Unlikely

by Frances Pauli

She didn’t dream and considered it a blessing when she woke the second time. The sky outside her window glowed blue-black. She didn’t need to see the moon to know that it was full. Her Genrty blood thrummed in her veins, prodding her to sit despite her muscles’ complaints. She pushed the covers back and wrinkled her nose. How long had she slept? If the moon was full, by the Powers, she needed a bath!

  Hadja had anticipated the need, or else the stench had driven her away. Satina found a shallow basin and a pitcher of water on the room’s floor. A stack of rags waited beside it, and she took her time cleaning her body. Her filthy hair required stronger methods, and so she wrapped in only her cloak and limped out into the main room.

  No one home. A banked fire warmed a pot of stew. A bowl and spoon waited on the table, but Satina’s hair hung in greasy strings. She hobbled out the door and around to the pump to drench her head, first. It took forever. Her arms shook, and she grew tired too quickly, had to stop and rest twice. Too much slumber and no movement had left her body in a weakened state. She returned to the cottage slowly, left her hair dripping and wet and gulped down two bowls of stew before her stomach threatened to vacate its contents.

  Where had Hadja gone?

  She couldn’t wait long. The moon called her, and she shivered with more than the damp of her hair soaking through the wool. She dropped the cloak, spread it in front of the fire and went to fetch a clean shift from her bags. By the time she’d dressed and plaited her hair into a loose, lumpy braid, her limbs twitched to be collecting. Hadja would know this. If she returned and Satina were gone, she’d know why.

  It didn’t matter anyway. She could no more resist the pull than her own breath. She gathered her smaller bag, spared a wistful thought for the contents Maera had dumped at the ruins, and then retrieved her cloak. Still damp, but warm at least, she scuffled out the door.

  The moonlight painted the world blue. Hadja’s weeds eased her aches. She turned toward town and fought down a surge of trepidation. Where had Hadja gone? How much loss had the town suffered? She squinted into the blacksmith’s shed as she passed, but the forge was cool and dark inside. The town had stood beside Marten, fought the gang at his direction. Now that the dust had settled, how did they feel about her? The woman who’d brought it all down upon them.

  The closest pocket would take her through their streets. She didn’t have the strength to make the little stair or the ruins. The alleys would have to work. Satina tucked in behind the buildings and began her trek around the town, through the dark and rubble-strewn passages.

  She’d worked her way to the town square before her eyes betrayed her. They darted, despite her best efforts, down the side street toward the fountain. And Marten’s shop. Something besides water shimmered there. Reflected light danced across the cobblestones and flashed rainbows onto the stones.

  She followed the light, chewing her lower lip and creeping down the empty street. The fountain gurgled and spilled water in its circuit and, as soon as she reached the mouth of the alley, Satina saw the source of the sparkles. Marten’s mirror shards hung over every doorway. Instead of reflecting, however, the mirror bits projected sigils that shifted and morphed before her eyes. Gentry eyes, she knew, eyes that saw what a human wouldn’t.

  She squinted at the flickering marks and tried to see how they would look with normal vision. Tags. Her shoulders snapped back. He’d tagged every building in town with…she tried to untangle the marks, but they’d been interwoven too tightly. Both were there, Starlight and Shade, and the two danced back and forth in rapid succession. Why?

  She stepped out into the open and looked around. To all sides, the tags sparkled and marked the buildings as both Starlight and Shade territory. What had Marten done? Even his own store bore a shard with warring tags. It also had a new window, a display filled with his returned tools, and no lights on inside.

  Steps rang behind her, and she spun, heart leaping. Her joy deflated when she spied the innkeeper. He stood at the base of his steps, offered her a nod and a smile.

  “Good evening, goodmother.”

  “I—good evening.”

  “It’s good to see you up and about.”

  She stepped back and blinked. He didn’t flinch, nor entreat something of her. He only commented. It was nonchalant, casual and neighborly. “Thank you.” Her voice trembled.

  They stood a moment. The fountain splashed and the gang tags flared and refracted sigils. The town that allowed magic—she never would have imagined it.

  “Well then.” At last the innkeeper broke the silence. “Good night to you.”

  “And to you.”

  She waited till he’d climbed his stairs and disappeared into the inn. Understanding evaded her. Nothing here had been what she’d expected, and maybe therein lay the truth. Maybe her expectations had been the problem all along.

  The road beside Marten’s shop led out of town. She followed it from the fountain—no need for alleys really—and wandered in a daze toward the twin tree pocket. Someone had posted a sign just before the spot. She had to turn back to read it, and as she did, a shadow leapt from the side of the road. Satina squealed and stumbled away to a chorus of familiar laughter.

  “Marten!” Her heart pounded. “You’re trying to kill me, now?”

  His grin faded. The pose he’d struck sagged a little, but his eyes flashed yellow. He waved one flamboyant arm toward the sign. “Well, what do you think of it?”

  She sniffed and turned back to the sign. Her hands trembled, and she wound them into her cloak edge to hide her nerves. The sign had been painted to read: Welcome to Westwood. Below the words, one of the ensorcelled mirror shards did its little trick.

  “I’m not sure I understand them.” She frowned and tried to sort out his magic.

  “Your trinket gave me the idea.” He’d snuck up beside her and spoke just over her shoulder. “The opposite effect.” He pointed at the twisting marks. “You see? They’re keyed to their opposing nature.”

  “So if I were a Starlight…”

  “You’d only see the Shade tag.”

  “And vise versa.”

  He laughed, high-pitched and warbling with pride.

  “It’s brilliant. Do you think it will work?” Any gang member would see Westwood as the enemy’s territory. Would that be enough to keep them both out? She could see the potential and a little danger too.

  “It can’t hurt.” Marten shrugged and hopped back. “Shall we?”

  “What?”

  He held out his arm and waved the other toward the pocket. The moon blazed through a thin filter of trees, and their blood called to them. Satina took a deep breath and placed her hand in his. They crossed the road together.

  “Hadja isn’t home,” she said. “I don’t know where she’s gone.”

  “Maera’s run off.”

  Satina stiffened. His hand tugged her toward the rift, but her feet dragged.

  “They’ll find her,” he said. “Stupid girl can’t have gone far.”

  “But…”

  “Come.” He heaved on her hand and she fell into him. His arms slipped round her, and the rift swallowed them. The pocket painted the whole world golden. “They’ll find her.” Marten’s voice lowered. His grip tightened, and his mouth fell against hers. He kissed her until her lips responded and her body pressed against him of its own volition. Then he shifted just enough to part the worlds, and led her out into a field of glitter.

  “Thistledown.” She sighed and leaned her head against his chest. The pocket swirled with wind-borne dust. Every blade and leaf caked with it, and the fluffy down could barely lift from the ground for the weight of magic clinging to it.

  “I thought we might collect here.”

  “Where’s Henry?”

  Marten shook his head, and his eyes grew grim. “I haven’t seen him since he carried Vane away.”

  “Vane’s alive.” Satina stared out to the shadow of that far-off castle.

  Marten tensed.
His voice became stone. “How?”

  She closed her eyes and pointed to the distant building. “There.”

  “The castle?”

  She nodded and turned her face up to watch his expression. It shifted from fear to anger. His eyes glowed yellow, and his lips tightened. Somehow Vane had slipped their trap though she felt certain Henry would turn up as well. The gargoyle could survive anything a human could have thrown at him.

  “It’s on an island,” she said. “I don’t know where exactly.”

  “Far enough from here, then.” He dropped his eyes to her again. They softened, but a frown creased his forehead. “Far enough from you.”

  “Marten.”

  “I’m no hero, Satina.” He touched her face, lifted her chin and locked their eyes together. “I’m an imp Skinner who somehow managed to convince one, insignificant town to accept him. And we can both thank Hadja for a good deal of that. I’m not—”

  “I don’t want Prince Charming.” She reached up and traced the line of his jaw with a finger. “I never did, Marten.”

  It took three breaths and then his face softened, his shoulders lifted and his arms drew her in close. “I love you.” He brushed a strand of hair back from her face and looked into her eyes. “That’s pretty much all I’ve got.”

  Satina sighed and leaned against him. She’d never meant to wish a happy ending for herself, had never wanted the story. “That’s all I want, Marten. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

  Her Imp might make an unlikely hero, but he’d turned into one just the same. Marten was a Granter too in his own way, or maybe, it really was the words that she’d had wrong all along.

  She hadn’t needed to Grant him. The pockets had landed her exactly where she was supposed to be. She’d never expected it, but then, her expectations had been flawed from the beginning.

  She didn’t need to save the world, didn’t need to prove anything. She needed this. Just him, just this moment, the pocket worlds and a field of magic dust and thistledown. They’d worry about Vane and gobelins tomorrow. They’d find Henry, find Maera and straighten the poor girl out. All of it could wait though. Tonight, it was Satina’s wish that mattered.

  COMING SOON

  HORDED

  Kingdoms Gone: Book Two