Not broken at all. Chipped a little, maybe, but not broken. She still hasn’t answered my question. I motion to the floor.
She raises a fisted hand to her mouth, bites lightly on her knuckle, closes her eyes. “He makes me do things on this bed,” she says. “The nightmares never end when I try to sleep on it.”
I’m on my feet in an instant, my entire body tight and full of anger. I want to punch something—no, someone. Lecter. Borg, as this abused woman calls him. I stalk back and forth, staying out of view of the window. Why does she let him do this? If it was me, and he tried to so much as touch me, I’d freaking—
“I kicked him once,” she says, snapping me out of my internal tirade. I turn to look at her.
She’s wiping away the tears and nodding. “The first time he tried anything. I was playing along, trying to be congenial, acting like I didn’t find him completely disgusting. He thought that meant I was…interested in him. He touched me, kissed me—and I let him. But then he took it a step further and I resisted. He grabbed me, his arms like iron. Shoved me down. Tried to climb on top of me. I kicked him, as hard as I could, right in his…”
“Stones?” I say.
She smiles. “Yes. It was the best feeling in the world, hurting him like that, seeing his face contorted with such pain.”
It didn’t end there. Surely she paid a price for her resistance. Her makeshift bed on the floor tells me that much. I don’t ask, and she stands and turns away from me, so I think she’s done talking. But then she grabs the sides of her white shirt and pulls it over her head.
I gasp, tears welling up and blinding the truth written all over her back in long, jagged scars. He beat the life out of her for that one kick.
When I’ve furiously blinked away the blurriness, she’s got her shirt back on and has once more turned to face me. “I don’t fear him anymore,” she says. “He’s taken everything he can from me. The only thing I fear is never being free of him, being his plaything for the rest of my life.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I say. “Tristan is outside the Glass City. He’s gathering an army of the natives. If I can find a way to get them inside the city, we will crush Lecter.”
“My son,” she says, and there’s pure joy in her eyes. Knowing he’s alive, that he’s nearby. The best gift I could possibly give her without delivering her to him. “And Killen?” she says.
I shake my head. It shouldn’t be me to tell her—it shouldn’t be anyone.
“Tell me everything,” she says. “Starting with how my husband died.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Siena
The wounded’ve been bandaged, the dead’ve been buried. Surprisingly few died in the Cotee attack—maybe twenty—but no one avoided getting bitten or scratched. Except Skye, who, according to Feve, killed fifty Cotees herself. He said it was like the sun goddess had entered her body, giving her power and strength beyond her own. I’d say he was exaggerating if he wasn’t talking ’bout Skye.
Grunt didn’t die. He was one of the runners, turning tail the moment the Cotees came over the hill. I ain’t blaming him—he ain’t no warrior. I’m glad for him having the sense to let the fighters do the fighting. I couldn’t bear to tell Veeva he didn’t make it, ’specially ’fore we even got to the real battle. Hopefully most of our people stick around when it comes time to attack the Glassies.
We all know we’ve lingered ’ere too long. Nothing’s changed. Tristan told us to attack on the third day. We hafta move.
Wilde leads us away from the piles of dead Cotees. If any of us survive the day, we’ll come back to collect the meat. Though they tried to kill us, we won’t disrespect ’em by letting their bodies go to waste.
I’m limping and Circ’s trying to hide his limp. Hopefully a bit of walking will help the pain.
We head further east, making searin’ sure that we come in from the northeast, where the Glassies’ll least expect it. I’m hoping they’ll think we’re the ghosts of the Icers and drop their weapons and flee before us. If we had some mud paint and scary masks, maybe we could give it a go.
I’m ’bout to tell Circ my brilliant idea, when Wilde stops, her hand in the air. I crane my neck to see what’s snatched her attention.
The forest. The huge, huge forest that extends all the way to storm country. And beyond that, to water country. We’ve reached the very eastern edge of fire country. Only one way to go now.
I grab Circ’s hand and pull him to the front of the column, coming up next to Wilde and Skye. “So we head south now?” I ask.
“I thought I saw something,” Wilde says absently.
“What kinda something?” I say.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. It was probably nothing.”
“’Cause if it’s a bunch of pale-faced Glassies, you should probably tell us,” I say.
“It’s okay. Let’s keep moving. We’ll angle our way to the edge of the forest from here.” Wilde continues on, and we follow, but not until I catch Skye’s eye.
“Did you see anything?” I ask her.
“No,” she says. “If there was a Glassy to be seen, I’da seen him.”
I don’t doubt that.
The stretch of sand and durt ’tween us and the forest disappears a little with each step, until we’re in the shadows of the trees, stretching out like dark clouds underfoot. I walk with Skye on one side and Circ on t’other. Wilde walks alone, and I swear she keeps flicking her eyes to the trees, like at any moment a Glassy fire chariot might burst through the leaves.
A bird chirps from a branch somewhere above us. Wilde stops, looks up.
“It was just a bird,” I say. Why is Wilde being so paranoid?
“I just thought…” Wilde says. As if in response to the first bird, another one chirps further down. Wilde’s eyes widen in horror.
The leaves rustle and there’s a sharp whistle and a rush of air, and the pointer’s coming so fast that we’re all frozen…
Thunk!
Feather’s protruding, the pointer sticks in the ground at our feet. “Get down!” Wilde yells and there’s scrambling and scraping and the shriek of weapons being drawn, and I’ve got my bow out, pointer nocked, but there’s nothing to shoot at but trees, and we’re sitting ’zards out in the open desert like this.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. The forest is silent.
Then there’s a laugh and I think we all ’bout jump outta our skins, ’cept maybe Skye, who don’t seem to know the meaning of the word scared.
“Don’t shoot,” a voice says. It’s as familiar as the durt stuck to my moccasins.
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
“Wilde, tell your shooters to relax.”
Wilde looks at me, her mouth open slightly, dips her chin. And then, of all things, she stands. “Shooters! Stand down,” she says.
I drop my bow ’cause there’s something ’bout the voice in the woods…
A black-skinned girl steps from the tree cover, her dark robe floating ’round her heels. Holy tugballs! I know that girl, ’cause that girl is Sadie.
~~~
After the initial excitement dies down, we gather ’round to talk. The Stormer Riders are watering their horses and pretending like there’s not a huge army of brown-skinned people setting in the durt, gawking at ’em.
I’m ’bout to burst with excitement and questions, but Circ’s squeezing my hand so tight I know he’s telling me to be patient. I ignore him. “Sadie, what in the name of the holy god of all things surprising are you doing here?” I ask.
Sadie looks at Wilde, who merely shrugs at her. “We’ve come to fight,” she says.