"I bet they come running, hair standing on end, and ever so grateful for the rescue." She slapped a smile on her face, but the edges were stiff.
"None have wanted to be rescued, so far." He pulled his hand free and wiped off her touch on his pants. "They're quite angry at being stolen away."
"None? That makes no sense." She scratched her chin. "How long have you been raiding anyway?"
"Ten winters." And the first one didn't account for much since he'd only rescued one and that by accident. Even Frost was gone now——gutted and hung like a criminal. Harlan shoved his shaking hands into his pockets.
He couldn't continue the hunt on his own, but to recruit others to the fight and lose them...
"How many have you rescued?"
"Two thousand six hundred and twelve." He'd double checked the night before he went scouting for the tribute. He never counted the dead. But they were there when he closed his eyes. Sleep was overrated. "Thirteen, counting you."
"Thank you." She turned her face to the sun as they walked out of the sheltering arm of the last pine. "For rescuing me."
Harlan stumbled over a rock, stopped and eased it back into position. She was only thanking him because she'd seen with her own eyes what killers the 'Viders really were.
Before them, the desert spread wide. In the distance, square farms cut patches on the land near a ribbon of water. To the east, the striped walls of the mesas barricaded them in. Far to the west, green sprouted from hills.
"What's that?" Shielding her eyes, she pointed to the village.
"Abaddon. We should reach it just as the moon begins to set tonight. They have a train there; it'll take you home. Where you belong." Where she'd be safe. Provided she wasn't caught in his company.
That would be a death sentence.
Chapter 11
Marshall Zuni licked blood off her fingertips. "You almost ruined my day."
The sweet taste couldn't overcome the bitterness of disappointment. She prodded the man staked across her pallet with her foot. The wind howled outside of her tent.
He mumbled through his groans and shook his head. His eyelids fluttered but he didn't quite regain consciousness.
She could wake him. Have a little fun before finishing him off. Marshall's fingers traced the contours of the plastic pitcher on her folding table. But he was weak. She scraped her hand over her flat stomach. Blood trickled down her bare thighs. And it was doubtful he had planted his seed. He hadn't even pleasured her.
Squatting next to the vomit puddled near to his mouth, she slapped his cheek. Her fingers tingled from the impact and red marred his pale skin. Still, the weakling did not stir.
"I should turn you into my personal pantry. A leg for one day's lunch. An arm for breakfast." She pulled her knife out from under the pallet of blankets, dug the tip into the pad of her index finger. For a moment, blood beaded on her flesh then it slid down the razor sharp edge of the knife. "I can keep a man alive for a long, long time."
She'd done it before.
She looked forward to doing it again.
"Perhaps, I shall beat my personal best of twelve sunrises." Trailing her knife over his chest, Marshall cut her name into his skin, atop the others that had scabbed over. Fresh blood was always best.
The tribute whimpered and tried to shrink away. The bonds held him in place.
She carved a little deeper. After all, he was not much use to her now. She doubted his seed could take root. Even her strong Provider blood couldn't overcome such weakness. If only... Rocking back on her heels, she sighed just as cold air flared up her bare backside.
She stilled, sniffed the breeze. Sweat. Smoke. And just a touch of lye. For a moment, her stomach cramped and her fingers spasmed on the blanket. Perhaps she should cover the tribute. Nonsense, she was not just a 'Vider; she was the Head Provider. Strong. Chosen. Of the blood. Not like the tribute who had entered.
Rolling her head, Marshall tried to loosen the tension as she rose to her feet. "Hello, Mother."
Fabric swished behind her then the tent flap slapped close. "I had forgotten how cold it could be in the Northern lands."
"Did you? I remember your tales of snow as tall as I when I was a child." Turning, Marshall slapped the flat of her blade against her thigh. She resisted the urge to shift closer to the male, hide him behind her legs.
Mother smiled, flashing a chipped front tooth and a gaping hole from a missing incisor——souvenirs from Father's lesson in pleasing him.
Unfortunately, Marshall's tributes never learned to please her after one lesson, let alone ten.
"Yes, but——" Stroking the hair tunic in her arms, Mother drifted to the pallet and she stopped with an indrawn breath. With her smile slipping, she squeezed her green eyes closed and swayed on her feet.
Marshall strode across the square tent and stopped in front of her mother. The roasting of meat, murmur of voices and flutter of the wind beat against the patched walls. She cupped her mother's cheek, traced the white checkmark marring her high cheekbones.
"When it is just us, you may speak. I value your counsel."
Mother opened her eyes, traced the black swirls tattooed on Marshall's bald scalp. "And I value my daughter. Above everything."
Marshall leaned into her mother's touch. Tributes were so soft, weak——a necessary reminder of the time before and yet...
"I fear I have failed my daughter. Made her too vulnerable." After one last stroke, Mother boxed Marshall's left ear.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she shook the ringing from her head. Always the same ending. "I am strong, Mother. Am I not the head Provider?"
Mother snorted, shook the hair tunic out. "How long do you think that will last if you are not fruitful?"
Just twenty-five winters. She still had time. "I may yet be with child. I have mounted this one four times in the last three days, when my blood flow was strongest." Marshall kicked the tribute's bruised side. She would have used him more, but he was too pathetic to get it up.
"Three times?"
"Yes." Marshall raised her chin and squared her shoulders. "I even experienced pleasure for one of them." Surely that was a sign that her heir was being conceived in blood.
Mother swung her free hand. "Pleasure?"
Marshall recoiled, avoiding the slap. Her lungs tightened inside her chest. Why was her mother inflicting one of her lessons?
"You do not need pleasure to conceive, stupid girl. Do you think I felt pleasure when I was mounted by your father? Do you think I felt pleasure when he loaned me to his second, third or fourth in the hopes that I might conceive and tighten their allegiance to him?"
Planting herself in front of her mother, Marshall grabbed the blonde mane and twisted. Hair made controlling those not of the blood easier. And when their usefulness was at an end, it made a fine garment. "You are tribute. It is not for you to feel pleasure."
Mother compressed her lips into a thin line. Muscle roped her neck as her head was yanked backward.
"I am of the blood." The chosen few forged by God to rule this forsaken world. Marshall stared into her mother's face, watched the pain slip over her features in a familiar mask. "I need to feel pleasure to conceive."
Just like the other 'Viders. It should have been simple. The males of her clan experienced pleasure so easily and often, some were so powerful their tributes bled from the taking. For a moment she doubted her divine purpose, wondered if there was something wrong with her.
"Is that what that crazy bitch told you?"
Marshall shoved her Mother away.
The hair tunic dropped to the floor as Mother stumbled toward the tent's wall. "Is it?"
Heat flamed across Marshall's skin. She would not brag about her visit to Nattie, nor would she deny it. Just like her mother, the old tribute had knowledge lacking in her people, used words that set them and her apart.
"She should have told you, you need a stiff plough to sow any seeds." Mother straightened. Anger sparked in her green eyes. "You wil
l not get that by cutting off your tribute's penis."
The skin on Marshall's neck prickled. There it was again wrapped in the odd word “penis.” Had God slighted the 'Viders by giving them weak gifts they couldn't possibly deserve or understand? Her hands curled into fists. Certainly her mother had transferred some of them to Marshall. But what had she kept to herself?
And would it hurt the 'Vider clan?
Mother picked up the shirt and shook it. Dirt flew in every direction. "I am proud you managed to mount him four times daughter. I just worry it won't be enough."
Marshall clenched her jaw. This conversation. Again.
"You must have a child to cement your rightful place." Reaching over her shoulder, Mother gathered her graying hair and began braiding it.
Marshall's eyes narrowed. Tributes were forbidden to bind their manes. Mother knew this. Had she taken to wantonly breaking the rules in front of the others? She must know the price she would pay. Her position as dame of the Head Provider wouldn't protect her. "Mother. Stop!"
Mother's fingers froze. Her lips pursed for a moment then she quickly finger-combed through the locks. "Sorry, darling, I am worried about you." Tears winked in her green eyes. "If you were removed, I couldn't go on."
Cold snaked down Marshall's back. Of course her mother wouldn't be allowed to continue breathing. Removal of the Head Provider meant her death as well as Marshall's. "I shall not be removed from office."
"But 'Vider North still lives and has four living children with one more growing in that bitch's belly." Spittle clung to Mother's lips. "If he tells——"
Marshall wrapped her hand around her mother's throat. Her fingers sunk into warm flesh and the words choked off. "He won't live much longer."
Red suffused Mother's face and a vein throbbed above the scar on her cheek.
"I've taken steps to ensure North doesn't spew his lies about my parentage to anyone." Marshall eased her grip when her mother's eyes bulged. Ever. A little oleander extract in North's morning stew should take care of him, the bitch and her daughters. Picking her tunic off the floor, she dressed.
And no one would ever doubt she was of the blood, or threaten her position.
No one.
Cradling her throat, Mother bent over and coughed.
Smoothing the coarse fabric over her hips, Marshall retreated to the folding table. "Are you proud of me, Mother?"
"Always, daughter."
Marshall stood a little straighter. Even though her mother was of lesser stock, honoring one's sire and dame was part of the 'Viders' code. She poured water onto a rag.
When she looked up, hair shrouded Mother's face. "And North's unborn spawn?"
Marshall squeezed the rag. Water escaped through the cracks between her fingers and drained down her arm. How could a weak tribute have six children when she, a superior 'Vider, had yet to conceive one. "It will abort if the breeder doesn't die first."
The tribute Mirabelle deserved to die, flaunting her stomach for all the world. Rubbing her fertility in Marshall's face. Saliva pooled in her mouth. And if the child died, then the mother could be eaten just like the other unclaimed tribute. Perhaps her ripe flesh would nurture the weak seed inside Marshall.
"Good," Mother croaked. "No tribute should become a 'Vider."
"Agreed." Marshall cleaned the blood off her legs in sure swipes. Tributes' weak minds couldn't handle the transition to a higher plane. Nattie was proof of that. Her 'Vider had coddled her, just as North coddled his. Marshall pitched the rag onto the table. The fool had already pleaded his case before the jury to ask for the pregnant bitch to be made a member of the clan.
Marshall stomped to the line of her clothes and yanked off clean rags. The jury agreed to his request, as long as the child in her womb took a breath.
That wasn't going to happen.
Mother dropped to the ground and picked up Marshall's discarded knife. Walking on her knees, she set the knife to the male's throat. "May I?"
"I had planned to use him as a pantry." She would have to take it easy, give the tribute's seed time to grow. His piecing out could be just the diversion she needed.
Rocking back on her heels, Mother glanced up at her. "A pantry in spring? Daughter, you will send the clan into a panic. They will believe you incapable of putting an end to the raids on our tributes."
There had been murmurs among the 'Viders and some did visit North to solicit his opinion despite her being in charge. Marshall stomped to a battered trunk holding her armor and shoved the lid off.
"The raids will end." Her fingers traced the lumps of the black vest on top. The Kevlar's vest had been the prize of her father's collection. Now it was hers.
"I have faith in you, daughter. But your followers might need a good culling."
"Mother." Saying such things would get her dame's throat cut. Marshall poked her head through the neck of the vest. The weight molded to her skin as she secured it in place with a brown hair belt.
"You deserve more than two scrawny tributes for your Body and Blood feast. But they keep failing to bring the tribute. The 'Viders are not providing for the people."
"They will today." Marshall secured her shin and arm guards, covering the wine birthmark inside her wrist, before picking up the helmet wedged into the side. She would wait to don it until the ceremony began.
"How do you know that?"
"Father demanded Abaddon escort its tribute and ensure that it reaches our hands." Father had personally threatened to kill the man in charge if the exchange failed. Marshall stepped into her reed shoes. The man had been too happy to comply after Father's persuasion.
"Abaddon? You went to Abaddon?"
"Not I. Father." Father had arranged the killing of the raiders. Her nails dug into her palms. He'd had to pay for that moment of doubt over the 'Viders' superiority. Her hundred 'Viders were more than a match for any tribute.
Mother's cheeks turned pasty and she pressed her free hand to her chest. "Why did he not tell me?"
"Because you are tribute." Tribute that had urged her father to leave the desert and head north. They had been rewarded by abundant food, but...
But Mother had suggested the journey.
Did she still think to escape the 'Viders after twenty-five years?
Stabbing the ground with the dagger, Mother licked her lips. "I could have helped him, given him directions. Maybe he wouldn't be dead."
That was funny. Father was strong, savage, he wouldn't need a tribute to help him. Leaving the trunk, Marshall marched to the scraps of fabric hanging from her tent poles. Stripping one off, she folded it and positioned it in her undergarments.
"You must promise to take me when next you go. Abaddon's citizens are dangerous, especially the elite."
Marshall's stomach clenched. What was her mother planning? She'd been a helpmate to Father, destroying his enemies before they could act, yet she was not of the blood. Not to be trusted.
"Please, daughter, they may appear weak, but their cunning more than makes up for their feeble appearance. Plus, they are many. More than the 'Viders."
One 'Vider can slaughter ten tributes or more. Plucking a cloth from the line strung across her tent, Marshall folded the stiff scrap. "I shall consider it."
"Thank you, child. Thank you. You won't regret it." Leaning forward, Mother pried open the male's jaw and tapped the knife against his gold tooth. "Now, may I kill him? He's not good for much else now."
That wasn't quite true. He could still pleasure her with his tongue. He hadn't been too useless the last time, perhaps she could train him.
"He has overheard us, daughter."
There was that. Killing another 'Vider outside of mortal combat was punishable by death. And combat was out of the question with North. Her clansman was nearly twice her size. She handed mother a black basin. "I suppose. We shall be getting more tribute, either today or tomorrow."
Perhaps there would be a worthy male among them. Although given that they were tribute, she didn't hol
d out much hope.
"Thank you, daughter." Mother wedged two wooden planks under the man’s head and shoulders. Situating the basin underneath, she sliced the man's throat open. Blood gushed from the wound and drummed against the plastic catch-all. Next, she yanked open his mouth and began digging out the gold tooth.
Another piece for her substantial collection. What was it about the yellow metal that held her Mother's attention? It was too soft to make a good weapon. Marshall watched for a moment then shook her head. Tributes.
"What shall you do about 'Vider North's sons?" Metal scraped bone and the scent of fresh kill permeated the air. Mother's hand slipped on the handle of the bloody knife and she swore.
"Alas, I did warn North not to test his sons' mettle when the raiders were active."
"'Vider Titan agreed to the deal." Mother smiled. "I am truly proud of you, daughter."
Marshall nodded. Her clansman had been all too happy to kill North's sons and make it look as if they'd been murdered by the raiders. Titan had ambitions. She could manage them for now.
The tooth popped loose with an odd sucking noise. Mother held the gold up and stared at it. "I take this to mean you will give me to 'Vider Titan for the year?"
"I don't think you'll be gone that long." Marshall eyed the bottle of oleander extract on her table. "I did warn Titan that his appetites would be the death of him."
Mother grinned. "And when it comes to pass, you'll be acknowledged as a prophet."
And no one would have a hold over her. No one alive anyway. Finished dressing, she crossed to the entrance.
Peeling back the meat, Mother began dismembering tonight's meal at the joints. "Would you like me to save the flank?"
"Of course." Without a backward glance, Marshall shoved aside the flap and stepped outside. Late afternoon sunshine warmed her face despite the chill scratching at her nose and cheeks.
The tributes dropped to the rocky ground and covered their heads. Her clansman bowed in her direction.
Turning left, she cut through the camp. A prime choice of meat would be just the thing to celebrate her becoming the Head Provider.
Conceived in Blood, A Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Novel Page 8
