by Elle Thorne
Unless they find out the truth.
That would never happen.
Niptak scurried along her arm. No longer than her palm, the little furry creature she’d saved from a predatory bird’s talons had recovered. He was young, umbilical cord barely detached, so she guessed he was less than two weeks when she found him.
Niptak was one of the native Midland creatures, a flyn, which was a tiny furry being with wings made of webbed flesh between their legs. Flyn glided from tree to tree, eating fruit and avoiding predators.
Niptak reached the end of her hand. She tore off a piece of the marmar fruit’s flesh and held it out to him. With tiny clawed digits, he took the fruit and dug sharp teeth into it, his large luminous eyes studying Cinia while he chewed.
“Not bad, is it?” She ran her fingertip along his head, scratching. Niptak leaned into her fingers, clearly enjoying the sensation.
Niptak tilted his head, his eyes busy studying the foliage for predators. He stilled.
“What is it, boy?” Cinia whispered, glancing about.
When Niptak began to eat again, she breathed a sigh of relief at the false alarm.
The last thing she needed was a jungle cat trying to have her for lunch.
4
Qalen studied the woman. Long blonde hair glinted in the occasional rays of sunshine that managed to slip through the rainforest’s canopy. Light-colored eyes that ranged between aquamarine and emerald in color.
She was a beautiful creature, even to Qalen, who was more accustomed to Kormic features. He especially loved the way her skin fluoresced and changed with every emotion. She’d cried silent tears, and her skin had undulated to a deep blue then ranged between purple and indigo.
She’d turned emerald while she’d napped, except for one point during what must have been a bad dream. She’d turned orange and frowned.
He’d been following her for days since he’d come into Midland. His reasons for being in this territory were twofold. One, to find a plant Rodina had taught him would yield accelerated healing. It was a plant that wasn’t available in the Farlands, hence every so often, he would seek the plant out. And his second reason, to find answers to his ancestry. To his bloodline. He had no answers. Still.
He was no stranger to Midland, he enjoyed his forays into the area, the shady rainforest environment was a respite from the beating sun of the Farlands.
Qalen was familiar with the Asazi. He’d seen soldiers, watched them from carefully chosen spots in the trees. Seen them marching by, patrolling for Kormic.
The woman’s skin was just like the Asazi soldiers’ skins, and just like his. In all his days, in all his years, more than twenty now, almost thirty years, he’d never seen a Kormic with skin like his. Though, his adoptive mother always told him he was Asazi-born, and she’d found his birth mother—named Ashanta—in labor in Midland, close to the Farlands border.
So, it would seem he’d have to believe he was Asazi, even though the relations between the Asazi and the Kormic were strained, to say the least.
He used to study his skin in the reflection of the still, clear pond. He would stand in front of his reflection and go through a series of emotions, just to see his skin change. He stood in front of it with his adoptive mother, Rodina, noting their differences.
He recalled once, he’d thrown his coat off and unfurled his black wings with their hooked talon on top. Rodina had picked up the garment and thrown it on his back.
“Keep covered, Qalen. You do not want anyone to see those wings. It is enough that your skin is a reminder of your heritage.”
“But why? Why are my wings so bad?” he’d asked her repeatedly.
“Just do as I say, son.”
And he had. To this day, Qalen wore his coat all the time, except when he bathed, or when he flew.
He appraised the woman before him, sitting on a tree, her skin just like his, but no wings on her back. None at all—only the male Asazi had them, though they never used them to fly. He’d seen glimpses of them when he’d followed the Asazi soldiers.
He used to have wings that matched his skin, just like the Asazi men did. He would unfurl them and hold them, marveling at their color, luminescent and undulating throughout the colors of the rainbow, just like his skin.
That was then, when he was young. Now his wings were dark as night.
The woman was eating fruit, her furry little friend on her arm, joining her in the meal.
Garth, Qalen’s pet, a winged raptor, made a gurgling sound in his throat, the sound low.
“No, you cannot eat her pet, just as I would not want anyone eating you.”
His mother Rodina had taught him how the people on her grandfather’s side kept the winged raptors as pets and hunting companions. He’d picked up her lessons quickly and soon had his own raptor. Qalen and Garth had remained inseparable.
Garth’s intense scrutiny changed focus, drawing Qalen’s eyes to what his bird of prey was watching.
There, in the shadows, its gaze focused on the woman with the juvenile flyn, was a fully matured male jungle cat with hunger and intent in its predatory stare.
Curses!
Qalen had to help the woman. She must have felt she was safe in that tree, but the jungle cat could scale it part way then leap, and, with one mighty sweep of his paw, he could knock her to the rainforest’s leafy floor and devour her.
He carefully pulled his bow from behind his back and nocked an arrow tipped with a lethal poison Rodina had taught him to blend from local herbs. With shallow breaths, and the jungle cat in his sights, Qalen waited to see if the cat would decide against the endeavor. He’d rather not risk shooting the cat and bringing out more predators.
The flyn on her hand began to chatter, ceaselessly, full of panic, clearly trying to alert her to danger.
She must have understood what the creature was doing, for the woman looked around her, scanning her surroundings, her eyes moving over the area.
Qalen remained still, hoping she wouldn’t see him.
Her pet flyn became more and more agitated. The woman rose, standing on the branch.
Then in an instant, before he could call out to her to be careful, even before he could react, she was airborne, tumbling, head over heels, arms flailing. The flyn leapt from her body, gliding gracefully next to her not-so-graceful fall.
The Asazi woman landed with a thud and a snap, her head cracking against the tree’s trunk while her wrist snapped beneath her.
The jungle cat roared.
Qalen released the arrow.
Garth took flight.
The arrow struck true, piercing the jungle cat’s heart, its poisoned tip buried deep.
Garth caught Qalen’s eye then struck the jungle cat in the forehead, blocking the woman from the cat’s sight.
Pushing his modified duster aside, Qalen revealed his wings then unsheathed a stolen TripTip knife he’d taken off a dead Asazi soldier and jumped, using his wings to soar in for the landing,
Furling his wings, he landed on the cat’s back, straddling it as if he were riding it like a mount. He buried the large and lethal TripTip blade deep into the spine of the feline, bringing it to a dead stop.
Between the effects of the arrow, the poison, and the blade, the jungle cat collapsed, dead.
Pity that… Now, they had to get out of there.
The woman lay motionless, her eyes open but unfocused. The little flyn alit then burrowed into the folds of her clothing.
Not far away, the sounds of jungle cats roaring warned Qalen danger would be quickly approaching. Garth released his hold on the jungle cat and flew to perch on Qalen’s shoulder.
“We have to go.” He scooped the woman into his arms, unfurled his wings, and took to the air, finding an opening in the rainforest canopy and flying through it, at last able to soar without the foliage and dense cover of Midland interfering.
The woman moaned, her eyes fluttered open for a brief spell. She focused on something behind Qalen, released a screa
m, then her eyes closed, and she was unconscious once more.
In the underground home he’d grown up in, Qalen sat at the table where his adoptive mother had taught him how to distil poisons and mix healing potions. His eyes were glued on the woman. He’d barely left her side since they arrived. It had been four days since the woman had fallen. She’d been out since. Qalen had bandaged her hand, wrapping it in a splint he’d fashioned of slithersquil bones and leather. He’d dressed her head after applying healing salves. He’d even placed bits of fruit on the night table and drawn it close to the pallet he’d made for her. The flyn had tentatively come out to eat the fruit, warily watching Garth on his perch by the front door.
She’d lain there, unmoving, but breathing for several nights, until last night, when she’d been restless and had said a few words in her sleep. Unfortunately, Qalen had no idea what she’d said because they’d been whispered mutterings.
He would have understood her if she’d spoken Asazi because Rodina had taken it upon herself to make sure Qalen knew the language.
Rodina had traded with a Kormic man who was fluent in Asazi, paying him with herbs and potions to have him teach both her and Qalen how to speak and understand Asazi.
Qalen had asked her why he had to learn the foreign tongue, since he knew no one that spoke it, and she’d said it was important for him to know the words of his people.
“You are my people. Kormic are my people.”
“We are your people now, but not originally.”
“It doesn’t count. What was originally my language or who gave birth to me does not matter,” he’d told her when he’d gotten old enough to rebel.
Rodina had turned a stern eye his way.
“Yes, Mother.”
And he’d buckled down and learned the Asazi language.
5
Cinia groaned. Curses, but her head hurt. She opened her eyes, slowly. The light wasn’t bright, but it hurt. Squinting, she glanced around the room.
The first thing she noticed, a large bird of prey, a raptor, on a whittled branch by the door, across the room. A sensation of fluttering made her jump. She reached for her sleeve and found her little Niptak hiding within.
Poor thing. Probably afraid the raptor is going to eat him whole.
The raptor’s dark unmoving gaze watched her carefully.
Cinia stared back.
A niggling memory pushed forth, trying to get to the forefront of her brain.
The raptor.
The jungle cat.
A man with wings. Black wings, with a hook.
She gasped. Saraz’s wings!
Had Saraz found her? She scoured the room she was in. It looked nothing like Saraz’s castle-like home.
This place had been dug out and was underground. The walls made of the dirt in the Farlands.
She studied each object in the room, her gaze traveling slowly and methodically to assess where she was.
Curses.
There was a man. An Asazi man watching her from the corner.
She tried to leap to her feet, but when she reached her hand out to use it to leverage her attempt, she discovered—quite painfully—her wrist was ensconced in a splint.
She dropped back down then eased to a sitting position while she kept her eyes glued on the man. “Who are you?”
“Qalen.” He rose to his feet, approached. He was clad in a brown cloak that had almost no sleeves and traveled down to mid-calf, resembling a primitive modified duster.
And he was devastatingly handsome.
His long dirty-blond hair was tied back, and his eyes were a piercing brown, reminding her of the raptor’s.
She glanced at the bird of prey. “Is that…? Is it your pet?”
He nodded. “Who are you?” His Asazi was different than hers, more guttural.
He took another step forward. Shoulders so broad, they eclipsed the light coming from a torch to the right of her. Those magnificent shoulders tapered down, and, in the split of the duster he wore, was a body built of muscle and hard work, rippling in a tight cream-colored leather shirt held together across his chest with leather ties. The ties strained to be released from that broad chest.
“I’m Cinia.”
“Cinia.”
The way he said her name, the way it rolled off his tongue… She blinked slowly. She’d really never had much experience with men, except for Saraz. Saraz, who didn’t resemble Asazi men, though he had been extraordinarily sexy. Saraz, who was twisted, though she’d never been able to comprehend that while under his control. It had taken several days of reflection in the Midland refugee camp and while she was alone in Midland to realize how utterly bizarre life with Saraz had been.
“You are Asazi.” His expression was serious, his countenance that of a hunter.
“You are, too.” Then she added, “But your accent, it’s not…” She didn’t want to say it wasn’t quite right, but, what else could she say? She didn’t want to be rude. “Your accent is not like mine.”
“You grew up in the Asazi territory? Your people call it Heartland?” He frowned, cocked his head to the left, an inquisitive look in his eyes.
“My people? Are they not your people, too? You are Asazi.”
“I am n—” He paused, crossed his arms over his chest. Not only did that emphasize the size and muscles of his chest, it also showcased how thick his arms were. His build resembled a soldier. A rebel soldier. “I was not raised in an Asazi town.”
“Who taught you the Asazi language? Is this your home?” Cinia glanced about her. “It seems as if it’s underground.”
“It is. It used to be a slithersquil’s den.”
Cinia shivered. She’d never seen one in person, but she’d heard stories about the horrid desert serpent-like beings that terrorized all.
“Is it safe to be here now?”
“It’s been my home all my life and my family’s before me.”
She could tell the walls were not the dark rich soil of Midland. This color of dirt was characteristic of only one place on Kormia, the Farlands, a ring of lands surrounding Midland. “So, you live in the Farlands? And have? All your life? I’ve never heard of any Asazi living in the Farlands. It’s dangerous.”
He nodded then turned toward a corner that served as a kitchen. “Hungry?”
Her stomach rumbled in response. “How long have I been out?” She tried to flex her fingers but winced from the pain.
“A few days.”
“Really?”
He nodded then turned toward a pantry built of wood with inlaid bone decorations. He pulled out wooden bowls and began to assemble food. “What do you remember?”
“It’s jumbled. A jungle cat. Then things become confusing. I think I dreamt that Saraz carried me.” She shook her head.
He handed her the bowl and a spoon.
Cinia pushed the food around. Meat! Whatever it was, it wasn’t Asazi fare, but it smelled good. And it beat the fruit diet she’d been on since she left the Midland refugee camp.
Cinia polished off the bowl’s contents in no time, and when Qalen asked if she wanted more, she hesitated, not wanting to appear gluttonous.
He took the bowl and refilled it.
She smiled her thank you and balanced dish against her body with her forearm, using her good hand to wield the spoon.
“I have some fruit for your little friend there.” Qalen nodded toward her sleeve, where Niptak was stirring, making the fabric ripple.
“He must be starving. Has he been here the whole time I was out?”
“I fed him some fruit. He came out for that.”
“Even with that bird in here?” She indicated the raptor with her spoon.
“Garth won’t hurt him.”
“Why not? Don’t they eat flyn, in the wild, I mean? Aren’t they natural enemies?”
“In the wild, like you said.”
“The raptor has a name?”
“Of course, does the flyn not have one?”
“Niptak.
”
“Niptak. Where is that from?”
“That’s the noise he was making. It sounded like he was saying Niptak over and over.”
Qalen smiled.
This was the first smile she’d seen from him. It softened his unapproachable warrior profile and enhanced his handsomeness. She found herself drawn to the stranger who’d saved her. “Where is your family?”
“It’s just me, now.”
Qalen didn’t know what else to say. He wasn’t ready to open up to the beautiful stranger about his past, his adoptive mother, or his heritage.
And, anyway, there was so much of it he didn’t know, not truly.
She glanced down, her gaze glued on the bowl of food. “I know. I’m alone, too.”
He’d figured as much, what with her wandering about unaccompanied in Midland.
6
Days and days passed, Cinia healing, Qalen tending to her.
Cinia enjoyed getting to know the man who’d helped her. She had little familiarity with men in her adult years, other than Saraz, and Qalen was so different than Saraz.
So very different.
He had a quiet assurance and confidence. He played no mind games. Sexy and silent, he went about their days, helping her heal, engaging her in laughter.
Cinia wasn’t the only one who enjoyed the companionship and sense of belonging. Niptak had taken to following Garth around, climbing up the predatory bird’s perch, his nails digging into the wood as he scampered closer to a creature that would have eaten him without blinking in the wild. When Niptak reached the horizontal portion of the perch he’d scurry across it and stand near Garth’s lethal talons, chirping at the predator to get his attention.
Not that Garth wasn’t paying attention. It seemed the raptor enjoyed pretending to let the little flyn sneak up on him, keeping his gaze mostly averted until the flyn began his high-pitched twittering.
