Secret Worlds (557 page)

“I’ve never seen the likes of them,” Nevada remarks. “I’ve seen the lizard species Ruby calls Spatters and the beetles she calls Antlered Purples, but these?” She shrugs in bafflement. “You’re our resident naturalist, Ruby. Any idea what we’ve got here?”

Thorn pokes my side with his thumb. But what makes me even surer to stay quiet is the humming.
Not now, not now, not now
it insists. Who knows whether it’s coming from Thorn or the Fireseed or from my very own instincts? “No, Nevada,” I mutter. I hate lying. It gives me a nasty cramp in my gut. “I could run some tests if you let me—”

“No way!” Jan exclaims loudly. “Ruby and her brother wanted to steal those things from me. They want them as some freak trophy. I don’t trust her. No way,” he repeats.

“You’re making up stories,” I scold.

Blane leans over the carcasses. With a stick, he carefully stretches out one pair of leafy wings. Its wingspan is the length of one of my arms. “You could ask George Axiom to take one in for analysis.”

“Yes,” Nevada breathes, still staring. “That’s what I’ll do.”

“Doctor Varik might know,” Armonk says. “I could take them over to him.”

Nevada shoots Armonk a prickly look. “I doubt he’s been down here long enough to know the wildlife.” Is she that possessive of Dr. Varik’s time? Doesn’t want his expert help?

“He’s been here long enough, he’s a quick study,” Armonk answers.

“What do you know, Peg-Leg?” Jan growls.

“Yeah, you’re no expert,” Vesper gripes.

Bea sighs. “Would everyone just shut up?”

Only Radius is silent, holding close to Bea’s side.

Vesper sniggers. “They sure are ugly fuckers.”

“Well, I think they’re cool,” Blane counters.

We’re all one happy, cooperative group at The Greening.

“Hey, Jan, let’s see your bite marks,” Vesper says. He raises his sleeve enough to show her a run of scratches.

“They’re not bites and nothing’s really swollen,” I note. Otherwise I’d have to consider letting Jan use one of my salves, but no need.

“Jan, what happened out in the field?” Nevada asks. “What was all of that smoke?”

He coughs and spits. “Two Fireseed stalks burned to the roots. Then the fire fizzled out.”

“Was someone sneaking smokes out there?” Nevada regards us, one by one. “You all know that’s strictly forbidden.”

“No evidence of any smokers, pyros or matches,” Jan insists. He glowers at me. “No nothing, except this crazy thing and her brother out there kicking and screaming for me to give them the critters.” He nods to the Reds.

“Why would we want those creepy things?” I lie. If Thorn wants his creations back, we’d best act completely disinterested.

“You change your tune and lie through your teeth,” Jan spits.

“Enough!” warns Nevada. “That’s quite enough from all of you.” She covers up the Reds with a remnant of tarp. By now, there’s a pool of slowly congealing green liquid under them. “No one goes near these, got it?”

“Got it,” everyone echoes.

“They’re staying out here,” she instructs. “Until I decide what I’m doing with them I don’t want that glop messing up our floors and rugs. Now get inside, make dinner and work on your projects. George Axiom’s coming to pick the finalists in two days.”

In two days! With all of the uproar, I almost forgot.

For a flighty, airy type, Nevada sometimes rises to the occasion and cracks the whip. This is one of those times.

“Immolation,” Armonk whispers as he and I set the table.

“What?” I whisper back.

“My theory about the plants. My contest project.”

“Ah, that they set themselves on fire? How will you prove it?” I whisper.

“Trying to figure that out.”

“Well, hurry! I want us both to make the cut for finalists.”

“Me too,” he says with a grin. I wonder if Armonk likes me as more than a friend. He never touches me in that oily way that Stiles did. Never strokes me with his eyes like Blane sometimes, when the heat of his body seeks me out and his eyes try to read me. Do I like Armonk in that way? It’s not easy to trust any guy after Stiles. I hardly trust my own feelings. Armonk is handsome and kind. Yet mostly we’re like left and right arms—friends who match up. Blane? Blane is fire, turbulence and hurt emotions. The playful tease. Blane is the one who frowns down at me from the window as I bask in the sun.

At dinner, there’s more banter about the contest. I’m hoping that the excitement of it all makes people forget about the Reds slowly decaying on the garden table outside. I need to figure out a way to help Thorn recover them, even if it’s only to lay the bodies to rest under a sand dune because they’re his contest entries. It wouldn’t do to have George Axiom claim them.

“There will only be four finalists from The Greening,” Blane reminds us. “And one will be me.” He stretches, revealing a taut set of abs. I can’t lie; the sight makes me swallow hard.

Bea frowns at him. “What makes you so sure you’ll make the cut?”

“Just a hunch.” He grins and sneaks me a look. He’s always sneaking a look and asking me questions with his mystery gaze. I don’t know what his questions are so there’s no way I could even attempt to answer them.

Since my talk with Dr. Varik, I’ve calmed down enough about my condition to at least eat one small meal, usually at dinner. In the morning, everyone’s too busy to notice I’m not eating, but at dinner, it’s harder since we all sit together. I choke down sea potatoes and work to move them past my throat.

Only Blane seems to notice these days. His eyes narrow and his face mists over in worry, but he says nothing. After dinner, people rush up to the workspace, eager for one of the last chances they’ll have to work on their projects before Axiom comes with his judges’ panel. Nevada goes up too, for last minute mentoring.

Lingering on second tier with Thorn, I kneel down to be eye level with him. “I’ve got a way to make it seem like someone else took the Reds,” I murmur in his ear. “You want that?”

He nods, following me with his eyes.

“Do you want to bury them? I’ll leave them at the roots of our lookout tree.”

He nods again. This time there’s a grateful grin on his face.

“It’ll take some doing,” I whisper. “Have to find a lizard to work my magic.” I squeeze his hand. “Go up and distract them, okay?”

He starts right upstairs, his little boy hand inching up the banister. On my way out the garden door I hear a racket from third tier.

“What are you doing, Thorn? You spilled that oil all over my boots!” Ooh, he’s in for it. That was Nevada yelling, and she’s wearing her best fringe boots.

Anything for the proper burial of a Red.

“Those dead bird things are gone!” Bea clomps into the kitchen still wearing her burn suit and mask. It’s the morning after I’ve done my deed, just after breakfast and Bea was sent out there to check on the Reds. We scramble into our suits and clamber outside. The patio table is empty except for a smeared green blob and a trail of tiny footprints in greenish gunk that lead from where the Reds were, out to the field.

“Lizard prints,” Bea declares. “Lizards must’ve hauled them off.”

“Weird,” Blane mumbles. “Those red things were three times the size of any lizard.”

“What kind of lizard would want to eat rotting meat?” Radius screws up his face in repulsion. “Those red things were already kind of stinking.”

Nevada wears a skeptical frown. “Ruby, do lizards eat meat? Dead meat at that?”

“Dragon Lizards don’t,” I report earnestly, “but I’m not familiar yet with the feeding habits of the Spatters.” It’s not a lie, not really, even though judging by their tiny teeth and the lack of meat around here, I highly doubt that’s their daily fare. Not even carnivores eat rotted meat except for vultures. And they don’t live down here.

Thorn’s eyes dart over to me. There’s hilarity in them. If we lock eyes for any longer I’ll burst out laughing. Yes, my mind says to his, I found a lizard last night and dunked his feet in the creatures’ green runoff. And yes, I lay that perfectly devious trail.

“Ruby and her brother set this up,” Jan grumbles.

“Now how would we do that?” I ask with feigned innocence and syrup. “We were upstairs on third tier all evening, working hard on our projects.”

“True,” Bea defends me. “Ruby was trying on my outfits for last minute fittings.”

“It reeks,” Vesper glowers at me. “We all know drug addicts are crappy liars.”

“Enough!” Nevada snaps. “Who said Ruby was an addict?” Vesper and Jan snort. As sharp as Nevada has become, there are things that she’ll never find out. Besides, after a few more white-knuckle evenings pacing and talking with Bea about my old nightmares of the elders at midnight, and sweating out the last perilous particles of Oblivion, I finally kicked it. I felt triumphant, buoyant, newly determined to do something good in this world.

Bea told me during one of those long nights, about Vesper’s past, how both of her parents got hooked on black market pills from up north, how they let their kids run amok like famished beasts while they used up their hardscrabble money on pills. And then, how her parents wasted away to hollow, lifeless stalks. No wonder Vesper hates druggies. Now that I know, I don’t take it personally. I almost feel sorry for her.

“Well, I hope that stupid lizard chokes on those rotten carcasses,” says Jan.

“Jan, I said enough,” Nevada snaps. “You’re on dish duty today.” With that pronouncement, Nevada has regained my approval.

I run distraction while Thorn slips away and does what he needs to with the Reds. Besides, Jan is busy sponging off the dishes and he’s a lot slower at it than Thorn. By the time Blane heads out for sentry duty, Thorn is back inside. We have lessons later, and then one last chunk of time to polish our presentations for George Axiom who will arrive tomorrow in his glitzy caravan of white gliders with his judges.

I’m itching for the sun. My energy is flagging and food; even sea apples in sweet berry jam don’t make up for it any longer. I sneak outside to the dunes beyond the yard. They are spectacular sand crescents that slope outward toward the pink horizon. Removing my mask, I raise my head and open my arms.

Energetic pulses of light sink in as healing lotion, liquid vitamins. My arms spread wider, like vines unfolding. My lungs drink in the luscious warmth.

The humming starts, like tiny violins with choruses of sand angels.
Beauty, beauty, beauty. Drink, drink, drink.

The lizards and beetles chirp. And, in harmony, Thorn’s band of Reds thrum at the edges of the field where they perch in the plush leaves.
Beauty, beauty, thanks for burying our own.

Abruptly my back overheats with the awareness of curious eyes on it. Footsteps startle me—booted, sturdy and resolute. The soft slap, slapping of boots rousing up sand.

“What’s happening to you, Ruby?” asks a familiar husky voice. “Why are you always standing out here without your mask?” Blane steps in front of me. His hazel eyes, flecked with gold and brown, sear my skin. He picks up my mask. “You already got burned once.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” I tease. “Do you?”

He shrugs. I know Blane can’t answer those kinds of questions. Instead of answering, he places the mask on my head. His fingers, fastening the straps at the back of my head shoot fire through me. His body, so close makes my chest swell with confusion and desire. Why am I so sensitive to his presence?

I press him. “Why do you always stare at me from the window? Why do you ask me questions with your eyes and not your mouth? What do you want with me, huh?”

He stands his ground, his boots planted apart. His silent confidence angers me.

“I asked you what you wanted. Do you want to kiss me? Huh?” I ask with more fury than I intended.

He lowers his head and kicks at the sand. “Why are you such a tease? You’re either too remote or flirting in an angry way. What happened to you at that place, Ruby? What did they do to you?”

“What did they do to me? Hah! What
didn’t
they do to me?” I barrel on, looking over Blane’s shoulder at one of the dunes. “That man you saw claimed me when I was five. He beat me.” I hold up my bad hand. “He cut off three of my fingers. He would’ve assaulted me if I hadn’t run!” I pause to catch my breath. My knees are ready to cave. As at peace as I was before, the memory of what I went through renders me a furious, quaking catastrophe in seconds. “And you have the nerve to ask me why I’m such a mean tease?” That hurts. Armonk has said as much, about me being seductive. But why should I tell Blane that he’s the second guy to tell me this? “I have a question for you,” I fire back. “Why are you such a brute?”

He flinches. Hurt dims the light in his eyes. Is that what we are to each other? Punching bags? No, I won’t play that game. There’s good in Blane. He dragged Thorn and me in to safety when we passed out in the sun. He saved me from Stiles that night. He defended me against Jan. Blane might be a brute but brute force is sometimes what’s required. And I sense that there are more layers below.

“I had to get strong to survive,” he whispers, so low that I need to move closer to hear him. “I couldn’t protect my brother, Percy. I couldn’t protect my family. I vowed to always be stronger after that.”

“You got too strong, too mean,” I tell him.

“You too, Ruby.”

“I don’t try to be a tease. I learned it to survive. How do I unlearn it?”

“I don’t know. Be more aware of when you do it?” He sighs. “I don’t mean to be a brute either. I hate that you see me that way.”

“You helped me get rid of Stiles,” I admit. “And I never really told you what that meant to me.”

“No, you went off with Armonk.”

“You didn’t give me a chance because you stormed off so fast,” I tell him.

“Do you like that guy with the arrows?” This would be funny if it were someone else unable to say Armonk’s name. With Blane it makes me sad because he knows I like the both of them.

I raise my head to Blane’s solid neck, to the honey-brown stubble on his chin and up to his eyes—locking gaze-to-gaze, fire-to-fire. “I do like Armonk, as a
friend.
” Why am I admitting all of this? Why?