“Tag, you’re it,” he said, laughing, his voice following her as she tumbled into a nightmare she’d suppressed since she was eight years old, his touch ripping away the shield hiding the memory of her first encounter with him.
It was before Oakland, when her mother was a caravan prostitute. They were in the San Joaquin, sweltering in the heat, as nearby the drivers and guards worked on the broken bus.
She was hot and sweaty, but curious, so curious about a world she never got to explore. When they camped her mother made her stay in the old bus that served as a bedroom for the prostitutes.
At eight she already knew to stay out of sight of the men who snuck away to visit the brothel trailer. She’d already learned she’d be beaten, or her mother would be, if she let herself be found when the policemen came around to collect sin taxes.
With the bus broken down, the prostitutes sat under shade trees, some of them beading jewelry to sell, others sewing clothing or, like her mother, sleeping, while a couple of the teenage girls splashed happily in the deeper portion of a wide stream.
No one complained about the delay. They were all content to miss a day’s work underneath sweaty farmers and self-righteous businessmen.
Rebekka hoped the bus stayed broken. So far she’d seen a rabbit with a little white tail, two black squirrels, a deer with a spotted fawn, and five lizards.
She stepped into the stream and crouched down, turning rocks over and squealing in delight when a tiny crawfish darted away. A yellow salamander followed, then a frog, which she gently scooped up in her hands.
The joy of each new discovery made her unaware she’d wandered out of sight until she felt someone watching her. She looked up then and saw the urchin.
He stood on the bank, gaunt and ragged, a rat perched on his shoulder. With amusement dancing in his eyes he reached up and stroked his pet. His smile and her own curiosity held her in place despite the trembling of her limbs.
“Looks like I found your hiding place,” he said, his voice beautiful and terrible at the same time. “Welcome to the game.”
The rat jumped, sailing across the distance to land on her bare arm. Its claws and fur were ice-cold and the feel of it touching her skin filled her with nameless dread.
In her sleep, Rebekka’s heart sped up as visceral terror swept through the younger version of herself, so strong it freed her from the spot she’d been rooted to and sent her running back to where the prostitutes were rising, returning to the bus so they could be under way.
That night she dreamed of plague, of thousands dying of infectious disease, of whole cities filled with the dead. She woke screaming so many times the others insisted she be drugged. And the next day—
A shudder nearly woke the adult Rebekka. In her sleep she whimpered, remembering herself as a child climbing out of the hiding place that was also where she slept. She’d been groggy from the drugs. Otherwise she would have made sure it was safe to leave the bus.
The police from a nearby settlement were there, four of them collecting the sin tax. They saw her before she could retreat. Caught her before she could escape.
It was an area where the ultraconservative and the religious ruled. They followed the old laws, requiring prostitutes to bear a tattoo, not so much because they feared disease, but because it was a mark of shame meant to deter patrons and protect the unwary from marrying a whore.
She fought them as they tugged her clothing aside to look for the tattoo. And when they didn’t find one, their leader ordered her marked.
Her mother struggled, the caravan guards holding her back. She pleaded with the policemen, begged them with tears streaking down her face. Told them her daughter was no prostitute.
Their leader quoted the scripture of Exodus. “He doesn’t leave the guilty unpunished. Unto the third and fourth generation, He punishes the children and their children for the sin of the parents.”
Rebekka screamed as they held her down. The needles pierced her flesh repeatedly, until the pain and horror were too much for her young mind.
She escaped into her memories, leaving her body behind to wander through the woods where she’d seen the deer and rabbit and squirrels. And when it was over the police collected the sin tax for the “new whore.”
Her mother gathered her up, held her tightly as they both cried. But where the child Rebekka had thought her mother’s trembling and tears were like her own, the dreaming adult saw terror on her mother’s face.
She looked around and saw the black dog, remembering it now. It came from the woods, sickness radiating from it, and something inside her unfurled. The desire to ease its suffering, the first stirrings of her gift.
The settlement police saw the dog, too. They fired on it with their guns, killing it, but not before it had bitten one of them.
“You brought the rabid dog here, little healer,” the urchin said, suddenly there, standing next to her mother though no one else seemed to see him.
He smiled and stroked the rat on his shoulder. Leaned forward and laughed when she struggled wildly, her mother’s arms preventing her from escaping.
“I’ve given you a piece of myself,” he said, his ice-cold lips touching hers, breath tasting of disease slipping into her mouth as his words slid into her mind. Forget now, until it’s time for you to join the game.
Rebekka woke retching. Shivering. Coated in cold sweat.
The healer’s journal tumbled to the floor as she rolled off her bed, disoriented, shaken by the dream.
She bent down and picked up the book. Smoothed a bent page with a hand that trembled before closing the journal and putting it into the pocket of her pants.
“It was only a dream,” she whispered into the silence of the room, telling herself the horrors she’d been reading about before falling asleep had triggered the nightmare memories of being held down and tattooed, telling herself the encounter with the demon and his talk of games had woven the image of the urchin into her dream.
She told herself that, and yet the scent of disease filled her nostrils. The taste of it coated her tongue, driving her to the bathroom to brush her teeth and rinse her mouth.
In the mirror above the sink her face appeared haunted, frightened. A hard pulse beat against her throat, visible evidence of a heart that wouldn’t stop thundering in her chest.
Knowledge pounded in her skull even as she clung to denial. There were diseases with no cure. There were others where survival was possible only for those with enough money to pay for the cost of doctors and hospital care.
She shuddered, remembering the nightmare within the nightmare, the images of thousands dying from plague, of whole cities full of the dead. It was like some of the scenes from the healer’s journal, she argued with herself. But she couldn’t shake the need to escape her room and clear the images from her mind with fresh air.
Thinking of the men who’d attacked the night before, and her promise to Levi to stay in the brothel where it was safe, she paused long enough to stop by Feliss’s room and borrow a distinctively patterned cloak, hooded so its wearer could shield hair and face.
It was a ploy used by the Weres to routinely wear something identifiable when they left the brothel, so other times they could slip away unnoticed by wearing a concealing garment associated with another should overinterested clients or those with grudges be watching for them.
Rebekka used the private exit, first checking to make sure no one loitered in the alleyway between brothels before stepping through the door.
The smell of warm dirt and brick filled her lungs. Relief poured into her but it was short-lived.
Cold blossomed in her chest, while at the same time her fingers warmed, tingled in the same way they did before she used her gift. A small cry of denial escaped when a rat entered the alleyway. Bile rose in Rebekka’s throat along with horror at the sight of the open sores on its body.