by Marjorie Liu
“Breathe,” he whispered, watching her face relax. His fingers slid over her head in a pressure dance: behind her ears, at the base of her skull, spanning through her hair to knead spots that he knew would take the bite from her pain, and from the nausea she must surely be feeling. “Chimera often suffer such discomfort, especially the children who begin shifting at a young age. Physical stress is strongly entwined with the mind. Head pain is the most common result.”
Soria made a small, incoherent sound, sagging closer to him, eyes shut. Karr told himself he needed to watch her face for fleeting changes in her expression, as a guide for his fingers, but that was a lie. He simply liked looking at her. Such a puzzle. Beautiful, yes, especially now with the first touch of morning light bathing her face in a glow as golden as his own; her skin was soft and flawless, her body full of curves.
But it was more than that. Her compassion fascinated him. As did her trust. She had placed herself in his hands, in more ways than one, without question. Surely she knew what he could do to her. She was not naive, or foolish. And yet, here she was, relaxing in his hands. His hands, which had killed so many.
“Does this help?” he asked, finding it difficult to speak.
Soria nodded. “You surprise me.”
He wished that she would open her eyes. “No more than you.”
Her mouth tilted, but with little humor. Her lashes suddenly looked wet. Tears.
She began to twist away, but his hand slid around to the back of her neck, holding her still. She finally opened her eyes. Red-rimmed, bright with terrible emotion: grief, perhaps, and something else he could not name.
“Enough,” she whispered hoarsely. “Thank you.”
He did not let go. “Did I—?”
“No. You did not hurt me.” Soria carefully wiped her eyes. “Just … I had forgotten …” Her voice trailed into silence as she visibly tasted her words, refusing to meet his gaze. “I had forgotten what it felt like to be …”
“Touched,” he said.
Soria still could not look at him. “Small things. Always the small things a person takes for granted. Like fastening your clothes or scratching an itch. Making more trips to carry bags. Small, stupid things.” She swallowed hard, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I lost my dominant hand. I had to relearn how to write. I got rid of mirrors in the beginning, too. I could not look at myself. Felt like I was staring at an alien. You know, chopped up. Not me.”
Karr was not certain what alien meant, but he understood all too well what she was telling him. “How long has it been?”
She closed her eyes. “A year.”
“Were you alone?”
“I had my father and mother.”
“Friends?”
“At first. And then I stopped wanting to see them. People remember what you lost, and then they try too hard. You have to reassure them. Comfort them. Tell them it is okay that you got hurt.” Soria shook her head. “It was easier to be alone.”
“I doubt that,” he said quietly.
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were haunted. “I should not have told you this.”
A massive stroke of heartache cut through him—shocking not for what he felt, but for the intensity, a power such that he could hardly breathe. “You do not speak your suffering often.”
“I do not suffer—” she began to say, but he cut her off with a tiny shake.
“I am not one of your so-called friends who requires comforting,” he replied roughly. “I speak the truth. You suffer. You have suffered. You do not have to make excuses or be ashamed of what you feel.
“And I do not pity you,” he added, far more gently. “There is nothing to be pitied in a missing arm. You are more than that, and you know it. I am certain you do, or else you would not have come so far on this journey with me.” He leaned in very close, holding her face once more between his hands. “You are brave—and I do not say that lightly.”
Soria drew in a ragged breath, and then laid her hand on his chest. Her touch was simple and light, but he felt the press of her fingers as though they reached through skin, straight to his heart. Searing, aching hunger filled him, unlike any he had ever felt, born of a peculiar tenderness for this strange human woman. She had given him his freedom. His freedom, which was more important than life. No matter who her allies were.
Karr covered her hand with his, and it was suddenly his turn for awkwardness; his nerves were adrift in ways he had not felt since childhood. He could not look at her.
She whispered, “Thank you.”
He removed her hand from his chest, but could not bring himself to completely let go. His other hand had slid down her slender throat, her pulse warm and quick against his palm. His thumb was touching the corner of her mouth. He did not remember doing that, but the realization sent another shock through him—lower, deeper, in his gut.
“I have forgotten, too,” he murmured, staring at her mouth. “Even before I died, I think I had forgotten.”
Her breath caught. Karr swallowed hard, and leaned in, slowly. Expecting her to pull away. But she stayed still, and he was the one who stopped, just at the last moment. He could taste her scent, warm as the new sun. Her lips were so close.
He pulled back, dropping her hand as though burned. He felt burned, a terrible heat washing through him, unrelenting and savage.
“I am sorry,” he muttered, standing. Soria scrambled to her feet, and grabbed his arm. Her hand was tiny against him, her fingers hardly more than a patch on his dark golden skin. He made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Found nothing hidden, no walls or distance between them.
“What hurt you?” she asked. “Or who?”
He had never felt so exposed. “We should go.”
Soria’s expression did not change, though the flush in her cheeks seemed to deepen, as did the shadows in her eyes. “I … want to find the sword.”
It was not what Karr expected her to say. He realized, with some shame, that he had wanted her to keep pressing, to not give up on him so easily.
Like you gave up. She should not have to beg for a kiss. Not her.
“The sword,” he replied hoarsely. “You believe it still exists? You trust your dreams that much?”
Her fingers tightened against his arm. “I have to trust something.”
I want to trust you. “You cannot truly believe one weapon holds those answers.”
“I think that even if we find your homeland, we will still have to go after the sword. Anything related to your death is suspect. Something, someone, did this to you.”
“Thousands of years ago, according to you. There is nothing left.”
“Except the sword,” she said. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Karr echoed, and covered her hand with his. “You recognized the location in our vision?”
She hesitated, frayed slips of her hair flowing around her face as the wind kicked up. “It looked like a map of this country, Mongolia, and the red dot seemed to align with what I know of its capital, Ulaanbataar. It should not be far from here.”
His memory of squiggly red lines and a golden-eyed doll were crystalline and chilling, but he said, “I cannot see it clearly in my head. Can you draw the map for me in the sand?”
Soria knelt. Karr joined her, watching as her finger traced lines in the shallow sheet of loose dirt covering the rocky ground. He had thought that seeing her illustration would help orient him, but he realized his mistake in moments. She was right: he needed more. Simply journeying north was not enough.
The blood ritual would be all you need, if you had the courage.
“Enough,” he said, touching her shoulder. “You are certain about the sword and its location?”
She smiled bitterly, which Karr took as a no.
He bowed his head, considering his options as his fingers traced lines through her map in the sand. Soria’s hand lingered near his, and this time he did not fight his need as he grasped her wrist and kissed her palm. Soria went still.
Karr rumbled, “I cannot fault your strategy. If nothing else, it is worth a brief scouting mission. We can resume our path north, afterward.”
His scar tingled as he spoke those words. As though invisible fingers teased the outer edges of the surrounding skin. He touched the spot, for a moment certain he would feel another hand there. He discovered nothing but air—a chill—and the sharp memory of a sword piercing his stomach, the tip of the blade touching his spine. Tau, staring at him.
No, he thought, fearing another rush of blood.
But nothing happened. Karr took a deep breath, then another, and the sensation began to fade. He looked up, and found Soria’s gaze flickering between his face and the hand pressed to his side.
“We should hurry,” she said.
“Agreed,” he muttered, and pulled her onto her feet.
Chapter Twelve
Ulaanbataar was over four hundred miles north of Erenhot, and the easiest way to get there was by car, bus, or train. None of those was an option, especially the latter. Karr had no papers, no identification—something Roland should have considered before telling Soria to journey south to Beijing. Unless he had intended for her to leave Karr behind.
Leave him for Long Nu or Serena? Had Roland made a deal with one—or both—of them?
And where, Soria wondered, would loyalties rest in such matters? Even though Serena had her own employers, would she obey their wishes over those of Long Nu? Would blood trump reason?
Or maybe they’re all working independently of each other, with separate motives. Face it, you know nothing.
Nothing except that she didn’t hold high hopes for their safety if they returned to the border city. She had a bad feeling about who else might catch up with them.
But, walking was out of the question. So was hijacking a tour group, although she considered stealing a vehicle for all of ten minutes, until she remembered stories about an increased police and military presence along the major roads through the region. Concerns of terrorists coming down through Russia and using Mongolia as a bridge to China had sparked the change, and that meant more eyes, more chances of being stopped. Better not to take the risk.
“We could ride horses,” Soria suggested flippantly, knowing full well what his response would be.
“I think not,” Karr rasped, his voice barely comprehensible; a sandpaper growl, rough and quiet. It reminded her a little too much of all the Narnia novels she had read growing up, with Aslan stoically rumbling.
Karr was a lion now, mostly, but he was as huge as a dragon—what little she knew of them. The lower half of his body was covered in scales and hard ridges. He looked like a throwback to some prehistoric age, especially when he stretched his massive wings, which were golden, with webbing the color of a dawn blush.
“You know,” she said, turning in a slow circle to scan the rocky horizon, “birds have hollow bones. Makes them light so that they can fly.”
“Is that so,” he replied. “I assure you, my bones are quite solid.”
“Not my point. The ratio of your body mass to wing span …” She stopped, watching his feline mouth somehow manage a smile. Magic, she told herself, shaking her head. Just tell yourself it’s magic. He flew last night. He can do it again.
Except that someone, eventually, was going to see them.
The morning sun was bright, blinding—or maybe that was the dust in Soria’s eyes. Her nostrils ached, too, and her throat was patchy with thirst. Temperatures were comfortable, but it was only morning and late spring. She did not want to think about what it would be like here at the height of summer.
“Come,” Karr said, sitting up on his haunches, holding out long arms huge with muscle, his skin covered in sleek tawny fur. Sunlight glimmered against his wings, which rested delicately around his shoulders. A long, scaled tail flopped restlessly in the sand.
Soria hesitated, staring, wishing despite her concerns that she had a camera, a piece of paper and pencil, something, anything to record him now, in this moment. She wasn’t entirely certain that she hadn’t lost her mind somewhere back in San Francisco—or her sense of wonder, long before that, whenever she had first started taking shape-shifters for granted. But she felt wonder, looking at Karr. He was beautiful, wild. Extraordinary.
And totally bizarre.
Dolphin and crow, she thought, remembering her question to Koni. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what that would look like, given the way Karr seemed to mesh his different shapes, mixing fur and scales and abilities.
Soria walked over to him, holding the tightly folded bundle of cloth against her stomach. She held her breath as he picked her up, with such ease she felt light as a feather, floating in the hard confines of his arms. He cradled her close, tight against his warm chest. She knew what to expect.
But this time she felt a different energy between them, and she was not entirely certain whether that made her less comfortable with him or more. It was impossible to know how he felt, except through his actions. His eyes revealed nothing.
Except when you were kneeling in the sand and he was talking to you about your arm. Except when he leaned in to kiss you.
He had been vulnerable, then. He had looked young, the hard lines of his face softening with hunger and desire. There had been so much need in his eyes. Terrible loneliness. Things that were mirrored in herself.
Stop, she told herself. It was no good thinking about how much she had wanted him in that moment. Just one kiss, to see if his mouth felt as good as his hands, which had melted through her pain and filled her with a warm comfort that she had forgotten could exist. Comfort and safety. Not just locked doors and a fuzzy blanket, but that soul-deep conviction that nothing bad would happen to her ever again. Not with him. Not while he was close.
She felt it now in his arms, and it was an odd, frightening weight in her heart. She did not want to rely on anyone to make her feel safe. No one could be counted on—not even the people she had thought would always be there. Roland—she had been so sure about Roland, despite his occasional remoteness—but he had betrayed her in the end. That was how she saw it—a betrayal. Just one phone call at the hospital, filled with tense silence. Flowers, a few cards sent with computer-generated messages.
One year together, and nine years before that as simply friends. She had thought all that time would mean something. At least an effort. Some sign that he wanted to be the one who kept her heart safe as she healed.
He had told her later that he had been afraid. Guilt-ridden, unsure what to do. A powerful man who led psychics, shape-shifters, and other nonhumans—unsure what to do with one hurt woman he was supposed to love. And yet, Soria had believed him. She still did. His fear was real. She knew him too well. That was Roland. He could handle everyone’s lives but his own.
Which had not been enough for her.
Karr, certainly, had his own agenda. She was useful to him for now, and she wanted to help, but after this was over, however that managed to come about, she had no illusions that he would—
Oh, God, she thought. Don’t go there. Have some self-respect.
Right. Fuck romance.
“That’s the spirit,” she muttered, settling deeper into the crook of Karr’s arms, feeling the muscles of his chest coil and heave as his wings began to beat. Dust kicked up, choking her, and through watery eyes she saw him give her a questioning look. His leonine features were far more expressive than his dragon visage.
Soria shook her head. “Just go.”
They flew out of the desert late that afternoon. Soria had no way of knowing how fast they were traveling, but the miles seemed to slip away, even though Karr was forced to stop every hour to rest. He did not say so, but as time went on it seemed to grow progressively harder for him to fly while carrying her. Just breathing seemed to take a great deal of effort.
Soria remained quiet for most of the journey. She was thirsty, and the one small lake they had found—hours after starting—was too salty for either of them. Not
for camels, though. She saw them from a distance, long necks bowed. When Karr swooped close, they scattered and ran. Easy prey, she thought. Kill them, drink from the humps, eat their hearts, or fat. It was an option she supposed they were not desperate enough to take. Not yet.
Now, outside the desert—the change was marked only by the sustained presence of rock and withered grass, and not rock and sand—storm clouds were gathering, coiled into tumors the color of dirty snow, edges glowing silver from the late sun, and bleeding into a blue sky. The grassland stretched as far as the eye could see. No trees. No caves. No place to hide.
Lightning flashed. Karr made a hissing sound and descended sharply, chased by thunder. His arms tightened around Soria. Just before they hit the ground, a golden glow rose from his skin, so bright and warm it felt like being bathed in dawn light. He hit the ground running.
A gust of wind slammed into them, and then another: a continuous howling blast that stole Soria’s breath and burned her eyes. Karr staggered, putting his head down, but he could not take another single step against its force. A haze filled the air, light at first, but filled with choking dust. Sand and other small particles hit Soria’s face, getting inside her mouth each time she coughed. Visibility worsened, and not because her eyes were watering. Dust blocked out the sky, the entire world, until she could see only several feet in front of them. It happened in moments.
“Give me that cloth,” Karr said roughly, dropping to his knees and laying Soria down on the short grass. Before she could ask what he was doing, he dragged the sheet from her and shook it loose. It nearly ripped free of his hands, and Soria had to help him drag it down over them. They hooked one end under around their legs, and pulled the flapping, bloodstained fabric over their heads and bodies.
Karr curled around her, dragging her so tightly into the curve of his body she could barely breathe. His sleek, furred arm crossed her chest with his soft, pawlike hand cupping her cheek. His warm wing draped over her, and just before he enclosed them entirely in the sheet, Soria glimpsed the grassland beyond: black as night, cut with a flash of lightning that was faint through the dust storm haze.