Otherbound (2 page)

“—Nolan?”

His eyes flew open at the feel of the salesclerk's hand on his back. Her perfume wafted into his nose, sharp and Jélisse fruity—no, the Jélisse people were from Amara's world, not here. The clerk's perfume was just plain fruit. End of story. This world: perfume and office supplies, the inconstant whir
of the AC. Forget the Dunelands. Forget the splintery wood of the inn floors, the musty smell of Amara's mattress, the salt coming in from the dunes.

He must've been in Amara's head for longer than a second. At least he'd stayed upright, though he'd slouched against the store's racks and knocked a pack of notebooks to the floor.

“Are you all right?” The clerk squinted. Caked makeup around her eyes wrinkled into crow's-feet. “You're Nolan, aren't you? Nolan Santiago? Should I call Dr. Campbell?”

“No. I think I'm all right.” He forced a smile. She not only knew his name, but his doctor's, too? Small-town gossip would be the death of him. “Sorry for dropping those.”

“No problem at all!”

Nolan took a pack of pens from the rack, then bent to help pick up the fallen notebooks. His eyes started to ache, but he couldn't allow himself to blink. He knew what Amara was facing; blinking meant he would have to face it, too. He needed to hide. “Could you point me to a bathroom?”

He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. They burned. He blinked, and for that fraction of a second Amara sucked him in—
flames crackled in the room's fire pit, and Amara made a sound that barely escaped her lips
—then Nolan was back. He blinked a couple more times, too rapidly to get anything but flashes of heat and fear. The fire was getting closer.

Something had happened to Jorn. Nolan hadn't seen him this outraged in years. He'd hit Amara often enough, and
writing and reading were off-limits for servants like her—but
this
? No.

Nolan held the plastic-wrapped notebooks so firmly they shook. The salesclerk was staring at him. If she'd answered his bathroom question, he'd missed it. “I'll get your mother,” she said.

His mother? How would she find his mother? But the clerk was gone before he could respond, and Nolan gritted his teeth, spinning around. Finding a bathroom would take too long. He'd find a place to hide in the parking lot, instead. He couldn't break down in the store. Couldn't make a scene.

Another blink. Nolan went from stalking through the aisles to—
dragged along, legs tangled and kicking
—and when his eyes opened and he snapped back to his own world, he stumbled. His prosthetic foot slid out from under him before he could get a grip. Nolan caught himself on the nearest rack, sending metal rattling against metal.

“Nolan?” Mom's voice. He stiffened. There she stood, short and thin, wearing an ill-fitting Walgreens uniform and a name tag that proclaimed her
MARÍA
.

Despite everything, that caught Nolan's eye. Mom was a child-care professional. She had training, certificates, her own business. What was she doing here?

“Are you OK?” Mom asked.

“I need a—a space.” Nolan tried a Mom-smile and failed.

“Is he going to have a seizure?” The salesclerk stood behind
Mom, her eyes as wide as Nolan's own probably were but for entirely different reasons. She dug around in her pockets for her cell. “I'll call 911!”

“No,” Mom bit out. “They can't help. Is the back room free?”

The next time Nolan blinked, flames licked at Amara's hands. He muffled a scream. He found himself bent over, the notebooks in his hands creasing.
Let me go
, he thought at Amara, though she didn't hear him and never would. This was a one-way street. She didn't know Nolan existed, let alone what her magic did to him.
Please. Stop pulling me in. I don't want to feel this.

He wanted to tune her out. Even with his eyelids spread wide, the aftertaste of her pain clung to his hands, and more than
anything
, he wanted to tune her out. On their own, the images he got through blinking were chaos, like switching between TV channels and only catching a half word here, a bright shape there—enough to wreak havoc on his concentration but nothing more. Get enough of them, though, and he had two movies playing alongside each other and no way of pressing pause.

A group of curious shoppers watched from a distance. Not that many, given that it was a Sunday morning, but enough to make him wish for the parking lot, despite the risk. He'd lost one foot already. If Amara made him stumble onto the road, who knew what'd come next? He should've stayed home. He should've asked Mom or Dad to pick up the notebooks while
getting groceries. Served him right for thinking he could handle anything on his own.

Mom wrapped her arm around his shoulders and guided him to the back room, where he slammed his ass to the floor and pressed himself against a wall. He managed a tight nod in thanks as Mom clicked on a table fan, which whirred and stuttered into action. She pushed aside chairs and boxes, anything he might hurt himself on. Standard seizure procedure. Even though there was nothing standard about his seizures.

Nolan managed to open the zipper of his backpack, then grabbed his current notebook and the pen clipped to its cover. He should write down what he saw. Writing always helped.

“I'm here, all right?” Mom said, in Spanish now, her voice soothing. “I'm taking an early lunch break. We'll go home the moment you can. I'm right here.”

Every time he blinked: the sear of pain, the smell of burning flesh. Already, sweat was beading on his forehead. The pain lingered after he opened his eyes, his brain still shouting panicked messages of
fire! fire! fire!
before catching up. Nolan's hands were intact, Nolan's world safe.

Until he blinked again.

He couldn't hold on to the pen. His hands squeezed to his chest until they were all that remained.

mara's skin curled away, then healed in fits and starts before burning anew. Jorn held Amara's arms still. Fighting was no use, but the rest of her thrashed, anyway. She couldn't help it.

“One task,” Jorn said. His voice filled her head, thumping with every breath. “You have
one task
. Keep Princess Cilla safe. That's your duty. Instead …”

Cilla and Maart were awake now. Cilla murmured something, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. Was she crying? Was that why her hands were pressed to her mouth, or was it because of the smell? Amara tried to focus on Maart instead. Across the room, beyond angry flames, his callused hands signed support, love—things she couldn't do anything with.

Amara
tried
to focus on him.

Instead her head whipped back, and she screamed, wordlessly, until Jorn slammed his hand against her mouth to smother even that.

“I'm sorry,” Cilla said.

After he'd finished punishing Amara, Jorn had snapped at
Maart to go get water for laundry and left for the bathhouse, leaving Amara and Cilla alone in the inn room.

“I'll talk to him.” Cilla stood with her back straight and spoke as primly and carefully as ever. Only the fingers clutching one another by her stomach gave away her unease. “I'll tell Jorn it was my idea to teach you and Maart to read and write.”

What good would that do? Would that draw back the flames from Amara's hands? Amara couldn't bring herself to answer yet. Jorn had been like this before, years ago. He'd drink too much and get too angry, and of their group—Jorn and Princess Cilla and the two servants—Amara was the only one he could take it out on without repercussions.

She'd need to be careful not to give him another excuse.

For now, she sat against a wall, her fingers outstretched on her knees, and studied her unmarred, sand-colored skin. Fresh hair sprouted along the backs of her hands, the strands orange as they caught flickers from surrounding gas lamps. Long fingers. Pale, barely there nails. They hadn't had time to regrow fully.

She'd taken a long time to heal, minutes and minutes, when other healing mages would've taken seconds. Only the fragile pink tinge of freshly grown skin remained, along with the smell, which had nested in her hair and clothes and the walls pressing in on them. The scent of the fire pit's coals wasn't strong enough to mask it.

“I doubt talking to Jorn will make any difference, Princess,” Amara signed finally. She chose her words with care. She
couldn't afford one wrong sign, one too-angry flick of her fingers. “Servants are not allowed to speak, read, or write. Those are the rules.”

It was easier to stop someone from speaking than anything else; the scars in her mouth testified to that. If she'd learned to heal a couple of months earlier than she had, she might still have a tongue.

She was wasting time. Visiting the baths might calm Jorn, but if not, he couldn't return to see her sitting uselessly. She ought to start on her work. She pushed herself up and off the wall. Maybe she could clean the food—no, she'd better start by checking the floors. Jorn prioritized Cilla's safety. He'd made that clear. Amara's hands shook from rising anger, but she forced them flat and ran them over the floorboards. Pebbles, sharp pieces of bark, pine needles—anything that might injure Cilla and activate her curse. Splinters had to be rubbed off carefully, and the floor generated plenty of those. She'd already dug two from her knees.

She avoided the fire pit for now, sticking close to the walls. A nearby gas lamp illuminated the floor. Bit by bit, she felt her pulse slow.

“You're reading faster every day, though,” Cilla said. “If you want, we can keep studying. I'm sure we can hide it better from Jorn.”

Amara turned her hands over. The pink had faded, settling into the standard beige of her palms. Her jaw set. At least Cilla had waited for her to heal before suggesting they continue.

How had Jorn found out she'd been learning letters in the first place? Amara had let nothing slip, and Maart knew better. As a mage, Jorn had plenty of ways to discover things on his own, but what if Cilla had told him? It wouldn't have been on purpose—she and Amara had known each other too long for that, since they were little kids adjusting to life on the run—but Cilla might've mentioned it offhandedly, or maybe hadn't taken enough care to hide their papers. They weren't her consequences to bear, after all.

Amara ought to respond. “Perhaps,” she signed. The wood was fusty so close to her nose, and a splinter stabbed her palm. She held her hand to the light to wiggle it free.

“Is that necessary? It's not as though I ever take off my boots,” Cilla said.

Amara dropped the splinter into the fire pit. “Jorn's orders.”

“Well … I found a news sheet for us to study.”

Amara hesitated. She signed slowly, “Is that a request?”

“It's a …” Cilla looked down, towering over her. Cilla was younger and only a fingerwidth taller, but from this angle the difference between them seemed monumental. “It's a do-whatever-you-want.”