by K. E. Blaski
Apparently Manga Girl only pretended to be shy. She snatched one of the largest boxes from the pile. “Be my guest,” Jennica said after the fact, and Cherub Girl, not to be outdone by her sister, dove into the pile to grab a gift for herself. She chose the box with the missing ribbon—the one still tied around Jennica’s thigh.
“Be my guest? What an odd thing to say.” Cherub Girl tore off the wrappings in a blink, popped off the lid, and pulled out a grandmother-style beaded necklace. “Oh, this would go perfect with my black robe. You won’t have an opportunity to wear it, will you Nyima?”
“You can keep it. Take all the gifts. I won’t need them.” Escaping didn’t include baggage.
The aunt joined the two girls in the tangle of wrappings and ribbon. All three women started squabbling over Nyima’s belongings. They reminded Jennica of Cinderella’s stepmother and her two ugly stepsisters.
Jennica wasn’t alone in her disgust. A scowl smeared across the largest soldier. The other soldier slumped against the wall and fiddled with a thread on his tunic, but Jennica noticed him shake his head whenever one of Nyima’s female relatives squealed.
They were huge men, like the fireman lumberjack who had carried her last night. She studied the larger soldier. He had silvery patches on his cheeks and forehead, as though he was infected with a rash. The other soldier’s arms were encased in metal, but not like armor. More like fish scales that flexed and moved with him.
Eager to leave Nyima’s relatives and the silver-skinned soldiers far behind, Jennica turned her attention to Nyima’s father. “Would you take me to the East Courtyard? I need to see Aprica.” She hoped she used the word Aprica in the right context.
“Of course—come. We’ll leave your aunt and cousins to enjoy themselves.” The larger soldier opened the door for them. When Jennica brushed past Nyima’s father on her way out, the sleeve of her robe slipped to her elbow and the rhythm of his breathing changed. Even he reacted to her strange skin.
Flanked by the soldiers, with Jemiah trailing several feet behind, Jennica maneuvered through an intimidating maze of wide corridors and stairwells. She passed wooden doors that mimicked the fifty doors before, and rounded corners marked by glowing lanterns all exactly alike. Her robe gained weight with every step. Lost. Completely dependent on Madam Meilyn. She rubbed the top of the glove covering the woman’s lip print.
The courtyard wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Topiary, fountains, a flower or two—that’s what she expected. Instead, the soldiers led her to a prison yard paved in limestone. The only thing missing was barbed wire strung along the top of the boundary wall, and maybe a couple of basketball hoops.
More soldiers guarded the perimeter: one at the entrance, who bowed his head as Jennica walked past, one leaning against the wall on the right, one up in a turret, and one at the gate. There was no sign of Madam Meilyn or the boy from last night.
“Feeling better? Aprica shines high for you today.”
“Sure.” Her mouth clicked behind the mask when she spoke; every drop of spit had disappeared when she saw the guards. Sneaking past all five seemed impossible. The best she could do was kill time and hope Madam showed up.
She decided to ask Nyima’s father some of the questions nagging at her. Maybe she’d uncover answers that could help her outside the castle walls. She’d ask Madam’s question too, the one whose answer would supposedly make her angry enough to murder.
Not likely. For one thing, her hands and feet were her only weapons, since the kitchen knife still rested under a pillow in her room. And if she couldn’t even keep Justin from knocking her flat, she couldn’t possibly fend off five large men armed with swords and arrows.
But more importantly, she simply didn’t have it in her to kill anything—much less a person. To her mother’s dismay, she’d always been the one who’d released spiders from her house rather than squishing them.
“Um, Father, I—”
“It’s normal to feel . . . anxious.”
“And why is that? Why does everyone treat me like I’m going off to an execution instead of a wedding? What’s really going on here?”
He reached for her with his gloved hand, and when they touched there was none of the rush she’d felt with the skin-to-skin contact with Madam Meilyn. The gloves appeared to do their job, although Jemiah still positioned himself at arm’s length.
“It’s helpful to block out what’s going to happen to you.”
“What is going to happen to me? I’m not getting a warm fuzzy vibe from you, or from anyone else for that matter.” He looked at her like she’d spoken nonsense, and she sighed. “Okay, then tell me why I have this goofy-colored skin that sends everyone around me into a lust frenzy.”
“I don’t understand the question.” He dropped her hand.
“Why am I purple?”
“But—you’ve known all your life your skin would change. Just like your mother’s. It turns this color on all Rosen women when they come of age. There’s no point in questioning the way things are.” He shuffled his feet, coating his shoes with dust.
“Only women? Only certain women, ’cause Nyima’s cousins don’t even blush.”
He spoke slowly, like she’d suddenly turned into an idiot. “Abelinda and Maartje are not your mother’s daughters, so of course they didn’t inherit her skin. Nyima, you’ve always known you’re a rare birth. It was a risk for your mother to even have a child—like all Rosen women, she didn’t want to take the chance she might have a girl baby.”
“But Nyima’s mother had a girl.”
“Your mother”—as he stressed the word your, Jennica realized she’d been talking in third person; no wonder Nyima’s father stared at her so strangely—“took potions to ensure she’d have a son, but they made her sick. I continue to believe they’re the reason she died right after giving birth to you.” He hung his head and spoke to the ground. “I’ve never shared this with you before, but—I told her you were a boy. So that she’d be happy with her last breath.”
“You raised Nyima by yourself?”
“Why do you keep speaking as someone else?” His voice rose, and the soldier by the wall took a step toward them. “Fear has made you mad.”
Ugh, she’d done it again. It was too soon to draw attention. She’d have to try harder to act like she was Nyima—but all she knew about Nyima was that her family had written her off, she had a nervous, skinny boyfriend, and she couldn’t touch anyone with her bare hands. Jennica knew that last part for sure. “Sorry . . . Father. It won’t happen again.”
But the look of alarm remained on his face. Luckily, the sound of Madam Meilyn’s laughter caught his notice. The woman was flirting with the soldier by the gate. Clutching her throat, Madam leaned into him and whispered something in his ear.
Time for a distraction. Jennica was confident she could shoulder-flip Nyima’s father and send him sprawling. That would either bring the soldiers to his aid or make them descend on her—the crazy bride. She needed more time to think. She needed to stall. She asked her last question. Madam Meilyn’s question. “Father, how did the soldiers know where to find me?”
Jemiah tightened his lips. “That boy, Damen. He led you too far from home. He didn’t protect you.” His left eye muscle twitched.
Madam was right. There was more to this story. “But how did the soldiers know where Damen and I went?”
“What are you implying?” Now his mouth twitched as well.
Jennica didn’t have to be a truthsayer like Damen to know Nyima’s dad was hiding something. “What aren’t you telling me?” Then she used the word Madam had given her, even though she had no idea what it meant. “Granden.”
This time, he grimaced and clasped his hands. “You know? Oh, the shame. It crushes me.” He shook his head, struggling to say more. “I dishonor your mother by not being the one to tell you, and—now we have so little time left. Please let me explain.”
“What is it, Father?” Jennica kept Madam Meilyn within her
line of sight, but her feet froze. She wanted to know what this man had to say to his daughter. For the sake of her own curiosity, and as a courtesy to Nyima, she wanted the truth. “Tell me.”
When he finally did, she wished he hadn’t.
“I’m the one who told them.”
No wonder Madam thought the answer would make her angry. She felt angry for poor Nyima—sold out by her own dad. “Why—your own daughter?”
“Are you? My daughter?” His voice rose again, and the soldiers looked over at them. “I never was sure,” he said, more quietly this time. “Your mother had several lovers when her skin changed—you could have belonged to any of us.” His words poured like he’d pulled a cork out of his mouth. “All those years I spent working in the fields when I could’ve made something of myself in the city. I gave up everything to raise you—and when your skin changed, you can’t imagine the pressure. I couldn’t sleep. With that skin of yours a few feet away. I was tired, Nyima. I wanted a little relief.
“I won’t have to struggle to survive, and neither will your cousins, or your aunt, or anyone I decide to marry. Noble Tortare has made me Granden of Durand. How could I refuse? I have a fresh start.” He stood straight, his shoulders back, like he was confident he’d justified his actions.
As Nyima’s father talked about his new life, Jennica remembered the last conversation she’d had with her own father, right after her parents’ divorce. He, too, was starting over, excited about the possibilities: a new job in a different state, a new girlfriend pregnant with his new child. It didn’t matter if he trampled his daughter’s life during his pursuit of happiness. He’d had plenty of reasons to justify the pain. Jennica’s tears fell now as they did then: a few drops colliding into a steady flow. Because it didn’t matter what planet you lived on: fathers everywhere left their daughters behind.
“Help! Guards!” Jemiah backed away. “What’s wrong with you? Your eyes. They’re leaking through your mask!”
The guards on the ground rushed toward her, but Jennica moved fast. Shohan Sato had taught her well, how to duck, dodge and—run, for Madam Meilyn and the gate. The gate to freedom, the gate that was supposed to be wide open—closed shut?
“Open it!” she screamed, but Madam Meilyn couldn’t open it. Not anymore. An arrow had pierced Madam’s chest, sliced through her back, and pinned her to the wall. The front of her brown robe blackened with spreading blood.
“No!” she tugged at the woman who died for her, dislodged her body, nearly crumpling under the weight. “Why? How’d they know?” The soldier in the turret pulled back to release a second arrow. Wood splinters sprayed against her face. Either he had poor aim or he’d just warned her to move away from the gate. She slid Madam’s body to the ground. “I’m sorry.” Her throat squeezed tight. Air wheezed past her lips as she watched the woman’s eyes glaze over. “So sorry.”
The soldiers stood motionless, waiting to see what she’d do next.
Next? Next, she rose to her feet. And she ran.
A straight line back toward the castle. She tore off the claustrophobic mask and gathered her wedding robe above her knees, freeing her legs so she could sprint. The tower of cool stone beckoned. Free from constraints, her breathing changed from gasps to clear, deep breaths. The soldiers’ metal skins must’ve made them heavier, slower; they couldn’t keep pace. The entranceway swallowed her.
Heavy footsteps trampled from behind. The soldiers. She needed a place to hide. Doors lined the hall, each locked tight, driving her farther inside. She pushed past men and women; as she passed, some turned their faces away, while others moaned, and a few brave or foolish souls shouted and called after her.
At last a door yielded, and she shut it behind her, gasping in the darkness. The wood gave her some comfort. The soldiers would never hear her labored breathing from behind it. She let the door support her while she waited for her pupils to dilate.
Black separated into shades of gray. Shadows stretched and sighed. No, not shadows—figures, moving clumsily toward her. Human forms, but she couldn’t see if they were men or women. They crouched, or maybe drooped—she couldn’t tell. Or were they small, like children?
“Hello?” she whispered.
They advanced. Fingers reached out for her, tugging and pulling on her robes and hair. Rustling filled her ears as they pushed and pulled her away from the door. Fingernails raked and stung her arms. “No! Stop!” She raised her hands to protect her face. Cold, damp breath prickled against her neck. Something wet slid across her cheek and the relentless sighs grew louder and louder. “Stop!”
Suddenly the room was flooded with light. She pressed her eyelids tight to avoid an explosion of pain in her head. When she gradually opened her eyes, a new nightmare materialized: she was surrounded by a room full of animated corpses. Gaudy makeup couldn’t hide the gray, flaccid flesh, the cloud-covered eyes, the bony, gnarled hands reaching for her. They were dead, but they were moving and sighing and . . . my God, they’re zombies! She turned to run, but a soldier blocked the doorway. He covered her nose and mouth with a cloth. The room spun into darkness.
JENNICA
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE PUNISHMENT
Jennica’s nose itched. And the more she thought about it, the more it itched. But she couldn’t scratch it, because ropes bound her wrists to the arms of a chair. Her gloves were gone, and where Madam’s black lips had left their mark, a new mark now covered the old: a scalded and blistered patch of pink. Someone had burned the lip print right off her skin.
Her feet weighed a ton. She couldn’t lift them from the floor. Couldn’t even wiggle her toes. When she craned her neck to look at them, she saw that each foot wore a metal boot.
She was still alive, but she wasn’t going anywhere.
The failed escape attempt had only made her life in this strange world worse. She guessed the metal boots were her punishment. Her captors didn’t realize she could administer her own punishment just fine, thank you. Madam’s death was her responsibility, and the woman had been slaughtered in front of her like an animal. Now, instead of a black print, what she had on her hands was innocent blood.
To keep her mind occupied, she surveyed her new room. It was the same size as Nyima’s bedroom, but with no windows—and more importantly, no ceiling. Jennica and the chair sat at the bottom of a viewing pit, surrounded by what must be an observation deck: a wooden railing ran the perimeter of the space above her. The place reminded her of a miniature gladiator arena. She wondered what would be observed—and then fought back the panic. Don’t go there. Stay strong. Think of something else.
Hopefully someone nearby was keeping an eye on her. Maybe she could generate some sympathy. “Help me. Please. Can someone help me?”
A panel in the door slid open and a silver-cheeked soldier peered inside. “Something I can get you, Princess?”
“Untied?”
“Sorry. Can’t do that. But I could get you some water. Some salve for your hand?”
“No.” She didn’t want water or salve. The back of her hand didn’t hurt—in fact she couldn’t even feel it. Her entire body was deadened like she’d been shot up with Novocain. Except for her itchy nose.
The soldier started to slide the panel back in place. “No, wait! Can you tell me how long I’ve been here? In this room? Tied to a chair?” The last thing she remembered was the horde of female zombies.
“They’ve been bringing you in and out of this room for three days, Princess.”
“Three days?” She’d lost three days. “Why?”
“It’s not my place to say, but you’re back on schedule now. Getting married this afternoon. Sure I can’t get you anything?”
“Can you find someone for me? Bring him here, to talk to me.”
“Who, Princess? Your father?”
“No.” Nyima’s father was the last person she wanted to talk to. “The boy.” His name was hidden by brain fog. What had they doped her with? She shook it off. “Um . . . Damen. Yes.
Damen.” As far as Jennica was concerned, Damen owed her. It was his fault she was here.
“The Tovar is with Noble Tortare. They’re hearing requests from the citizens. Interruptions aren’t allowed.”
“Maybe they’re done now. Please. Try.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He banged the panel shut.
The Tovar. Damen. He’d give her answers. He had to tell the truth. She just had to ask the right questions. What did he really think about all of . . . this? He hadn’t even come by to see her again once he’d learned Nyima was safe. Did he sleep well at night? After yanking her from her world and dropping her into his world like he was a kid playing with toys? Granted, her life wasn’t perfect, but it was sure better than life here.
Just thinking about Damen’s doe eyes, sunk into his smug face, made her struggle against the ropes again. If she could get free, maybe she could spot-kick his skinny self across the room again. If he’d only express some remorse. Was that too much to ask? Embarassed by how much she wanted his apology, she had no idea why she gave a damn.
Jennica slumped against the back of the massive chair and glared at the rope knots. What were her chances of getting home now? All she needed was an hourglass draining away the last minutes of her life and a green witch cackling in the background. “A few flying monkeys would spruce the place up,” she said to the vacant room. She tried to pick her feet up again. No ruby slippers there. And the metal boots kept her from clicking her heels together. “Even Oz would be better than this.”
“What is Oz?” Damen asked as he and the soldier entered the room.
“Well, if it isn’t my own personal tornado,” Jennica retorted.
“Tovar. I’m a Tovar.”
She shook her head. Her friends back home would’ve at least cracked a grin at that one. But in a place where people were surprised by tears, it shouldn’t have surprised her that laughter was off-limits too. From what she’d seen, there was nothing to smile about here anyway.
“Can we speak? Alone.” She stared at the soldier stationed against the door.
