by M. L. Greye
A backhanded slap to his face sent his head shooting to one side. His face burned from the contact. It didn’t help to clear his vision.
“Kearns!” Someone barked. No, not someone. Simon. “Control yourself.”
“He killed her!” She screamed.
What? Declan’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. His ears were still ringing.
“It isn’t like this is your first death on a round,” Simon’s voice was cold. “You know better. You should have stopped them sooner.”
Declan’s sight was finally clearing. Going from blinding white to blurred to normal. He was on the clay round, between two Rubys. Simon and Kearns were arguing in front of him. But beyond them, still on her back, was the unmoving form of Naria. Declan couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
Rand was standing where he’d been crouched, his gaze on Naria. He glanced up, catching Declan’s gaze. A look of silent understanding filled his eyes. And an endless sadness.
No. Declan ripped free of the Rubys. No. No. No!
He stumbled to his feet, shoving past Kearns and Simon. To Naria.
His gaze landed on her face, and he sank to his knees. He’d indented her very skull with his own head. Squished it inward. Crunched her nose and eyes into her head. He hadn’t even given her time to scream.
“No,” he breathed.
He was going to be sick. His hands trembled as he reached back to grip the hair on the back of his head. He’d done this. He hadn’t even thought twice about it. He’d acted like a Stolen and had murdered her.
“What did you promise him?” Simon asked Kearns from behind Declan.
“To be a permanent,” Kearns snarled.
Simon swore, but called out, “Go claim an empty A-frame, Sharpe. You’re done for the day.”
“He is not,” Kearns hissed. “I have him running laps later.”
“Not anymore,” Simon said evenly. He outranked Kearns in whatever strange system the Back Rubes used to differentiate between them. “Sharpe is done for the day.”
Declan couldn’t move.
He was frozen in place. He couldn’t move his gaze from Naria’s face. From her broken, bloodied face.
Blood was pooling in the crevice he’d created. Horror unlike anything he’d ever known filled him.
He’d done this. He’d killed her. He’d killed her all for a solid roof over his head and a stove. Declan was despicable.
A thin, lithe form filled his sight, blocking out Naria. A slender, dark hand of long fingers reached down to him. “Come, Declan.”
Strong arms lifted him upward to his feet. His own arm was slung across a pair of shoulders. Rand’s shoulders. His feet wouldn’t move on their own, though. Nothing in him was responding. His other arm was slung across another set of shoulders. Fiona.
Between them both, he was moved forward, away from Naria. Away from her sunken-in face. Away from the round he’d slaughtered her on.
He was vaguely aware of moving through the camp. Not to his tent, but to the opposite side of the camp. Toward the permanent A-frames. Rand neared one in particular and pushed open its door. To a dark interior.
Fiona stood back, dropping Declan’s arm. Unable to go forward, as she didn’t have her own. Camp law.
Rand shuffled him inside. Into the dark and onto a cot. Declan had been sleeping on the ground for so long it felt strange to now be above it.
“Rest, Declan,” Rand told him. “I’ll be back with your things.”
Declan heard him leave. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the roof of his new home.
He stared and stared. Unmoving. Barely breathing. Reliving the last hour over and over again. Until finally his eyes grew heavy and he drifted out of the conscious world.
:::::
Emry twirled and stretched in place. She was cold, despite the fur-lined jumpsuit she wore beneath the thin sheet of ice. She hadn’t donned a measuring suit since before she’d left for Heerth. Turned out, she hadn’t missed them.
A measuring suit was a common tool for dressmaking. Clients would put on a full body jumpsuit, as tight as possible without changing their shape. It was fur-lined and soft where it touched her skin. The fur was necessary because a Pale would then form a dress out of a very thin layer of ice over the jumpsuit. A measuring suit allowed a Pale to change the neckline, sleeves, and hem until it was exactly as the client wished.
After the shape was agreed upon, the Pale would then form the extra adornments, like bows or flowers or lace, out of ice and overlay them onto the ice dress. Once everything was finalized, the Pale would split the ice dress down the middle of the client’s back, slip it off, and that would become the guide for the seamstress.
Emry had already settled on the length and cut of the dress. She’d decided on long sleeves, coming to a point with a loop to go around her middle finger, and a squared neckline. The waistline sat just below her bust, in typical Enlennd fashion, and was as wide as her palm, making it tight around her ribs. She was twisting and bending now to make sure the fit was just right.
Llydia eyed her movements. “The seam on the back of your left shoulder needs to be let out,” she said. “It’s a little too tight.”
The Pale stepped around Emry and brushed back a few strands of her bright red hair. At Emry’s left shoulder, she adjusted it accordingly. Emry moved her arm up and down. “Oh, that is better.”
“You be noticing anywhere else?” The Pale asked Llydia.
Declan’s mother circled Emry slowly while she continued to test out the fit. “The waistline droops a bit on the right side, but I think other than that it’s good.”
“Spread yer arms,” the Pale instructed Emry.
She held her arms out to the side, holding in place while the Pale worked. Her gaze drifted past the woman’s head to Llydia. “Thank you.”
“Sometimes it helps to have two seamstresses taking a look.” Llydia smiled. “Helps to avoid flaws.”
“I didn’t know you were a seamstress,” Emry replied.
“There, how be that?”
Emry twisted in place again and Llydia nodded. “Beautiful.”
“Grand.” The Pale winked at Emry. “Now, what you be wanting on the front? Anything fancy?”
“I was thinking-” Emry stopped mid-sentence.
Her entire body filled with horror, searing through her. And despair. Such despair – like a freefall off a waterfall, endless and hopeless and deep.
She sank to the floor, leaning onto one hand for support, holding herself upright. The other hand rubbed at her chest. She felt the shadows within her rising up. She fought them back, tamping them down, fighting to maintain control.
Llydia dropped down in front of her. “Emry?”
“Something’s wrong,” Emry heard herself say.
It was true. Something was terribly wrong, but not with her. These emotions weren’t her own. She could discern that much. But, if they weren’t coming from her, then that meant they could only be coming from one other place – her store of power. If the darkness within was overwhelming her, she had a problem.
“Would you be in need of some water?” The Pale asked from off to her right.
Emry couldn’t find her voice. She was only able to shake her head. Why would her power surge up in emotion form? This would be the second time in the last six months. Was her store getting too full? She didn’t feel like it was. It’d always seemed to stretch to contain however much she brought in. But maybe it just needed to be released?
“Are you ill?” Llydia asked.
She tossed a glance at the Pale. If she needed to release some of her power, she didn’t want to do it in front of the redhead. She was in no mood of frightening another person with her abilities.
“Can-” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Can we finish this tomorrow?”
“Of course.” The Kruth nodded.
Llydia helped Emry to her feet and the Pale split open the ice dress. She slipped it off of Emry carefully. �
��Until the next, miss.”
“Until the next,” Llydia intoned, guiding Emry out of the room and through the shop.
Emry let her lead her back out onto the street, toward her two waiting guards. Llydia kept her hand on Emry’s elbow. Upon seeing them, Emry’s guards rushed forward. Emry stopped them with the raise of her hand. “I’m not feeling well and am in need of some rest.”
The shorter of the two nodded and jogged up the street to where her carriage had been parked. Emry glanced at Llydia. “Thank you. Perhaps I’ll run into you again tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” Llydia said, releasing Emry’s arm. “Rest well, miss.”
“Thank you,” Emry replied automatically. She watched Llydia walk off in the opposite direction her guard had gone.
A couple minutes later, her family’s plainest carriage – without any crest – pulled up alongside the street. The footman jumped to the ground and opened the door before handing Emry inside. As soon as he shut the door, Emry spewed out darkness.
She filled the entire cabin with the swirling mist. Yet, still she felt no better. It was so overwhelming – this shame-filled anguish … and disgust.
Tears pricked Emry’s eyes and spilled over down her cheeks. The carriage lurched forward just as Emry realized she was still in the jumpsuit. She’d left her clothes inside the shop along with her satchel. She would most definitely be returning tomorrow for them. She was in no mood to turn back today.
Not as her tears turned into sobs, shaking her whole body. What was wrong with her? These emotions couldn’t be an effect of her power store. The rational part of her knew she only contained power within her. Not emotions. So, where were they coming from?
:::::
The sound of burning wood crackling was what woke Declan, followed by the scent of smoke. He blinked his eyes open. It took him a second to realize where he was, that he wasn’t staring at the ceiling of his tent, but at an actual ceiling. And then he remembered why he wasn’t in his tent.
Declan moaned and sat up, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes. As if that could erase the images of what he’d done. As if it was that easy. As if he’d ever forget her destroyed face.
“You should eat something.”
He swore and whirled, nearly jumping out of his own skin. Rand was seated on the rough wood planks of the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. His back was against the wall with the A-frame’s one window above his head, and his hands were in his lap. The thin sheet of canvas that acted as a curtain had been drawn back, hooked behind a bent nail in the wall. Afternoon light shone onto the floor and his legs, dust floating in its beams.
“What time is it?” Declan asked hoarsely.
“You’ve been asleep for two hours,” he replied, unmoving.
Declan frowned and glanced down at his hands in his own lap. They were on top of one of the furs that had been thrown over him. By Rand.
These were Declan’s furs. Rand must had gathered his few things and brought them here. He’d also apparently started a fire.
The A-frame wasn’t huge. It was about ten feet wide by twenty feet long. There were two straight walls in a triangle shape at either end of a slanting roof. At its highest point, the space between the floor and the roof was probably about nine feet. Over by the door there was a closet.
No, not a closet. A washroom. A toilet and metal sink bolted into the wall, floating above the floor at hip-height. He could see it through the open pocket door.
And a shower. Small, barely wider than his own shoulders. But a shower.
In the middle of the room was a cast iron stove, a miniature one with its black chimney pipe disappearing into the ceiling. The fire was in the stove, and Declan realized that for once he was warm. It’d been months since he’d felt that way. The cot he sat on was situated on the opposite side from the stove, closer to the door. It wasn’t fully against the wall so he wouldn’t hit his head on the roof.
“Thanks, Rand,” Declan said after a moment. For getting his things. For helping him off that round. For waiting for him to wake up…
Rand shrugged. “There’s stew on the stove.”
He blinked. “Stew?”
The smell of broth hit him. Not once had any sort of stew been served at this camp. It was usually eggs, some sort of meat, bread, and either wild carrots or apples. Where had Rand found stew?
“Rabbit stew,” Rand added. “It’s bland, but heartier than what you’d get in the mess hall.”
“Where did you-”
“You’ll find life as a permanent to be a little different than a Stolen in a tent,” Rand said, cutting him off. “I made the stew.”
Declan stared at the small pot on top of the stove. He hadn’t eaten anything all day. His stomach rumbled. Yet, he had no desire to eat. The thought of food made him sick.
He’d killed Naria. He’d brutally mutilated her. It was worse than the Teals he’d stabbed the night Ewan died. Naria hadn’t been trying to kill him – she’d just been trying to please her Main. She’d been as much a slave to Kearns as he was. And he’d destroyed her.
For an A-frame. For a stove.
“Eat, Declan.” Rand’s voice was flat.
He shook his head, scraping his hands across his filthy scalp. “I’m not hungry.”
“Liar.” Rand let out a short laugh. “Do you think you’re the first person to ever kill on those rounds?” Declan dropped his hands, frowning at Rand as he went on, “Let me tell you a story. About a girl. A beautiful girl, named Steffie.”
Declan stilled, turning to face the Gray. Rand sneered bitterly. “Before Steffie was Stolen, she was so full of life. Bright, happy, and caring. She was nothing like this place. Being Stolen broke her – broke her in a way no one could fix. Not even me. No matter how hard I tried to shield her, protect her, she continued on as nothing more than the husk of her formal self. She stopped smiling. Stopped caring. I think she even stopped talking. She became the favorite plaything of the Back Rubes. When they wished me to improve or torment me or just follow orders, they sought her out.”
“Because you loved her,” Declan said quietly.
“Because I loved her.” Rand snorted.
He tried to picture it – what it must had been like in this pit of darkness for both Rand and Steffie. How the Back Rubes would have used Steffie as leverage over Rand. How hard he must had pushed himself to keep her from harm, and how exhausting it had to have been for Steffie – how painful when Rand failed.
“Three months in, the Back Rubes decided to start pushing Steffie to become better as well. Up until then, I’d been their sole focus,” Rand continued. “At first, they tried to use me the same way they’d been using her, by tormenting me. But they discovered real quick that hurting me didn’t work with her. Because how could you love the reason you were captured and harmed every single day? She couldn’t have cared less about me.”
Rand shifted, folding his arms across his chest. “The Back Rubes moved on to other tactics. Nothing really worked. She didn’t improve. She didn’t try. She took their punishment without a word. Until one day, they made a mistake.”
He turned his head, catching Declan’s gaze. “Steffie was a Teal. As average as her abilities were, though, she was still faster than the Rubys. After being here for about five months, the Back Rube Simon later replaced started her on blades. It was as if she’d been waiting for the day. She was pitted against a black-eyed. The moment she was told to begin, Steffie dove head first into her blade at Teal speed. It pierced right through her skull. The Black had been thrusting forward as she ran. She was dead in an instant.”
Declan didn’t move. He was frozen at the image. At the rage Rand must have endured. At the guilt that followed. Even though he hadn’t been the one to kill her, he felt responsible.
“The day she died,” Rand said softly, “I stopped caring. Steffie was gone. I was a prisoner. A slave. So I killed as many Back Rubes as I could that day in attempt to take out myself. I
called down an immense amount of lightning, more than I should have been able to handle. I’d improved more than I’d thought. Before I managed to bring down more, one of the Back Rubes was able to stop me. But not before I’d fried the one who’d put Steffie on that round with the black-eyed.” Rand grimaced. “I wanted to be dead, too, but they kept me alive. They wouldn’t let me die, no matter what I did. I stopped trying, though. No matter how much they tormented me. I didn’t care. I wished for death. It wasn’t until Simon arrived two months later that I began to put forth any sort of effort again.”
Declan frowned. “Why then?”
Rand’s mouth twisted up into a wicked grin. “Because he started to let me fight the Back Rubes.”
“What?” Declan blurted. “I’ve never seen you fight one.”
“It’s not done on a round,” he replied. “We fight out in the fields, on the other side of the permanent A-frames.”
No wonder he’d never seen it, Declan had only been over there when running laps. “Do you ever win?”
“If you mean kill them, then no,” Rand drawled. “But I have maimed a few. It’s the only time I’m permitted to hurt any of them.”
“Have you ever fought Kearns?” Declan asked, his voice coming out more like a growl.
“No.” He grunted. “She’s a favorite of Simon’s. I’m not allowed near her.”
Declan’s hands suddenly itched – like they wanted to be swung. He clenched them into fists in his lap. “How do I get to fight one of them?”
“You get better,” he told him. "You push yourself until one day you’re strong enough to take out your anger on one of their smug faces. And … you eat something. I only have so many friends. I can’t afford losing another one.”
Friend. His friend. Rand was his friend.
The word clanged through Declan. He let out a short laugh and nodded. It’d been almost half a year, possibly even longer, since he’d had one of those. Somehow he’d found an ally in this miserable camp. Would the Back Rubes hold their friendship against them? Would the other Stolen avoid him, too? They’d all seen Rand helping him today.
