Ravenous (5 page)

FOR TWO MORE DAYS, WE KEEP THE SAME RITUAL, DALEN AND I. EACH
morning, he's outside my door when I wake. The filtered sunlight warms the straw in my pallet and makes the day seem full of possibilities, even though by noon any hopes I have are dashed.

But now something lingers in his expression, something softer and earnest. He's almost . . . happy to see me.

If I wasn't stuck behind these bars, and Hans wasn't in great danger, I might feel the same way. Dalen is quiet, but from watching his behavior, I can see he is kind. Curious hybrid children come by to stare at me like I'm an exotic bird in a cage. Dalen speaks to them softly, but the guard who takes his place after dinner chases them away and scowls at me. My stories have no effect whatsoever on him, but they
do have the added benefit of concealing the noise while I slowly sharpen my flint on the stone floor.

This morning I lie still with my eyes closed. High above, birds sing greetings to the sun and each other. The hum of bees and the rush of the river form a soft blanket of sound. For one moment I wrap myself in it, leaving all my troubles behind.

It's fleeting.

My breakfast tray clanks on the shelf and the bars creak as Dalen lifts them up and pushes it through. I crack my eyes open, but my face is still hidden in shadows, and he can't see it. He cranes his neck with an odd, hopeful expression on his face.

“Good morning,” I say.

He skitters back. “I didn't think you were awake yet.”

I swing my legs down and sit up, stretching. He glances back toward something farther down the path.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just checking.”

“For what?”

He doesn't answer. Instead, he resumes his silent posture, but his eyes remain on the path leading to the humongous tree and my prison. Dalen is positioned in a manner that seems oddly protective. It makes me uneasy.

I take out my book and open it, running my fingers over the edges of the pages and the illustrations. But when I start to read, Dalen hushes me with alarm. “Not today.”

“What's wrong?” I ask, fear gnawing at me. “Why are you acting so strange?”

“Keep your voice down.” His tail swats at invisible flies.

“Something
is
wrong. I knew it.” I put my book down and lean up against the bars. “Please, tell me.”

He turns his head back, the concern in his eyes startling me. “The night guard, Roman, he thinks I'm”—he pauses—“getting attached. He's suspicious of you.”

“And you're not?” Hope rises in my chest.

He shakes his head. “I don't think you pose any danger.”

“You believe me, then? That the wizard is dead?”

“I don't believe you have any reason to lie, nor that the wizard would have any reason to follow you if you're mistaken.”

“What do you think Roman will do?”

“I don't know. Have the council relieve me of my guard duties, perhaps?”

Dalen has been the one saving grace about this captivity. The one tiny speck of light. “I hope they don't do that.”

“Me too,” he says. He squeezes my hand between the bars, and I squeeze back, holding on to this first shred of kindness.

I spend the morning whispering fairy tales to Dalen, and it seems to soften his fears somewhat. He tilts his head toward the bars to hear me better. I pull the straw pallet off my bed and move it closer so he doesn't have to try so hard to hear.

I start a new tale, one that is frighteningly familiar to me, though I do my best not to let on. “Deep in the old forest there lived a witch who spent her days traveling in a hut that moved on chicken feet.” I can't help shivering. Perhaps
there is more truth in fairy tales than I realized.

“Are you cold?” Dalen asks.

“No, thank you, I'm fine.”

He frowns but remains quiet. I continue.

“The witch was ravenous and had a taste for girls and boys. They were more tender than adults.”

I know it's only a story. But this is my witch. It's all too real, and she'll come for me if I can't escape. A maniacal urge to laugh rises up my chest, and I fumble with the pages.

So many of these stories end badly. The mermaid who turns into seafoam. The little girl who dies in the freezing cold because no one will buy her flints. The princess who eats the apple and never wakes up.

I don't think I can stomach knowing how this one ends. I refuse to let it be my ending.

I have to return to Belladoma to ensure that. The awful ocean roars in my ears, a dizzying drop off a cliff before my eyes.

The book slips from my hands, wrenching me back to the present, and I scramble to retrieve it.

Dalen notices my distress. “Are you unwell?”

A way out. I can't read any more today. “Yes, I'm sorry. Perhaps I can read more tomorrow.”

Dalen opens the door of my cell and helps me move my bedding back to the far wall. My eyes flick to the open door, but I don't run this time. I know there are more guards not far from here, and they have four long legs to move them instead of my short two.

“Can I get you anything? Do you feel faint?” The
concern on his face is touching, but nothing can ease my pain.

“Only one thing will make me feel better and you can't do it.”

He places a warm hand on my shoulder, his silver eyes flashing. “Tell me what it is.”

“Let me go.” He snaps his hand away.

“You're right. I can't do that.” He trots out of my cell and locks the door behind him. “What was it about that story that upset you so?”

Centaurs. They really are too smart for their own good.

“That story hit close to home. Every story starts with a grain of truth. This one has a whole rock.” My skin feels strangely itchy, like it doesn't quite fit anymore.

He startles. “Your witch has a chicken hut too?”

I lean back against the wall of my cell, wrapping my arms around my middle. “Oh yes. That story is very real.”

“Are you certain?” Dalen's silver eyes are wide, but he hasn't called me a liar. Yet.

I laugh bitterly. “Very.”

I recount the story, from the feather in my brother's room to my encounter with the witch and her chicken hut. My hands shake and I clasp them together while I talk. If I am to escape, I must be stronger than that, and only feign weakness when it might give me an advantage.

Dalen listens to my tale as raptly as he did to the stories in the book.

“What happened next?” he asks.

“The witch was going to eat us both, but I struck a deal
with her. I would find something she wants desperately in exchange for my brother's life. I only have until the full moon, and I've wasted so much time here.” I shoot to my feet. Sitting feels wrong. How can I sit idly by while Hans waits in his cage, being fattened up by that witch?

I collect myself, then turn back to Dalen. I know what I'll do. I've been sharpening that flint, bit by bit every night. Soon, I'll have it sharpened to a point and I will use it to unlock my cell while the guard changes.

“What must you find for the witch?” Dalen asks. Kind Dalen, who I must betray and mislead without a second thought if it means escaping to help my brother. I swallow the lump of guilt.

“A cornucopia. Supposedly King Ensel had one. It's how he kept the courtiers in line. Anyone who wanted to eat had to be a courtier. Or he'd feed their daughters to the Sonzeeki in return. It's why it was so competitive—who wouldn't want to eat and keep their family alive?”

The crashing waves filled with writhing black tentacles roll back in with the memory of Belladoma and its evil ruler.

“What would she want with the cornucopia?” Dalen frowns.

“It gives the person drawing food from it exactly the sort that is their favorite and in unlimited supply. If I don't deliver it by the deadline, not only will she eat Hans, but she'll come for me, too.”

Dalen straightens his back. “She won't reach you here. We are too well hidden and protected.”

“No, you're not. Her sense of smell is abnormally keen. I can't hide from her, no matter how far away I run. Keeping me here puts all of you in danger too.” Granted, these are only the witch's claims, but if they scared me, I'm betting they'll scare these hybrids more.

A hint of fear flickers in his eyes. “You're wrong. The only creatures we need to fear are wizards.”

I shake my head again and return to my cot, fists clenched and digging into my sides. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Dalen tries to speak to me again, but I curl up and pretend I'm sleeping. Instead, I cry.

I don't move until dinner arrives and Dalen again enters my cell to “wake” me from my fake slumber.

“Greta, you must eat something.”

I sit up to take the tray from him. How would we get along if we had met under better circumstances than these? He is very different from me, of course, but in some ways we are more alike than I expected. If they weren't my captors, I might not mind these hybrids so much.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“I'm sorry. About earlier,” he says softly, still standing in front of me. He paws the ground. I wonder if he does that when he's nervous.

I shrug and pick at my food.

“Do you really think the witch will try to find you here?”

My eyes, alive and angry, meet his—all my frustration at
being held captive directed toward him. “Without a doubt.”

He's visibly shaken. “I—”

“Dalen!” snaps a voice behind him. “What do you think you're doing?”

Dalen leaves my cell instantly. “Just giving Greta her dinner, Roman.”

“You've named her?” The older centaur scoffs. “Go home—your shift is over.”

Dalen starts to leave, but pauses. “I didn't name her. She already had one.”

“You'd do better not to learn it. She's nothing to us. Go home.”

He begins to say something, but at the unwavering scowl on Roman's face, he thinks better of it. He takes off down the path without a backward glance.

“What do you think you're doing?” Roman growls.

“Sitting.” I've returned to picking at my meal.

“Sitting?” He clenches his spear more tightly than before.

“Yes.”

“If you're trying to win over our young colt there, don't bother. The good of our village and survival of our species comes first in all things. Nothing will change that. Don't even try.”

His words make my argumentative spirit flare. “If you're certain, why bother warning me away? Besides, he did nothing more than hand me my dinner tray.” I smile sweetly at him. “I think you might be overreacting.”

Roman's hooves stamp the ground, his scowl likely
permanently etched on his face. “Mind your place, human.”

I bristle. “I would. But my place isn't in this village or this cell. And I think we all know that.”

He rears and scowls angrily, but no longer tries to engage me in conversation. Once I finish my dinner, I toss the tray onto the shelf and lie down on my bed, pulling the blanket over me. With my back to Roman, and his back to me, I pull out the piece of flint hidden beneath my pillow and slowly begin to sharpen the point.

I HAVE BEEN HERE, LOCKED IN THIS CELL, FOR FIVE DAYS. EVEN THOUGH
my makeshift lock pick gets ever sharper, my hopes for saving Hans fade with each sunset.

And for saving myself. I haven't forgotten the witch's promise to find me should I fail to execute my task. I shiver in the dim light of dawn. It's never truly sunny in this village, only light and dark, wet or dry.

But the hybrids aren't cruel; not even Roman. These people are simply scared. They faced a true threat through no fault of their own. I must convince them the threat is gone. From what I've gleaned from Dalen, they've done nothing to really look into my claims about the wizard's death.

This morning, as Dalen hands me the usual bowl of porridge and nuts, I gather my courage and hope it is enough.

“Will you help me?”

His silver eyes widen; then his brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I've told you about my brother's predicament, and how he needs me to save him.” I set the porridge down and grasp the bars that separate us. “He's all I have left of my family. I'm the only one who can save him. Please, help me.”

Dalen's eyes water, and he takes a cautious step back. “I don't know.”

“I must get out of here. I won't tell a soul about any of you!”

“I'm sorry,” he says again, but more with his eyes than his words.

I take a deep breath and start again. “I know you're scared. I understand why; the wizard was a horrid, frightening man. But he's gone. I swear on my life it's the truth.”

Something inside Dalen shifts. He steps closer and places his hands around the bars.

“I believe you, Greta.” He sighs. “I don't know if I can make them believe you too. But I will try.”

My hope burns like a candle flame. Hot and painful, yet what I desperately need. “Thank you.”

Dalen opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter a word, screams and wails break out in the village.

Something is terribly wrong.

He looks from me to the path and back to me. “Go,” I say. “I'll still be here when you come back.”

It's a lie, of course, but it gets him to leave. I don't feel as victorious as I expected. I'm almost sorry to see him go.

And I'm dying to know what's going on out there.

But this may be my only chance.

As soon as Dalen trots out of sight, I take my flint pick and get to work on the lock. It's slow going, listening for just the right click of the tumblers.

To my chagrin, the sound of hoofbeats returns all too quickly. I hide my flint pick in my pocket, then crane my neck to see out the bars as Dalen comes around the corner and back into the permanent shade of the enormous tree.

“What is it?” I ask.

His face is drawn and pale, and he's out of breath. He has a large pack on his back now, and when he pulls something out of it, I have trouble breathing too.

A large yellow-and-brown feather.

I scramble back until I can feel the cool tree beneath my fingers. The witch is here. Already. Horror claws up my throat. What if she changed her mind? What if the deal is off?

Dalen grabs me by the shoulders—when did he come into my cell?—and calls my name. “Greta? Greta, it's the witch, isn't it?”

I can only nod, struggling to breathe.

“A hybrid child has been missing since yesterday. Roman told me her bones were just found outside our village.” He holds up the feather. “This was lying next to them.”

I sink to the pallet, head in my hands. More death I couldn't stop. “It's a message meant for me,” I whisper.

“Come,” Dalen says. “I'm taking you to the council. Right now.”

He pulls me up and hauls me toward the path, grabbing my pack in the process as though he's ready to toss me out into the woods this second. Roman greets us with his perma-scowl. “Where do you think you're taking the prisoner?”

“To the council. They need to hear what she has to say. It cannot wait.”

To my shock, Dalen pushes past the older centaur, who seems equally surprised. He doesn't stop us, and I don't look back. Why bother? I know he's still scowling.

Dalen leads me into the green-hued light, lovely and floating with specks of pollen from the flowers hanging down on vines. The place is beautiful, but the air is tinged with the smell of rotting fruit left out in the sun. Faint, but enough to make me shiver.

The villagers are out in full force, but as I pass among them, there are no looks of wonder and curiosity. Only grief lives in their eyes. And suspicion. I'm new; I must have brought this on them.

The worst part is knowing they're right.

“What do you think this will accomplish?” I whisper to Dalen.

“If she's following you, then letting you go is the right decision—it's best for the village.”

“What if they just want to kill me and thwart her that way?”

His mouth flops open. “They wouldn't—I—no, they wouldn't do that.”

When we near a platform in front of a round hut in
the center of the village, the crush of hybrids divides and I stand before the council of elders. A representative from each species of hybrid stands on the platform. All have graying hair, fur, feathers, or scales, and all examine me with an unfriendly gaze.

The snake-man slithers forward, while the others growl in my direction. Fear worms its way under my skin, but Dalen's hands on my shoulders reassure me a little.

“Our young guard has informed you of our sssad news, I sssee,” the snake-man says, slithering closer. He smells of earth and rot, and frankly he scares me more than the rest of them together.

“Yes. He showed me the feather.”

Murmurs ring from the crowd.

“It means something to you?” the ancient mermaid council member asks.

“It's from a witch who lives in a chicken-footed hut and eats children.” Someone behind me laughs, but the rest remain serious. I have no more to lose. I may as well come clean and tell them everything. “I told you before my brother is in grave danger and I must save him. This witch has him. I made a deal with her. I don't know what she'll do if I don't fulfill my end of the bargain, but I can't imagine it will be good.”

“Ssstupid girl,” hisses the snake-man. “Witches never keep their promissses. They're almost as bad as wizards.”

“I had no choice!” I say. “I'd do anything to save my brother.”

Dalen squeezes my shoulder, but it doesn't help.

“We spared your life, and you brought a witch down on our heads,” grumbles the centaur elder. The snake-man returns to the group, and they retreat into a temple-like building in the square.

“What are they doing?” I ask Dalen.

“Deciding your fate,” he says. Ice crawls up my spine despite the mass of hybrids surrounding me. Their faces are drawn and sad, with anger painted across them in stark lines.

Awful certainty takes hold. They aren't going to let me go. Dalen may not believe they'll kill me, but the hate pulsing through the crowd convinces me otherwise. It's a raw heat—I can almost feel it.

And smell it.

A terrible squawking kicks up, and a small herd of goat-chickens tears through the crowd, pecking and circling furiously. A familiar, unpleasant stench laced with woodsmoke wafts behind them, much stronger now than before. The gathered hybrids hiss and stamp at the unexpected strange creatures.

“She's here.” I squeeze Dalen's arm tightly as he eyes the goat-chickens with astonishment.

Smoke curls out of the trees, slinking through the crowd of hybrids. They're puzzled at first, then scream and scatter as the chicken hut scrambles into the yard. It scratches at the earth, which happens to be occupied by a faun, who is launched into the air, then crumples to the ground in a limp heap.

Merfolk dive and vanish into the river. Centaurs immediately take up their bows and attempt to shoot the hut, but
their arrows have no effect. They merely stick out of the side like pins in a feathered pincushion. It doesn't slow a whit. The elders burst out of their chamber.

Down the path strolls a lovely young woman with long dark hair. She walks right up to the center of the village with a menacing confidence that takes the hybrid council by surprise.

“Who—” The snake-man barely gets out the first word before his mouth is stuck shut. The witch merely glances at him. The other council members shrink back while he claws at his face.

“I have left you alone in my forest,” she says sweetly, “and until now, you have never bothered me, and I have never developed a taste for your gamey flesh. But I will make a point of it if this girl does not go on her way immediately. She is performing a task for me, one I very much wish her to complete. You have already delayed her too long. If you wish to survive, you had better ensure she succeeds.”

The mermaid elder is the first to find her voice. “We—we'll let the human girl go. Right away. We don't want any trouble from you.”

At this, the witch smiles. “It is too late for apologies.” She snaps her fingers, and a surge of magic singes the air.

In a flash, flames begin to devour the great tree in the middle of the village. A second later the witch has vanished into her hut, and it races away.

Any doubts I had about whether the witch could make good on her threats are gone too.

All I can see is red and orange and thick black smoke. I
can hardly even move. Screams fill the air like a swarm of flies.

This is my chance to escape.

I sprint away from the great tree. Awful creaks and cracks punctuate the wails, and I know all too well what that means: the canopy is about to come crashing down and rain fire on our heads.

I run headlong through the village. I have no idea where I'm going; I just need to get out.

Screams ring out all over, but a sharp one nearby stops me in my tracks.

“Dalen!” cries a young, frightened voice. The smoke is cleared by a gust of wind, and I see Dalen helping a centaur girl over a fallen tree, hampered by the large pack still on his back.

When he notices me, they race toward me, and then a pair of arms lifts me up and carries me, so I move faster than I did before—much faster than I could do on my own.

“You need to do as the witch says,” Dalen's voice says in my ear, “or she'll kill us all.”

We reach the outer edges of the village, but there is no relief. It is ringed by fire, magic no doubt, and it doesn't spread beyond the village. It's there to hem the hybrids in.

But the witch wants me to go after the cornucopia—she said so herself—which means there must be a way past it. One she knows I can figure out.

“Put me down,” I say, and Dalen obeys. He paws the ground nervously. Horses do not like fire, and apparently centaurs are none too fond of it either. Standing behind him
are the wide-eyed centaur filly and a centaur woman. They both bear a strong resemblance to Dalen. He must have gone after them as soon as the flames started.

I cast around on all sides, trying to find something that will help. The curve of the river lies a few paces to the east, but without a bucket it won't be much use. And really, if the fire is magical, it might not help.

If we can't extinguish it, and we can't get around it, how can we get through it?

My eyes light on Dalen's shoulder—my pack is still slung over it from when he dragged me from my cell. “Give me my pack. Hurry,” I say.

He shoves it into my hands, his silver eyes never leaving the swelling flames. I yank out my blanket and cloak, then run to the river. I hold them underwater until they've soaked up as much as possible, then return to Dalen and his family.

“We're getting out of here, but we have to work together to do it.” I throw my soaking cloak over my shoulders and hand the drenched blanket to Dalen. “Use this to cover up as much of your body as possible. Then we're going to run through the wall of fire. It looks like it's magic; we should be safe once we cross that line.”

With shaking hands, Dalen hands the blanket to the filly. “Take it, Damara. Then throw it back through, and Mother will go next.” He glances at me. “I'll go last.”

“Suit yourself.” I shrug. Damara puts the blanket over her shoulders and head, then paces in front of the flames.
More trees catch fire every second. I tug the blanket down, covering her eyes and face. “Run, and don't peek or you'll never do it.”

She bolts forward and barrels through the flaming branches that stretch across the path. Dalen gives me a grateful look, then catches the blanket as it flies back through the fire. I douse it again to be safe. Then he places it over his mother's head, and she leaps through as well.

One more dousing and then it's the two of us. “We can go together.” Terror swims in his silver eyes. Impulsively, I grab his hand and drag him with me. When I get to the flames I jump, curling myself into a ball within the cloak as much as possible, then tumble onto the mossy, unscorched forest floor beyond.