by Kate L. Mary
“I know you feel protective of your people and that’s an honorable thing, but you must know that by talking during my dinner, you have betrayed my trust. You don’t speak unless spoken to, especially when we have company in the house.” Saffron let out a long sigh that could have come across as regret were it not for the lack of feeling in her eyes. “You know you’ll need to be punished.”
“I do, Mistress,” I replied.
“It will be as much of an example to Isa as the guidance you gave her earlier was.” Saffron’s chair scraped against the floor when she stood, and despite my best efforts, my body jerked in response. “Kneel.”
I did as I was told, keeping my head down as I sank to my knees in the middle of the office. The wood floor was hard and cold against my knees, even through the thick skirt of my uniform.
“Arms out in front of you,” Saffron said as she moved closer, her skirts swishing around her with every step.
I did as I was told, putting my arms out in front of me, palms up, but I kept my eyes down.
“Five.”
I closed my eyes even though I knew I would not be able to keep them that way.
“Eyes open, Indra. Head up.”
I lifted my chin and forced my lids open. Saffron was right in front of me now, so close that the folds of her skirt almost touched my fingertips. The tendrils of the small whip she used for punishment dangled between us, and the scent of leather tickled my nostrils. The smell was different than the hide we used in our village, and would forever be associated with this woman and this room, with pain and humiliation. The smallest whiff of it made my skin sting, just as it was now.
“Count,” Saffron commanded as she raised the whip.
It came down before I had a chance to respond, and the strips stung against my palms, forcing a gasp out of me.
I had to swallow before I could whisper, “One.”
The second lash brought tears to my eyes and welts to the palms of my ivory skin. The number “two” came out of my mouth automatically, and the third blow came only a beat later. I gasped out the next number, my voice shaking as much as my arms were. My palms were crisscrossed with red welts, the skin not broken but swollen where the leather had struck me. I cried out with the next strike, the number “four” being forced past my lips with the yelp, and then Saffron brought the whip down for the fifth and final time.
“Five!” It felt as if the glass in the windowpanes shook with the force of my scream, and my cheeks were streaked with tears. Underneath me, my legs wobbled, but somehow I managed to stay on my knees.
I kept my arms out in front of me, knowing that Saffron would want to inspect the welts lining my hands. She would do it under the pretense that she wanted to be certain no medical attention was needed, but I had long suspected that she secretly enjoyed seeing the pain she inflicted on others. Even though she did not beat her servants the way some of the other Sovereign did, I believed there was a part of her that craved the dishing out of pain. I even wondered if she used that whip on Bastian when they were alone in their room at night. It seemed like something she would do.
Saffron bent down so she could get a closer look at my palms. “No skin was broken. You should be fine to return to work.”
I kept my arms up when I nodded.
Saffron stared at my hands for a few beats longer, and I ventured a glance up. Her icy gaze was focused on my palms, but for once her eyes were not devoid of emotion. Excitement flickered in them.
I averted my gaze before she noticed me staring, but I knew the expression would stay with me until the day I died.
Saffron turned away and I was finally allowed to lower my arms. I rested them on my knees, palms up. They throbbed, pulsing like every welt had a heartbeat of its own. I wanted to curl my fingers into fists and beat them against the back of Saffron’s head, but I could do neither. My palms hurt too much to even consider making a fist, and if I struck a Sovereign I would be put to death. If something happened to me, Anja would have to take my place in Sovereign City and no one would be around to take care of our mother. She was too sick to spend her days alone anymore.
Saffron didn’t even glance my way when she said, “You may go.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” I said.
Getting to my feet without using my hands was difficult, but I managed. I had been in this position before, although it had been nearly three years since my last punishment. Saffron had been right about that, which to me was another sign of how much she savored these moments. Outliers kneeling on the floor of her office, bending to her will more than ever before. It was the only way to explain how she remembered exactly when my last punishment had been. With all the people in her employment and all the punishments she dished out—several a week—it seemed unlikely that she would remember who had been punished and when. Especially when so much time had passed.
Mira rushed to my side the second I set foot in the kitchen. “How many?” Her heart shaped face contorted into an ugly version of itself and her forehead wrinkled, pulling her passage markings together until they formed one continuous line above each eyebrow instead of four dashes.
“Five,” I said, allowing my friend to take my hands in hers.
Her palms, like mine, were decorated with callouses, and her knuckles and joints were dry and cracked from washing too many dishes. It was soothing though, having hands that were so familiar on mine. Mira and I had been through a lot together over the years, and she had come to work at Saffron’s house only a couple months after I did. Unlike me, however, Mira had earned more than her fair share of punishments. So many, in fact, that if I looked hard enough I could detect the faint lines of the last lashes still decorating the pale skin of her palms.
“Five?” My friend shook her head in disbelief.
“You know that is the minimum.”
“I thought she might be merciful with you,” Mira murmured. “You are her favorite.”
“Favorite?”
She kept her gaze on my palms. Our skin was the same shade, pale but freckled from years of being exposed to the harsh sun. Once summer returned, though, that would change. Mine would tan to a nice golden color while hers would refuse to comply. It had two shades, ivory and pink, and Mira always said she spent the entire summer fighting a battle with the sun, knowing that she would lose no matter what she did.
“You must know that Saffron likes you the best,” she said, finally pulling her gaze away from the welts. Her eyes met mine; they were as pale blue as the sky on a clear day, and as pretty as the rest of her was.
“Saffron does not like anyone.”
“You are too modest, Indra.” Mira released my hands. “We should put ice on these.”
“You know we cannot. The freezer is off limits to us.” My gaze moved to the small window above the sink. I could see a sliver of sky from where I stood, and it seemed to me that the gray clouds were thicker now than they had been this morning. “Maybe it will snow.”
“If we are lucky,” Mira replied, and when I looked back, her head was bent.
We both knew that snow would not be a lucky thing for anyone in the village but us.
“I will be fine,” I assured her. “But if Saffron catches us standing around instead of working, I will not and neither will you. We need to get back to work.”
Mira nodded her assent, and together we retreated to the sink where the dirty dishes sat waiting.
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Tribe of Daughters
Chapter One
Jameson
The rain outside falls in thick sheets that makes it seem like it’s trying to wash us away, and all I can do is cower in my tent and wonder how the cold sank deep enough inside my body to turn my blood to ice. And how the hell I ended up here to begin with.
Forge A New Frontier!
The company slogan was just upbeat enough to trick me into signing on the dotted line, and the next thing I knew, I was on a train heade
d west. Now I realize how idiotic I’d been, but at the time it seemed like an adventure. The load of cash they’d promised probably had a little something to do with how blind I’d been as well. It’s damn hard to see straight when someone dangles that many dollar signs in front of your face, especially when your life has been a pile of shit for as long as you can remember.
Of course, the asshole who recruited me failed to mention that most of these trips ended with half the crew dying of things like cholera or dysentery. Illnesses no one should have these days, not even in the cities where the air is thick with pollution and garbage lines the streets. Out here, though, where civilization slipped away decades ago and has stayed extinct, anything goes.
The tent flap gets shoved open, letting in a burst of rain and wind, and Daniel ducks inside a second later. “It’s comin’ down like a monsoon out there.”
He yanks his hat off and shakes it, throwing drops of rain across the tent, and shivers shoot through my body.
“It’s wet enough in here, you asshole,” I grumble and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Should have kept my ass where I was.”
Daniel drops at my side and flashes me teeth the color of the weak tea my mom used to drink, courtesy of the chewing tobacco he can’t go a second without. He’s only a little older than my twenty-seven years, but he looks like he has at least a decade on me. A jagged scar runs up one side of his face, from his jaw to the corner of his eye, and poorly drawn tattoos cover most of his arms. He’s also missing a front tooth and the little finger on his right hand, almost like he’s falling apart one piece at a time.
“Just a little rain,” he says in a voice that wheezes its way out of him. “I been through worse.”
I don’t doubt it—for him this trip wasn’t optional; it was this or jail—but I keep my thoughts about how he probably deserves worse to myself.
“Yeah, well, my life has always been shit, but at least I was usually dry,” I say, wondering if jail could possibly be worse than sitting in a mud puddle in the middle of nowhere.
“Everybody’s life is shit these days.” Daniel’s mouth scrunches up like he’s about to spit, but he stops when I pin him with a glare icy enough to freeze the devil in hell.
He isn’t wrong. Things haven’t been good for decades. The plague that killed off most of the population seventy years ago is long gone, but we sure as hell haven’t recovered. I’ve seen movies about the old west and pioneers who braved savage people and wild, untamed lands, and the scenario isn’t too far from where we are now. In fact, if it wasn’t for the technology left over from the old days, I’m sure we’d be right back there.
Not that it does the average person a lot of good. The cars still running are reserved for the wealthy since oil production is slow and expensive, and electricity comes and goes most of the time. Growing up, a night with no lights and no heat wasn’t uncommon, and I should be used to freezing my ass off the way I am, but this trip isn’t anything like I expected.
This damn trip.
I shake my head thinking about it. The railroad company promised me a decent chunk of money up front and a shit ton when I returned home, and it had all seemed so simple when I signed up. Even now, hunkered down in a shitty tent while it pours buckets, I’m not sure where I went wrong. We go out in a group and repair the train tracks damaged from years of disuse. No problem, right? Except there’s only one working train, so they had no intention of leaving it with us. We could have used trucks, but these days gasoline is more valuable than gold, which means we’ve been traveling across the country in wagons pulled by horses. Another detail conveniently left out of the company’s sales pitch.
“Should have stayed back in Baltimore,” I mutter to myself.
Daniel hoots like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard, and I stifle an urge to punch him.
I’m in the middle of glaring at him when a shout rises up outside. It’s barely audible over the pounding rain, but the whinny of the horses is loud and clear despite the storm, and it has my back stiffening as thoughts of wild animals flip through my mind. I heard a rumor that the last group had an altercation with a pack of lions. The cats aren’t indigenous to the area, but before the plague, parks displaying all kinds of exotic animals dotted the country, and a lot of them were released when people realized the end was near. Some species have thrived in the wild, especially out here where there are no humans left.
I’ve never seen a lion in person, but I’ve seen pictures, and the last thing I want is to have one of them sink their teeth into me. So I stay where I am and pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders like the thin fabric will keep me safe.
More shouting breaks through the air, this time angry, even violent sounding. There’s something distinctly feminine about the voices, which makes no sense because there are no women on this trip, and even though I don’t want to get my face eaten off, I find myself getting to my feet.
“What do you think is goin’ on out there?” Daniel asks, not bothering to drag himself up off the ground.
“No clue.”
Part of me thinks I should go check it out, but the idea of getting soaked again when I’ve barely gotten dry sounds as unappealing as getting eaten by a lion. Even when more yelling joins in the ruckus, I don’t move. My feet stay rooted to the semi-dry floor of my tent while my heart pounds harder and harder with each passing second. Someone lets out an agonizing howl, and the sound raises the hair on my arms even higher than the goose bumps did, but I still don’t move.
“What the—”
Daniel’s words get cut off when the tent flap bursts open. I stumble back, but it’s the sight of the person who leaps inside that knocks me on my ass. It’s a woman all right, but like none I’ve ever seen. Animal hides wrap around her body, secured by leather strips that crisscross over her chest and waist. They wind around her legs, too, giving off the impression that with a simple tug her clothes will fall to the ground. She towers over me, the muscles in her arms straining against the leather when she raises a bow. She has her dark hair slicked back, not from the rain but with mud, and black paint covers most of her face. Intelligent, pale blue eyes sweep across the inside of the tent, going from Daniel to me and back again, taking in every detail in less than a second before she releases her arrow.
It flies through the air, piercing Daniel in the heart before he has a chance to blink. He opens his mouth, and a wet cry bubbles up, joined a moment later by blood spraying from his lips and running down his face and neck. His body drops to the ground.
Then the woman is on me, her bow somehow gone and in its place a knife carved from bone, its blade long and pointed enough to prick the skin on my neck with little effort, drawing blood. I let out a low hiss of pain, but don’t move an inch.
“You are healthy?” the woman asks in a dialect as foreign as she is.
She has her knees planted firmly on my chest, her feet on each side of my torso to steady herself. Blue eyes narrow as they take me in, reminding me of the way starving children stare at cakes through bakery windows, and my pulse quickens at the predatory expression.
“Yeah,” I whisper, barely moving my lips, terrified she’ll slice my throat open.
“Yes?” Her voice goes up in a questioning tone like she doesn’t understand.
“Yes,” I clarify.
Her head bobs once, and she gets to her feet, pulling me with her. Even standing, I have to strain to look up at her, because she has to be well over six feet, and her firm grip on my arm will most definitely be leaving a purple handprint behind.
“You will come,” she says, dragging me toward the flap of the tent.
I do as I’m told, and her grip doesn’t loosen as she drags me forward, my feet tripping over blankets and other items. We step outside, leaving the relatively dry tent behind, as well as Daniel’s body, and the wind and rain pound against my face. I’m not wearing shoes, and the muddy earth is cold beneath my bare feet. The woman holding me doesn’t let go, but she does cha
nge positions. She keeps the blade at my throat while moving behind me, her free arm around my chest and the knife still against my throat.
“Walk,” she calls over the rain.
Several of the other tents are torn open, their sides now gaping holes that flap in the wind. Most of the lights seem to have been extinguished in the scuffle, but the few still working reveal a bizarre scene where primitive women dressed in leather hold men at their mercy. Through the rain and darkness I count six other men, all of them kneeling in the mud with their hands tied behind their backs. Four women stand over them, loaded down with homemade bows and spears, while three more gather the horses.
“One more,” the woman at my back calls.
When we reach the others, she kicks the back of my knees and I go down, relieved that the knife seems to have disappeared from my neck. I hit the ground, and mud squishes under my knees, and a second later my arms are yanked behind my back and tied. Around my wrists then at the elbows, making the muscles in my shoulders ache.
“Do not move,” the woman behind me says before releasing my arm.
To say I’m too shocked to do anything is an understatement. I search the darkness, trying to find the men in their group, but there are only women. Eight in all, and every one is muscular and broad, reminding me of the prizefighters I used to go see and how they would dedicate every free second they had to lifting weights, knowing it was the best way to escape the poverty they’d grown up with. But these are women, and this isn’t the city, and I doubt they’re on their way to a ring to beat the shit out of each other.
The women talk back and forth while they go about gathering things. Their words are slow, overly pronounced, their dialect making them sound simple even though they’re clearly intelligent and organized. They dig through tents and wagons, and toss away things like food and money and shoes, but take common items like glass jars. Nothing they do makes sense, but they seem to have a purpose in everything, and they work together like a finely tuned machine or the cogs in a watch, winding around and around, hour after hour in perfect harmony.
