by Stacey Jay
I’d forgotten that about my mama. I’d forgotten most of those memories. Their recovery warms me from the inside out, makes me smile as I give in to the muzzy feeling tugging me closer to sleep.
I curl on my side in the dirt, arm pillowing my cheek—thinking of those pearl buttons, and wishing I could remember my mother’s face—while the cold pulls oblivion over my shoulders, tucks it around my ears, and covers my sightless eyes. Before I consciously decide to go, I am snapped away into something deeper than sleep, but I’m not afraid.
I’m not cold or lost or lonely anymore. I am not a princess or a queen or a sacrifice or an abomination or a disappointment. I am nothing at all, a cup swiftly emptying of all the Isra inside it, leaving nothing behind.
ELEVEN
GEM
I stand at the base of the mountain for a long, long moment, not sure I’ll be able to climb back up again.
The place where the soldier’s spear pierced my thigh aches so badly, it feels as though the bone there will split in half. A hollow in the ground between two nearby Cross cacti looks more inviting than a Smooth Skin bed of clouds. I think how good it would be to lie down there and stare up at the million stars in the sky and be done with this day. But after a long drink of cactus milk and a too-short rest, I start back up the trail.
As much as I’d like to leave the queen to her lies and trembling up on the mountain, I promised to keep her safe.
Still, I don’t hurry. I can’t hurry with my leg throbbing like a second angry heart, but I wouldn’t even if I could. The less time I spend with Isra tonight, the better. I can’t remember being this angry since the day she came to my cell and laughed at my starving people and cried her sticky tears onto my chest. I would just as soon wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze as sit by the fire with the queen of Yuan.
How dare she treat me like a comrade at shovel and hoe every day we worked together, only to cower and quake the moment her guards are gone? I’d believed the way she viewed my people had changed. I thought she was different from the rest of the Smooth Skins. I thought she considered me a … friend. I certainly worked hard enough to convince her I was worth befriending. Even if every shared story and teasing word and gentle bit of advice was deception on my part, she doesn’t know that. I’ve given her no reason to change her good opinion of me.
If she ever had one.
She must have been lying, too. Lying with every lopsided smile and flash of her clever eyes and softly whispered reassurance about my healing legs. She was only pretending to trust me, to feel affection for the beast she kept in chains. I should have known she was false. In her eyes, I’ll always be a monster. I suspected as much from the beginning.
So why does the proof of what I’ve known all along feel like a betrayal? Why does the sight of her shaking hands make me want to hurl boulders down the mountain? Why do I hurt?
I feel as bruised as I did the day Meer told me she was choosing another man as her mate. I should have been happy. I didn’t want to stay with the tribe and watch the baby growing inside Meer be born into a life of famine and pain. I was a warrior. I had a tunnel to finish digging, roses to steal, Smooth Skin cities to worm my way inside.
But I wasn’t happy. There were days when watching Meer love someone else more than she had ever loved me—seeing the casual intimacies between her and Hant at the campfire, catching him with his hand upon her swelling belly and a smile on his face—felt like dying. The same way being captured by Smooth Skins felt like dying, and being ordered about by my enemy felt like dying.
Isra has brought nothing but misery into my life, but when I arrive at the remains of the campfire and see the flames out and Isra no longer sitting where I left her, every hot angry thing inside me runs cold.
“Isra?” I circle the fire, panic sharpening my voice. “Isra!”
The air is too quiet. Even the wind has stopped moaning. It feels like the night is holding its breath, waiting for me to discover the terrible fate that has befallen the queen of Yuan. It has to be terrible. I left a blind girl alone a dozen feet from the edge of a cliff. She could have gone to relieve herself and fallen to her death. She could have decided to follow me and taken a wrong turn on the path and wandered into a zion nest. She could have been discovered by a hunting party and been taken prisoner.
I was certain there would be none of my tribe this close to Yuan, but what of the other tribes? The Desert People from the north have been venturing farther south since they burned the domed city of Vanguard two years ago, only to find that its destruction did nothing to return life to their own blighted territory.
Naira warned my father that if we failed to return with Yuan’s magic roses, it might come to war between our tribes one day soon. We must show the northerners that we have harnessed the Smooth Skin magic, and share the power of the roses with them, before their chief convinces his people that the only way to heal the land is to destroy every domed city still standing. We cannot allow Yuan to fall, not until we have secured the secret to their abundance.
Isra knows that secret. I should have been coaxing it from her, not shouting and brooding like a child. I should have thought about my people and my promises. I should have remembered how much Isra needs protecting. The desert might be my home, but it isn’t hers. I was a fool to forget that, even for a second.
I think of the first moment I saw her, with her head thrown back and her arms open wide, laughing as she ran through the garden. I thought she was crazy then, but what I wouldn’t give to hear her laugh like that right now. I have to find her. I have to. She has to be alive. If she’s not …
“Isra!” I roar, my voice echoing off the rocks. I can’t think of her body lying bent and broken halfway down the cliff. I won’t.
I search the dirt around the fire once, twice, and finally, on the third careful circle, I find an uneven set of footprints. The moons haven’t risen high enough to touch this side of the mountains, but the stars give enough light for me to see the scuff marks leading up the trail. She was walking. Not steadily, but alone. That’s something. Something.
I start up the mountain at a run, ignoring the agony in my leg every time my left foot connects with the ground. I deserve this pain. I’ll gladly take this pain and more if only—
There! An Isra-sized lump, curled on the ground by the side of the trail.
“Isra!” I kneel beside her, expecting her to wake up and snap at me for frightening her. Expecting her to stir in her sleep, or grumble beneath her breath. But she doesn’t move, even when I push her hair from her face and cup her cheek in my hand.
Instantly, I know something’s wrong. She’s so cold. Colder than anything living.
All this time, I thought I was changing Isra’s mind, but she was the one changing mine, so much so that I forgot that there are differences between us. Serious differences. She has no scales or claws to protect her from the hardships of the desert; she has a body that must be fed and watered more often than mine; she is smaller and more delicate and clearly isn’t able to tolerate variations in the temperature of her blood.
The Desert People grow cold during the winter, but there’s no danger in it. We are more vital in summer, but we don’t lie down and die when the winter nights take hold.
Die. She can’t.
“Isra. Is—” My voice breaks as I gather her into my lap. Her limbs are limp and lifeless; her head rests heavily in my palm. “Isra?” I whisper, throat so tight, I can’t speak any louder. “Can you hear me?”
She doesn’t move or speak, but when my gaze drops, I see it—the flutter of a pulse at her throat, there, but fainter and slower than it should be. She’s alive, but if I don’t find a way to warm her, she might not be for long.
The thought has barely formed before I’m on my feet, running back to the remains of the fire, with Isra in my arms. I no longer feel the pain in my leg. Fear has banished the awareness of everything but Isra’s life, so close to slipping through my fingers. By the time I fall to my knees
by the fire, I’m shaking. I have never trembled with fear, not even on the night we swam up the river and crept into the dome.
I settle Isra across my lap, fold her head into my chest, and hold her there with one hand as I rearrange the wood and tuck dried grass beneath it with the other. I could move faster if I laid her down, but I’m afraid to risk it. I’m not as warm as a fire, but I’m warmer than the night, and my blood is certainly hotter than hers.
“Just a minute or two,” I whisper into the hair on top of her head, some part of me certain she can’t die as long as I’m talking to her. “You’ll be warm soon.”
I reach carefully around her limp body, and extend my claws, using them to sharpen the end of one stick and notch a hole in another, before reaching for the wood with my hands. I fit the pointed stick into the notched one and spin it as fast as I can, shaking Isra from my chest in the process and sending her tipping off my lap.
I take only a moment to pull her back to me and shift my position, before starting to spin the wood again. I spin and spin, holding my breath until I smell smoke, and then spinning even faster. My muscles burn and my breath comes fast, but just when I think I can’t keep up the pace any longer, sparks fly from the notch and the grass beneath the kindling catches. The grass flames, high and fast, and the slender twigs at the bottom of the pile flare to life. After I add more grass and coax the twigs with a stick, the larger limbs begin to smolder and, finally, to burn.
I am famously quick with a fire, even among my people, who all have a gift for flame, but I don’t know if I’ve been quick enough. I shift Isra, and her head falls limply over my arm. Even in the warm light of the fire, her face looks pale, her parted lips bloodless.
We’re sheltered from the worst of the wind by the rocks on either side of our camp, and the fire warms up quickly, but even as her cheeks regain their color, Isra remains terrifyingly still. I whisper her name what feels like a hundred times. I smooth her hair from her forehead, pat her cheeks a bit too hard, rock back and forth and back and forth in the hopes of raising my own body temperature, growing more frantic with every passing minute.
I’ve made a fire. I’m giving her the heat from my body. There’s nothing left to do. I could wrap her in her shawl, but it’s no longer around her shoulders. She must have lost it when she wandered up the trail.
“Why didn’t you feed the fire?” I whisper, lips moving against her cool forehead. “Why?”
I’m suddenly angry, belly-burning angry, but not with Isra. With myself. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have left her on the mountainside, even for an hour. I shouldn’t have taken her from the city in the first place. I should have insisted on going alone. That would have proven I was trustworthy; this only proves I’m a fool. I had no idea she’d be so sensitive to the winter chill, but ignorance is no excuse for what I’ve done. If Isra dies, it will be for nothing, a senseless waste.
Yes, there are bulbs at the top of these mountains, and they’ll take root in her garden and put out a pretty flower that sweetens cactus milk into a treat that makes a man dizzy, but drinking it won’t give Isra what she wants. This garden she’s desperate to plant will accomplish nothing. The hope I’ve given her is a lie, like every other word out of my mouth since she let me out of my cage, like every smile and laugh I’ve forced while we’ve worked the ground together, like everything I’ve pretended to feel.
And everything I’ve pretended not to feel.
It took this—her nearly lost, and me wanting her back more than I’ve wanted anything in so long—to make me understand.
If she weren’t lying so still, it would be laughable.
It’s pointless. Hopeless. Even if she weren’t afraid of me, at the core we’ll always be enemies. She rules a wicked, selfish city, and my tribe suffers for her people’s comfort. She’s a queen; I’m her prisoner. I resent her and she fears me, and there are times when I fear her, too. I am her monster, and she is mine. But right now none of it matters.
“Isra, please. Open your eyes,” I beg, but I don’t think she will. When her lashes flutter, I’m so surprised that my elbow jerks beneath her head, sending her chin jabbing into her chest. Her teeth knock together and she moans, low and grumpy.
It is the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard.
“Can you hear me?” I support the back of her head and smooth the hair away from her face in time to see her eyes slit open.
“Gem?” Her voice is sleep-rough and cranky and even better-sounding than her grumpy moan. “What are … Where …” She blinks, and for a second it looks as if her eyes are trying to focus before they go empty once more.
“Do your eyes hurt?” I ask, hoping her cold sleep hasn’t left lasting damage.
“No, but my head does. A little.” She winces. “More than a little.” Her lids droop, and for a second I worry she’s falling back asleep, but then she asks, “What happened?”
“I was about to ask you.” She shifts in my lap, and I’m suddenly very conscious of the places where we touch and everything I was thinking before she opened her eyes. Everything I was feeling. When I speak again, my voice is rougher than hers. “I found you on the trail. You were cold and I couldn’t wake you. I brought you back here and rebuilt the fire, but for a while I wasn’t sure … I thought …” My arms tighten around her, but Isra doesn’t seem to mind.
She turns her head, resting her cheek on my chest with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“I shouldn’t have let the fire go out,” she says. “But I couldn’t find the wood and I got scared, and then I was so cold and confused and … I … I started remembering things. About my mother … her buttons …” Her hand drifts to her chest, but hesitates there only a moment before coming to rest on mine.
“I never meant for this to happen,” I say. “I didn’t understand. I—I never meant to cut you that first night; I had no idea how fragile your skin was. And tonight, when I left—I thought—I didn’t know it was so dangerous for you to get cold.”
“I didn’t, either,” she says. “It’s all right.”
“It’s not all right.”
“It is.” Her fingers slip between the buttons on my shirt, brushing bare skin. It becomes even harder to breathe. “I forgive you. Can you forgive me?”
I start to assure her there’s nothing to forgive, but I can’t tell any more lies. “I don’t know.”
She bites her lip. “Is that why you sound angry?”
“I’m not angry. Not at you. I’m just …”
“Just what?”
“Happy that you’re alive.”
“Me too. And grateful. To you. I …” She swallows, and her next words seem to come harder. “I meant what I said. I’m not afraid of you. I’m … I know it’s crazy … but I …” She lets out a tired sigh, and when she speaks again, her voice isn’t much more than a whisper. “I’d like to see your face again. May I?”
At first I think she means see me the way she did the first night, in the garden, but then she lifts a hand into the air and I understand. She wants to touch me.
“Yes,” I say, doing my best not to shiver as her fingers feather around my eyes and down my nose, before her thumb smoothes across my bottom lip. “Thank you for asking,” I whisper, lips moving beneath her lingering touch.
She sits up, bringing her face even with mine. Her mouth is close; her breath warms my chin. For the first time, she doesn’t smell like roses. She smells like cactus milk—clean and salty and of the desert, like my people—and I suddenly wonder if she would taste like all the girls I’ve kissed in my life. There were other girls before Meer. After she found Hant, I always assumed there would be more, but I never thought …
Even a moment ago when I …
I didn’t think … imagine … that she might …
A part of me still refuses to believe it, but another part knows what a girl wants when her fingers linger too long on a boy’s mouth, and it knows better than to hesitat
e. So I don’t. I pull her hand away, and risk a kiss.
Our lips brush, soft on softer, timid and testing, the barest friction of skin against skin, but that’s all it takes to know that it’s right. Isra sighs and twines her arm around my neck. My blood rushes and my body comes alive and everything in me lights up like a sunrise. Like a night sky spitting stars. Like her eyes when she smiles.
She kisses me again. And then again, harder and longer, and I forget every reason this shouldn’t happen. I pull her closer and warm her mouth with mine, moaning when her tongue slips between my lips and I taste cactus and salt, but also a hint of sweet and a dark, velvety spice that isn’t Smooth Skin or Desert Woman, that is only Isra.
And for a moment she is my Isra, and nothing is impossible.
TWELVE
ISRA
THIS is a kiss. This. This, this, this …
His smoke and wood smell filling my head, his Gem taste bittersweet and perfect on my tongue, his arms around me and my hands everywhere I’ve been dying to touch, and the memory of the killing cold banished by the way he makes me burn.
I don’t care what he is, who I am, what’s wrong or right. There is no shame or fear, only the driving need to get closer, kiss deeper, consume and be consumed, to lose myself so completely that I will never be found.
I want to stay this way forever, with his chest pressed tightly to mine, and his lips moving at my throat. With my fingers in his soft hair, his breath warm on my skin, his hand—so hot I can feel it through my clothes—sliding between us, down my ribs, over my stomach, down until—