Rebel of Scars and Ruin (The Evolved Book 1)

by Veronica Sommers

  I look at Safi. "You said you might have somewhere for us to hide."

  "Oh, no," she says. "That was before you added the pretty-boy smuggler to the list."

  "He's not on the list yet."

  "I'd better be," says the man. "Because if we're not on the same side here, I have no reason not to turn you in to the local authorities."

  Rak has the gun out in a heartbeat, but the blond man is equally quick, drawing a palm-sized device from his pocket. "This grenade renders anyone within twenty paces unconscious," he says. "Except me. It's calibrated to exclude my brainwaves from the effect."

  "Sounds like made-up tech to me," says Rak.

  "No, he's telling the truth." Safi lowers her boots from the desk. "This is getting interesting."

  "You can take me with you, wherever you're hiding or running—or you can deal with the Ankerja leaders," says the blond man. "Your choice."

  I can't help smiling, in spite of his threat. He's bold and clever. If we're going to be stuck out here for a few more days, we might need someone like him around.

  I glance at Rak, more for his opinion than his permission. He doesn't look happy, but he nods once.

  "You're in," I say to the blond man. "Now put that thing away and tell us your name."

  "I'm Alik Rejfsdek."

  Rak raises his eyebrows. "That's not an Emsali name."

  "You're so clever," sneers Alik. "No, it isn't Emsali, it's Valadarstvan. I was born there, and I came to Emsalis with my parents as a child. My mother was the Valadarstvan ambassador to Emsalis. Both my parents were killed when the civil war started."

  "Mine too," says Safi.

  He nods to her. "How old were you?"

  "I was eight." She says it like a challenge, like she's daring any of us to pity her.

  "I was sixteen."

  "I love the bonding that's happening here, but could we please focus on our mutual problem before we start sharing orphan stories?" I say.

  Safi and Alik glare in my direction. Even Rak looks at me like I squished a newborn kitten.

  "Sorry, that was harsh," I say. "But we should focus on our imminent need to hide."

  Safi rises, slapping her palms on the desk. "Fair enough." She scribbles on a bit of paper and hands it to me. "Here's the address, and the access codes, and the room number. Meet you there when my shift is done. Go get everything out of your rooms and get gone before housekeeping comes."

  Alik goes back to his room to gather his things, and Rak and I return to our room to make sure we left nothing behind.

  The instant the door closes behind us, I move away from Rak.

  "Zilara, you don't have to be afraid of me," he says.

  "I'm not."

  "Then why are you backing away from me like a skittish sandloper?"

  Glaring, I step right up to him, so our faces are a breath apart. "There, is that better?"

  Mistake. That was a mistake.

  His eyes soften and glow, dipping to my mouth like they did earlier. "Much better."

  I want to move back, but my pride holds me there. "Who's getting the wrong idea now?"

  "I've had the wrong idea about you for a while," he says, his breath warm on my lips. "It's stupid and twisted and I try not to, but there it is."

  He doesn't touch me, or kiss me. We simply stand there with the unbearable current of energy coursing through the slim corridor of space between our bodies. Tingling heat and pure magnetism. My eyes travel across Rak's broad forehead and dark curving brows, his bold cheekbones, his sharply angled jaw. His mouth, beautifully shaped, with the scar-slash through it.

  "How did it happen?" I whisper.

  "I—I don't know. You're so crazy. And that smart mouth of yours—you make me laugh and you surprise me, and you're infuriating—"

  I smile. "Not that." I reach up and touch his lips with one finger. "The scar."

  "Oh." He flushes deep red under his tan. "The Vilor. The attack when they—"

  He stops, like he can't say it. But I remember what he told me, about the assault of his mother and sister.

  "Why? Why did they do it?" I ask.

  "They're animals," he says. "And terrorists. It's part of their strategy. Take apart the will and the heart of your enemies, steal their dignity, and you break them. They rape men and women during every attack, wherever they are. It's routine for them."

  A chill runs over my skin. "But you—"

  He shakes his head. "They cut my mouth, and they made me watch what they did to my family. It's why I joined the Fray. I get revenge, and my family gets protection."

  Until this moment, I didn't really grasp the enormity of what he was giving up by helping me. To me, the choice seemed obvious—free the innocent hostage, let her return to her family. Do the right thing. For him, taking my side means betraying the faction that protects his loved ones, that pays him for his loyalty and his service.

  "Rak, I didn't realize what I was asking of you." I take his hand, squeezing gently. "I've been so selfish. I'm sorry."

  "It's not your fault," he says. "We act based on what we know and what we believe to be true. That's all you were doing. I was doing the same, when I became part of the plan to kidnap you. I acted on the knowledge I had. And now, I know more, and things are different."

  I nod. "More complicated. It's harder to know what to do."

  "Yes, exactly. I was taught, growing up, that every choice you make brings you closer to the light or to the darkness," he says. "That's part of the Maraj religion. But life is more complex than that. Good and bad, right and wrong—not so easy to separate anymore."

  "Not so easy," I murmur, because the more he talks, the more I realize how smart he is and that turns me on like nothing else. I can't help that I'm attracted to intelligence in guys. It's one of the reasons I fell so hard for my ex-boyfriend, Gareth, despite his lack of passion for me.

  As Rak talks about truth, and right and wrong, and choices and life, the rest of the world is melting, dripping into a puddle of nothingness—and there's only Rak, solid and vivid, and the warmth of his skin, and the scent of soap and melons and something spicy-sweet that I can't quite place. My fingers writhe between his, pulling his palm closer to mine.

  "I hate the scar," he's whispering. "Every time I see it I remember."

  "I'm so sorry." My voice is barely a breath. "But Rak, I like the scar. It makes you look roguish—and intimidating, in a good way." My heart thumps a faster rhythm against my ribs at the look he gives me—heat and deep emotion that I don't try to name.

  A knock at the door. "Cleaning!" says an unfamiliar voice in Global.

  I hiss a curse, and Rak chuckles, pulling his hand away. "Did we get everything?"

  We do a quick sweep of the room. We arrived with almost nothing, and I packed it all after I tied him up. As Rak opens the door, I tense, wondering if it's actually housekeeping or another bounty hunter come to collect me—or maybe the Fray, or the Vilor.

  But a scrawny woman waits outside, her leathery face unhappy and impatient.

  "Sorry," I say. "We're leaving."

  Carpet sweeper in hand, she ambles into the room as soon as we exit.

  In the hall, Rak stops me with a hand on my arm. "I'm going to need that belt back," he says, gesturing to the strip of sturdy leather around my waist.

  I brace my hands on my hips. "I was going to say the same thing about the gun. I already have the belt, I should have the gun, too."

  "You stole it from me."

  "I need it more. You can fight with your fists, but I don't have any training."

  "You fight well enough with words," he says. "Give me the belt."

  "Come and take it."

  Oh skies, why did I say that?

  Eyes glinting, he moves closer, and I retreat until my back hits the wall. Then he lowers his hands to the my waist and carefully works the belt buckle free, his fingers brushing my stomach. With the buckle undone, he slides the belt off me and wraps it around his own waist.

  "You'r
e so much smaller than me," he says, adjusting the belt by several notches.

  "Thank you, I guess."

  "It's not a compliment, it's a fact."

  "Oh, forgive me. My mistake. I don't deserve compliments, only quips about how crazy and infuriating I am and what a smart mouth I have."

  He starts to reply, but a door down the hall closes, and Alik strides toward us. "Ready to check out?" He smiles broadly. From a thick strap over his shoulder hangs a heavy leather traveling bag, once beautiful, maybe, but now beaten and worn into a pliable maze of dark patches and pale grooves.

  I hold up the paper Safi gave me. "I hope you two know this town better than I do. I have no idea how to read this address."

  Alik snatches the paper. "That's because it's written in Emsali. We'll find this easily enough. In a town this size, there's not much room to get lost."

  Besides Safi, two other people occupy the tiny lobby of the inn—one collecting trash from the bins and another lounging on a threadbare sofa, drinking from a glass bottle. When we check out, Safi treats us with polite indifference, as if we are typical guests. In minutes we're leaving the cool air of the lobby, stepping into the heat. The sun is up, scowling at the town as if it could force the very buildings to melt in the heat of its glare.

  "Why do people live out here?" I groan. The sweat glands in my armpits are already seeping.

  "I've wondered the same thing," says Alik. "I'm here temporarily, out of necessity, but these idiots live here all the time."

  "They got stuck here," Rak says. "Or their ancestors built the place, and staying is a matter of pride. Holding onto to a life in a place as hard as this—there's satisfaction in that."

  He's perceptive. Smart, in a way that I'm not used to. I wish he'd keep talking about it, but he's already striding down the street, so Alik and I fall in behind him. We pass clusters of two or three people at a time, huddled in the shade of shop awnings or walking together with heads covered against the sun. After the coolness and the comfortable lighting of the inn, the sun's rays splinter white-hot in my eyes. If only I had my sunglasses from home! But they're meant for a different life than this one—I doubt they'd last long in this rugged place.

  One shop we pass features a mildewed mannequin head in the window, sporting a pair of tinted goggles that would be perfect for a desert trek—protection from sun and sand at the same time. My steps slow as I gaze at the display.

  "See something you like?" asks Alik.

  "The goggles," I say. "My eyes get tired of squinting."

  "Come on." Grabbing my hand, he pulls me into the shop.

  "But Rak—"

  "We'll catch up to him."

  The shop is tiny, crowded with miscellaneous objects that look like junk to me—bins of mech and tech, dusty bolts of cloth, cloudy glass bottles, coils of wire, packs of ilja smokes. Apparently these are treasured products to the people of Ankerja, though, because the place already has several customers worming their way through the bins and shelves, selecting items. Alik hustles me over to the window display and hooks the goggles off the mannequin head with a long finger.

  "Try them on." He hands them to me.

  "Rak has our finance card," I say, holding the goggles up to my eyes. "And besides, we can't afford them."

  "It would be my pleasure to buy them for you."

  I lower the goggles. "Why? What's your game here?"

  "Can't I buy a pretty girl a present?" He smiles at me.

  Those blue eyes. The creases at their corners tell of years of smiling, of charming his way through one situation after another. But when I look into them, I see hardness, an icy edge. He's got maybe a decade more life on him than me, and under the debonair attitude, he's tired.

  Glancing down, I turn the goggles over and over in my fingers, wondering whether to accept them.

  "Are you and Rak involved?" he asks. "I wondered, but you didn't say."

  "Not exactly." I'm not sure what we are.

  "Either way, he surely wouldn't begrudge you a gift from a friend."

  "You're hardly a friend. We just met you this morning."

  "A hopeful friend, then." He snatches the goggles and moves past me, towards the checkout stand wedged between towering shelves of mechanical parts and tarnished jewelry. He's haggling with the shopkeeper over the goggles' price when Rak steps into the store, looking distressed. Anxiety fades to relief when he sees me.

  "I thought he took you, or you got lost," he says.

  "Sorry, Alik dragged me in here before I could call to you. He's buying me goggles."

  "Why?"

  "I saw them in the window."

  "Hm. It's a good idea. Your eyes are red from the sand."

  No wonder he didn't kiss me earlier. I'm a red-eyed, dry-lipped, sunburned monster. Not to mention a half-crazy Evolved girl who burned his neck with her hand. Guilt bites at my heart as my eyes drop to the red handprint. It's not a bad burn—hopefully it will heal and fade without a scar.

  Alik approaches us, swinging the goggles from his finger. "Here you go!"

  I pull them on immediately. After a quick adjustment, they fit perfectly, and once we step back outside, I'm amazed at the difference. My eyes can stay open—no more squinting against the sun or rubbing away grit. Gazing at me, Rak breaks out in a huge smile.

  "What, do they look funny on me?" I ask.

  "A little."

  "I don't care. I love them. Thanks, Alik."

  "Happy to help."

  We continue along the street, sticking to the shadows of buildings as much as possible; but we can't avoid drawing stares from the citizens of Ankerja. They watch us like a pack of wild dogs might eye an intruder into their hunting grounds, waiting to see if we're just passing through, or if we might be a threat.

  A shortcut between two ramshackle buildings takes us through to another street, narrower than the main road. The buildings aren't tall enough to yield much shade, and the air trapped between them is thick, hot, and stifling. A faded sign on a nearby post seems to bear the street names, but I can't read them.

  "Not this street," says Rak. "Maybe the next one over."

  As we trudge across to the next alley, I'm eyeing the men's footwear. Rak's sand-colored boots reach halfway to his knee, and each one has a low-profile side pouch, extra straps for holding knives, and reinforced shins and toes—military boots, well-made. Alik's thick-soled black boots come up to his knees and have flex panels at the sides, as well as rows of flashy straps and buckles.

  My stupid low-heeled dress shoes are about to fall apart at the seams. Sand sifts into them with every step, and the grains scour my blisters. I refuse to mention my pain to the men, though; I already feel indebted for the goggles, and I'm not about to play the part of the wimpy city girl.

  Gritting my teeth, I trudge behind Rak and Alik. We're on another street, a double row of clumsily assembled homes, cobbled together from pre-fabricated residence kits. At the end of the street, where it tees off into a wider road, stands a two-story sandstone building. Its courtyard is hemmed in by a makeshift wall created from huge upright sheets of corrugated metal, bolted to posts. Rak steps up to the gate—if the corroded metal door secured by rusted loops of wire can be called a gate.

  A digital lock holds the wires together—although it looks like a few solid kicks would break the wires and render the lock useless. Alik hands Rak the scrap of paper Safi gave us; but the instant Rak touches the lock's keypad to enter the access code, a vicious growl ripples from the throat of something on the other side of the metal wall.

  12

  Rak jerks his hand back from the gate lock. "She has a dog."

  "Dog? That sounds like a monster," says Alik.

  "I'm good with dogs," I say. "Let me talk to it." As Rak enters the unlock code, I step forward, bending close to the gate so I can see a sliver of the courtyard through the crack. "Hey there," I croon in my gentlest tones. "We're not here to hurt you. We're friends, Safi's friends."

  Alik stares at me li
ke I'm crazy. "It can't understand you."

  "It's all about the tone," I say, and I'm about to continue speaking when a body thuds against the gate, shaking the entire wall. Jumping back, I stumble against Rak's chest, and his hands close reflexively around my shoulders. "My talking thing isn't working," I say.

  "You made it madder," Alik says.

  "She has a talent for that." Rak gives my shoulders a light squeeze. "We'll try it my way."

  Releasing me, he pulls out his gun, sets it to stun mode, and reaches for the lock again. "Ready?"

  The second the gate swings open, a yellow and black blur soars through the gap, jaws wide, head angled, aiming straight for Rak's throat. I scream, Rak's gun whines, and the animal collapses in front of us, twitching, tongue lolling out of its jaws.

  "What is that thing?" I've never seen anything like this creature. It's like an enormous dog, all gaunt ribs and lean flanks, with hulking shoulders, a thick ruff of dark fur streaked with yellow, and a narrow black snout.

  "It's a jacanal," says Rak. "A desert predator, a kind of wild dog. And apparently, Safi's pet." He drags the creature's body into the courtyard, and Alik and I follow him inside. I snap the lock shut behind us.

  "We need to get inside before it can move again," says Rak.

  The courtyard is bare earth and broken tiles, with a fine coating of sand. Straight ahead, red sandstone steps lead up to the building's entrance. To my left, the body of the jacanal twitches in the scattered shade of two spindly trees. On the right is a covered area, the roof created from the same corrugated metal as the courtyard walls. The space under it is curtained with swaths of burlap and canvas.

  "What's in there?" I ask, taking a step towards it.

  "We don't have time, Zilara," says Rak. "Later."

  We mount the steps to the front entrance of the building, which opens into a hallway. I close the door behind us as Rak and Alik move ahead through the gloomy interior.

  From the building's design and the remnants of furniture, it looks as if this place once housed multiple families. It's abandoned now. Doors hang half-smashed from their frames, and hairy sand-spiders as big as my palm peek out of their burrows in the floor as we walk down the windowless hall. Light seeps in grayish streams from the empty rooms on either side of the passage.