by Bree Moore
The cold air touched the tear streaks on her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” His expression deepened with concern, his other hand coming up to hold her other shoulder. He drew her into him and Becca allowed it, resting her head on his chest, tears dribbling across her nose and into the vest on his chest. They didn’t sink in, instead trembling as a tiny bead of water on the skin’s surface before rolling off to the ground.
“Silla said…” She hiccupped. “He said if we’re together in front of the chief, you will be exiled, basically. Like your parents.”
He exhaled into her hair. “My parents were exiled?”
Becca nodded against his chest. “He said they left the village, which isn’t allowed. Neither is being mated to someone outside the village.”
“Now I face the same decisions they did.” His hands flexed on her shoulders, massaging them. “I would choose you, you know that.”
“No, I don’t.” Becca pushed away from him, still staying within his arms but putting distance between them so she could look into his face. “And you don’t know that either. You keep saying it, but you can’t know it before you’ve even met them. You’ve searched for your family your whole life. Would you leave them so easily for what I’ve become?”
Her eyes searched his and when he didn’t answer immediately, she continued. “At least until after you meet the chief, and he delivers his verdict for me, I think we should take a break from…us.” She gestured between her chest and his, breathing into the tightness clenching through her body.
Quinn squeezed her shoulders. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Neither do I. But it’s our best chance.”
“I want to help you.” His voice shook.
Becca’s smile faltered, but she held it all the same. “You still can. As my friend.”
He shook his head. “When all this is over…”
Becca stepped back further, forcing his hands to drop. “We can see where things stand then.” And then, because that felt too much like a knife falling between them, she smiled again, more genuinely this time. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She watched his throat move as he swallowed. He stared at her, his brown eyes drinking her in, as if memorizing how she looked in that moment. Her chest swelled with the pain of it, but she held her expression frozen until he breathed out.
“I wish you weren’t.”
His words stopped her heart. She cocked her head.
Quinn licked his lips and shifted his stance. “I mean, I wish you weren’t in danger. And that things could be whatever we wanted them to be.”
“But you agree this is necessary.” Her legs, her hands, even her face trembled.
“Yes. Until I understand what this is all about. But if they even hint like they’re going to kill you, I’m flying us both out of there. I don’t want any part of a tribe that kills people out of prejudice.”
Becca moved forward numbly and folded herself into his arms, which wrapped around her without hesitation. She inhaled the scent of him, slightly different with the skin vest on. Her heart pounded and her head felt dizzy with the desire to kiss him.
A desire she ignored, for now.
The group crossed the river and entered the woods. Silla distributed dried meat and fruit among them. Through the trees, Becca caught glimpses of darting brown critters, and birds sang readily. They walked in silence. She snuck a glance at Quinn. If she’d been in his position, she would be asking a dozen questions to find out what awaited her at the village, but Quinn wasn’t a big asker. He observed. Becca had a feeling that if she asked the questions… well, they might do more than just bind her hands.
The thought made her stumble and an arm reached out from behind and caught her around her waist. As soon as she was steady, Quinn let go.
“Thank you,” Becca said, swallowing past the lump in her throat. It felt wrong to not give him a peck on the lips or cheek, but it was for good reasons. At least she tried to convince herself of that. Quinn deserved a chance to decide if this village, and these people, were the place he belonged. She had been in his life a short time compared to how long he’d searched to find a place in the world where he could be himself and thrive.
Quinn glanced away, squinting in the afternoon sunlight.
Silla stepped up in front of Becca holding a dark blue cloth. Tarkik did the same with Avaan. “We are required to blindfold you at this point.”
Becca held out her hands willingly. Would willing compliance be a consideration in her trial? The cloth slipped around her head, obscuring her view of Quinn. She was stuck with the image of his pitying expression and the feeling of Silla’s rough hands tugging her along.
He was a good guide, quietly warning of rocks to step over and the like, but she still stumbled in the darkness of the blindfold. She found a rhythm to being led, and appreciated more than ever that it was Silla guiding her and not Tarkik, who no doubt would have walked her into a sprained ankle or worse if he could get away with it. She would have preferred Quinn to either of them, but he didn’t offer to lead her, and she didn’t ask. It would look better for him if she entered the village as a prisoner, even if that thought did make her heart pound, and an itching sensation traveled up her scale-coated arm.
She focused on the senses she had left. Birdsong on the wind, trees rustling, and a deep throbbing sound.
“Is that drums?” Avaan’s voice piped up, surprising Becca. It sounded different when she couldn’t see his face, but her memory summoned an image easily enough.
“Tarkik went ahead last night and told them of our coming today. The drums are celebratory, to welcome back a son and brother,” Silla explained.
Quinn.
The sounds of the village grow louder. Feet stomped and smaller feet ran. A fire crackled loudly, the wood popping as it was consumed. Becca could smell meat cooking, but not like the chicken or beef from home. It was somehow richer as it mixed with the smoke, most likely caribou, or whatever they ate out here.
There was laughter and conversation in the angular sounds of the Inuit tongue, none of which she understood. More female voices than male, she noted, though perhaps the men were quiet, or gathered elsewhere. She wished she could see the dwellings and what they were made of. Were they teepees, like many of the Native American tribes of the southwest United States? Or log-made or stone buildings? Her imagination went wild as she was guided deeper into the village. The laughter quieted as she passed, and conversation turned to whispers. Was it for her or Quinn? They did make up an odd-looking party, she supposed. Two prisoners of different nationalities and a newcomer of their own kind.
Becca’s heart rate climbed again. What if the villagers rejected her and decided not to let her live? Would they burn her over their fire? Shoot her with an arrow? Fly her into the sky on those ebony wings and let her plummet to the valley floor? Her thermal sense sharpened, the colors shifting through the slight gap in the bottom of the blindfold near her nose.
The snake was awakening.
Becca’s body tensed and the itching spread to her chest and abdomen. She inhaled deeply and slowly, focusing on staying human, maintaining control. Going rogue now would certainly get her killed. She had to stay calm. She recited the words to her favorite song in her head, and then every other song she could think of. It seemed to help.
She ran her tongue against her teeth, taking comfort in the normal rounded tip and her human-shaped teeth. The itching subsided.
They halted. Words were exchanged, and Becca recognized the sound of a door opening. Silla pulled on her bound hands and led her forward. The temperature dropped slightly, and even with the blindfold on Becca could tell it was darker. The outside sounds muffled. They had entered a dank room.
Silla’s words broke the “You’ll remain here, bound, until after the feast. Tomorrow, our chief will see you.”
“Can the blindfold be removed?” Becca asked.
There was a long pause,
and then she felt fingers at the back of her head. The cloth dropped away. To her surprise, Avaan was across the room. Becca arched her neck, rolling tension out of her neck as she glanced at the ceiling. It wasn’t far above her head—perhaps a foot or two. And the arched support beams were made of thinner logs stripped of bark, with stretched skins sewn together expertly and overlapping each other to make a roof. The dirt floor comprised a circular area that several grown men could lie down comfortably in.
Silla led her to a thick support beam across from Avaan and took out another length of rope. He made her step through her arms, which put them behind her, and he deftly wrapped the second rope around the binding on her hands before fixing it to the joint made of logs. It was long enough she could sit, and also long enough she could reach a dark, circular pit to her left, presumably the ‘bathroom,’ but not long enough she could reach the doorway they had entered through. Or Avaan. He had his own pit, she noticed, and a curtain hung across that half of the room, blocking the pots from view of each other. She shuddered. She was not looking forward to the inevitable moment when she would be forced to use the dirt toilet.
Silla gestured toward a wide bowl and a flat plate in the center of the room. There was liquid in the bowl. Becca could tell because the surface rippled. The plate held a dark, round bread or cake and a pile of steaming food.
“There is food for both of you, and you each have a pot to use as a facility,” Silla said. “If you cannot reach it, call out and someone will assist you. I do not need to remind you, but I will—any attempt at escape is a death sentence. Our chief is a fair judge and I do not think you are in any real danger of losing your life tomorrow, so do not do anything foolish. Another meal will be brought in the morning.”
“Will Quinn be allowed to see me?” Becca blushed as soon as she spoke the words.
Silla’s eyes glittered, and he seemed disappointed. “Not without an escort. He is very important to the village, and we will not risk him.”
Risk him escaping? Or being killed? Becca wanted to ask, but she bit her lip instead. Silla removed Avaan’s blindfold and left the hut, disappearing down the short entrance tunnel. A stream of light entered as he lifted the front flap that served as a door, and Becca heard him speak briefly to someone standing outside. A guard?
She sighed and sat, careful not to lean against the wall. She couldn’t be sure how sturdy it was. Would it hold her weight? She didn’t test it. The food smelled good now that she had rested for a moment. She could still hear some conversation outside the hut, but it sounded farther away now. The hut was surprisingly well-insulated, and the coat made her sweat. She wished she had asked Silla to take it off.
“Please, eat your fill.” Avaan’s voice filled the hut.
Becca looked up, hair hanging in clumped strands around her face. Sweat and dirt no doubt coated her skin. Attractive. “You already skipped a meal.”
“I am fasting.”
“For deliverance. Right.” Becca’s voice sounded bitter, but she didn’t try to soften it. Anyone who believed they would get out of here alive was delusional. Even if the chief let them go, someone like Tarkik would dispose of them soon enough. Or a bear. Whichever came first.
“It is difficult to have hope, but think of it as a unique experience to tell the grandchildren,” Avaan said. “Whatever gets you through. Just do not despair.”
“Have you been in prison before? Because you sound awfully familiar with things.”
Avaan shifted his seat, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning his head on the pole behind him. “I have been contained once or twice. My country is not as peaceful as yours. We’ve had many wars within our own lands, amongst our own people.”
“How long will they keep us here, do you think?”
“A day, as they said.” Avaan sounded so sure, Becca almost believed him.
“Do you wish you hadn’t come?” She pushed herself to her knees and made her way across the dirt floor like that, hands still bound behind her. Her stomach clenched, and she didn’t think the food would taste any better cold. She might as well eat now.
“Do you?” Avaan asked.
Becca shook her head. She eyed the plate below her, realizing there was nothing to hold back her hair. She grimaced. This would be messy. Self-conscious, she leaned forward, ripping off a piece of the bread with her teeth. It was soft enough to bite through, though chewy in texture, and she had to grind her teeth to get a piece in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed, then moved to the meat. Tossing her head to one side and coming at the plate from an angle, she was able to lick and bite at the stew. The meat was stringy, the stew barely salted, but it filled her stomach. She wiped her mouth on her shoulder when she finished, pleased that she’d eaten as neatly as she had. A long drink from the bowl finished her meal, and she sat back on her heels a moment, glancing at Avaan.
He hadn’t spoken a word while she ate. To his credit he hadn’t stared or made things more awkward than they needed to be, but now his eyes rested on her—a steady, calm gaze that unsettled Becca more than her current surroundings. She thought about retreating to her wall, but why should she? She crossed her legs and sat near the food and water, staring back at him.
“I have a confession,” Avaan announced. He scooted away from the wall, his hands bound similarly to Becca’s, but he didn’t come the full way, stopping about two feet short of reaching the center of the hut. “I am not here as a photographer. Not mainly, at least.”
She should have seen this coming. He was too handsome not to be hiding something. She tried to appear disinterested. “Oh?” She glanced away from him, to one of the walls, observing the tight seams between animal skins.
Avaan sighed. “I was a photographer in Lebanon. I traveled to Syria seeking a certain piece of information, and while there I came across a Tarot reader. You are familiar with Tarot?”
“The cards? Somewhat.” Becca had researched it, of course. Anything with a hint of paranormal found its way into her mind eventually. She’d found Tarot interesting, amusing, even, but never gave it much thought beyond that. It hadn’t been magical enough to hold her attention, just luck of the draw and subjective interpretation.
“This reader drew cards for me. I would meet someone, a woman, in a place I had never been, and she would bring me great fortune or great ruin. I did not believe much in the Tarot until that day.”
“Because you met a woman in a place you have never been? That reading is so vague it might as well be a newspaper horoscope.”
“Ah, but there were more cards. I pulled a moon and also a serpent.”
Becca recoiled, then recovered. Just a card. It didn’t have to mean anything. But she still found the words falling out of her mouth. “And what do those cards mean?”
“Things are not what they seem. Caution required. Success almost guaranteed.”
This time, Becca laughed. A horoscope indeed. “ I hope you didn’t pay her. What would success be to you?”
“Right now? Escape! But at the time, I hoped this journey would find me a partner. The serpent is a card representing feminine power and allure. The moon could have meant the exposure of someone I’m meant to be close to. Or someone I should stay away from.”
“How can you know which to follow, then? Seems like a pretty useless fortune telling.” Becca’s chest tightened. Her gaze drifted toward the smile she saw in the crook of his mouth. Despite that, she somehow knew he was sincere. Was he really professing to believe that Becca was some sort of soulmate for him based on a single Tarot card reading?
“I’m feeling rather fortunate so far.” He released a full smile so charming it might have been predatory, teeth gleaming in the darkness. Becca scooted back, putting more distance between them as she leaned back against a pole.
A deep throbbing vibrated the earth beneath Becca. The walls quivered. The sound was drums, Becca realized, the relentless and rhythmic pounding of drums. Whoops and hollers come from outsi
de. Becca wondered what it must look like. Did they have Quinn in ceremonial garb? Anyone else might look ridiculous, but knowing Quinn, he would pull off the tribal headdress look and manage to look dignified, no matter how large it was. Becca let herself imagine it, almost forgetting Avaan and the strange conversation they’d had.
But then he spoke. “I am something of a performer myself. Do you mind if I play a tune?”
“Might as well.” Becca shrugged. Better than more of that awkward conversation.
Somehow, Avaan’s hands came free from his binds. He tugged at a cord beneath his shirt and dragged out a thin pipe. The surface was cobalt blue and had various holes in it, like a flute, only this one was certainly handmade.
Before she could ask how he’d undone his bindings, Avaan had placed his fingers and put the instrument to his lips.
Instead of the high, reedy sound Becca expected, the tone of the pipe was both airy and rich, with substance to it like she’d never noticed in a flute-like instrument. She sat up straighter, staring at Avaan’s fingers as they moved deftly across the holes. His eyes remained locked on Becca’s as he weaved his notes around the beats of the drums outside.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and her head wove in time with the music. A hum started deep in her throat, matching the unfamiliar tune. Her mind relaxed, and then emptied.
Avaan said something.
“What?” Becca mumbled, eyes half-lidded.
“You serve the music. You will listen to me now. ”
“Yes,” Becca intoned.
“You must call me amir. Do you understand?”
“Yes, amir.” A screaming voice inside of Becca’s head faded into a muted grey nothingness. The music threaded its way around her.
Her arms were the first to change, scales climbing from wrists to shoulders, spreading across her neck. Avaan smiled, and Becca smiled too. When her master was happy, she was happy too.
⇺ ⇻
Chapter Eleven