I set my hands against the sand to push myself up; and when the grit touches my palm, I bite back a scream. I forgot about the burn.
The weeping red flesh is caked with sand particles, and the pain of the salt and grit drives deep into my nerves. I bite my lip, but that's not enough, so I bite my knuckle and try to stop my wounded hand from trembling.
Rak conjures water and laves the wound, sweeping away the sand. Then he makes more for each of us to drink. His eyes light up when he's working with the water, like the act is pure release and enjoyment for him. Like he's been longing to practice his gift for years, and he can't believe how good it feels.
"We've made good time, in spite of—" He hesitates. I know he was going to say "in spite of your slow pace" or something to that effect. Instead he says, "We should reach Ankerja by this evening, if we keep it up."
After eating a nuribar each, we walk again. This time, we don't talk much. We're both too tired, too hot, too thirsty. Though he seems to enjoy it, creating water from an environment as dry and basic as this one taxes Rak's ability, so he can't do it often.
Slower and slower I walk, barely setting one foot further than the other as the baking heat settles over us. Thanks to my hair, my face and neck are partly protected from the heavens' glare—but my arms are suffering in spite of my natural brown color. And my shoes were never made to handle this terrain or this level of use. The seams are buckling, bursting in places, and the once-dark sheen of the leather is now a cloudy grayish-tan.
In my head, I know that beauty and rest lie somewhere beyond this desert, but I can't grip the reality of them anymore. Trees casting cool shade over grass. Rivers flowing limpid over rocks. The salty ocean bursting against shell-speckled sands. Deep swimming pools, tiled artificially blue and ringed with white chairs. Soft billows of bedding. My brain acknowledges that these things exist, but my senses know only white-hot sun, shimmering sand, aching feet, dry lips.
I'm in Mother Nature's oven, and she's slowly cooking the life out of me.
"Zilara. Look."
My gaze follows Rak's pointing finger.
In the far distance, so far away that I want to laugh and cry at the same time, a cluster of buildings breaks the flat line of the horizon.
"Ankerja?"
"Ankerja," he says.
"Is is possible that we actually made it?" The words emerge hoarse from between my stiff lips.
"Yes." His pace quickens. "We made it."
"I want water, and food, and a bath, and a bed," I say. "Probably in that order."
He glances sideways at me. "You have money?"
My jaw drops. Of course I don't have money. Everything I had with me was stripped away when I was kidnapped. "Do you have money?"
"A little. Enough for a meal, and one night somewhere cheap. But we'll need more money quickly."
"Wait, why do we need more money?" I ask. "I'll contact my father tomorrow. He'll send someone to get me."
He faces ahead, not answering.
"Rak."
He's still walking.
"Rak, stop."
He halts, refusing to look at me. His greasy hair hangs in dark bars across the side of his face, half-hiding his expression from me. I step around him and take his scruffy jaw in my hand, bending his face down so I can look at him straight on. His eyes widen at my boldness, or maybe because he fears me—but he doesn't pull away.
"Rak, you're going to let me go, aren't you? Back to my father?"
He chews his twisted lip. "I should deliver you to my faction. Anything less will be counted as disloyalty."
"Didn't you already disobey your superiors when you decided not to kill me? Those were the orders they gave you, and you ignored them."
"Yes, but I can explain that away somehow. Beg forgiveness, claim that I chose wrong in the heat of the moment. I'm young enough that they might overlook it. But if I let you go, back to your father—" He shakes his head. "That, I could never come back from. I can't give up the only leverage my people have to force Ceanna's troops to leave—"
"Leverage that hasn't worked anyway," I say. "Isn't it obvious? My father would never have agreed to a pullout, not even to save my life. He wasn't going to come for me, or agree to the Fray terms." Resentment stabs through my heart as I say the words.
"I can't believe he wouldn't have saved you," Rak says quietly.
"Will you save me?" I don't like the words as soon as I say them. They make me feel weak, and stupid, and helpless. I can save myself; I don't need him. I could burn him to a toasty black crisp and leave his smoking body in the desert.
Maybe he's thinking the same thing, because the hand nearest his gun twitches, and he says, "Since when have you needed me to save you?"
"When the Vilor almost got me, and when the scourgeling nearly stung me, and when I almost died of thirst in the desert. That's three times you've saved my life. And yes, I hate it. I'm keeping count and I intend to pay you back."
His mouth widens in a smile, the scarred flesh stretching; but I don't find it repulsive, because his lips are full and soft-looking, and the scar only makes them more interesting.
His smile vanishes; I looked at his mouth too long, and he's self-conscious. I want to tell him I wasn't staring because of the scar, but that wouldn't exactly be true.
"We'll talk about this more once we reach Ankerja." He resumes walking toward the town.
I could do it right now. Grab his gun and shoot him with it, or toss the weapon out of his reach. Burn him until his skin bubbles and cracks open, and his life leaks out. Take his finance card, or whatever form of money he has, and leave him to rot. Ankerja is within sight; I can get there on my own.
But he did save my life three times. And he washed my wound, gave me water and a bandage, lent me his body heat, and said he was sorry I got hurt. He told me about his ability.
Curse him. I can't do it.
The nearer we get to the outer buildings of the town, the more I'm aware of how horrible I must look, dressed in too-small pants and a ripped T-shirt, covered in blood and dirt, sand and sweat-stains—my hair hanging in oily strands, my shoes bursting at the seams, and my face baked by the sun. I can only hope that no one recognizes me as the Magnate's daughter. An image of me in this state would be fodder for the newsfeeds for days. To make the last leg of the journey more amusing, I create possible headlines.
"Magnate's daughter ravaged by rebels, crawls into desert town looking like yesterday's meat scraps."
"Zilara Remay caught taking a romantic desert stroll with grungy, greasy wild man. Father claims mental breakdown is to blame."
Rak moves closer to me as we enter the edge of the town. A few boys playing with sand-lizards take one look at us and scamper off among the buildings. We're not the first half-dead travelers to emerge from the desert, I'm sure—but in this village, our arrival must be gossip-worthy.
The buildings cluster together along dusty streets—everything the same dull tan, with sparse accents of faded color—brown roofs, gray shadows, and olive-green shrubs. As plain and square as the shops and houses are, at least some of them boast climate control units, which squat under the awnings out front, wheezing and growling like overworked old men.
I'm surprised how many people are bustling about, in spite of the searing heat. They must be used to it. I duck my head, letting my sweaty hair cover the facial tattoo on my temple and cheekbone.
"Where are we going to stay?" I ask Rak. Now that we're within sight of buildings, of shade and food and rest, I don't think I can take more than a few dozen steps before I collapse.
"There's a place up the street with half a dozen rooms for travelers," he says. "I stayed there once. Nothing much, just beds and showers."
Ignoring the stares of those we pass, I follow close behind Rak. His shadow stretches behind him, and I watch my feet dip in and out of it as I walk. When he stops, I collide with his pack.
"Easy." He pushes open a squeaking door, and a blast of blissfully cold air rush
es out of the building to greet us.
"That feels better than sex," I say softly as I stumble inside.
He chuckles. "Sit. Relax." He points me to a chair and crosses the tiled floor to speak with a middle-aged woman at a low desk in the corner.
Back home, hotels run the gamut from sparkling, all-inclusive vacation destinations to runty roadside inns. I suppose the same is true in Emsalis—although with the war raging for years, I doubt they've been building many vacation-worthy hotels in this region. This place doesn't look like any hotel I've ever entered. Once-glossy posters, faded and frayed, line the dingy plaster walls. Two metal chairs and a beat-up couch provide the only seating in the front room, except for the desk chair where the woman sits. Is she the owner, or the assistant? She has a primitive data device on the desk, and the holo-screen projecting from her skull-port attachment isn't nearly as clear and sharp as the newest models—probably a much earlier generation than I'm used to.
She and Rak are arguing about something in a language I don't know—I hope he's being nice to her because I really want a room and a bed, right now. I don't even care if the bed is clean, or if it has bugs. I just want to lie down in this blessed cool air and sleep on something soft.
After a minute, Rak holds out a finance card, and the woman scans it. He strides toward a narrow doorway, gesturing for me to follow, a deep frown on his face.
I scurry after him. "Why are you so upset?"
"She only has one room right now. Or at least, only one she would give me for what I can pay."
"So what's the problem?"
"One bed."
"So? We slept next to each other out in the desert. We'll share."
"It's different." He pauses and scans his finance card against the reader outside one of the rooms. The reader's glossy surface bears several scratches, and he has to try about five times before the door unlocks. It prompts him to enter a new lock code, and he composes one quickly. I watch, memorizing the numbers so I'll be able to access the room if I need to.
"It's not different, Rak," I say—and then I forget what I was going to add, because I see the bed. "Oh yes!" I lunge for it, but he catches my arm.
"Wash first," he says. "The bathroom is across the hall. It's a shared space, so don't be long." He snatches a towel off a shelf by the door and tosses it to me.
"Soap?"
"There should be some in the bathroom. I'll go see if I can buy anything else for us to wear."
The lock on the bathroom door is sketchy, and the water spurts and spatters from the shower head, but it's still the best shower I've ever taken. Being able to wash away all that grime, to finally be free of every speck of sand—it's euphoric, even if I have to grit my teeth every time the spray touches my burned hand.
I'm not wearing those horrible clothes again. I cram them into the tiny garbage bin in the bathroom. After rinsing out my bra, I put it back on, wrap myself in the towel, and dash back to our room. A man coming from the other end of the hall whistles through his teeth appreciatively, and I flash him a smile before closing the room door behind me.
Rak isn't back yet. After wringing out my wet hair, I wrap the towel more securely around my body and lie down on my stomach on the bed. It creaks, and the mattress is faintly lumpy, but still.
Peace. Comfort.
Unconsciousness.
The door to the room closes, and my eyes spring open. A handsome dark-haired young man stands by the door, shaking out a towel. He must have the wrong room. I open my mouth to tell him that, but he catches my eye, and I gasp, because it's Rak.
He's clean. Fresh. Practically shining. Hair wet and black, pulled back into a dripping knot at the nape of his neck. Without all those strands hanging in the way, I can see his clear dark eyes, strong nose slightly hooked, and that cleft in his jaw, more defined now that he's shaved off a week's worth of bristly beard. His clean shirt has a V-neck, showing deeply cut clavicles and a glimpse of solid chest.
He looks like a guy from one of the romance vids that Vissa and Reya and I sometimes watch. Of course, I've been staring at sand lately, and before that, at a lot of unattractive Fray rebels. I'm probably so starved for male beauty that anything would look good.
"What?" He's frowning at me. "What's the matter with you?"
"You look—clean," I say, swallowing and ordering my heart to settle back into a normal rhythm.
"So do you." His eyes travel from my face downward, and I remember that I'm dressed in a towel.
"Do you have clothes for me?"
He tosses over a pair of shorts, a pair of underwear, and a loose shirt, all tan-colored. I check the sizes. They're perfect.
"And this." He throws a large nano-patch on top of the pile. "For your hand."
I gasp and unwrap it immediately, laying the patch across my red, oozing skin. The familiar coolness, the prickle of the nanites at work, soothing the pain and building new skin, is pure relief.
"Thank you," I say. "Turn around so I can change."
He turns, and I pull on the clothes. "It feels so good, being clean, wearing clothes that fit!" I say. "And the bed is great." I straighten my shirt. "You can look now."
When he turns to face me again, my breath catches at the glow in his eyes. "You were so sound asleep, you didn't move when I came back with the clothes. You looked peaceful."
Warmth in his eyes, seeping into mine, filling up my heart until I'm pleasantly warm all over.
My stomach growls loudly.
"Time to eat," he says. "I think I'll fall over if I go much longer without a meal."
We walk back out into the street, now streaked with long shadows as the sun sets at the edge of the desert.
A few buildings down the road, light spills from the dust-coated windows of a bar, a colored holo flashing in and out of existence over the entrance. One second, the holo-sign reads "Drink Up"—the next second, there's only empty air. The suddenness of it reminds me of death. How someone can be there, and then—not there.
There's another connection in my brain, a memory of the flashing light at my grandmother's bedside, in the hospital. The light that blinked, and blinked—and blinked—and then stopped.
It happened weeks before I came here. Why is that memory popping up now?
"Zilara." Rak's voice curls around my name.
I glance at him.
"You look sad," he says, a plain statement of fact, not like he cares.
"Just remembering something. Someone."
"Ah." There's a heaviness to the syllable that tells me he understands. I walk faster, pushing into the bar before he can open the door for me.
"I'll get a table," I say, surveying the dim room. "You get the food and drink."
He nods and moves to the counter. I wander between the metal tables and swivel chairs, noting their faded colors and pitted paint. The place has higher ceilings than the inn lobby, but the plaster walls are just as dingy. The holo-images projected onto them by way of art flicker intermittently, leaving the entire room bare of decoration every few seconds. Must be a problem with the building's power system. How do they even have reliable power out here, isolated in the middle of the desert? Solar energy siphons, maybe?
Clusters of people, mostly men, fill several of the tables. Curious, I cast my eyes over them, picking out bearded faces and smooth ones, hair of all shades and textures, skin of varying hues. Every single person who meets my gaze drops it instantly. Suspicion and fear form a haze through the space, thicker than the ilja smoke floating from a corner booth, stronger than the sharp smell of alcohol and the odor of heated bodies.
I pick a spot near the center of the room, where I can see everything. But instead of scoping the place for points of interest, my gaze snaps to Rak. He leans against the bar, his spine curved like he's relaxed, but I can see the tension in his arms and legs. He's ready to leap into action the second a threat appears. Even here, we're not safe.
A pretty blond girl edges around the bar and sidles up to him. She wears cheap, sc
anty clothing, her breasts bulging slightly over the neckline of her shirt. Rak shifts, facing her as she speaks, and I have a view of their profiles—hers a perfect series of waves and peaks, his a rougher outline, angles and corners.
She blinks enormous eyes, looking up at him and twining her fingers through her frizzy blond locks. At a comment from him, she laughs and touches his upper arm, running her fingers down to his elbow. A hot surge of emotion floods over me, and I fight the urge to step to his side and give her a look that means "back off, vixen, or you're dead." I want her to not back off, so I'll have the chance to hit her.
What is wrong with me? I dig my fingernails into the grooves of the metal table, picking at the grains of sand that have found their way in and lodged there.
When I look up again, Rak and the girl are still talking. What could they possibly be talking about?
Suddenly my view of them disappears as a man seats himself across from me.
"Greetings, and apologies," he says, offering me a flash of yellow and brown teeth. His skin is grizzled, dotted, scarred, and pocked—the skin of a man who's been through much more life than I have.
"I'm saving this seat for someone," I tell him.
"I won't take up too much of your time. You look familiar to me, sweetheart. I've seen you before, in news vids."
8
My stomach drops. I've been in many vids during my lifetime—public appearances, tours, interviews, standing next to my father occasionally at events. Of course I knew there might be people here who would recognize me; but I didn't think it would be this quick.
I forgot to hide my face when I walked through the bar.
"No," I say. "I'm nobody. You must have me confused with someone else."
The stranger leans forward, lips pulling back over those ruined teeth. "I don't think so. That tattoo you have there—it's unique. I think you'd better come with me."
"Why?" I stare straight into his pale eyes, unflinching.
"Because if you don't, I'll have to cut you." A blade glints as he lifts his hand from the table; there's a small knife concealed in his palm.
Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1) Page 7
