by Casey Lane
His eyes widened, just a little, and the door flew open.
“Maybe some of both. Be careful who you talk to,” he repeated, and then he was gone.
The guards cast me a wary glance as he left, slamming the door shut. The room was cold, the bench colder, but even in the frigid air, I could still feel the flames of the fire that had destroyed my family. Jayma wasn’t the only one who warranted justice, but I was in no place to give it. If anyone deserved the gallows, it was Anastasia Fortescue.
Chapter Six
The squeal of a door woke me, but I didn’t react. Facing the wall, I curled into a tighter ball, ignoring the guard with my breakfast. As it slammed shut again, I sighed with relief.
“While I didn’t expect you to bake a cake, I had hoped for a hello.”
A smile split my face. Grinning from ear to ear, I rolled onto my back. “You don’t like my cooking, remember?”
“No,” Oliver agreed, smirking. “Budge up,” he said, batting my feet out of the way and looking me over. “I see you’ve been shopping.”
“Yeah, grey is really my colour,” I said, rolling my eyes as I settled against the wall. “How are they?”
The sparkle left his eyes. “Worried, but it’s going to be fine. They’ll be okay.”
“Really? How?” I asked, aghast. “The families are showing their colours, Oli. Anastasia wants me dead, and you’re risking your own neck coming here to see me. How is any of this fine?”
“This is only a flying visit, actually. I’m going to get you out, Jo. Three days. We’ll have you safe in three days, I promise.” He rose from the bench as he spoke, leaned down, and kissed my cheek. “Trust me,” he whispered then turned and tapped on the door.
I watched him go, unable to speak my tongue was so tied. Three days? He thought he could get me out in three days? More like get them all killed trying.
He stiffened at the door, offering someone a curt nod. “Hunter.”
I didn’t know who Hunter was, but they’d clearly ruffled Oli’s feathers. I frowned at the door and listened to his footsteps retreat down the corridor.
The door hung open for a few, long seconds before Alec stepped inside.
“Two visitors in one day. I am honoured,” I drawled as he closed the door behind him.
He cocked a blond brow. “You should mind the company you keep,” he said, handing me a bowl of porridge. “Especially with the climate upstairs.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me, Alec. I’m a dead woman walking. What brings you here again?”
“You didn’t finish your story,” he stated, taking a seat and leaning into the wall. “There was more.”
“Then more news from above?” I asked, pointing a finger towards the ceiling.
He inclined his head in agreement, so I began.
Eleven years ago…
* * *
Call the dragon did. The Mother guided me from one corner of the earth to another, or so it had felt at the time. When I stepped onto the train, I said goodbye to my homeland—a land green and flush with life, where the trees towered over Papa, and Mama would sing with the birds. That land was gone though, and so was my family. Over the weeks on the train, my isolation grew, but some part of me always felt that someone would be there to greet me when I reached my final destination. It wasn’t until I stepped off the platform that I realised the earth had changed. Desert sands blew for miles, staining my world a haze of orange and blue. It didn’t take me long to figure out that only the strong would survive in this climate. I stayed at the crossroads for a week, watching caravan after caravan go through, never stopping for more than a night. The heat itself was more scorching than anything I’d ever encountered before, turning my tanned skin brown. My family now lived in my memories alone, and my only friend was the tiny stitched rabbit Mama had made me. My bed was a pile of crates just big enough to sleep in while shielding me from the unrelenting sand. As the week trudged on, my spirit wore thin. I hadn’t heard the dragon’s call in days, and the Mother was nowhere to be found. I searched for a sign in the tea I sipped, and the food I stole. Johanna Kozak, from the honourable House Kozak, was nothing more than a common thief.
What would they would think of me now? Maybe this is why I can’t hear the dragon’s call.
An old woman attempted to haggle with the street vendor over her lunch. Her understanding of the language was minimal, and the vendor took advantage as he scammed her out of her precious gold coins. The wind whipped the white hood from her head, revealing skin so dark it looked like ink. Her eyes flashed from red, to blue, to green—a kaleidoscope of colours. A Witch if ever I’d seen one.
The vendor balked, backing away slowly and muttering for her to leave. The Witch murmured her apology before covering herself once more and turning to go on her way. I followed, hidden in the shadows like the thief I was. She limped as she took the long way around the market, oblivious both to me and the others shadowing her. She made it back to her caravan at a crawling pace. Night was already falling, and she struggled to carry the heavy wicker basket up the creaking stairs. A strong gust of wind blew down the alley, sweeping her hood back once more and tearing the basket from her grip. The precious fruit sailed fifty paces left of where she stood.
The vultures were already moving in, even after robbing this woman of her money.
I ran from my place in the shadows, scaling the wall the same way some of the boys had done earlier, by launching myself up with a foothold made by a crack and rebounding off the surface towards the falling basket. I swiped the handle right out of the air and landed deftly on my feet.
Uh oh. I shouldn’t have done that.
It wasn’t just the Witch they were after now. Hate filled their eyes, so familiar and far too soon after leaving my home. I ran towards the Witch’s wagon, where she watched me with wise eyes. For an old lady, she moved awfully quickly, sweeping the curtain aside to usher me in. Not that that would stop them. I bounded up the rickety stairs, diving into the only shelter I’d been offered in weeks. Shouts followed me as the Witch stepped in after me.
This is it. Maybe the dragon isn’t with me after all. Maybe the Mother no longer guides my path. Maybe for all my magical blood and gifts, I really am meant to die.
The curtain swished shut like a gentle breeze, and the shouts disappeared entirely. I lifted my head slowly, taking in the wagon and the old woman standing before me. Her staff was strong and sturdy, the orb at the top glowing with a soft blue light.
“Who are you?” I asked, forgetting that she may not have spoken my native tongue. None in the East did, making the homesickness sting more with each passing day.
“I have gone by many names. You may call me Baba Yaga,” she said.
Baba Yaga… Oh man, what have I gotten myself into? I just wanted to help.
With a crack of her staff on the wagon floor, the world became hazy and faded to black.
“What happened after that?” he asked, confused by my not-so-gentle saviour.
“I woke up, and she was gone, and that was the last I saw of Baba Yaga,” I said distantly. Even to this day, her ever-changing eyes haunted my dreams. Was she Baba Yaga? I didn’t know. Any Witch going by that name wasn’t one I wished to tangle with, though. Whoever and whatever she was, it was more than mortal.
“Then what happened from there? Where did you go?” he continued, frustrated by my intentional vagueness.
“Nowhere. I told you. I woke up, and found that I was where I needed to be. The people I stayed with cared for me until I left, and that’s that.” I looked up at the matte, panelled ceiling.
“So why did you leave?” he asked, frowning in confusion. “You were cared for, hidden. Why leave?”
“They treated my friend poorly. He deserved better,” I said apathetically. “He died because they refused him help, so I left.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding his understanding. “All the best love stories end in tragedy,” he added, dramatically.
I looked up, into his eyes. They were so sad. Mourning a loss so great, the pain so raw. I lifted a hand to offer comfort, as Jayma would’ve done if she were here, but couldn’t bring myself to touch him. I looked away instead, folding my hands on my lap. “He wasn’t my boyfriend—I prefer female company—but he was my only friend there. Anyway, the tragedy isn’t in the loves we’ve lost. It’s in the way we treat one another. We hate, and hurt, and kill because we believe the blood in our veins makes us superior in one way or another. It’s disgusting.”
He nodded, slowly. “I’ll…I’ll see you again soon,” he said quietly, taking the now-cold, untouched bowl of porridge with him.
His abrupt departure struck me as odd.
When the door locked again, I curled up on the bench and considered how he’d reacted to what I’d said. He hadn’t balked at my opinions. Hadn’t challenged me as I’d expected him to as one of her people. And the way he wore his emotions when he thought of his signasti… I wondered who she was. How he’d lost her. I wasn’t ever likely to find out.
Chapter Seven
He’d brought a tin bath half-full of steaming water and clothes with my meal this time. It took two of them to carry it inside. For once, my meal was a hot stew. He sat while I picked through it, eating the vegetables.
“You don’t eat meat?” he asked, as I put the bowl down.
“No. I don’t like the texture,” I said, looking at the bath. It wasn’t entirely a lie. I really didn’t like the texture, but I also didn’t care for unnecessary loss of life. There was no reason for us to kill to eat; the People of the East had taught me that. When you learned to be as in touch with the natural world as I, few could stomach eating another living thing. It was the way of the People. The way of the dragon.
“I’ll leave you to wash and change.” He took the bowl and signalled for the door to be opened with a bang of his fist. “Take this. I’ll guard the door,” he said sternly, leaving the door ajar.
“But…” the guard protested, sending me an uneasy look. His eyes flashed between Alec and me, and I would’ve bet he thought I was manipulating the blond half-breed.
“But nothing,” he snapped. “Take the bowl and leave me to guard the door.” As the guard retreated, he said, “I’ll stay out here, and give you some privacy while you wash. Tell me about your friend from the East.”
I wasn’t sure why he trusted me not to attempt an escape. He knew who I was, how easily I could’ve overpowered him, making a bid for my freedom. What I knew, though, was how many levels I would have to fight through, and lives I would have to take just to reach the surface. It was too large a task without planning, and I didn’t have the information necessary to even attempt it. I shrugged out of the shirt, and dipped down into the tub, drawing my knees to my chest. It was big enough to fit in, but still small by modern bathtub standards. I settled in the steaming water, as I began the story of Xun, the boy from the East.
Eleven years ago…
* * *
When I awoke in the monastery, it was light outside. The people who lived here didn’t have golden eyes like my Papa did; theirs were a warm brown like Mama’s. Their skin was like mine—tanned, almost brown, but not as dark as Papa’s. Unlike mine, their hair was raven black, long, and straight. It reminded me of my mother’s hair, and brought me comfort in the coming weeks. I adjusted quickly, falling into everyday life. My ability to mimic what I saw was my greatest asset. Within weeks, I could speak fluently, and even donned a set of white robes before my ninth birthday.
While the people at the monastery were kind, they were distant, and it never quite felt like home. In the months that followed, they taught me their ways in return for the favours I did. Many preferred not to venture beyond the protective walls of the monastery, but I was different. I sought the world around us, and sensed a connection with every being that came across my path, apart from Baba Yaga. I became the courier between the city that cloaked us and the temple secluded within. While I enjoyed my teachings well enough, I heard the dragon’s call to do more, but it wasn’t until six years had passed that I realised what more meant.
During my time in the East, I came to recognise those who dwelled in the city and the ones who were only passing through, and I befriended an alley boy by the name of Xun.
Quick as a viper, Xun grew up in one of the roughest parts of the desert city. Beggar by day and thief by night, he lived with the other homeless children in a crumbling den beneath the cantina. Unlike my robes, which changed colour as I advanced through the ranks, for all the time I knew him, he only ever wore rags and a vulpine grin. His hard exterior didn’t fool me, though; Xun was one of the kindest people I’d ever known. It was because of him and his skill at thieving that the orphaned kids didn’t go without. Sometimes, I wondered if the Mother guided him, so certain were his steps. How well he evaded capture, till the very end.
Gradually, I became known as Johanna the Gold, for the kindness I tried to show them all—no matter the species or race. After all, my own father was a mix of African and European, the Witches and the Supernaturals. My mother was of the East, though, and everywhere I turned, there were women who reminded me of her. I saw her in the shopkeepers. I heard her voice in the women at the monastery. It was always the children, though, the little girls with eyes just like hers, that I couldn’t resist. When I was a child, the respect I showed beguiled them. Why would someone from the monastery be anything but ambivalent to their suffering? I knew better, though, even then. I remembered what my parents had taught me, and what the humans called me made no difference to me. I was content with my standing as the monastery’s errand girl, learning the ways of the world around me. Most paid my caretakers and me no mind, but every now and then someone from the world would wander through and sense the real reason this city was built. The monastery hidden in plain sight, concealed within the city.
One day, a caravan had been passing through, carrying wealthier travellers than we were accustomed to receiving in this part of the world. I told Xun to be careful that day, to stick to his begging. The boy never listened when he needed to most.
It was the day a child came calling my name that I knew the dragon’s call. I was only fourteen at the time, barely more than a child myself, when I saw him bleed to death on the sandy isle, for stealing a piece of fruit. If only I’d been the girl I was now, back then, but sometimes it takes pain to makes us change for the better. Or worse.
“What happened to him that day?” Alec asked.
I lifted my legs one at a time to scrub any remnants of blood from my body, water sloshing up the edges of the tiny bath, threatening to flood the room.
“He lost his hand for stealing from one of the passing traders in broad daylight,” I said flatly as I cringed to myself, recalling the memory.
“For theft?” Alec asked, almost aghast.
“Aye, it was customary for the city we lived in. Helped keep the rich richer and the poor from stealing, or so the theory goes.” Not that it stopped Xun from trying.
“That’s rather…” He trailed off, not wanting to speak the truth.
“Barbaric?” I asked. I’d been around Westerners long enough to know the way they thought.
“Yeah,” he said.
I dipped my head back into the murky water, letting out a raspy laugh. “And this world isn’t?” I asked, challenging the sentiment with one of my own. He quieted. He’d fallen so silent I almost thought he’d gone. There was no way he would leave the door ajar and walk away, though. However kind a servant, he was still the Fortescues’ errand boy.
“It’s different…” he said, but his voice had lost all conviction. He didn’t believe that any more than I did.
“Tell Jayma that,” I snapped.
He sighed heavily, and I glared into the now-tepid water. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. Supernaturals had ruled with such an iron fist that even half-bloods like himself bought into their self-imposed dictatorship.
“I know,” I said s
oftly. There was nothing to say but the truth. He hadn’t meant it that way, just like he didn’t think I should die. Did that mean he would stand up against them, though? Unlikely.
“What happened after that?” he asked, changing the subject back to my tale.
“I went to him and sent to the monastery for aid, but no healer came. No one in the market stopped, and after twelve hours of bleeding, he died. I watched the light leave his eyes as we sat under the starry sky one last time.” Tears wet my cheeks.
Jayma is with him now. They will guide each other.
“No one came? But why?”
“Would you, for a lowly beggar? For a thief?” I tried not to be accusing in my questioning, but his silence said more than my words. “Well, you have your answer then. No matter where I go, or who I’m with, I find that prejudice kills more than any blade. Humans use skin colour and money to draw boundaries, and we say they’re fools—but I’ve never met a species of beings that didn’t use some daft class system. At the end of the day, we all bleed and feel pain. That should be enough.” When I trailed off, the silence was deafening. The quiet had once been a friend to me, but now all I heard in it were the cries of the dead.
“It should be,” he whispered.
Fire filled my chest despite the cool water. The dragon had given me many gifts, but healing wasn’t one of them. I could mimic anything I saw, walk in the realm some people called purgatory, and open portals to those beyond. I could see auras and read people’s energy, and even had limited sight, for what it was worth. I’d grown to project my thoughts and my conscience, but despite all the things I could do, I hadn’t been able to save Xun. It was the last step in my upbringing—the only thing standing between me and the final piece of my dragon tattoo. Effectively making me a master who could’ve become an elder one day. I would’ve been the same age my mother was when she finished, because it was the only ability I had yet to conquer: the gift to save someone from death, should the dragon wish it. Not that the elders at that blasted temple would approve of using it.
