by Ann Denton
“Muck,” Stelle growled. She bounded off, following the trail through the trees.
Lowe stayed on her heels, looking above and around them, wary of an ambush or a diversion.
A scream rent the air in the distance. They doubled their speed.
Stelle and Lowe emerged from the trees, breathless and stumbling, the bottoms of their feet sticky with blood. Before them lay the river, the wide, brown Gottermund, running hard with its southbound current.
Anchored near the bank of the river, bobbing quietly, was a boat, rusted and green. Something about it tugged at Lowe’s memory. And then he saw her.
Just like before, she came out of the water like a mermaid. Thin but curvaceous. Long brown curls trailing down her back. Only this time, she bent back down and dragged a man on-board with her.
Stelle moved forward. This time Lowe held her back.
“I know her.” Mala. He watched as her mother climbed on board as well. The deck was awash in blood within seconds.
“He’ll bleed out.” Stelle put a hand on Lowe’s arm, reassuring him.
Still he watched. Mala’s mother arranged the man carefully on the deck. His leg was little more than a shredded mess. The woman opened his shirt.
Lowe caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the wounded man’s neck, slashed by a line of liquid red. A black fish, wriggling as he struggled to breath, twitching on the skin between his collar and his jaw.
Now it was Lowe’s turn to curse. “Father mucking hell.”
Chapter Nine
Lowe sat in the tamarack tree, pressed tight against the bark, still as stone. He peered through the trembling yellow leaves. He had melted into his four-year-old body, all big eyes and rounded belly. His stubby fingers had trouble keeping hold of the branch he sat on and he almost slipped.
“Muck,” he muttered, scooting closer to the trunk. Once stable, he pulled an acorn out of his pants pocket. He tossed the acorn between his hands and looked toward a floating platform on the lake.
Bara’s guard danced with abandon. Drunken abandon. Bara had told him her guard used this night to rekindle their hatred of the Erlenders. To remember how victory felt. To swear to the all-seeing stars that the magic men would never take their homeland. To reinvigorate the soldiers for the hard tasks ahead. For the thankless job of maintaining a small, underused, but important tributary, and keeping it from Erlender control.
As Lowe watched, he understood Bara’s need for motivation. Being stuck out here was almost as bad as banishment. Das Wort and all that was left of civilization was so far south. But he didn’t agree with her methods.
The words of Lowe’s Recruiter floated through his mind. Fell had lectured him, day after day, about letting go of his anger. “Hatred doesn’t lead to solutions, Lowe.”
At the time, he’d hated her for saying it, all the time—it was her go-to mantra for a teenage boy with a chip on his shoulder. But watching the celebration made his lip curl a little. Bara’s guard was essentially celebrating slaughter. Fell was mudding right.
In the center of a floating wooden platform full of dancers, Barde, Bara’s second, shouted, “Burn the heathens down!” He commanded the crowd as thunder commands a storm. The dancers around him took up his words as a chant and began to stomp, lost to the hysteria of a victory fifteen years past.
Lowe watched the Senebal guard and wondered if they knew how much they looked like Erlenders about to undertake a blood sacrifice. The Erlenders got this worked up over begging the crops to grow, disease to end, women to bear children. Bara’s guard was whipped up over dead bodies. At least the Erlenders have a positive goal in mind, even if they are flooding idiots.
He shook his head and tried to focus. He hadn’t come all this way just to watch Bara’s soldiers make fools of themselves. He scanned the crowd for Sorgen, or any sign of the women who’d dragged him off.
Bara. Turm. Sari, the ditz of a bride foisted off on some poor male beta earlier in the day. The inventory went on. He’d memorized every face, even if he didn’t know their names—and Sorgen and Mala were nowhere to be seen.
Muck-drinking, sludge-breathing …
Lowe’s chest tightened with panic, a wire pulled too taut. He took a harsh breath. Tried not to snap at himself. But it was hard. The thought of all the Erlenders Sorgen might have told about Stelle’s lair rushed through his head.
Sorgen had either followed him at Bara’s behest or followed Stelle at the bidding of some Erlender. He hoped that Bara had sent Sorgen after him. Her curiosity would be the least dangerous, the most innocent. Trying to find out what the Recruiter wanted.
But if the Erlenders sent Sorgen … Lowe pushed out a rush of hot air through his teeth. Sorgen had been on the brink of death. Lowe had seen the wound. But if he got word back to them … If that girl Mala … If Sorgen told them about the plans for the mines or even tonight’s celebration before Stelle could paint a prophecy—She’ll lose favor. Less effective than a spy. Or wore. She’ll be recognized as a fake.
Lowe’s chest howled at the thought. His skin rippled. He fought for control. He thought of squirrels. Of squirrel traps. Of hemlock. Nightshade. Snakeroot and other poisons. Of the first damn engine Ein had tried to use to modify The Dart. The one that had almost taken Lowe’s legs off. Anything but losing Stelle again. I just got her back.
After a minute, he regained control. He couldn’t think of Sorgen anymore. But the nasty voice inside his head couldn’t help but remind him. Sorgen’s partner is still out there. The woman who’d evaded them in the woods.
Mucking sludge. He ran a hand over his face. He could practically feel the bags forming under his eyes.
Wait.
A shimmer of blue onshore, nestled in the shadows beyond the dancers where the unopened kegs sat. Lowe’s head turned. There was a girl sitting on them, swinging her legs and holding a cup, watching the crowds with guarded eyes. Long brown hair cascaded down her shoulders. She touched her throat, toying with a necklace full of lures, an expression of deep thought on her face.
Her hand stilled on a long, dark line of metal. She nodded to herself, wrapping her fist around it, and stood in a flurry of watery blue fabric. The firelight made the dress shine, winking off her hips in a thousand tiny white stars. She crept along the edge of the crowd.
It’s her. His heart gave a dull thud of recognition. Mala. The logical part of his brain filled with horror. But another part of his brain filled with something different, something just as primitive. He watched her walk, hips swaying, toward him, completely oblivious. Completely captivating.
I need to know if she knows. What she knows. Lowe stood on the branch and tossed his acorn, hitting her squarely in the forehead.
Mala rubbed her forehead but didn’t look up. She pushed into the brush, off the path.
Maybe she’s going to her mother, he thought. Or maybe Bara’s second. But he glanced back and saw the shirtless Barde and Mala’s mother dancing together on the floating platform, spinning in shaky circles and shouting. Sludge. Maybe … maybe … she’s just meeting a guy.
His gut twisted. That didn’t feel right. He dropped to the ground and turned to follow her.
He crept through the trees, following the only sound this side of the island—soft footsteps on fallen leaves. He kept low and left of the noise, adrenaline coursing through him like lightning.
When Lowe came to the clearing where Mala had stopped, he froze, half expecting to see a blue-nosed savage standing with her. But she was alone.
Lowe peered around the edge of a tree, pouring every ounce of his concentration into steadying his breathing. The shadows were darker here, and the light was thin, but he could see Mala’s silhouette.
She took something from her necklace—a slender, pointed piece of metal, too long to be a lure, too short to be anything else recognizable. Lowe leaned forward, squinting.
Mala held it up in the moonlight, examining it. The arrow-headed hand of a clock glinted as she turned it over.
L
owe’s brow creased. Not the illegal activity I was expecting. He scrolled through possibilities in his mind; black market trade topped the list. Though why anyone would want prohibited, radiation-absorbing materials was beyond him. Maybe she’s slow. Garon said she doesn’t talk. Maybe she’s too dumb to know how much radiation timepieces absorb.
Mala stared at the hour hand, every muscle in her body straining against some invisible force. She pushed the point of the clock hand into her palm. Her eyes hardened, and for a moment Lowe thought he’d made a noise. But then she dragged the clock hand across her palm. A red stripe formed in the wake of the ancient black metal.
Lowe’s heart calcified. She’s working a spell. Muck and shit. One guess where she took Sorgen.
Chapter Ten
Lowe was about to drop out of his tree when a man came stumbling out the underbrush. Lowe paused. Even from this distance, he could smell the liquor wafting off the man.
The other guy put his lips to Mala’s ear and grinned. “Hey mumbler’s daughter,” he said, and he shoved Mala roughly to the ground. Lowe recognized him: it was Garon, Bara’s grandson.
Maybe this guy will take care of the problem for me, Lowe thought.
“What are you doing out here?” Mala demanded.
“Searching for virgins stupid enough to wander to a secluded spot …”
Nevermind. Lowe clenched his fists.
Mala slipped the clock hand back onto her necklace as she stood. She cursed, pulling her hand away, and Lowe realized she was pretending to have cut herself on the lures.
So she didn’t want anyone knowing about her spell-casting. Because she’s an Erlender?
Lowe returned his attention to the conversation below.
Garon reached for Mala. A demon’s smile spread across his face, exposing a row of crooked teeth and a darting pink tongue. “Come here. Give mother a kiss.”
Lowe’s chest exploded in a rush of anger. It was all he could do to keep from throwing himself on top of Garon and snapping his neck. His skin rippled.
Lowe shoved the feelings away. She could get Stelle killed, he reminded himself. But there was a dull hollowness to his thought, and he realized he didn’t want to believe that. Because she’s beautiful? Am I that stupid? Part of him felt like he was. Mucking hell.
When Lowe pulled his eyes back to the clearing, Mala was gone, and Garon’s lip was bleeding. The big man touched the blood with one hand and stared at it in the moonlight, entranced. Then Garon laughed, smeared the red into his pant leg, and stalked off after Mala.
Lowe dropped out of the tree and clenched his fist, letting the rage take over. Fire consumed him. His skin undulated, and he melted back into his twenty-five-year-old body.
He touched his chin as the scrapings of a beard came back, the itch like sandpaper on his skin. He returned to his hiding spot and slid back into his clothes.
One word played on repeat through his thoughts. Erlender, Erlender, Erlender … He needed to get her alone. He needed to question her.
He emerged from the trees in time to see Garon hauling himself onto the dancer’s platform. The crowd closed around him, and he was gone.
Lowe shook his head. Erlender spell, Lowe thought, striding along the island’s edge, eyes flickering over the crowd for signs of Mala or Garon. No informant, no contact in the woods, she didn’t leave a hidden message. Just a spell. Just a red line on her hand and a plea for safety.
Not safety from anything either. Safety from herself. He could only define what he’d seen as terrified desperation. Erlender magic … The pathetic little part of his mind that wanted Mala made excuses for her. Tried to reason away what she’d done.
He had to find out. He sauntered into the party, feigning disinterest.
Garon held Mala, his face alight with an alligator smile.
“Be a gentleman,” Bara’s words made Lowe’s estimation of her drop ten degrees. If she wasn’t aware her grandson was a drunk bully, her competence was in question. But questioning her competence brought him back to the thought … Erlenders must have sent Sorgen. And Mala rescued him. What does she know?
He wove himself through the crowd like a needle, intent on finding out. People clapped their hands and stomped their feet, slurring the words to an old war song about planes tumbling from the sky.
Lowe emerged from the crowd not three steps from Garon and Mala. Mala had her back to him. Garon’s eyes glowed with a savage hunger—a hunger Lowe recognized, because it was a hunger he felt himself.
The big man grabbed Mala by her hair and wrenched her head back, his face dipping forward, lips puckered. A lure on Mala’s necklace dug into his hand and Garon jerked back, cursing.
“Muck!” Garon put his hand in his mouth, sucking on the wound. His eyes went dark. His lips moved, and he said something Lowe couldn’t hear, something that put a thin smile on his face.
Garon wrapped his hand around Mala’s throat and squeezed.
A wave of fury swept through Lowe, and before he knew it, he was beside them, glaring daggers.
“Excuse me.”
Garon kept his hand around Mala as he shot Lowe an annoyed glance. “What?” he slurred.
“Bara’s watching you,” Lowe said. “And I believe she told you to be a gentleman.” He spat out the last word like it had a foul taste.
Lowe pulled down his collar.
Garon’s eyes flicked down, saw Lowe’s branded circle—and froze. He pulled his hands back, off Mala. “Kreis,” he whispered, horrified.
“You should go,” Lowe said, his voice as cold as winter steel.
Garon nodded numbly and stumbled away into the crowd. He didn’t look back.
Pathetic, Lowe thought, straightening his collar and sighing.
He looked down at Mala and found her staring at him, wide-eyed and wondering. He extended a hand.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, looking away, cheeks turning red.
Lowe raised an eyebrow. “Are you really alright?”
“Yes,” Mala stammered. “Thank you. I … thank you.”
Lowe suppressed the frown that leapt to his face. He’d expected more confidence from her, more fire. More sarcasm. Although, to be fair, she had nearly been suffocated by a raging alcoholic.
“Falling!” Sari tumbled over Mala, nearly losing her tattered wedding hat. She slammed full force into Lowe’s chest. He caught the bride, barely. She giggled furiously. Her porcelain skin turned pink.
“You can catch me anytime,” she slurred, peering up at him with watering doe eyes.
Lowe stood her up and took an abrupt step back. She snorted and puckered her lips. “So, you know?”
“Know what?” he said, his tone guarded.
The girl threw her hands up and spun in a wide, stumbling circle. “Tonight’s the end! Good-bye world! We’re moving up! Everyone is … um …”
A man burst from the crowd—presumably her unfortunate spouse, and swept Sari up. “Honey!” he reprimanded. He glanced down at Mala and murmured an apology as he disappeared with the girl into the crowd.
Lowe turned his gaze back to Mala. Erlender magic, his mind chanted.
She was still on the ground, holding her ankle.
“Are you gonna stand up?” he asked. “Or are you waiting around for the next drunkard to trip?”
Mala blushed. “I can get up,” she said, pushing herself to her feet—or trying to. She made it about halfway up before she lost her balance. Lowe caught her and hauled her to her feet. She was inches away, so close he could smell her.
His body reacted instantly. Like she was some sort of hallucinogen. Full of bright colors and happy thoughts and pulsing, desperate need. For a long moment Lowe couldn’t think straight.
Erlender magic, he reminded himself, trying to pull back from the razor’s edge of a meltdown. Shit, this girl is dangerous. He pictured his grandmother. That helped.
“No worries,” Lowe’s smile came easy. “I don’t think floating platforms and broken ankles mix well.”
<
br /> Panic twisted Mala’s face. “Do you think it’s broken?” she asked.
Lowe looked down too, intending to look more at her ankle. But his eyes revolted. They followed the line of her body, lingering too long in all the wrong places. He fought the urge to clear his throat. “I think you’d better let me check,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hoarse as it felt. “And I think we’d better get off this platform before someone tramples you to death.”
“Har har,” Mala scoffed, rolling her eyes, but her voiced lacked energy.
Lowe led her by the hand to the platform’s edge, acutely aware of the warmth of her skin. Erlender, he thought furiously, Erlender, Erlender.
People parted for them as they passed, giving them strange looks by turns, murmuring. The Recruiter and the ghost. Lowe was impressed that he’d recalled the nickname Garon had called her, weeks ago. He brushed off the stares.
They reached the edge near the shore and Mala crouched, readying herself for a jump. Lowe grabbed her shoulder.
“Um, excuse me,” he interrupted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Mala scowled at him and gestured to the water like it was obvious. “How else am I supposed to get off this platform?”
Lowe rolled his eyes. “You let me lift you like any sane injured person would,” he replied, and swept her up before she could protest.
“Hey!” Mala struggled feebly. “I’m not a child!
“Trust me, I’m aware of that,” Lowe said, and now his voice did sound hoarse. Mala’s face turned red, and he almost laughed.
“Calm down. I’m going to check your ankle, not carry you off into the trees. Though I don’t know … if you asked I might oblige.” He winked and leapt across the gap, landing squarely in dry dirt on the other side.
Mala wriggled out of his arms and scowled at him. She stood on one leg, hopping toward a boulder by the trees. “Where did you come from, anyway? You showed up out of nowhere,” she said as she sat down, wincing.
So did you, Lowe thought, kneeling in front of her. “You aren’t the only one who avoids crowds,” he replied, tossing up the smooth fabric of her skirt. Just before it fell, he caught a glimpse of something—a dagger—strapped to her thigh, glinting in the distant firelight.
