck, bloody and bruised, but he couldn’t take on the whole ship, and as strong as he was, they outnumbered him until he was lying in on the floor, blood streaming from his eyes, nose, his face raw.

  Nat screamed but there was nothing she could do, and so she continued screaming all the way through the length of the ship. Even as he lay broken and bloodied in the cage, Wes could hear her cries.

  42

  THEY TOSSED HER BACK INTO HER CAGE. Wes was still lying in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor, and she ran to him. She was so afraid of what she would find that she could hardly breathe.

  “Ryan!” she cried, turning him over.

  His face was bruised and bloody, but he was breathing, and she ripped her shirt to wipe blood from his forehead. The slavers had been brutal, but they had left him alive, and for that she was thankful.

  Wes opened one eye. “You’re back,” he croaked. “Thank god. I’m still going to kill him,” he said. “I’m going to kill him with my bare hands. Tear him limb from limb. What happened? What did they do to you?”

  “Shhhh,” she admonished, wiping his face gently. “Shhh . . .” She shook her head. “No. No. I’m okay. I’m okay. Nothing happened.”

  Wes groaned. “What do you mean?”

  “Traders didn’t want me. They said I wasn’t marked and they wouldn’t pay, said I was worth nothing. Avo was furious, but he couldn’t talk them out of it.”

  “But how?”

  She whispered into his ear. “Look at my eyes.”

  He opened the other eye and stared up at her.

  Her eyes were gray.

  “Lenses?” he said.

  She nodded her head.

  “Well, I’m still going to kill him,” Wes mumbled. “That promise I’ll make sure I keep.”

  Nat smiled, remembering his lovely kiss. “Okay,” she said, as she continued to clean him up. He would look pretty banged up for a while, his handsome face swollen and cut, but he would be all right. His wounds would heal.

  She kissed his forehead and held him close. “You know what?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I remember now why you look so familiar. You’re a death jockey, aren’t you?”

  “Used to be.”

  “The night I escaped from MacArthur, I walked right into the race. Do you remember?”

  He sat up and opened his eyes. “I remember. You . . . you kept the car from hitting me, and from hitting you. You were the girl. The girl on the tracks. I looked for you, you know. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m okay.”

  His eyes crinkled. “What happened to your shirt?”

  “You’re wearing it as a bandage.”

  “Is that right?” he smiled wickedly. He looked at her again, and she saw that he was looking at the mages’ mark on her skin, the flame that she always kept hidden, right above her bra.

  “So that’s it, huh?” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said, grimacing. “That’s my mark.”

  He reached his hand to it, and she recoiled, preparing for the pain, but when his finger touched her skin, she was warm, so warm, and there was no pain, only . . . peace. “It’s beautiful, like you, like your eyes,” he said. “Now cover up, you’re going to get cold.”

  That night, when Wes had fallen asleep, Nat spoke to Liannan through the walls. Nat told her friend everything. The traders’ arrival. How the traders had made the marked prisoners stand in line for inspection.

  “What did they want with us? Do you know, Liannan?” she asked. The head trader had been garbed in priestlike robes. Their skin was coated in white powder, and their hair dyed to match. She described the way they had culled the marked prisoners, and those who were showing signs of rot—sallow pallor, yellow eyes—had been dismissed.

  “I’ve heard stories about the white priests,” the sylph said quietly. “They believe that they can transfer the powers of the marked to their own bodies. It’s a lie. They’re butchers. False prophets. Fakers. They pretend to have power, but all they have is their mad religion.”

  “Transfer our power . . . how?”

  “In a ritual . . . a sacrifice.”

  Nat shuddered. “They had some specialist with them, but she said I was nobody, that I wasn’t marked so they didn’t want me.” She told Liannan about Wes’s kiss and the miracle of her safety. “My lenses . . . they came back. I don’t know how . . . I’m a lucky girl,” she said.

  “Luckier than you might guess; only a spell could provide such protection to hide your true nature,” Liannan told her.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Nat protested. “I had an iron collar on, I couldn’t do anything. Maybe the trader just didn’t know what to look for.”

  “No, don’t you see? When Wes kissed you, he blessed you with a protection spell. One that even iron could not restrain.”

  Nat was taken aback. “But how?”

  Liannan did not answer for a long time. But when she spoke, her words were light and almost teasing, “He must like you very much, Nat, to have woven one as powerful as that.”

  43

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, AS THEY WERE gathered in the circle, Nat noticed the guards were distracted. Suddenly there was a great screeching noise, and the ship listed to the right—and then picked up speed. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “We’re headed somewhere else, looks like,” the smallman next to her said.

  Wes whistled for the nearest guard. “Hey, man, what’s happening? Aren’t we going to the markets?”

  The guard laughed, showing his broken teeth. “Don’t worry, mate, it’s still the auction block for you all. But before then, the boss has been called to do something else.”

  “What?”

  “Now, why would I tell the likes of you?” Then he whacked Wes on the head with a blow that would have killed a weaker man.

  * * *

  The answer came the next day, during preparations for the circus. The slavers went from cell to cell pulling out marked prisoners for another show, but the cold
had taken its toll. The prisoners had reached a turning point and had neither the strength nor the will to perform anymore. The pirates would have to look elsewhere for amusement.

  They didn’t accept this revelation very well. A particularly ugly pirate sneered as he kicked open the door to Nat and Wes’s cell to find them sitting on the floor, weak from the cold. “All of you who were looking for the Blue—well—by tomorrow it will be just another occupied territory. Maybe they’ll call it Nuevo Asul.”

  Nat raised her head in horror. “What do you mean?”

  “Navy’s zeroed in on the location of the doorway. We’re shoving you lot off on the Ear’s ship so we can move faster; Jolly wants us travelin’ light so we can pick up any bounty. They owe us for the work we did,” he said, as he shined a flashlight into their irises and grunted his approval.

  “He’s checking for frostblight—can’t sell us if we’re too far gone, can you?” Wes explained.

  The pirate nodded. “Yeah, whaddaya know, the land of unicorns and honey’s real after all. Fresh air and food for everyone, right? As if.” He snorted, and left them to their cell.

  The Blue.

  Vallonis.

  The military was on its way to the Blue, so that the RSA could take it as a territory, just another extension of its borders, imposing its will and dominion over the land.

  Wes stared at Nat. “The stone . . . you’re not wearing the stone,” he said softly, the horror dawning on his face. “Why aren’t you wearing the stone?”

  “Because I gave it away,” she said quietly.

  “You what?”

  “I gave Avo the stone.”

  “But why?”

  Nat shook her head. “Before the traders and the white priests came, Avo took me to his room.”

  Wes gripped her forearms. “What did he do?”

  “No . . . it wasn’t . . . that wasn’t what he wanted.”

  She remembered the slaver’s smug smile.

  Avo had put a hand on her collarbone, caressed her jaw. “Exquisite,” he had whispered. He was talking about the stone. She had unhooked the chain and given it to him without a fight.