by Melissa Marr
The consequence, unfortunately, was that it left him exhausted and sick. When he’d been in England, a place as removed from the Wasteland as possible, he’d learned that he could open a doorway rather by accident. Egyptology was the fashionable thing. The queen had been expanding her empire, and everyone had grasped whatever heathen artifacts they could. Ajani was no different.
Only a third son, grateful not to be his father’s heir but not interested in pursuing a life of service either, Ajani had been at a loss—until he’d bought a mummified body. With the body came canopic jars, shabti, and a coffin text. The text was scrawled in the margins of a torn page from a book that had been tucked under the jar. While holding the canopic jar, he’d read that text aloud.
I am lord of eternity in the crossing of the sky.
I am not afraid in my limbs,
I shall open the light-land, I shall enter and dwell in it . . .
Make way for me . . . I am he who passes by the guards . . .
I am equipped and effective in opening his portal!
With the speaking of this spell, I am like Re in the eastern sky,
like Osiris in the netherworld. I will go through the circle of
darkness, without the breath stilling within me ever!
And a doorway had opened. The universe folded as the words created a tunnel leading from his rather comfortable sitting room to somewhere he couldn’t see.
If Ajani had known what waited, he might have hesitated, but he’d been well in his cups by then, and despite plenty of practice in the art of drunkenness, he’d failed to observe any of the logical principles he’d typically have employed. Fortunately, it was not the netherworld he found when he stepped through the portal. He’d ended up in the Wasteland, a godforsaken world filled with heathens and monsters, deviants and demons, and no aristocracy at all.
So Ajani had done what any of the queen’s best men would’ve done: he began to work to correct the shortcomings of the Wasteland, to bring its inhabitants the benefit of the superiority of the British Empire, to guide and rule the natives of this primitive world.
Reminding himself that what he did was for the betterment of the world was at least some small consolation today. Yesterday, he’d brought another useful soldier to this world. Today, he would wait for his body to repair the cost of yesterday’s success.
Chapter 8
That night, Kitty looked after Chloe as the new woman worked through the fevers that accompanied arrival in the Wasteland. The unexpected benefit of this was that it gave her an excuse to avoid Edgar. He’d stopped outside her tent when he’d finished his shift, but he wouldn’t come inside without invitation, especially when she was tending a new Arrival.
Kitty had done this so often for so many people that it was almost routine. Unfortunately, being used to a thing didn’t make it any less wearying. She sat at the same bedside where Mary had once thrashed in the throes of her arrival fever; she dipped her cloth into the same white basin and watched over another woman who would wake in an unfamiliar world.
The first few days were hard on the body. By midday the next day, Chloe’s worst bout with the fever had passed, but she was still resting. She’d woken only briefly, which was fairly normal. The transition between the world the Arrivals had known and the Wasteland left every one of them exhausted. Now that the worst was past, Melody could watch Chloe for a couple hours. Francis would take over when he finished his shift. Usually Kitty would take the opportunity to catch up on the sleep she’d missed the first day—and the sleep she would miss again tomorrow. By the end of the third day, Kitty would be stuck in her tent waiting for Chloe to wake. It wasn’t a rule per se, but she preferred that the new Arrivals awoke to the sight of either her or Jack. Everyone else went along with her plan, even if they didn’t always understand. The others had never woken up alone, utterly lost and unsure of absolutely everything; they didn’t understand the shock of it all. Jack did.
When he and Kitty had arrived in the Wasteland, they knew nothing about the world around them, nothing about the people or creatures in it, and even less about how they ended up in this place. After twenty-six years, they knew plenty about the world, the people, and the creatures. They shared the knowledge with new Arrivals and helped their transition. It was the right thing to do.
Today, though, Kitty wanted to be somewhere else—not resting, not dealing with Mary’s death or Chloe’s arrival. The group had been living at this campsite for more than a week since the situation with the brethren. What Kitty needed was a break: time away from everyone’s watchful gaze, space away from the horrible anticipation that followed every death.
She changed into something less suited for work, and then after verifying that Edgar was nowhere in sight, she made her way to the gate, where she found Francis twisted into one of his contorted positions that seemed like they should be impossible. He was trying another of his plant-based creams, so his entire visage was tinted blue. Unlike most of them, Francis burned a bright red even with the sun protection the rest of them used. He’d developed it, and it worked well enough for everyone else. He just burned more easily. Kitty couldn’t help but smile at his blue face.
“I need to head into Gallows,” she said.
“Alone?” His gaze flickered over to her only briefly before returning to dutifully watching the expanse of desert.
Kitty sorted through a few of the weapons that were kept at the gate, buying herself time, trying to decide how much she had to admit. There was no way to pretend she wasn’t going to a tavern dressed as she now was. Her skirt was of a lightweight fabric and tied up in the front with a series of ribbons, giving her freedom of movement and exposing a lot of leg from the front. The back of it had no ties, so it brushed almost to the ground, and the degree of detail made abundantly clear that, despite the fabric, this wasn’t a dress for walking in the desert. Sand would collect at the hem, and unless she was careful, plants would snag it until it looked like a rag.
She dropped a few throwing knives into her bag and settled on, “Jack’s already out there, so we’ll catch up before I head into town.”
She wasn’t completely lying. She suspected that her brother would catch up with her; whether or not that would be before or after she reached town, she couldn’t say. It depended on when he found out she’d left.
“If Edgar asks, you know I have to tell him.” Francis didn’t look at her this time. “If Jack comes back without you—”
“You sound like you doubt me.”
“I smoked an awful lot of weed when I was back home, tripped a lot too, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” Francis continued to scan the desert.
She sighed.
“Didn’t say I wouldn’t play along,” he said quietly. “You take the dying harder than the rest of us. Go out, and have fun. Don’t get killed, or Edgar and Jack will . . . honestly, I’m not sure what they’d do. They don’t like you going out alone.”
“They go alone.” Kitty tried not to sound angry, but her brother was out in the desert alone right now. Edgar undoubtedly had been earlier. They acted like she wasn’t capable of protecting herself, yet she was the only one of the group able to work Wastelander magic. She had been here just as long as Jack, longer than Edgar. Long before any of the others had arrived, she and Jack had fought and killed creatures that didn’t even exist in the world they’d once called home. “There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to go alone.”
Even as she said it, she thought about Daniel’s warning, but he was no better than Jack or Edgar. Everyone acted like she was some sort of frail creature that needed sheltering—at least they did until they needed spellwork or bullets. They were fine with her fighting skills, but only when they were fighting along with her. It was maddening.
Francis held out a gun, which she accepted and slipped into a holster that she’d already fastened under her skirt, high on her leg where it was easy to access but hidden from view.
“They go out alone because they’ve b
een here the longest,” he said.
“I’ve been here as long as Jack and longer than Edgar,” she corrected.
“True point.” Francis’ voice was bland as he asked, “What years were they born?”
“Shut up, Francis.” She wasn’t going to say he was right, but she used his own phrase—“shut up”—which Mary had been fond of as well. She’d picked up the words and habits of later-born Arrivals over time, even though some of the things they said and did were still perplexing to her. She would admit, though, that Francis had a good point: Jack was a lot less willing to evolve; he clung to his old notions as if there was a chance they’d all be going back someday. Kitty had tried to move forward over the years, but both Jack and Edgar retained some of their more irritating attitudes from home when it came to her safety.
“Just be careful.” Francis uncoiled his lanky body from the barrel that he used as a chair of sorts and gave her a one-armed hug. “Seriously, Kitty: don’t get killed.”
“I’ll be fine,” she promised. “I just need a little fun.”
Several hours later, Kitty was trying to tell herself she was having fun, but reasoning with drunks with guns wasn’t the sort of evidence that was helpful in convincing herself to believe that lie. The tiny outpost town of Gallows was the best she could do this far into the desert, and all things considered, it wasn’t a bad little town. She’d had more than a few fun nights in Gallows. Mostly with Edgar, or . . . She stopped herself before she could think of the Arrivals she’d called friends over the years.
After pushing that thought away, she looked at the scrawny drunk beside her and started, “Be sensible, Lira. You don’t want to—”
A face full of wine interrupted her attempt at calming words.
Kitty swiped an arm across her face; the sickly-sweet scent of cheap wine was almost as irritating as the wet hair that now clung to her skin. She started counting in her head, willing herself not to lose her temper.
The bartender dropped behind the bar, and the drunk to her left started to raise her gun.
Kitty punched her.
“Thanks.” Lira grinned, as if she hadn’t just doused Kitty with wine.
For a moment, Kitty considered resuming her counting, but the moment was brief. She’d planned to spend one night pretending life was normal, and she was stinking of wine she hadn’t drunk, knuckles stinging, while the woman who’d started the argument smiled at her like they were friends. Admittedly, she’d known Lira for years—the quarrelsome woman was one of the shift managers—but a few conversations and arguments didn’t make them friends. More to the point, friends didn’t throw wine in a person’s face.
“Lord, save me from fools,” Kitty said, and then she punched Lira too.
Years ago, she’d have stepped out of their way and let the two drunk fools shoot each other to their hearts’ content, but Jack’s oft-quoted admonishment echoed even in his absence: It’s our calling.
“Calling, my ass,” Kitty muttered as she took in the sight of several skirmishes in the bar. Now that the manager was out and the bartender wasn’t trying to keep order, the patrons were behaving like naughty children. She could step in, but Jack wasn’t there to nag her, and she was feeling contrary. So she lifted her own drink in a toast and put her back to the bar to watch the show. Sometimes, being in a bar brawl made her almost feel like she was back home—if she could ignore the fact that this world was filled with magic and creatures that could step right into storybooks. People were people, even if they weren’t always human. Trouble was trouble, even if it was started by monsters. That was the truth of it.
She made a game of silently predicting the winners of various fights until the smell of smoke made her look around the room. The fire wasn’t coming from any of the empty barrels that stood as tables. The wall tapestries were all fine. The wafting smoke was drifting in from outside.
“Down!” she yelled.
Both of the front windows blasted inward, and red-tinted glass rained over all of them.
The chaos inside the pub stilled. Patrons who’d been ready enough to cosh each other over the head two minutes ago suddenly helped the folks they’d been fighting.
The bartender crouched behind the bar, so only his eyes and the top of his head were visible. “Aren’t you going to do something?”
One of the cooks crawled along the floor, shoving a bucket of unidentified bits of uncooked meat toward Kitty. “Here.”
She shot a frown over the crowd: they were watching her like she was all that stood between them and disaster. She wasn’t. Any one of them could step up, but they didn’t, and they wouldn’t.
For all Jack’s preaching at her, and despite all the straight-up weird shit she’d seen in the twenty-six years or so since she’d left the normal world and California far behind, she could count on humanity’s basic predictability in a situation. The moment real trouble started, most people hid. Now that they needed help, she was everyone’s best friend. If she were a softer soul, it would bother her. Okay, maybe it still did, but not so as she’d be mentioning it anytime soon.
Kitty sighed, but she twisted her damp hair into a knot and snatched up the bucket. “Stay inside.”
Without waiting to see if they listened, she clomped across the floor and pushed open the half doors that hung in front of her. She suspected that the lindwurm that had vanished from Cozy’s Ranch had found its way into Gallows.
Luckily, the beast that sprawled out in the street was a juvenile, more smoke than fire. It rested on its scaled belly with its legs splayed, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t move quickly if it was so inclined. Kitty hiked up the edge of her skirt and tied it off so it wouldn’t tangle around her legs when she had to run.
“Lookie here.” She eased to the side. The lindwurm’s head snaked to the left, keeping her in sight.
She tossed a slimy piece of meat onto the ground in front of it. In a whip-quick movement, it snatched the snack with a long thin tongue and then slithered toward her.
“That’s right. You just follow Miss Kitty,” she coaxed.
One big opal eye tracked her as she backed away from the building. It didn’t rush her or exhale fire in her direction—although a little plume of smoke drifted from its oversize nostrils.
She kept backing away, tossing handfuls of meat toward the lindwurm. After a few tense moments, it slithered forward a little more.
She wouldn’t want to try this with a full-grown lindwurm, but the young weren’t as agile or as surly. It was likely hungry, and once it’d had enough to eat, it’d nap. All she needed to do was lure it out away from buildings without getting herself cooked in the process. The sands that stretched around Gallows were the reason this was lindwurm-farming territory: farmlands like back home would’ve been reduced to nothing but prairie fires here.
A few more pieces lured the lindwurm farther from the buildings, but it wasn’t moving far or fast. She couldn’t tell it to wait while she fetched more meat, and a quick glance around made it obvious that no one was coming to bring her a backup bucket. Lindwurm herding was the sort of task that required help, and while she’d done it solo before, more often than not it had resulted in waking up after a few days dead.
“Any decent folks care to offer a little help?” Kitty called.
Not surprisingly, doors and shutters stayed closed.
The lindwurm was getting bored, and she was low on meat. It exhaled a small puff of flame, and she darted to the side.
“Seriously?” she grumbled. “Getting toasted was not my plan for the night!”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have gone out alone, Katherine.” Jack’s voice was uncommonly welcome just then. She didn’t need to look at him to know that his mouth was already pressed into a stern line that ruined what was an otherwise handsome face and that his pretty baby blues were ruined by a you-disappoint-me look.
Kitty hid her sigh of relief at seeing him by picking a fight with him. “I didn’t feel like dealing with you or Edgar, jack
ass. I wanted to relax.”
“Clearly,” Jack drawled, angling to the right of the increasingly restless lindwurm. “Upsetting lizards seems like a fine way to spend an evening.”
“Not my fault.”
“It never is,” Jack said. He paused only a moment before adding, “Reins and collar look intact. You could’ve—”
“I’m not a wrangler.”
“Yet another good reason not to go out alone.” He glanced her way, and once she met his gaze, he prompted, “Ready?”
“Go.” She tossed one of the remaining scraps of meat to the left.
As the lindwurm twisted its neck to snatch the treat, Jack hoisted himself atop the scaled beast. He wore the same grin he wore in a fight or anything remotely likely to get him injured. He was too dour most of the time, spewing rules the way she spit out cusses. In an adventure, though, he was all smiles.
“Hitch up your skirt and run,” he yelled.
The lindwurm’s tail lashed around at him, drawing blood, but it didn’t roast him. An older beast would’ve. All that this one did was buck and slash. So far, Jack was only getting the edge of its temper.
Kitty ran toward the butcher’s shop, shoved open the door, and tore down a fair-size bit of mutton. Slimy meat in hand, she raced back to the lindwurm.
It stilled again as it spotted her.
She held the mutton aloft—and away from her body—as she walked closer to the lindwurm. “I hate this part.”
“Be ready to bolt,” Jack reminded her.
As the lindwurm tasted the air, scenting at the meat she held in front of her, she said in as flat a voice as she could muster, “He decides to cook his dinner, and I’m going to be crispy.”
“You’d get a few days off.”
Kitty tossed the mutton before the lindwurm got any closer to her, and it pounced on the meat as soon as it landed in the sand.
While it gnawed on the mutton, Jack took hold of the reins that were fastened around the creature’s back and steered it into the sand fields. Kitty followed on foot until they were far enough away that any belches or coughs or intentional flames would all be too short to ignite the pub or anything else. If she was able to get on its back, she could’ve done the same, but no one with half a brain would try to mount a lindwurm without having a partner to distract it first—or without being too bold for one’s britches.
