by K. E. Blaski
“Not at all. The salve has already penetrated your muscles and nerves. The effects won’t wear off until tomorrow.”
“Then please, bring me a balneum?” She didn’t know what a balneum was, but suspected it was bigger than a basin.
“You need to work on your Nobless skills,” Logan chastised. “You don’t sound very powerf—” Marcis elbowed him again as they left.
They returned with a large metal tub and another procession of brown-robed, gloved women. One after the other, the women emptied pitchers and bowls of steaming liquid into the tub, until it sloshed over the rim. They worked fast, their eyes downcast, then left without a sound.
“Logan and I will be right outside if you need us.”
Once Jennica was alone, she ripped away the veil. She leaned over the tub and felt the steam lap at her face. “My first medieval bath.” It smelled like flowery perfume, and oil mottled the surface. She stripped off the nasty wedding robe and struggled to climb into the tub with her awkward feet. At last, she sank into the mixture until her chin skimmed the surface.
“Perfect.” She plunged her head, and water rushed into her ears, muffling everything but her heartbeat. No—Nyima’s heartbeat. Jennica’s heart was in school, maybe having lunch with Sam and Lisbeth, or starting the badminton unit in PE. What she wouldn’t give to wave around a bent racket, smacking at a piece of plastic.
She stayed submerged until her lungs burned, then popped up for air.
A hulking shadow perched in one of the round windows, blocking the sunlight. She couldn’t quite tell what it was—some kind of huge falcon? A vulture? Its bulk filled the opening, its head tucked under a dark wing.
The bird craned its neck around, revealing a small human face with a maniacal grin. Jennica rose, naked and trembling, her first instinct was to run. And when she finally sucked enough air to fill her lungs, she screamed. She screamed high and hard because the thing framed in the window was not a bird. Framed in the window was an abomination of human flesh, metal teeth, and wings.
JENNICA
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NYIMA’S ROOM
Books crashed to the floor. The creature shrieked, uncurling its silver wings, scraping them against the window rim.
Then Damen was there. “Get out of here—go on! Shoo, shoo.”
The creature cast an annoyed look at Damen, snorted through tiny nostrils, and flew off.
Exposed and dripping, Jennica wrapped her arms around herself. She was still shaking when Damen slipped a robe over her head and led her out of the tub. He put his arms around her and she clung to him, letting him stroke her hair, letting him calm her down. It didn’t matter that she hated him for bringing her to this godforsaken world—he had come when she’d needed him, he’d driven off the horror that stared with human eyes, and when he held her against his chest she felt less . . . alone.
“I’m sorry you had to see one of the hawks. Their roost is in the yard, right below this room.”
She pulled away. “There’s more of them?”
“He’s created a flock. To do his bidding. That one was just snooping.”
“Created? Out of spare body parts, like Frankenstein?”
“I don’t know Frankenstein. And I wasn’t here when he made them. All I know is what the castle staff have told me.” He went to the window and leaned against the circular rim. “The hawks were once the infant children of Noble Tortare’s conquered enemies. He imprisoned the surviving leaders from the twelve spired cities in the dungeons with their wives and children. Then he consulted with dark scientists.”
While Damen spoke, his face turned pale, and he twisted his hands in his robe. “One night he commanded his soldiers to seize all the children less than one year old. He personally weaned them from their mothers, feeding them bottles of bos milk laced with Urion, bonding with them. After they learned to crawl, he affixed metal teeth and claws to their tiny bodies, starved them until they were ravenous, and then let them loose on their own families in the dungeons. Once they’d consumed the bones of his enemies, he gave his new children wings.”
Damen pointed out the window. “He’s feeding them.”
“Feeding them?” Icy fingers trailed her spine. Jennica didn’t know why, but she went to see for herself. Maybe she was drawn to the horror movie that guaranteed she’d be sickened and appalled, but she’d paid her money and would go anyway. Or maybe she just felt safer standing next to Damen.
Dozens of flapping hawks dove and soared below her. Noble Tortare stood on a raised platform and tossed pale bits from a red-stained bucket. The hawks caught the morsels between their teeth and with their clawed hands. They squealed and giggled, like children on a playground.
She would’ve left the theater. They could keep her money. “Get me out of here.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Out of this room, then. Get me out of this perverted room.” Why couldn’t he see how oppressive the wedding chamber was, with its petal-strewn floor and gaudy bed, how terrifying it was to have mutant hawks coming and going as they pleased, watching her while she slept, leering at her while she bathed?
His fingers grazed her hand and she latched on to them. “Please.”
“Nyima’s room. I’ll take you there. Can you walk? You seem to be getting around better today.”
“Yes. I can walk. Let’s go.”
“Can I come in?” Marcis hollered from behind the door.
She was grateful for Marcis. He was on her side, looking out for her. Damen? She wanted to ask him if he cared, too, but he’d look at her with his big doe eyes and be compelled to tell her the truth. If he said “no,” after all he’d put her through, well . . . she’d be compelled to step on his other foot.
“How are your toes, by the way?” She returned his hand.
“Better.”
“Good,” she said without apologizing. If he ever apologized for snatching her soul, then maybe she’d say sorry, too. Maybe.
“Hello? Is everything all right?” Marcis called out again.
“Come in, Marcis. I’m okay.”
“Are you—covered?”
“He came in with me, but then he turned back, because you weren’t wearing a bathing robe,” Damen said.
“Bathing robe?”
Damen snatched a pink gauzy coverup from the edge of the bed. “Bathing robe. Women cover themselves when they bathe.”
Her cheeks turned hot. “It didn’t seem to bother you,” she snapped.
He chuckled. “My mother walks around naked all the time. Not that your body resembles hers in any way,” he added quickly. “Besides, I have so much inhibitor in my system from last night . . . well, you don’t affect me in that way. Marcis, on the other hand . . .”
Poor Marcis. He’d wanted to help, but Nyima’s—her—ridiculous skin had sent him running. “It’s okay, Marcis. You can come in.”
Relief spread across his face when he saw her, and she smiled in response. “You’re sure?” he asked, staying a safe distance away.
She nodded.
“Your bindings,” Marcis said. The books Damen had dropped lay scattered at Marcis’s feet.
“They’re for Jennica,” Damen said as Marcis scooped them up. Damen took one and presented it to her. “To write on, or draw. About Earth. So you can give information to Noble. Keep him interested in keeping you alive.”
She turned the book over in her hands; a pink flower was embedded in the cover. The thin pages crackled between her fingers. “It’s pretty. Thank you. But why so many?”
“So you don’t run out. Oh, and here.” He pulled a small bundle from his robes and unwrapped four black sticks. “I haven’t had time to bind them in cloth. They’ll stain your hands. I’ll give them to you later.”
Anxiety started to gnaw at her. She sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the book of empty pages. What would she write to fill them? What could she write to save her own life?
“Marcis, escort Jennica to Nyima’s room
. She’ll stay there from now on,” Damen instructed.
“You’ll have to make the request yourself, Jennica,” Marcis said.
“Look at her,” Logan stood in the doorway. “She’s going to do that leaky eyeball thing again. For Aprica’s sake, let’s get her to the other side of the castle.”
“Go on ahead with Logan and Marcis. I’ll catch up with you later,” Damen said. “I have something I need to take care of first.” He fled the room, and Jennica wondered why he’d hurried away.
“Tears make guys uncomfortable on my planet, too,” Jennica told Marcis as she covered her face with the veil again and followed him through the passageways. Logan brought up the rear of their awkward parade. Marcis appeared to pantomime walking through tar. Jennica assumed he was making an effort to go slow for her disabled feet. What he didn’t realize is that ever since he’d given her the salve, she didn’t feel any pain—and even felt added strength. She’d never do sprints again, or be fast enough to outrun anyone chasing her—and she sure couldn’t sneak out; Noble had seen to that—but she could keep up a pace faster than last night’s. She clanked another step forward.
As she walked, she listened to Logan chatter on about the castle’s history: the main construction had been completed over one hundred years ago—Noble Aquila had built the castle on the backs of slave laborers, unsurprisingly—and the walls were built from stone mined from the Village of Benicio. Logan knew an impressive amount of detail, and made a fine tour guide, even cracking a joke or two, but the men and women, children and soldiers peering at Jennica from open doorways distracted her from giving Logan her full attention. Small groups gathered in the corners of the passageways as they passed, whispering and staring.
“There seem to be a lot more people here today,” she said.
“Some of the wedding visitors decided to stay longer than usual. Also, this is a main hallway. It’s always more congested. You’re normally escorted through the back passages, but I thought taking a shorter route would be less tiring.”
Rounding a corner, Jennica collided with a brown-robed boy who unexpectedly hugged her around the waist.
“What was that for?” The boy darted away. “What’s your name?” she called after him.
“Children.” Marcis sighed exaggeratedly. “Rosen skin doesn’t affect them, but they are high-spirited, emotional creatures.” He opened the door to her old room, propped it ajar with a stone, and moved aside, letting her pass.
“But why did he hug me?”
“Hug? Oh—he clung to you because he’s glad.”
“Glad you’re still—” Logan began, only to be met with a glare from Marcis.
“Human?” Jennica finished for him.
“We have enough empty Rosen vessels here,” Logan added. “One less is something to celebrate. Time to open the good stuff, aye Marcis?”
“Quietly.” Marcis gave Logan a look of warning. “We can’t celebrate without Noble’s permission or he’ll respond out of spite. Is there anything I can get for you?” he asked Jennica, changing the subject.
“No, thank you. I want to be alone.” She appreciated Marcis’s company, and Logan’s too, but she needed time to think—and try to figure out what she’d say to Noble tonight.
Logan handed her the books and slid the stone aside. The heavy door closed behind the two soldiers with a thud.
Jennica dropped onto the bed. The bed she’d once thought was enormous was, she now realized, only half as large as the wedding bed. Soft blue sheets had replaced the orange ones. She lay back and fanned her arms. The silk curled and twisted under her fingers, smooth and cool and—sharp?
A pinhead-sized drop of red seeped against the tip of her index finger. She tossed the pillows aside and found it. Madam Meilyn’s knife. Whoever had changed the sheets had placed the knife back under the pillow where Jennica had left it. Why didn’t the staff confiscate it? Someone on the staff, or several someones, knew she had a weapon—and had let her keep it.
Cradling the knife in the palms of her hands, she got an idea. Pulling up her robe, she placed the edge of the knife against her metal ankle and poked. Nothing. She pressed harder this time. Not even a scratch. She put all her weight against the knife to cut into the metal. The knife glanced off the metal harmlessly and twisted out of her hands.
No wonder they’d let her keep it. A kitchen utensil couldn’t get past armor that had been fused to a person’s skin. Still, it might reveal its usefulness later.
Like for slitting your wrists, a tiny voice inside her head suggested. Why else would someone leave it behind? Better to end by your own hand than suffer under Noble Tortare.
“I need you, Uncle Ed. I could use one of your pep talks right now,” Jennica said aloud, squelching the other voice. “I know, I know. Fight like it matters.”
She pushed herself off the bed, retrieved the knife, and started looking for a new hiding spot for it. That’s when she saw the words: sharp messages scratched into the soft wood underneath the bed.
My day is tomorrow.
I am at peace.
My family will be taken care of. I go willingly for them.
Blessed be Aprica and eternal sunshine.
My soul saves a thousand.
Which carving was Nyima’s? She searched for fresh edges, not yet smoothed by running hands and fingers. This one. I have faith. I will be rescued. Damen had given her hope, and he hadn’t disappointed.
Jennica had no pretenses that someone would rescue her. If there was rescuing to be done, she’d have to do it herself.
Hell, she was used to independence. Her mom used to leave her on her own for weeks at a time. “Go see Grandmom if you need something.” Jennica had used her freedom to hike out to the dunes for the day and come back coated with sand and smelling like coconut sunblock. Once she’d taken the bus to Chicago and toured Museum Park, eaten herself silly at the street vendors, and gawked at the boats in the marina. She’d never gone again. Grandma Lorinne had freaked when she found out.
“Don’t ever go to the big city alone. We’ll go with you next time.”
Next time never came, unless they took Nyima. How ironic that her grandparents had advised her to avoid the “big city,” when her dad left her in Los Angeles twice a year, on her birthday and Easter. He flew her out to California, by herself, and put her up in a five-star hotel, by herself. God forbid she contaminate his new family.
“Order whatever you want from room service,” he’d told her.
She’d swum in the pool, visited the spa, bought her own birthday presents at the lobby gift shop, and stuck her dad with the big fat bill at the end of it all.
He’d never complained about it—how could he? He paid her off so she wouldn’t interfere, placated her to avoid a scene. How tempting to grab a cab and show up unannounced at his house for dinner.
Hey, Daddy, Step-Mommy, Half-Sis, and Half-Bro, how’s it going? Got tired of room service, home-cooked is so much better. Maxed out your account, and they kicked me to the curb. I’ll bunk with my siblings if that’s okay with you.
The downside of putting your father on the defensive? Dropping from two visits to none. Risk versus reward.
Here, the risk was death, the reward was life. Jennica wanted to live.
She ran her fingers across Nyima’s words again. What words would she choose? She didn’t know. Carving some profound statement into the bedframe seemed . . . too final. She wasn’t ready. She stuffed the knife in the crevice between the headboard and the floor.
Air flooded the room through the round window. The day had lost some of its humidity, and the lighter air traveled faster: the closer to the window, the more intense the breeze. With a bit of effort, she pulled herself, and then her feet, up and onto the windowsill, resting her back against the stone curve and curling her knees up to her chin.
Noble’s city stretched below, a welcome sight compared to the hawk roost. The narrow buildings rose into tapered points, like spear tips poised for a battle. The
picture below was smudged with soot, drawn with a charcoal stick on pale pink paper. As she watched, the paper brightened to coral with the setting sun, then slowly faded to thick violet. The same color as her skin. Pinpricks of lantern light appeared, and sparkled like fireflies. Two waxing moons crawled over the horizon. Hard stone moons. They were beautiful.
JENNICA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CORALEE
“Jennica?” Damen’s voice sounded muffled and far away. “Are you awake?” He was at the door, to take her to Noble Tortare. While she’d dozed in the window, she hadn’t had any breakthrough revelations about what to tell her husband. She’d fail. Damen had come to take her to die.
“Jennica? Answer me. I’ve good news to tell you. I came up with a plan to save you. May I come in?”
Had she heard him right, or was her mind so desperate it twisted his words? She slid out of the window. “Come in, Damen.”
“Umm, there have to be two of us. Noble’s orders.”
“Yes, yes—okay.” Jennica expected that Marcis would accompany Damen, but she didn’t recognize the soldier that entered. No, wait. Steel-gray eyes set close together against a beak of a nose. The soldier that had flirted with Madam Meilyn at the gate the day she died.
He walked three feet into the room and stopped like someone had punched him in the gut. “Whoa—look at her skin.” He licked his lips.
She’d forgotten to cover her face. She backed up until the back of her legs hit the bed.
The soldier stepped closer.
Damen stood between them. “No, no, no—you’ll have to wait outside.”
“Orders. Got to stay.” The soldier’s chest rose and fell. “Want to stay.”
“No. You can’t handle it, soldier. Soldier!” Damen shouted as the man pushed him aside and lunged for Jennica.
She was ready. The soldier stopped an inch in front of the blade of her knife. “I am Noble Tortare’s wife.” She planted her booted feet into the floor, ready to plunge the knife into the soldier’s eyeball, because metal scales did not protect soldiers’ eyes. “You will leave my room.” He stood gawking at her. “Now.”