Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  Chirrup?

  They’d heard her, and were coming closer. Their eyes glowed in the blackness as they crept around the acacia stump she’d been sitting against only a few moments before. One threk leaped onto it. Moonlight gleamed along its twelve-foot length, making scales and feathers shine like molten silver. Then, the beast slipped into the shadows and out of view once more. Leigh clutched the cell lantern so hard her fingers ached against the grip, and frost danced in front of her nose with each ragged breath.

  Where did they go? What did Orin say about cell lights? Zres uses one out in the fields, doesn’t he? But—

  Something brushed her leg. A shadow against shadow, big and smelling of blood.

  Chirrrup? Hssss . . .

  Leigh squeezed her eyes shut. She pictured the jaws ripping into her midsection, puncturing her flesh with poisonous teeth, her muscles falling slack from paralysis. They’d eat her alive, and she’d be unable to move or scream for help or—

  The faint rasp of scales against her fatigues almost tore a scream from her throat, but she bit it back, teeth clamping down on her tongue. She tasted blood.

  “Keep still. Keep still,” some hidden instinct whispered. “Keep still.”

  Her eyelids opened as if pried by unseen fingers. There, just ahead of her and so close she could see it, a monstrous threk raised its head and sniffed the air. It regarded her with brilliant, sun-bright eyes as the wide jaws parted. A long, serpentine tongue flicked out, heralding breath that reeked of fresh blood. Strings of thick saliva glistened in the moonlight. Poison.

  The threk sat on its haunches, studying her. Its curved claws flexed against the sand, leaving long gouges. Leigh tried to swallow, but her throat seized from the weight of the leaden fear hanging there.

  Where’s the other one? Where did it—

  A nudge from behind nearly knocked her down. She caught her balance, biting her lip to stop from crying out. The second threk glided by, peering up at her. Its shoulder brushed against her waist, bristling, stiff feathers grazing her fingertips. They rippled like water, silver and blue in the gloom. It circled again before joining the other, still crouched in front of her, close enough to touch. The first turned and nosed its companion, a low, raspy growl emanating from its throat. Leigh stared wide-eyed at the predators, her body numb. Beyond them, she could just see the campfire, looking impossibly small and far away. Kaitar Besh stood near the glowing coals, awake and alert, peering in her direction. His eyes shone every bit as brightly as a threk’s.

  He sees everything and he’s doing nothing!

  Chirrrup?

  One threk slid toward her. Leigh watched, too afraid to move, as a scaled snout bumped against her thigh. The threk’s nostrils twitched as it sniffed her fatigues, its hot breath tickling her legs through the material. It hissed, staring directly at her, mouth opened to reveal a long tongue that flicked against the edge of her jacket.

  It’s going to kill me. Kaitar! Why are you just standing there? I’m going to die!

  “Keep still!” the voice—it sounded almost like the scout—whispered in her mind, more insistent now. “Don’t move, don’t reach for the Firebrand. Keep still.”

  Venomous saliva dripped from the threk’s jaws, spattering the sand near her boots, and she knew she was going to die. Then, as if bored by the whole situation, one of the beasts yawned. It turned, stalking past the first threk, pausing only long enough to nose its scaled flank. Both beasts drifted by without another glance, vanishing into the night as suddenly as they’d appeared.

  Leigh’s legs buckled, knees hitting the sand, cell light sliding from her fingers. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the ground, shaking.

  Just count. Count to sixty. One . . . two . . . three . . .

  Dew settled on her shoulders as the temperature dropped a notch. How long she crouched like that, cold and still, she didn’t know. Every thought drained away, save for the next number whispered against the sand.

  Forty-three . . . forty-four . . .

  Footsteps scuffed near, cautious and slow. She tensed, forgetting to count, heart racing again.

  Please, no. Go away.

  “Leigh.” Fingers dug into her shoulder, hurting even through the leather jacket.

  Kaitar.

  “The spit, did it touch you?”

  Fear vanished in an instant. Disgusted, she flung his hand away. “You saw. And you did nothing! Did you have this all planned? Is this some kind of Shyiine game you’re playing, Kaitar Besh?”

  The scout leaned back, blinking once before his confused expression wrenched into a snarl. “I don’t control the desert or the things in it. I told you both this was threk country, that we might see some tonight. I didn’t spot any tracks earlier or I would have said something.”

  Leigh pushed herself up, knees wobbling. “We will need to move camp.” She shoved past him. “A mile or two west, in case the threk get near again.”

  “All right.”

  They walked in silence. Far in the distance, one of the predators trilled; Leigh shuddered.

  “They’re taking their kill somewhere quiet,” Kaitar muttered. “We may not have to move camp. Threk don’t—”

  “We’re moving camp. And before we stop again, you are going to look for any tracks.”

  Scowling, he came abreast of her with quick strides. “Leigh, I’m not your damned enemy. I’m a scout, that’s all. If I’d have run over there and tried to chase them off, you might be dead right now. You did the right thing by keeping still.”

  Keep still.

  She wanted to scream, but did not. “Wake Romano. Help him with the tent and tell him to keep quiet. I’ll get the rover packed.” Leigh stepped inside the dim glow cast by the fire, its warmth slapping her cold face. Without looking at the scout, she knelt to gather up the field packs.

  “You’re blaming me for there being threk in the desert. What did you want me to do? Run out there and yell at you to hold still and not use your Firebrand? What do you think they would have done then? I’ll tell you what. They’d have ripped you apart, and then Romano, too, because you know he’s too stupid to—”

  “Orin should have sent Gairy Reidur instead of you. He may be a drunk, but I suppose even a drunk Druen can be trusted more than a Shyiine who would do nothing while his co-workers get eaten by monsters.” Leigh rose, packs slung over her shoulder. “Wake Romano up.”

  “Fuck you.” Kaitar smiled bitterly, sharp teeth gleaming against the glow of the campfire. “You can try to order me around like some house slave all you want, but you’re not the queen of the Sulari. How’s it feel to have a Shyiine ignore your orders? How’s it feel to know you don’t get to have someone executed just for telling you to shove it in your—”

  Her fist cracked against his mouth so hard his head rocked to the side.

  “You should be executed." Leigh rubbed her bruised knuckles. "Not for disobeying an Enforcer, but for murder.”

  “Sulari.” He spat crimson-tinged saliva and wiped blood from his busted lip with a trembling hand. “If I were a murderer, I’d have my yatreg in your gut right now. But I’m not. Not like you think.”

  Leigh didn’t reply, but some of her anger drained away at the sight of blood glistening against the sand. Guilt and regret piled onto her shoulders, heavier than the field packs. She’d failed Orin, lost her temper when she’d promised not to, and made the entire mission more difficult in the process. If Kaitar’s insolent mouth was enough to make her lose control, how would she ever be able to work with him to save Gren?

  The tent rustled. Romano emerged, bleary-eyed and groaning. “What the hell . . . are you two arguing again?” He blinked when he saw Kaitar’s bloodied lip. “Damn, Katey, what happened to you?”

  “Help me take this down, Romano.” Kaitar pulled a tent pole from the ground. “There are threk in the area and we need to move.”

  “I’d almost rather stay with those things than you two. They might be safer,” the Junker muttered. He
peered into the darkness. “How close are they?”

  “Close enough,” the scout replied. “Two of them. Here, take the other side of this and—”

  Leigh blocked the rest of the conversation as she tossed packs and blankets into the rover. She hauled herself in and settled against the water barrels, head aching as her spirits sank. And still, the sharp edge of fear raked her thoughts.

  He would have sat back and watched those threk kill me, and maybe Romano, too. Father was right. You cannot trust a Shyiine . . . especially not this one.

  Moad

  Zres licked his lips and stared at the card balanced on the beer can twenty feet away. Three cards lay in the dust already, the smiling, big-breasted figures printed on the cardboard gazing up at the bright sky. He felt the handle of his whip, fingers seeking a perfect grip. In his mind, everything happened syrup-slow, though only a matter of seconds passed between each boom of rawhide. The whip flew, circling around his head until the precise moment the arc reached its peak when he snapped his wrist. The braided tail ripped through the air with a resounding crack, echoing through the entire town and far into the surrounding scrubland beyond the gates.

  Silently, the card fluttered down and came to rest in the dust.

  From atop his perch on the gate, Erid whooped in triumph. Even the boy’s yellow mutt, Aerby, thumped his tail in the dirt. Zres stood straight and grinned briefly before the slow-motion setup began once again. Fingers tightened, eyes narrowed, he focused on the card outlined against the sky. The bullwhip sang as it slapped the card off the can in one neat flick.

  “See how I’m using my wrist?” He held the whip out, flexing his wrist in demonstration.

  “Uh-huh. I’ve been watching! Does your arm get tired?” Erid’s green eyes glowed with frank admiration as he slid from the corral gate. Kneeling, he scratched his dog behind the ears before wiping his hands on the seat of his pants.

  Zres shrugged. “Little flicks like that, no. But if I really get crackin' at threk, my shoulder gets a bit sore.” He re-coiled the bullwhip and stooped to pick the cards from the dirt. He’d snatched them from Mi’et’s footlocker the night before, and the big Enforcer would probably be pissed about the scuff marks left all over the vapid nudie-girl smiles. Zres didn’t care. Erid had asked him for a demonstration, the cards provided a perfect target, and Mi’et could go to hell if he didn’t like it.

  “I’ll braid you a whip one of these days,” he said to the boy. “A stock whip to start. Good for practice. Now, if you get real good, try the snake whip, but a bullwhip? Best of both worlds.”

  Erid grinned. “You’d show me how to use one?”

  “Hell, why not? Nothin’ else to do, unless you count standin’ or walkin’ around in fields.” He returned Erid’s grin. A little of the old desperation crept into the smile, but not too much. Mostly, he felt a sting of pride and genuine happiness that Erid wanted instruction from him. Not many people took his skill with the whip seriously. Travelers were sometimes impressed, but Dogton locals ignored it like they ignored everything except whores, whiskey, and card games.

  Erid tugged at Aerby’s collar. “I should get back to work on the bean grinder. My dad wants it fixed before he gets back, but thing’s a giant heap of shit. Could just build a new one, but that would probably take as much work as fixing the old one.”

  “Tell old Hub to go fix it himself. He can grind his own beans.” Zres brushed his hat off, slid it onto his head, and reached for his jacket hanging on the corral gate. He shrugged it on with a sinking feeling. There he was, best whip cracker in all the Shy’war-Anquai, about to go have lunch with his mother the whore before spending the afternoon on door duty. “One day you and me will split this town, Erid. Go have a real life somewhere. Fuck the Enforcers, and fuck the Junkers, too.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Thanks for showin’ me those tricks, Zres. You’re pretty good at it.” Erid waved over his shoulder as he jogged off in the direction of the chop-shop.

  Zres watched him go, good mood falling into the dirt the same way the cards had. But it was Sunday; that was some consolation. His dear old mama would make him a meal that didn’t have a bean in it. Pulled-s’rat sandwiches and cornbread, or maybe some chicken-and-corn soup with dumplings. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d skipped breakfast at the barracks.

  Meandering toward the Dust Bin, he studied the merchants setting up their stalls for the Sunday afternoon rush. The markets were always busy on Sunday, and with the autumn harvest around the corner, everyone came out looking for a bargain.

  Say your morning prayers to Mary Soulmaker. Have a big breakfast. Scratch your ass a while. Go to the trader’s stalls and see what kind of rip-off bullshit they’ll yank you on this time.

  It was all so predictable. Nothing ever seemed to change in Dogton.

  Zres pushed the cantina door open. It swung back, snapping against his leg. He gave it a hard kick to free himself.

  Hubert, the Bin’s owner, glared at him from where he stood at the bar, wiping down a shot glass. “Don’t break the door.”

  “It’s already busted. Gonna give someone a case of rabies one of these days.”

  Hubert scowled, but said nothing as he went back to cleaning dishes with a dirty rag. The Bin was empty. It was always empty on Sundays until late in the evening; people had to pretend to be righteous for a few hours and wouldn’t go visit the whores or get blind drunk before they’d given piety its turn.

  Zres moved through the lingering fog of last night’s tobacco smoke, intermingled with the thick dust which gave the Bin its name. A fine, red powder coated the furniture. When the light slanted through the unwashed windows, a crimson glare settled over everything.

  The walls had their own little horror show to add to the Bin’s dismal atmosphere. There, stuffed heads glared down in eternal condemnation of the Bin’s patrons, their eyes blind with dust. Shovel-nosed antelope dominated, along with several juvenile threk, sand cats, desert foxes, and something that looked like it had once been a monstrous hog. Before building the Bin, Hubert had come to the Shy’war-Anquai to hunt big game and had never gone home to Avaeliis again. Now, the taciturn barkeep seemed a part of that bad taxidermy with his faded apron and gray hair.

  Might as well hang himself up there.

  “Hi, Zres. Comin’ to see your mom?” Peaches—the Bin’s newest working girl—fiddled with a deck of cards at a table. She perked up as he strode past, poking her breasts at him like homing beacons. “She’s such a nice lady, been showin’ me a lot of tricks.”

  “Yup, on my way to visit Ma.” Zres ignored her coy, fluttery look and slipped into the narrow hall. There, the whores had their suites and travelers could rent a spare bed with a bath for the night. Lucy Corrin’s rooms were furthest in the back, and the biggest in the Bin; she was the only whore to sport more than a bedroom for herself, boasting a small alcove with a cook stove, a sparsely stocked bookshelf, and a table.

  Zres had grown up in those little rooms and his earliest memories included a myriad of faces, all Lucy’s customers. Dozens of strange men had come through those doors, most of them dusty and stinking of whiskey. A few had been more dignified, but none of the men, drunk or sober, had shown any interest in a whore’s brat. During those early years, he’d often been told “Go outside and play,” or “Zerestus, honey, go help Hubert in the kitchen while I entertain this nice gentlemen,” or any number of other excuses to get him out of the room.

  Zres paused outside his mother’s door before pushing it open a crack. He peeked in, hoping she was alone so he wouldn’t have to see something as awful as he’d seen a thousand times before. And yet, he hoped he would see something so he could berate her for it. So he could be justified in the skewed love-hate at the core of his relationship with his mama. Mama, who had kissed his little cuts as a child, but who had thrashed him soundly whenever he took Mary Soulmaker’s name in vain. Mama, who wore the little Harper’s cross around her neck. Mama, who spread her legs for any man with th
e water to pay.

  She was with a man. A broad back leaned up in the old tub in the corner, freckles and zits covering the big shoulders. A mop of graying curls fell over the thick neck. His head turned as Lucy Corrin paced across the room, dressed in nothing but a plain, white shift. A grin slid over the man’s square, heavy face, his teeth gleaming white.

  Harper Moad. I recognize that curl helmet anywhere. He’s here just like last time. Sin, hellfire . . . it all goes right up the tube, don’t it, Load?

  “Why, Lucy, you are still a lovely woman even after all these years,” Moad said, voice low and deep. “How do you keep looking so fresh in this place?”

  Lucy moved to the tub and rubbed the big shoulders with candle-slim fingers. “Faith, mostly. It keeps me feelin' young. And I do admit, I’ve got some other tricks, but those are a woman’s secret.”

  “You do give nice back rubs, among other things.” Water splashed against the tub as Moad groaned. “And how’s your boy doing?”

  Lucy sighed and wiped her hands on her shift before sauntering to the worn dresser near the bed. She rummaged in the drawer, found a clean dress, and pulled it over her head. “Zres is . . . doin' well. He’s meeting most of his milestones.”

  Milestones? Now they’re talking about how many prayers and Harper Milestones I’ve missed, like he’s my daddy and has a right to know.

  “Has he come around to find his faith yet?” Moad reached for his trousers lying on the ground near the tub and tugged a VDA from the back pocket. The Veraleid logo caught the reflection of the bathwater. The Harper gave a little grunt at something on the screen, turned it off, and set it aside. Lucy moved past him to the alcove, and Zres heard the rattle of a tin pot.

  “Not yet. I do believe he needs to have . . . well, an epiphany,” she replied, her tone soft and pleasant. “Something that really shows him that Mary Soulmaker is the way. I think it will happen soon enough.”

  Seething, Zres carefully closed the door. He wanted to kick it in, bust it right off the hinges, and take his bullwhip to Moad’s hairy back. Wanted to shake the Mary Soulmaker right out of his mother, and wanted . . .