The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  She stiffened, her sly grin disappearing in an instant. “Please don’t leave me, Ovrun.”

  His chin dropped. “You really think . . . you think I’d bring you to a place like this to break up with you?”

  “I—” She pulled her hands from his and covered her cheeks, which had turned a deep red. “Of course you wouldn’t. I don’t know why I said that.” Her gaze dropped.

  All at once, it came together in Ovrun’s mind. Faylie, Nora’s first friend, had left. Maybe it hadn’t been Faylie’s decision, but Nora hadn’t known that at the time. Later, Nora had learned of her father’s lies and Krey’s secrets. Life had taught her that the people she cared about betrayed her.

  “Hey.” Ovrun nudged her chin higher, then used his thumb to wipe a raindrop off her cheek. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Good.” It came out as a squeak.

  He grinned at the sound. His voice didn’t waver as he said, “I wanted to tell you—I needed to tell you—that I love you.”

  She blinked. Then blinked again. Her lips parted. “What?”

  “You—you didn’t hear me?”

  “I did, but I . . .” Her eyes were wide, like a trapped shimshim. “What do you expect me to say to that?”

  “Shh.” He put his finger on her lips again. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “But if I don’t say it back, that makes me . . . it makes me an asshole! I thought we’d agreed we couldn’t commit to anything long term, so I haven’t even let myself consider—I mean, why would you put me in this position?”

  He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t tell you I love you so you could say it back. I told you because it’s true.”

  She turned her head away, fixing her eyes somewhere in the distance. He could barely hear her next words: “I can’t give you what you want, Ovrun.”

  “Nora, I’m serious, I didn’t expect you to say it back.” Hoped for it, but didn’t expect it.

  “That’s not what I mean!” The words came out shrill. She faced him again and grabbed his hands, holding them in a desperately tight grip. “You want to live in the country, with open land and kids who can run free. You want a life that has all the normal problems everyone deals with—not all the problems royals deal with. I don’t think I can give you that, Ovrun. As much as I’ve imagined escaping from this place and forgetting about the trogs and the crown and my father . . . I also can’t imagine doing that.” She let go of one of his hands and ran her fingers through her hair, groaning. “I’m not making sense.”

  He took the hand back in his own. “You are. And when I say I love you, I mean it.” He licked his lips, swallowed, and pushed his next statement past an odd resistance in his throat. “I love you more than I love my dream of living in the country.”

  Again, her mouth gaped. “What are you saying?”

  “I . . . you heard me.”

  “Ovrun.” Nora leaned forward and took his face in her hands. She didn’t look angry. Panic and hope warred in her eyes. “Don’t lie to either of us, okay? Have you really given up that dream?”

  He covered her hands with his own. His eyes fell closed. He pulled up a mental picture he’d been imagining lately: the two of them standing in front of the palace.

  Without his permission, the image shifted. Now they were on a farmhouse porch, surrounded by fields, watching the sun set.

  He pushed his mind back to the original scene. From the palace, they could see the same sunset, even if trees and buildings covered parts of it. In this version of his vision, he was with the same Nora. She was just wearing nicer clothes.

  She’s what’s important.

  He fixed his will on that thought, opened his eyes and smiled at her. “You’re the only part of my dream that matters, Nora. Not the location.”

  Nora pulled her hands off his face. Her eyebrows drew together. “Be honest, Ovrun.”

  “I am being honest. With you and with myself.” His heart ached as he said it, but he barreled on. “Nora, I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t want to be a king. I don’t have what it takes to lead a country. But you do! All by yourself. So I’m not offering to lead the country; I’d botch it up. But I want to be with you. If the only way I can do that is by wearing a crown, well . . . I guess I can deal with that.”

  “So”—her eyebrows raised, along with the corners of her lips—“Are you offering to be the hot figurehead while I do all the hard work?”

  He shrugged and let out a short laugh. “I’d be happy to earn my keep. Chopping wood or something.”

  Nora’s gaze drifted to the side for several long moments. Ovrun cleared his throat, and she brought her attention back to him, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Sorry, I was just imagining watching you chop wood on a hot day. Pretty sure I wouldn’t get any actual work done.”

  He rolled his eyes, but they were both laughing.

  Silence fell. It was Ovrun who broke it. “I know I’m not what you’re supposed to look for. Even if your dad recovers, he’ll never approve—”

  “I don’t care what my father thinks.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m not letting him or Dani make this decision for me. I wasn’t ready to stand up to them a few months ago. I am now.”

  “Good. But still . . . I’ll understand if what I’m offering isn’t what you want.”

  Nora took a deep breath. “You are . . . incredible. You just offered to give up a dream to be with me. I don’t care if you meet all the ‘king standards’ I grew up with. What I do care about is whether I love you or not. And I . . . I want to say it, I do—”

  “Not until you can say it honestly,” he said. “If that ever happens.”

  “If,” she whispered.

  The word cast a shadow on his bright enthusiasm. But he nodded, not letting go of her gaze. “If.”

  Her eyes were full of moisture, though none of it escaped. She released a frustrated groan.

  “I love you,” Ovrun said, emphasizing every word. “Even if you can’t say it back. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  He expected a kiss or sweet words. Instead, Nora covered her face with her hands, shaking her head.

  “What is it?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he pulled her close. She let go of her face and buried it in his chest. “What is it?” he asked again.

  “You love me.” She pulled back. Her lips were pressed together, and her brows furrowed, but she didn’t cry. She shook her head again, releasing a long breath. “My mom loved me, and she died. My dad loved me, and he . . . he might recover, but for now . . . well, he’s gone, and thanks to him, so is Dani. And then there was Faylie. Oh, Ovrun—” She took his hands again. She swallowed hard, and her lips broke into a bittersweet smile. “I’ve missed . . . being loved.”

  She brought her lips to his and kissed him gently. “Thank you,” she said, before drawing him into a tight hug.

  He rubbed her hair and her back. A thought popped into his head, so clear, he could see the words written on his mind.

  I’m helping her reframe her past. She’s helping me reframe my future.

  He held her even tighter as his heart tensed with an emotion he couldn’t name.

  The Seer: 7

  Sarza’s eyes popped open. She squeezed them shut again, bringing her hands up to her head and stifling a groan.

  Where am I? Why does my head hurt?

  She pried her eyes open. She was outside, in the dark, lying on cool dirt. Her head rested on the sharp edge of . . . something.

  Some distance away, a dim light, filtered by a curtain, caught her eye. She’d seen that before. It anchored her in the present. Memories rushed in.

  She’d run out of food and water earlier that day. As always, she’d waited until most of Deroga was asleep before exiting the office building with several empty water bottles and a bag. She had this down to a science. First, she’d sneak into a trog storehouse for food. Then she’d refill her water bottles at the river. In less than an hour, she’d be back at her tempor
ary home.

  Except everything went wrong this time around. There was now a padlock on the storehouse. So Sarza had crept to the Star Clan’s main residential street. She’d found a dark house with a tended garden. Perfect. The garden meant it was occupied; the darkness meant everyone inside was asleep. She’d sneak in, take some food from the kitchen, and leave.

  As she’d approached the stairs leading to the back porch, a vision, sudden and powerful, had literally knocked her off her feet. It seemed she’d hit her head on the bottom step.

  She wasn’t sure if the head bump or the intense vision had stolen her consciousness. Maybe a combination of both. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d hurt herself when a vision sent her to the ground. It was, however, the first time it had happened when she had no access to doctors or healers.

  Sarza gingerly reached for the wound on the back of her head, gasping when her fingers touched it. It was bleeding quite a lot, but it was less than a simmet in length. She blew out her breath. It might keep her awake tonight, but it wouldn’t kill her.

  As she stood, memories of the vision flooded her mind. She grasped for the handrail over the steps.

  She’d hardened herself to the shock of disturbing visions a long time ago. This one hadn’t even been that awful—but for some reason, it bothered her. Maybe because after months in this damn city, she felt like she knew some of the people in the vision.

  Sarza gritted her teeth, let go of the handrail, and marched toward the river. Food could wait; she needed water. Needed to clean her wound too. Focus on that, Sarza. Get to the river.

  But she couldn’t get the vision out of her mind. It was one of those two-part prophecies, the kind that gave her options. Something bad was happening soon. She could stop it.

  No. I don’t stop things from happening. Terrible stuff happens to me too, and no one’s there to rescue me. That’s life. Not my job. Not my problem.

  But the people in the vision . . . despite herself, she felt—what was that, empathy? Yeah, that had to be it. Stupid emotion, empathy. But she couldn’t seem to banish it. Things would be bad if she didn’t intervene. Which I’m not going to do.

  Sarza had been beyond pissed to find her army contact had fled. But once she’d gotten her head on straight, she’d realized maybe staying in the city was for the best. She could spy on the princess and her friends until the army returned. Then she’d give her superiors so much information, the army would easily win their battle over the trogs. The king would give her a medal, her own orsa, and a raise. (And really, she’d settle for just the raise.)

  Watching the group of teens became easier when one of the guys the princess hung out with got imprisoned in a house with windows and no exterior guards.

  She’d started spending hours near the window leading to that guy’s room. When the shutters were open, she had to huddle out of sight behind some nearby bushes, listening to conversations that drifted her way. But when the shutters were closed, which they often were on cooler days or when it rained, she stood at the window, peeking through a crack.

  The prisoner was named Krey. His girlfriend, Zeisha—the one who’d cried through her own birthday party—stayed with him. Princess Nora and her pushup-doing boyfriend, Ovrun, stopped by almost every day.

  Standing by that window, Sarza had learned about the disgusting, intriguing practice of brain eating. She’d also heard all the reasons Princess Nora was rebelling against her daddy. If half of it was true, the king was off his rocker.

  She’d gotten to know these four friends too. Krey thought he was funny and smart, but mostly he was just arrogant. Nora laughed too easily. Despite that, Ovrun couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Sarza was tempted to throw a handkerchief through the window with a note: For your drool, Muscle Man. And Zeisha—well, she clearly had some sort of ulterior motive. Nobody was really that sweet.

  Sarza was content to sit outside the window, judging the people inside. Until one day when she’d felt an uncomfortable tightness in her chest as she’d watched the four friends laughing. It had taken a full week for her to identify the strange emotion.

  Jealousy.

  She’d never had real friendships. What she wouldn’t give to be in the room with these four people, joking around with them. Because as obvious as their faults were, well . . . Sarza liked them.

  What was wrong with her?

  She liked these annoying people, and now she knew some of them would soon be in serious trouble. She’d seen what would happen, how scared they’d be, how unjust it was. On top of that, she knew how to stop it.

  No.

  She broke into a run. The wound on her head throbbed as her pulse picked up. She focused on the pain, trying to get her mind off the vision.

  Not. My. Problem.

  25

  Therro is now the only nation in which possessing a firearm carries the same penalty as shooting one. Yet we still hear about people getting caught with an old handgun, claiming they couldn’t give up something with that much sentimental value.

  Here’s a tip to keep you out of prison: hang onto Grandpa’s old scarf or coffee mug instead of Grandpa’s old gun.

  -“Use Your Brain, Not Your Arms” by Genta Ril

  The Derogan Chronicle, dated Cyon 14, 6293

  Once again, Zeisha put her shoes on as quietly as she could.

  Once again, Krey’s sleepy voice reached her ears. “Hey, beautiful.”

  She tiptoed to him, kneeling by his pallet on the floor. “You know, I left that shutter cracked open just right so the light would fall on me, not you. You weren’t supposed to wake up.”

  “C’mere.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her down until she was lying next to him. “You could send a message to Kebi. Tell her you’re sick.”

  “What, sick of you trying to keep me from my work?”

  He chuckled and pulled her closer. “I think you’re more sarcastic than you used to be. I like it.”

  She thought of asking him if he’d like to come to the rooftop garden. He’d happily help her and Kebi with pruning or weed pulling. Sometimes, though, it was nice to have girl time. Just like sometimes it was nice to have alone time.

  I never used to feel that way.

  She’d changed—much of it due to the solitary walks she’d taken almost every day for the last month and a half. She liked the person she’d become. Or the person I’m still becoming. Every week, she felt further removed from the girl who’d grown up in the shadow of Cellerin Mountain. She was both stronger and more empathetic. She hadn’t known those two things could fit together.

  “Sorry you have to stay in here alone.” Acidic guilt burned her insides as she said the words. Maybe she should ask him to come with her after all.

  “It’s okay, I’ve been looking forward to reading the book you brought me yesterday.”

  She smiled. “Perfect.” After a quick kiss, she was out of bed and out the door.

  Halfway down the street, Zeisha heard rapid footsteps. Turning, she saw a man barreling toward her from in between two houses.

  Zeisha froze, her mind racing. Who could be running to this street? Most people didn’t even know about the prison house. Maybe Eira had sent someone to tell them the army was attacking. She opened her mouth to ask the man if that was it.

  He spoke first, as he skidded to a halt. “Excuse me, are you Zeisha?”

  She took in his appearance. His medium-brown, curly hair hadn’t seen scissors or a brush in a long time. An equally wild beard stuck out from his face and neck. His eyes, surrounded by a few lines, were hazel like hers.

  He didn’t look like a trog. His shirt was navy blue, rather than one of the neutral colors trogs preferred. And trogs bathed regularly. If Eira saw this man, she wouldn’t even let him visit a bathhouse. She’d send him straight to the river.

  Zeisha’s perusal of him took only an instant. Get away! her instincts screamed. A burst of warning energy sent her feet running, churning up the dirt of the street.

  The man’s we
ight slammed into her back. Her knees, chest, and cheek hit the ground. He grabbed her wrists and yanked them behind her. Gripping them in one strong hand, he slapped his other hand onto her mouth. “Don’t say a word.”

  He was sitting on her waist. All she could think to do was press her legs together. Like that would stop him if he—Oh God, no! Sobs pushed themselves from her nose and her covered mouth.

  She squirmed, but he was too heavy. Her cries became more frantic. She tried to bite him, but his hand was pressed too hard against her mouth. He tasted like dirt and onions and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. Gagging interrupted her crying.

  “Stop!” he commanded. “I don’t want to hurt you! Just be still, damn it! Listen to me!”

  She forced herself to stop fighting. Her sobs kept coming.

  “I’m gonna let go of your mouth,” he said. “We’re too far away for people to hear you scream, so don’t try. Got it?”

  She nodded. Her lips rubbed against his calloused hand.

  He let go of her mouth.

  “Please.” She tried to keep her voice quiet, but the sobs made it impossible. “Please let me go. Please—”

  Her pleading stopped when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the gun he’d pulled out. Frantically, she shook her head. Pebbles dug into her cheek and ear. She barely noticed. Her body started fighting again, like it had a mind of its own.

  The man’s voice pitched up. “I said, I don’t want to hurt you. You gotta calm down!”

  She stopped fighting, but her whole body was shaking. Desperately, she gulped in air, one breath after another. Her sobs halted, but she was lightheaded now. Oh God, oh God, oh God, don’t let him hurt me.

  “If I get off you, will you just sit? And calm down?”

  She nodded her swimming head.

  He climbed off her. She rolled onto her side and tried to sit up, then fell back down. “I’m gonna pass out,” she moaned. She raised her eyes to his and found restrained fury there. His muscles were coiled, alert.