The other man waited until he was finished, watching him intently, before moving to do the same.
A morbid energy crackled through the camp, everyone pressing closer to watch the unforeseen events unfold, on edge but enraptured.
They faced off in a shaft of orange light as the sun set. Eyeing each other. Centering themselves. Then it started slowly, circling like two taunting vultures, toying with one another. Reading each other's way of moving. Looking for the perfect window to make the first move.
It was a dance, essentially.
Until it was a violent blur of clashing limbs and battering muscle without hardly a warning. The entire world shook as the two collided, Ackra's vision going instantly star-struck as he reeled from the raw force. His skull rattled. Bones cracked. Dirt gouged from the earth under grinding, pounding feet. Muscles as hard as rock hammered against one another.
Milky lenses clouded their eyes. Teeth and claws came out. Guttural snarls and animal shrieks issued from their skirmish, arousing the morbid excitement of the onlookers.
Claws raked across Ackra's back. He felt his translucent pupils widen at the pain, felt his nostrils flare at the smell of his own blood.
He retaliated quickly, thrashing the other man similarly across the face.
Blood spattered the dirt.
The other Tribal man may have been bigger, stronger, but Ackra was nimble, and his blood was on fire for this. He was hungry for it, drunk on it, consumed by the vision of standing victoriously over his challenger's body with a crown of antlers on his head.
And thus, as the match escalated and rose to a savage climax, he was victorious. He struck down his battered opponent with ruthless determination, his own body withered, torn, and dripping with blood – yet he turned his bloodshot, furrowed eyes on any others who dared challenge him, ready to take on them all.
A wind breathed through the encampment, stirring the cloak around the crown of antlers. The winds of change, he thought.
Nobody else stepped forward to challenge him.
18 – Wardrums
Out of the waterfall valley she climbed, and when she reached the shelf of the higher region, she was able to look back over the treetops of Paradise and catch a glimpse of the horizon behind her.
A soft tangerine glow burned across the treetops, fading to ghostlier hues in her direction.
Sunset.
West.
With her bearings returned to her, Shiloh pointed herself toward the eastern shore where the Dauntless was anchored and made haste to get back to her comrades, wary of lingering out in the wilderness past dark again if she had anything to say about it.
Every hour pushed her luck farther and farther.
The lush woods were all too welcoming, luring her down their pretty twists and turns to the sound of innocently chirping crickets. Deception! her nerves cried out. The crickets could feign charm and innocence all they wanted, but Shiloh could not be so easily fooled. A thumping heart and twitching shadow stalked her through Paradise, chronic demons she would never again be able to shake.
She balked when the trees spat her out abruptly into a large, open expanse. Her body seized up at the exposure, and then eased unexpectedly at the relief of being free of the claustrophobia-inducing trees. The light was slightly superior in the clearing as well, the open stretch quickly gaining appeal. Still, as Shiloh wandered out into the meadow, she was hyper-alert for signs of trouble. The quiet of twilight was like cotton stuffed in her ears. Too quiet, she thought again, wanting to shake the cotton out. She stopped in the center of the meadow to scan the edges, every hair on her body standing on end.
Like a gunshot, the sound of a war drum boomed across the taut atmosphere, reverberating through the bones of the whole island. And like flocks of startled birds, the meadow flowers all erupted into flight and shot off into the sky, running together and dancing away in a flurry of petal wings.
The meadow was left barren in an instant, Shiloh alone at its center.
Goosebumps rose across her flesh. What condemning decree had just swept through the ranks of the Tribal? It was a promise of vengeance if ever Shiloh had heard one, its foreboding intent rippling throughout every corner of the island. It reached its feelers out, its vibrations already causing those it sought to tremble where they stood.
But was it in response to the general attack the Crossers had staged? Or a more specific grievance?
Had they found Mother Eve dead?
Either way, the intent was clear. Shiloh felt them coming as if they marched across the island that very second.
She shouldn't still be standing there. Go, Shiloh. GO.
Turning again toward the ever-distant mirage that was the Crossers’ headquarters, she picked up the pace and put the meadow quickly behind her.
Another drumbeat murmured through the trees under the sound of her crashing footsteps.
We're dead. We're so dead.
Jayx is dead.
All of us are dead...
What had they done? She had expected no less, attacking the Tribal like that – they would be nothing if not provoked – but some daring, optimistic part of her had hoped, somehow, that their secret weapon would have been enough, would have taken their enemies by such surprise that the Tribal would have essentially been immobilized after one attack. That it would have been one clean sweep, because it had seemed so foolproof.
It had been a foolish hope. If it seems too good to be true...
They couldn't stop to lament the outcome, though. They had started something, and now all there was left to do was finish it. Rally. Devise another strategy. Another clever scheme.
Or, in Shiloh's case, run.
Run headlong toward the only semblance of a sanctuary that she knew, and hope the others had brainstormed some fresh strategy by the time she got there.
19 – Sinister
The night was dark as ink in the forest when Shiloh emerged onto the eastern shore.
When she emerged onto some shore, anyway, because the Dauntless was nowhere in sight, and she could have veered any number of degrees off course since pegging the sunset as her guiding beacon.
She rested, hands on knees, and panted into the tide-washed quiet as she scanned the shore. Thousands of smooth-worn stones decorated the sand, their polished surfaces gleaming in the moonlight where they tapered into the water.
How far off the mark was she? Which direction bore the fruit she was after, around the curve of the island?
Shiloh slumped in exhaustion, momentarily disheartened as she imagined coming this far only to pick the wrong direction down the shoreline. She was so close, and yet the wrong choice could mean circling the whole island again.
This is my life.
This is FREAKING PARADISE.
Moth-eaten tulip petals. I love it here.
She gritted her teeth in frustration. Why couldn't it be easy, just this once?
Then she heard it. The distant trill of a flute, drifting across the water.
Lysander, playing to placate the sirens. Or to serenade his lady-love, perhaps, depending on if the Pulsers were still serving to make the sirens scarce.
Not if the rest of the pulsing junk-heaps are anything like a certain OTHER ONE that I know, Shiloh thought bitterly. She wasn't even sure why she still had the useless thing strapped to her chest, though if there was any chance it flickered between useless and functional, she was better off wearing it than not. For all she knew, it was what got her through the last leg of her journey across the island without any more mishaps like the hummingbird encounter.
Having caught her breath, Shiloh struck off in the direction of the ghostly music. Just a little ways further, and she could collapse in relief.
Temporary relief. Probably all too brief. But she couldn't think about that. If she entertained any thoughts about being denied a reprieve, she was liable to collapse in a fit of sobs right then and there.
It took longer than she expected to come within view of the ship. Lys
ander should probably be more careful with just how far his music carried, though she had to admit she hadn't caught wind of it until she'd emerged from the density of the trees.
The music stopped before she reached the vicinity of the ship. But it was in her sight, now, and that was all she needed. She didn't see any sirens splashing about – evidence that the Pulsers on board were doing their job – but that didn't mean they didn't lurk beneath the surface. Shiloh imagined they would be hard-pressed to abandon their new muse; they had been glued to Lysander like loyal dogs, enraptured by his music, since he had come to Paradise.
Before that, even, since the story was that he'd attracted the sirens near his own shore and charmed them into leading him to Paradise to begin with.
Were the waters safe for her to swim across? She didn't want to stand on the shore, yelling and waving her arms, and just as likely attract something unseemly from inland. Thanks to the cove-creating wall, she was far enough from the ship that jungle predators would probably get to her before help from the ship did. But if she went any closer, the wall would cut her off from the ship’s sight.
Her exhaustion warned her against trying to swim. Besides, in addition to the sirens, there were the underwater extensions to the wall to take into consideration – barbed wire and other wicked deterrents – and she wasn’t ready to guess how far into the waves they cut.
So, great. Stuck again.
So close she could nearly hear the creaking timbers of the vessel. If she closed her eyes, she could feel it creaking around her.
Swaying, she snapped her eyes back open. She couldn’t let herself drift. Sweet oblivion was just on the other side of her eyelids, closer even than the Dauntless.
She pulled her focus back to the conundrum she faced. There was little choice but to walk right up to the front gate and knock by way of sounding the alarm. The last thing she wanted to do was jolt her comrades back into fight-mode so soon after their first raid, but, well, she didn’t see what other choice she had. Now that her heart-pumping run through the jungle was behind her, weariness was setting in fast. She could feel herself fading, feel her strength ebbing out and her wits beginning to fail her. If she didn’t hurry, she would collapse into unconsciousness right on the front doorstep of her safe haven.
Pushing off once more, she slogged her way through the sand until the bamboo wall rose before her, reaching for its support as she trudged along its curve. Her eyelids felt like lead; every time she blinked it was as if her lashes stuck together with tar.
She stumbled, pulling herself along rung by rung. Finally, the sag of the wall under her weight announced the gate. A small tinkle of bells chimed into the silence as the entrance jostled on its hinges. She fumbled for the clusters of bells that tethered the gates shut, and then shook them – hard.
The alarm went off with a jingling clamor. If it worked like it was supposed to, they would hear. Please, someone hear.
She rattled the gates again. Come on. I’m right here. Someone let me in.
Fatigue tremored up her arms with every shake.
She didn’t have the strength anymore. Not even to pound at her own door.
With an exhausted sigh, she sagged against the entrance. A final clang battered the other side, and then the silence returned.
Her mind and body were done. Spent. Heavy. Wracked in excruciating duress.
She just...she just had to sleep. Had to shut it all off, just for a minute.
She caught herself nodding off, drooping chin to chest with her back against the gate. But the only reaction she could muster was a breathy, bone-weary chuckle of delirium, as if the notion of even trying to resist was the funniest thing she had ever heard.
*
A tinkle of bells brought her back toward lucidity. The sound of the tide, at once velvety and abrasive, was deafening in her pounding head. The now dawn-tinged sky flickered behind her furiously blinking lashes. Had she been lying here all night, or had it been this close to dawn when she arrived at the shore?
Gate hinges creaked, a briny, cold gust of sea air engulfing her. She shivered, trying to turn her face toward the bamboo entrance.
A face swam into view like slides on an old projector screen – a new slide for every blink.
It took her longer than it should have to react to the figure looming over her form, but then she was lurching awake and scrambling backward in the sand.
A strong hand clamped down on her arm, halting her.
“Shiloh.”
It was Jayx. At first just a silhouette in the dark, his scent of pine musk washed over her. Then his sandy mane came into focus. The blond scruff he’d been sporting on his chin as of late had sprouted into an outright, roguish beard.
Shiloh relaxed. A giddy feeling of relief tingled through her, and a lop-sided grin tugged at her cracked lips.
“I like it,” she croaked, reaching up to touch his bearded face before she realized what she was doing.
His gaze met hers, trying to peg her level of coherence. He did nothing to deflect her touch as he searched her face.
“Are you hurt?” His composed voice oozed like warm honey into her ears. Then his gaze oozed like warm honey down her neck and across every inch of her body and into every crevice of her disheveled form.
The shiver from the sea breeze turned to a shiver of feverish delight. How had she never noticed his gaze was so gooey before?
The thought brought another tickle of delirium bubbling to her lips. She clamped her mouth shut just shy of the nonsensical giggle breaking free, but it was impossible to keep her face from distorting into a mask of childlike mirth.
Just as quickly, she blinked it away. What had gotten into her?
Jayx had asked a question.
Hurt. Yes, one could say that. “Just a few scratches.” The worst of it – her twice-impaled back – was hidden from his view, plastered against the sandy underbrush. The rest of her injuries, superficial abrasions and some pretty bruises, registered without undue alarm on his face.
“Let’s get you back to the ship.” Jayx made as if to help her up, and Shiloh winced as the pull into an upright position strained her tender back. A throaty whimper filtered out, and did not go unnoticed. “What hurts?”
“Everything.” It wasn’t untrue. What would he say when she told him the story of her flight?
In hindsight, it seemed surreal. Half of what had transpired during her excursion across the island was lost in a drug-like haze. Which parts had even happened?
The world spun as she returned to her feet. Jayx slung one of her arms across his shoulders and supported her back through the gates. He re-strung the bells to secure the entrance, and then together they wove through the booby-trapped sand to the dinghy in the shallows, Shiloh limping all the way.
Lightheadedness washed out the world from view, and she curled up again as soon as she was safely inside the basin of the vessel. She just wanted to go right back to sleep.
Jayx didn’t press her for immediate answers, evidently aware she was in no shape to provide a lucid account. Silently they crossed the water to the Dauntless, and it was a cruel thing when he roused her again to climb aboard.
The sun was rising as she touched down on deck, peeking its blazing eye over the ledge of the horizon. Its light set off a clamor of sensitivity in Shiloh’s head. Never had she felt so stiff and stale and cranky and awful.
Leia was up on deck stringing laundry on a line. Shiloh recognized one of her own shirts – a gray-green tunic that still sported faded blood- and sweat-stains.
“I see you didn’t completely give up on me returning,” she managed a wry quip, surprising herself with the attempt at humor.
It was anyone’s guess what she would say or do next.
Leia turned, and a smile split her dark face. It was still so strange, other people’s displays of happiness at seeing her. The Crosser followed Shiloh’s gaze to the tunic. “What makes you so sure Heidi didn’t raid your wardrobe the instant you were gone for
more than five minutes?” she jested in return.
Halfway through a grin, Shiloh caught sight of the other Crosser who was up with the sun. His shock of red hair caught the morning rays and flashed bright as flame, and he might as well have been waving a red cape at a touchy bull.
Shiloh being the bull.
Her volatile mood took a swing for the worse. Something about locking him in her sights provoked an irrational sense of indignation. There he is, curse him. The feeling balled into a guttural fist of rage, sharp and biting.
Her first act as a refugee returned to safety was to tear at the straps of her defective Pulser, essentially throwing a temper tantrum to get it off of her as she stalked down the deck toward Alex, pinning him in her scathing sights. A startled look passed over his face as he saw her coming, his brow flitting uncertainly between relief at her return and alarm at her obvious displeasure.
“Shiloh! You’re okay…are you okay?”
“Am I okay?” she repeated bitterly as she fumbled with the Pulser, ripping the device off over her head as soon as the straps were loose enough. “Okay like somebody who didn’t get jumped on by a horde of raging savages when this thing didn't work?” She threw it onto the deck at Alex's feet, secretly pleased with the destructive force of the clang.
He blinked at her outburst, withdrawing automatically into a somewhat defensive stance. He looked down at the Pulser, his shoulders slumping as he realized what had caused her hardship. “I'm sorry, Shiloh. They're old. Malfunctions happen.”
“They happen? Your face not being the first I want to see after almost getting me killed happens too,” Shiloh spat, surprised at her own vehemence.
“Just take a breath, Shiloh,” Leia’s coaxing voice came up behind her, the other girl tuning in instantly to the swing of her mood. “You're okay now.”
Wonderland (Deadly Lush Book 2) Page 13