by Raye Wagner
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Dawi froze, and after a few steps, I realized she wasn’t stopping to be funny. I returned to her and pointed at the still-moving group. “Come on—”
“You’re really not going to partner with him?” she asked, her jaw dropping and eyes widening. When she spoke next, her voice was hoarse. “Then what are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “I want to find answers: Where did I come from? What happened to me? Why was I on that road where Esi found me? I’ll go to Yândarî alone if I need to—”
Dawi shook her head, her expression filled with the doubt she wasn’t saying. “Are you dreaming? You can’t go to Yândarî—not if you want to live.”
“What?” I snapped. I wasn’t some helpless—
“You . . . misunderstand,” she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me closer. “I merely meant you could search all over Qralî and never get the answers you want—and then what? Yândarî isn’t safe—not with Zerôn as the kümdâr. So . . .”
The idea that I might fail had never crossed my mind. Even now, I refused to believe it. But it was clear Dawi did. Was her perspective different because she grew up here? Was it different because of who she was, or what her magîk was? “What do you think I should do?”
We arrived at our assigned spot, and the unit spread out. I stayed by Dawi, and she gave me a sympathetic smile before leaning over to pull up a plant. “All I’m saying is live your life—whatever that is.” She tossed the plant back into the wall of the jungle. “You can go seek answers, but you may end up alone because you turned your back on the love in front of you.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but my gaze landed on Svîk, and I gaped like a fish in the Cem. Did I love him?
“Would you be happy if you never saw him again? Would you be happy if he was with someone else? If he loved someone else?” She straightened again and rested her hand on her belly. “And what if she was having his child?”
Svîk mouthed the word sorry, and I closed my mouth. What if he was with . . . my gaze shifted and fell on Nebe. Hot anger bubbled up with the thought, and I shook my head to clear the emotion.
“Don’t lose your measure of happiness, Taja, whatever it is, by chasing dreams, or answers, or anything else.”
“How do you know?” I asked, giving Dawi my attention once again.
“Hey,” Rojek said, pointing at Dawi with a grin. “You better be working over there. Having a baby is no excuse for not getting your section done.”
The group hooted and hollered, and I tugged up several handfuls of plants before even looking at Dawi again. But when I did, she rubbed her belly and smiled at me.
“You know what?” she asked. “You don’t always know what will make you happy. Sometimes, it’s just instinct. But long term, you make your own happiness, Taja. If I were to die tomorrow or next week or in a year, the joy I’ve had with Rojek would be worth it. You choose happiness, and then you make it.” Dawi patted my arm and added, “No one is perfect, so don’t wait for perfection. Instead, ask yourself if you could be happy with him.”
Happy with Svîk? The idea of being with him—not just physically but sexually—made my head spin, but the thought of being without him made me sad. What else did I have? And here in Pûleêr, there was nothing of happiness, love, or friendship, at least not for me—with the exception of Svîk.
I nodded, smiling at Dawi, grateful for her wisdom. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she replied.
The people around me were in the midst of their daily labor, fighting for what they wanted, freedom and safety and love. The rhythmic sounds of clearing the growth filled my ears, and I pursed my lips as Svîk made his way over to me.
I took a deep breath and waited.
“I’m sorry,” Svîk said. “I lost my temper. I just don’t understand . . .”
“What?” I asked, inching closer and dropping my voice.
He studied me, searching for something I couldn’t even help him find. The rest of the magî seemed to disappear as the intensity between me and Svîk swelled and cocooned us both.
“Why don’t you remember?” he whispered, his gaze so intense I could feel it on my skin.
I shrugged, at least as perplexed as him. “How would I know?” I sucked in a breath, my mind racked with confusion. “What happened? Tell me what you know.”
“When Zädîsa put your soul in last time, you still remembered . . . everything.”
Wait . . . What? Zädîsa put my soul back in? My eyes widened, but before I could say anything, a collective gasp ripped through the cocoon, and Svîk paled. His expression morphed from shock to fear, and then a male magî bellowed, “Stop!”
27
I spun around and stared at the magî waving at our group from the perimeter road. He walked toward us, almost gliding over the mud his movements were so fluid. Several paces behind him was another male magî, and I frowned, trying to process why the air was suddenly filled with panic. I glanced at the other magî—those all around me—from Pûleêr, and their expressions confirmed my assessment of what, but not the why.
And then two more magî rounded the bend of the path through the houses. Svîk swore. I felt movement—there and then gone—and I gaped with the realization that Svîk had pulled away. Only I couldn’t bring myself to even glimpse his way as the scene unfolded.
Something is wrong.
Time slowed as my attention stayed riveted to the new magî. The male in front wore a sulu, much like the men in Pûleêr. The simple fabric wrap was undyed like many of the garments here, but his wrap was pristine as were his feet. His chest was bare except for a small silver pendant in the shape of a crescent on a thin strip of leather tied around his neck. Unlike most of the men in Pûleêr, he was fair with golden hair and pale-blue eyes—almost like Svîk.
I stared, squinting to focus my gaze, and then shook my head. My sleepless night must have affected my vision because the male blurred, becoming transparent. Had I just imagined it? Or was he dead?
The magî continued toward our group, his lips tipped up in a friendly smile, and he waved again. “Ho there!”
Behind him, three other male magî strode toward us, all dressed exactly the same: dark fitted breeches with black boots hitting mid-calf and tight, sleeveless jerkins. Strapped to their backs, unlike anyone else in Pûleêr, the three each had a sword in a scabbard as well as daggers secured to their thighs. The trio also wore matching expressions of intensity, narrowed eyes, and corded neck muscles, but their lips were in various curls of disgust. Two magî wore their hair tied back at the nape—one with golden hair, and the other had hair the color of rich honey, but the blond in front, who was so clean, wore his loose, and the male nearest him with umber hair, had his shorn close to his scalp. Their jerkins had a deep V, and each of the magî wore the same crescent-shaped necklace.
Slinking out of the dense vegetation, the final member of their party stalked forward—on four legs. His ears were back, his mouth open just enough to see his tongue through his deadly canines. The panthera crossed in front of the men. His fur, as dark as liquid night, stood on end at his hackles, and his tail twitched back and forth. His muscles coiled and bunched as he prowled toward us.
I took a deep breath as hope unfurled through me.
A low growl rumbled in his chest, and I couldn’t look away. His eyes . . . Was this . . . was he . . .
I gasped, hyperventilating, and my jaw remained unhinged. My heart sputtered through several beats and then stopped as the panthera shifted mid-stride. I blinked repeatedly, my thoughts spinning as he stood, straightening to a fully upright, bare-chested male.
Murmurs of disbelief bounced through the air. Impossible—we all knew it—and yet . . . My attention was fixed on the impossibility walking toward us.
He was real.
The magî was lithe, his muscles defined and corded in a way that made my mouth dry and my body tingle. His skin held only a hint of the warm sun-kissed hue,
pale enough to speak of time inside during the day, a luxury none of us in Pûleêr knew. His hair was so black the filtered light picked up bluish undertones, similar to the rich color of his bright eyes—blue eyes. He wore dark fitted breeches like the other men, with a knife strapped to each thigh. Around his neck he wore a black leather string, but his charm was a silver pentagram with a crescent inside.
I blinked, and my stomach dropped, pulling all the organs in my chest down with it. How . . . But—Ruin . . .
His eyes met mine briefly with a flash of confusion before skipping past toward the rest of the work group. Just like a predator, he stalked forward with singular focus. But my mind was stuck, replaying the dream I’d had the last time I’d seen my panthera. As he passed me, I murmured, “Ruin?”
He paused, just a fraction of a second, and his brow furrowed. He glanced my way, his eyes flashing green, before stepping by me. His three men in black closed ranks behind him, but I followed—only a few steps. A deep need from within demanded I be near him, by the melanistic panthera-magî. I was sure he was Ruin, which meant he would keep me safe. How else could he be so much like the male in my dream? How was that even possible? The only difference was his eyes.
The cluster of magî in black leather stopped. I twisted to see between their bodies, and someone whimpered. Tension crawled over me, ratcheting up with the silence from the other magî.
With sudden clarity, I realized Svîk was in the group of magî. I inched to the side and pushed closer, wedging between one of the leather-clad Serîk and a magî from Pûleêr. Panthera-magî stepped up to Svîk, and he paled.
“You d-don’t understand,” Svîk sputtered, his eyes widening. “I had no time. I had to choose . . .”
I inched forward, desperate to hear what was said between the two as tentative dots connected in my mind. If Svîk knew Panthera-magî, and Panthera-magî was Ruin . . .
“He would’ve killed her again,” Svîk snarled, his eyes wild. His left eyebrow twitched, a sure sign of nervousness.
Panthera-magî glared at Svîk.
Sucking in a deep breath, I reached forward and touched the fierce magî’s back. “Ruin? Is that you?”
The panthera-magî shuddered again, and in a voice so low it mixed with his animalistic growl, he said, “You faithless liar.”
The shifter dropped his hand in a blur of movement and then buried a blade into Svîk’s abdomen, all the way up to the hilt.
The world stopped. Svîk . . . I’d just saved him. I needed answers from him. I was going to bond . . . maybe. How could . . . I blinked, the scene in front of me feeling more like a nightmare than reality, and I shook my head to clear my vision.
With a snarl, Panthera-magî jerked the knife upward, and Svîk screamed, a panicked, desperate plea.
My heart rent. I blinked and shrieked, “Ruin!”
The panthera-magî’s skin rippled. One of his guards bellowed, but I barely heard the sound—and none of the words registered.
“Ruin,” I gasped, falling to my knees. I was too stunned to fight, too stunned to even move. All I could do was stare.
Time slowed as Svîk’s hands went to his abdomen and blood ran, slicking his skin, covering his arms as he tried to hold himself together . . . and failed. Loops of his entrails spilled over his arm, falling toward the muddy ground. Panthera-magî held the bloody knife and muttered something indistinguishable as my mind reeled.
My heart flipped, and the vicious brutality registered, battering my consciousness. I screeched and clambered to my feet, desperate to get to Svîk so I could help him. I blinked, and Panthera-magî now held another blade. My jaw dropped as I sucked in enough air to scream—
And my mind blanked.
He crossed his arms and then stretched them apart so quickly the purpose behind his movement didn’t immediately register. The coppery tang of blood wafted on the breeze, followed by the rancid stench of death, and Svîk’s head fell, wide-eyed and open mouthed, into the mud with a wet slosh. His body slumped to his knees then flopped to the ground, blood pumping out from his severed neck in gushes of crimson.
“No!” I screamed, throwing myself at the brutal magî. I pounded my fists against his back, scratching and clawing.
He turned and shuddered—again—and then wrapped me in a tight hold as a string of explicatives ran from his mouth.
How dare he? Why was he acting irate? Was he upset with me? Fine. I’d give him something to be angry about because I would not go easily. My hair whipped as I fought against him.
“Bîcav,” he growled.
I fought harder, flailing and kicking, and the magî tightened his cruel hug.
“Bîcav!”
I was shoved away from the panthera-magî and then caught. Whoever held me now held me taut, his grip so tight my fingers tingled. The heat radiating from the magî was filled with wrath. But even facing certain death, I couldn’t let Svîk go. I needed his soul and his body together. I needed answers. I needed safety. I wanted love. “I need the truth! He was going to tell me the truth.”
“Stop it,” the male holding me hissed. “Whatever he told you was lies.”
Whimpering, I mumbled incoherently—protests, disbelief, denial. My stomach heaved, and I leaned over and retched, falling into the mud when my captor released me. My pitiful breakfast slopped into the muck, and my eyes burned with tears. Someone grabbed me by my arms and yanked me upright, and I stared into the vibrant-blue eyes of the panthera-magî.
“Why did you do that?” I cried. “Why . . . Do you know . . . What . . . ?” I sputtered and choked on the questions. “Are you Ruin? Please . . . Do you know me?” The questions dribbled out of my mouth with hopeful desperation to make sense of something—anything. Tears spilled down my cheeks, my throat clogging with emotion. “Please.”
His eyes narrowed, and then he grimaced. “I’ve never seen you before. Are you Zîyanâ?”
My heart clenched and then dropped—a dead weight in my chest—and shock gutted me. He wasn’t Ruin? I shook my head, not willing to accept anything he said as truth. Glaring at the magî who’d just killed Svîk, I snapped, “No.”
I wanted to say something more, do something more—to hurt him—somehow. But words flitted through my head and out, refusing to stay long enough for me to string together coherent thought. Hate. I blinked and then snarled, “I hate you.”
Ignoring my spewed abhorrence, he growled, “Then who are you?”
Rage bubbled up from deep within, and I swung fast and hard, my palm slapping him so hard that his head jerked to the side. “I’m the magî who will gut you in your sleep.”
The magî behind me grabbed me again, holding me just enough to remind me it could be worse.
“Is this the one, Bîcav?” Panthera-magî snapped the question as if dreading the answer.
The male behind me cleared his throat and then, in a voice choked with emotion, said, “I have no idea.”
I glanced over my shoulder to find the magî with hair the color of fresh honey, looking up at the canopy. He swallowed and then focused on the panthera-magî, and I was startled to see the Serîk’s eyes glistening with moisture.
“I didn’t get that from his thoughts,” Bîcav said. “Didn’t you sift the answer out before you beheaded him?”
The guard suddenly released me and turned his back, and Panthera-magî closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, he reached forward like he was going to grab my chin but stopped short. The heat from his skin touched me, filling me with confusion. I hated him, but a small part of me wanted to lean forward and close the distance. Not too hard to shove that crazy part away.
He dropped his hand to his side and asked, “Are you Zädîsa?”
Why would he think that? Maybe he was crazy. “I heard the kümdâr has her in Yândarî.”
His features hardened. “Are you Zîyanâ?”
Is he mad? I glared at him, hating him more for the stupidity of repeating himself. The sovereign bondmate’s magî
k was far more powerful than anything I could do. I looked nothing like her, and . . . I couldn’t remember the other reason I couldn’t be her, but I knew there was at least one more. What a fetid jackass.
He glanced over my head and, again, called, “Bîcav.”
After a heartbeat, the magî-guard said, “If she is, she doesn’t know it.”
I jerked to look at him, and the leader grabbed my wrist.
“How do you know that?” I demanded of the Serîk.
He said nothing, and Panthera-magî turned to another of his men. “Is she strong?”
“Yes,” one of the other guards said.
“Who else?” the panthera-magî asked. He released me and then stepped over Svîk’s body to walk through the group.
One of the other magî muttered a response, his words lost as I grappled with the reality of the pieces of my friend now lying in the mud and gore of his own body. I glanced at the bare-chested leader, watching as he trailed his fingers over the other magî, no longer brutal. He pulled one male and one female aside and then pushed the two magî toward his guards. “We’ll also take them just in case.”
I heard him, but movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. My lips parted, and I sucked in a breath as fresh tears pricked my eyes. Because there was Svîk, standing by his mutilated body—his beautiful, whole soul. He hovered in between the pieces of his body and head, and I forgot all about our stupid fight yesterday. Ever since Esi died, he’d been my best friend, and a crushing grief wrenched through me as his death registered. I wish . . . Emotion blurred my vision, and I stepped forward, wanting to bring him back. If there was a way to put his body together . . .
I heard a growl, and Panthera-magî appeared between me and Svîk, the smell of sandalwood and ylang ylang swirling around me. I saw his bare chest, and then he murmured, “Do you see his soul? Is it there? Can you put it back in?”
I lurched and met the gaze of the shifter. My anguish became fury, hot and fiery, and I wanted to lash out at the monster, not scream or yell uselessly. I narrowed my eyes and said, “If I could, I would just so he’d kill you.”
