by Allison Pang
“Who’s there?” A new voice sounds from an unseen passage before I can gather enough of my wits to give a real answer. The shadows part to reveal an old woman, her pale hair glowing in the torchlight. An oddly dressed man in loose-fitting trousers and a patchwork coat lingers just behind her. He’s younger than she is—maybe about Lucian’s age, though it’s hard to tell. Dark hair frames a pleasant face and a scruffy chin, and his expression appears compassionate. A bonewitch, perhaps.
The woman grasps my hands gently when she sees me. “Be still, child. You’re safe now.”
I’m lying on my stomach on a musty mattress. There’s a stale odor about it, but it’s not unpleasant. The old woman kneels, her head bowed in what looks like prayer. She hasn’t answered any of my questions, but since all my attention is currently on what the bonewitch is doing, I don’t care much.
My mind is still reeling from the discovery that people are alive down here. And have been for a long time, if the woman’s age is anything to go by.
“Bite down on this.” The bonewitch shoves a piece of rope into my mouth. I jerk away when it brushes my lips, the memories of being gagged a little too fresh to want to revisit, but he sits there calmly until I relax.
I give him a nod, my eyes closing as I brace myself for what comes next.
His movements are gentle, dampening the wool with warm water, but it burns despite the careful treatment. A shriek whistles past the rope as he begins to remove the cloak from my back.
“Easy now,” he says. “It’s stuck in the wounds. Stay still.”
I have no choice so I do as he says, pretending not to hear the wet sounds of my skin pulling apart. The old lady hasn’t moved this entire time, and I attempt to distract myself by studying her with unabashed curiosity.
I can’t tell her age, but her face is a maze of dark, craggy skin and crow’s feet, and her pale hair is hanging in myriad braids fastened by . . . seashells? They gleam in the lamplight, their spiral beauty drawing my attention.
I wince at the burning of the lashes, but I’m nearly numb to it now, the nerve endings brittle. I can’t help but wonder if they are broken beyond healing.
“There now.” The bonewitch lays the bloody cloak on the ground beside me. I fight the urge to spit on it. “That’s an Inquestor garment,” he observes, removing the rope from my mouth. There’s a slight tone of censure in his voice.
“Well it’s obviously not my wedding gown,” I snap, unable to keep the anger from bubbling out.
“I meant no offense.” He dips a series of bandages into a blue liquid before laying them upon my wounds. A soothing tingle spreads over my skin, and I exhale one long, shuddering puff of air as the tension slips out of me.
The old woman opens her eyes; there’s something unfocused about them. Is she blind?
But no. Her gaze clears when it falls upon me, and her wrinkled hand reaches out to run over the stubble upon my scalp, something like pity in her expression. “Tsk. It will grow back, little one.”
I snort. “I’m sure it will. It’s only hair.”
A shadow crosses her proud features. “Do you not have questions? Or news you might share?”
“Many. I did not expect the Pits to be so . . . hospitable,” I admit. Though hospitality might not be the right word. Regardless, it will do me no good to cross swords with my would-be hosts, at least not until I get my bearings. “Where are the others from the Tithe? The Rotters? For that matter, where are the other Moon Children?”
The two of them exchange a glance. “Perhaps it would be easier if we simply showed you. Whatever falsehoods you were raised to believe must be unlearned.” The old woman smiles soothingly. “Rest assured, everyone is being properly seen to.”
My mind whirls with confusion. “Well, you have to forgive me, then. I’ve been a bit ill-used before I arrived here. My manners aren’t what they ought to be.” It’s all I can think of to say, though I know it’s not the right thing.
The bonewitch pats my shoulder. “Rest here a bit first . . . Do you have a name, lass?”
I pause, unsure which one to give him. If there are other Moon Children somewhere about, my Banshee clan name would make the most sense, but I’m edging toward caution over honesty now. The events of the last few weeks have left me a little gun-shy, and rightfully so.
“More than I care to list,” I say. “Call me Magpie.”
“Well, Miss Magpie, let these strips sit awhile. When the bleeding stops, you’ll be able to move around some. You were lucky; most of them aren’t too deep, so you should heal up right quick.” He gives me a wry smile. “You can call me Georges, if you like.”
“Georges,” I repeat. The name is familiar, but I can’t place it. I turn toward the old lady to mask my frustration. “And you?”
“Tanith.” She gets to her feet with a gentle grace that belies her age, the seashells tinkling in her hair. “Rest. I’ll get you some new clothes.”
The two of them duck behind a thin curtain drawn in front of the room’s entrance. I shift carefully on the mattress, relieved when the pain is minimal. Whatever that blue stuff is, it certainly works well.
I look around the rest of the room. It must be some sort of makeshift infirmary, judging by the additional empty cots. Bottles of odd concoctions line the shelves, which are built into the stone walls, and a surgical table claims the center of the space. A tray of scalpels and a bucket of plaster sit beside it.
It’s clean in here and smells faintly of lavender, which is odd considering where we are. The bonewitch must be kept busy with the Rotters, yet somehow the odor of blood and other less pleasant things is nearly masked.
I reach for the mug of water next to me, and I sip it slowly, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. None of this is how it should be. Not Molly Bell betraying me. Not the murder of an Inquestor. Not the loss of my dragon.
And Lucian just stood there at the gates, stood there and let me be taken. But what right do I have to be angry about that? After all, how many times had I stood by and watched one of my fellows be subjected to the same? What could he do to stop it anyway?
Nonetheless it stings, knowing what I learned and what he expected of me. And maybe it really is all about protecting his brother.
Oh Ghost . . .
I sigh bitterly. I started all this: finding the dragon, Sparrow’s death, leading the Inquestors to the Archivist, letting Ghost get captured. And then everything had fallen by the wayside in my decidedly rash impulse to let Balthazaar capture me.
In the end, I’ve no one to blame but myself.
A gleam catches my eye at the base of the bed. I squint to see what it is. It takes a moment, but it becomes clearer. Someone has etched something into the wood, and the marks are reflecting the torchlight.
I run a finger over the lines, my mouth moving to sound out the letters. “Suck-tit.” I trace the letters again and am struck by a cold certainty. Penny has been here. Of course she has. I watched my former clanmate be Tithed weeks ago. But where is she now?
As much as I want to bolt from the room and demand answers, I am tired beyond measure and I find myself dozing off into a fitful sleep. In the span of a night and a day, I’ve been tried and punished, whipped and beaten and partially healed. On top of it all, I’ve been thrust into the underworld like the hero from one of those tales Mad Brianna used to tell me and Sparrow and rest of the orphans she took under her wing. I will need to rest and gain my strength back if I’m to have any chance at all at finding the other Moon Children and discovering the secrets of the Pits.
In the end, you do what you do best. Hide in plain sight and hope they do not discover you, Mags.
I have no magic sword or shining armor, but I do have a quest. And that will have to do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALLISON PANG is the author of the urban fantasy Abby Sinclair series, as well as the writer for the webcomic Fox & Willow. She likes LEGOS, elves, LEGO elves . . . and bacon.
She spends her days in Northern V
irginia working as a cube grunt and her nights waiting on her kids, her cat, and her obnoxious northern-breed dog, punctuated by the occasional husbandly serenade. Sometimes she even manages to write. Mostly she just makes it up as she goes . . .
