Secret Worlds (552 page)

The cache of weapons seems kind of silly anyway, now that we know the real so-called intruder was Thorn.

Nevertheless, Nevada assigns guardsmen to walk the perimeter of the field—Blane in the morning, Radius and Jan alternating afternoons, and Armonk—the most adept at night vision—after dark. The girls are spared, which is fine with me because I hate the cold feel of a gun in my hands and the field is so vast now, it intimidates me to be out there in it.

One late afternoon I’m working alone on my newest elixir up in the project room on third tier. I’m absorbed in my task, my soiled, greasy smock thrown over me, and my hands gooey with fixer oils. I’ve mixed in a pinch of Spatter venom and a dose of Fireseed’s red powder, the first I’ve collected since the attack. I’m hoping to test it on my scars. I don’t really care about fixing mine, but if it works on that, I’ll fix Thorn’s face.

Nevada’s gone with Vesper and Bea to Skull’s Wrath Depot, and Jan is on guard duty. Armonk is playing one of Nevada’s crusty old card games with Thorn in Armonk’s room on second tier. I’m not sure where Blane is. Last time I saw him he was sleeping in the parlor, his head thrown back on my favorite armchair. Seeing him there, I had an odd urge to adjust his head to a less awkward angle. But I left him there, spittle glittering on his lip.

I hear the dull thwack of the front door closing downstairs and figure Nevada’s come back. After that, I hear raised voices, men’s voices and rough laughter. It’s probably Jan and Blane, cracking sleazy jokes so I pay it no mind.

Skimming the extra oil off the surface of my elixir, I wipe it on a rag. Too little oil and it won’t sink in. Too much oil and the formula will slide right off a person’s face.

The footsteps get louder and I realize that whoever it is, is headed upstairs. So, I hunch over my experiment. That way, prying eyes can’t so easily see what I’m making.

“Here she is,” says Jan. I swerve around to see a heavyset man who looks incredibly familiar. He’s got a saggy potbelly and long stringy hair that needs a vigorous scrub. Oh, hellfire! It’s Depot Man from that first night.

“Why are you here?” I blurt. A pit in my belly expands to a doughy, nauseous lump.

Guilty hesitation shadows Depot Man’s face. “He made me tell him where I dropped you off.”

“You didn’t have to tell anyo—”

“He bribed me with money,” he adds sheepishly.

“Who?” And then I see.

Right behind him is a grizzled Stiles with a malicious grin slimed over his face at the sight of me. “You wicked, wicked wench!” he bellows, “How dare you try to poison me?”

I forgot how wizened he looked and how whiny his voice was. Like a spoiled child who gets everything he wants. Well, he won’t get me. Thankfully, he has no gun, no apparent weapon in his hands.

“You thought you’d get away with escaping? Think again.” He steps past Depot Man and lunges for me. Grabbing one of my arms, he twists it, hard. He may look like a crotchety old man and sound like a spoiled child but he’s got furious adult strength in his sinewy arms.

“How could you let him up here!” I shout at Jan, who shrugs as he leans against the wall.

Depot Man, on the other hand, has already beaten a hasty exit.

Jan’s frown is as bitter as Stiles’. “You brought nothing to the equation,” he sneers. “Blane told you that. He warned you. So did Nevada. You never listen. You just give us guys your seductive looks, thinking you can charm any of us to do your bidding. And then you act superior.”

Superior? What’s Jan talking about? The way he sees me is so warped. But the seductive looks, guilty as charged. That’s how I was taught to communicate with men. Must be a better way. Right now though I need to escape Stiles’ grip.

Jan is watching Stiles twist my other arm now, and position them both behind my back. “Back stairway’s down this way,” Jan instructs Stiles. “That’s the fastest way out.”

I kick Stiles and hear his sharp grunt. Direct hit, my foot arcs off of his rounded kneecap. I’m rewarded with another, more vicious twisting of my arms. If my arms were free I’d take my newest elixir and smear it into right Stile’s eyeballs until the cells melt into goo. All I can do is scream and pray someone hears me.

He drags me down the hall past the spare room that I slept in during my coma, and toward the back stairway. I wheel around to screech long and shrill right in his eardrum. I hope it damages his hearing. He veers away, and hauls me down one stair at a time. It hurts, badly. My ankles bump, bump, bump against the sharp corners of the stairs.

Thrashing around to stall his progress and create as much chaos as possible, I trip him. He stumbles but rights himself, then bites down on my hand. With a meaty crunch my flesh gives way. Bump, bump, bump, he bounces me down the last flight of stairs.

I can’t let him take me back to the compound; he’ll beat me, kill me even.

“Let go!” I thrash against him. We’re lost in a struggle of twisted limbs, close to the garden door. Fireseed, hear me! “If I have to go back to that hellhole, I’ll demolish everything!” The curtained gazebos where the men pair up with underage partners, the podium where they fill us with unholy lies and false proclamations. Where they singe the small children with brands.

“I’ll destroy
you
, Ruby,” Stiles hisses in my ear with his putrid turnip breath. “Your face is scarred now, you’re not even pretty anymore.”

The zing of an arrow misses its mark and thwacks into the sand. Armonk!

Stiles flings open the glider door. He throws me in and secures my arms with agar binding to the seat post. The zing of a second arrow hits Stiles’ left shoulder, and Stiles, with a shocked groan, jerks backwards. His hands move upward, fumble with the arrow, but by the look on his face, he can’t stand the pain of trying to pull it out. His cloak’s already red, but this new liquid, spreads darker red, in pulses. With the arrow still jutting out, he starts the glider.

“Let me go! You don’t want me, I don’t want you,” I shout. I unfasten the door with my foot. He leans over, grabs the handle and slams the door on my ankle. With all of the strength in my other leg, I swivel around and push it open again. Good Fire! Cursing at me, Stiles tries to grab the door handle again. I only have another second or two before I’m airborne.

Then, an enormous body hurls itself on Stiles, all mammoth curled back and rock-hard thighs like some leathery Skull’s Wrath monster. I swerve away to avoid being crushed. Looking up, I see Blane’s cropped brown hair and wild eyes, mad for the kill.

His potato-fists seize around Stile’s neck and squeeze. Stiles burbles and coughs like a clogged pipe.

Armonk sinks his third arrow in Stiles’ calf, where Stiles raised it to kick Blane off him. Red spurts onto me, onto Blane, onto the floor. Armonk must’ve hit an artery.

“Get off me,” pleads Stiles. “I’m leaving, get off!”

At this, Blane eases up on Stile’s neck. “Leave then!” Blane orders. Stiles struggles to his feet and over to the console while Blane unbinds my arms. “Ruby, go! Quick,” Blane exclaims.

I scramble out, taking care not to slide and fall into Stile’s bloody mess. Blane gives Stiles a parting punch and then leaps from the vehicle. “Don’t even think about coming back,” he warns.

From over my shoulder I see Stiles blinking to regain alertness. He fumbles at his wounds in another attempt to dislodge the arrow. Then, he ascends, swerving my way. “Sinful woman,” he hollers from the window, “next time, I’ll bring an army. And
you …”
He glares down at Blane. “You’ll be meat for the flies.”

“Coward! I should’ve shot you when I had the chance,” Blane shakes his fist at the departing specter of Stiles in the angry sky.

Already my ankle and wrists are on fire and swollen to ridiculous proportions. My hand smarts where Stiles bit it. Armonk hurries over to help steady me as I limp away.

“That was the man they had you partnered up with?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I gasp, and thank him.

“I see why you left. I heard yelling, and had a bad feeling about it,” he explains as we shuffle toward the back door. “ I told your brother to stay put in his room, and I came running.”

“You’re a good shot,” I say. “Did you see it sticking out from his shoulder?” We both exhale in shaky, relieved laughter.

By this time, Blane has caught up to us. We stop in awkward hesitation as we regard him. Am I the one who feels awkward, or is it Blane? His eye is blackening and the skin under it is torn from where Stiles got in one lousy punch. But it’s Blane’s expression that tears me up.

“Thanks,” I tell him. I loosen myself from Armonk’s firm arm and gingerly test my weight on my sore ankle. It feels wrong to lean on Armonk right now with Blane staring at me, a hungry, lonely look in his eye. It’s as if he’s never been hugged, never been fed, never been loved, as if the sight of Armonk touching me, even just to help me limp along injures him. “Thanks,” I tell Blane again. “I really mean that. That man would’ve killed me if I’d gone back.”

Blane only grunts, before forging ahead and beating us into the house.

“What’s his problem?” Armonk mumbles. But I know that he knows. Just like I know a lot of other things right now, because now that it’s quiet the humming’s started up in my head. It knows me, and it reaches out in all directions to tell me things. Tell me that Thorn feels the humming too, and knows something’s terribly off kilter.

Stay safe, stay safe
it goes as I limp inside and collapse into the dusty armchair.

“Do you want company?” Armonk stands there uncertainly in the doorframe with his long hair all tangled from running, and his bow and half-empty quiver hanging off one shoulder. His leaf necklace rises and falls with each quick breath, and his face glistens nut brown from the effort of chasing down Stiles.

“I’ll be okay,” I lie. “Just need time alone to catch my breath.”

Armonk hesitates. In the pulse behind my shut eyelids, I sense Thorn creeping downstairs and padding across the room. He climbs up in my lap and hugs me. Settles by my side. I know that this hurts Armonk just like I’ve hurt Blane, because Armonk isn’t stupid either. He’s smart and patient and kind. I can’t help if I’m not ready to be close.

As I sink into the comfort of Thorn’s warm, puppy dog presence, I worry that now I have not one, but two men fighting over me. As ugly, pocked and skeletal as I’ve become, and now swollen with injuries, I’m still a hot commodity. None of that has served to barricade me. Jan’s words float into my mind. I mustn’t use my seductive charm to get anything anymore. I need to figure out different ways. Honest ways. Upstairs I hear Blane fighting with Jan.

“What the hell were you thinking, leading the depot guy in here with that pervert?”

“Who cares?” Jan’s says. “You’re sweet on that cult girl. Is that it?”

“That has nothing to do with it, Jan.”

“Really? Then what do you care?”

“You’re a fool letting
any
stranger in here! Nevada told us to guard this place. I take my job seriously.”

With a silent chant, I drown out their voices:
Make it go away, make it all go away.

Which guy would I pick to be closer to: the gentle spirit that is Armonk or the sweat-scented fighter that is Blane? Must I choose one over the other, ever? Can’t we all at least try to be friends?

Thorn rests his head on my shoulder as I sink lower into the cushions and dream of turquoise waves washing over me.

When Nevada returns with Vesper and Bea, Blane blurts out the whole story to her. “Jan’s a fool!” he shouts. “He jeopardized the whole school by letting those strangers in here. If I’d had one of the guns, that trespasser would’ve been blown to hell and back.” Blane’s voice scares me, even though it’s comforting that he protected me. Flattering even. But I can’t help recalling what he told me once about being too good at playing guard dog. I’m afraid that it brings out his vicious side. I’m afraid how that weirdly attracts me. It’s wrong! All wrong, and I have to keep chanting to myself,
Take it all away.

I notice a lack of red blood around the bite mark. Or more accurately, the area has a faint greenish tint. Is that what they call gangrene, or is there something else seriously wrong with my blood? It freaks me out so much that I force myself to look away.

Nevada frets over me like a mama bear from that fairy tale, feeding me special tea and oatmeal and giving me a sponge bath with her special sage oil. I’m incredibly grateful to witness this motherly side of her. But I can’t help longing for the comfort of my own dear mother. With the memory of her warm hug and understanding voice, tears run down my cheeks.

“You’ll be better soon, Ruby,” Nevada soothes, misunderstanding the nature of the tears, which she wipes away for me.

I truly can’t go back. Stiles would strangle me like Blane did him only Stiles would finish the job. That night, I toss in bed. The night terrors have returned, full of Stiles—his threatening energy, his leering grin, his scornful eyes. I listen to the rise and fall of Bea’s breathing. And like the early days, I know that I’m waiting for her to fall sleep so I can sniff up the last of the Oblivion Powder. And I thought I was doing so well, weaning myself bit by bit. My cheeks are already hot with the shame of it.

I reach into my belt pack. Across the room, Bea stirs. “You’re having nightmares.”

My hands shoot back to my side. “Yes. What’s to say he won’t be back?”

“You have us. You have Nevada. We’ll hide you.”

I smile in the dark. “Hide me.” Like children’s hide and seek, darting from rock to rock. “That’s a nice thought, Bea.”

“You’re a person worth protecting.”

My eyes blur. “Thanks. I’ll protect you, too. And I’ll try my best to sleep without that stuff.” She knows what I mean. I sense her nodding.

“You can do it, Ruby. If you can’t sleep, wake me up and we’ll talk again.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” A tear spills over onto my cheek and I wipe it off.

“Aww,” she soothes. Against the moon’s purple silhouette, I see her brush back her long hair and settle in.

Curling into a catlike ball, I explore the cool, dry sheets with my toes and drift off softly, fearlessly.