Melt: (A TimeBend Novel - Book One) Page 3

  Mala thought back to that night, the nervous titters and refusals of the other girls when Sari had offered them the ring. She recalled the admiration gleaming in their eyes as they'd followed Sari back to the tent. They might not have believed her. But they believed in her.

  No one has ever looked at me that way. Like she was brave or scandalous or special. Self-pity rose like vomit in her throat. After the awful, burning alcohol she'd drunk, she couldn't be entirely sure it wasn't really vomit. She swallowed. And she dug the hour hand deeper into her palm.

  “Divine Spirit, split me open. Take what you need,” Mala held out her bleeding hand to the darkness. “In return protect me. Please. Protect me from myself. That no harm may look upon my face.”

  She waited for a moment. The breeze didn't stir. The moonlight didn't break through the darkness of the trees. The trickle of blood running down her wrist attracted a mosquito, who began an intimate kiss—until she smacked him, smearing his dark body onto her arm.

  Mala, you're an idiot.

  Chapter Four

  The brisk stink of sludge was her only warning. “Hey mumbler’s daughter,” a whisper came from just behind her ear.

  A hand at her back shoved her roughly to the ground. Her ankle twisted on a root and the tendon gave a painful snap. She turned to glare up at a big-shouldered, dark-eyed young man. He laughed, then took a drink from a bottle in his hand.

  “What are you doing out here?” she grumbled.

  “Searching for virgins stupid enough to wander to a secluded spot ...” he trailed off and smiled down at her viciously.

  Mala rolled her eyes and reached for her necklace, hoping he wouldn't notice the hour hand as she slipped it back onto the line. “Sludge!” she used the pretense of putting the necklace on to act as though she'd just cut her hand.

  Garon leaned in close, smiling viciously. “Did you understand me little girl?”

  Mala ignored him. Garon was a brute to everyone.

  “Oh. Of course not. Youth unlee uthedtu mumblublin ithnt youth?”

  At that, Mala turned red and Garon took a moment to revel in his success. He loved pushing buttons. He took another swig of moonshine; from his blotchy complexion, it was clear that this was not Garon’s first drink, probably not his fourth.

  “Wait, I can do better. That was too—here!” He set down his cup and made a series of low horrific moans and staggered towards her. “That sounds more like 'er, huh? Jus’ like Mommy?” A slow smile crept across his face. “Come here. Give Mother a kiss,” he leered.

  Mala stared at the ground, shaking in fury. She tried to count, to dull her feelings. But her hands acted of their own accord. They grabbed his abandoned cup hurled it straight at him. She saw Garon’s look of surprise as a small trickle of blood formed on his lip. She ran.

  Through the trees, back to the party. Mala was panting when she reached the shore. She splashed through the warm shallows. She ignored the sting in her ankle and tried not to stumble over the slime-covered rocks.

  Sludge! Why did you do that? And to him, of all people. She climbed onto the platform of dancers.

  A hand on her shoulder made Mala whirl in panic; she thought she’d been faster than Garon. Instead, she came face-to-face with Verrat, Sorgen’s widow. The woman had coated her neck in ashes, as was appropriate for mourning, and tear tracks lined her beautiful face. Garon was just visible, grinning, as he waded toward them.

  “I’m sorry Verrat, but I have to—”

  Verrat interrupted, “That's a beautiful dress. Where'd you get it?” Her tone was tense.

  She's cried herself hoarse. “My mother found it.” She tried to back away politely, but Verrat grabbed her shoulders, stroking the silky material.

  “Your mother found this … did he say anything about me?” The violet-eyed woman stared at her intensely, desperately. Her fingers dug into Mala’s skin.

  She wants comfort, Mala’s brain whispered. But her eyes could focus only on Garon. Only ten steps away.

  “No, I’m sorry. There was no time. It was quick,” she lied. She didn’t want to repeat the man’s crazed mumbling to his wife. Better to let Verrat think he had died a quick warrior’s death. Verrat gazed at her appraisingly. Mala tried to look innocent and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Thank you for everything you did for him,” Verrat said.

  Mala didn't meet her eyes, just in case. “Don’t thank me—” she tried to duck away but the widow grasped her hand.

  “Mala, I want to give you something. I need to give you something to show my appreciation—” Verrat reached her hand into the patched pocket of her yellow dress.

  “Look, it’s really my mother you need to thank. I’m sorry—I have to go.” She avoided Verrat’s offended glare and pulled away just as Garon reached them.

  Pushing people aside, Mala struggled toward the one person who might be able to still Garon’s wrath. Get to Bara, she thought. Get to Bara in the middle of the crowd, where there are too many people to see.

  “Hi Bara,” Mala attempted to change her wince into a smile as she stopped suddenly in front of the hulking woman who led the northern river guard. Bara might have passed her enormous size to Garon, but his grandmother was known for her discipline and honor. If anyone could stop his sadism in its tracks, his fire-tongued grandmother could.

  Bara eyed her suspiciously. “Hello Mala. I haven’t seen you out here.”

  “I was just watching onshore.” Her ankle screamed and Mala lifted her right foot.

  Bara looked curiously at Mala's one-legged stance, but politely chose to ignore it. “I understand you had a hard day. Thank you for what you and your mother did for Sorgen. He ... was a good man. A great warrior ... never understood why the Kreis didn’t come and take him away. I find it hard to believe the Erlenders got him. I saw the wounds. I’ve already told Verrat we’ll avenge him. Fire for fire. Blood for blood.” She recited the old line with fervor. Then the great woman cleared her throat to quell any further emotion.

  Mala shifted uncomfortably.

  “I thought you and your mother would be out together tonigh—” Bara started.

  Garon skidded to a halt just behind Mala, nearly bowling her over.

  “Watch out, boy!” Bara exclaimed. “Why are you running?”

  “Grandmother, I ... Mala ... Mala promised to dance with me!” he spit out, triumph in his eyes.

  “Did she now?” Bara looked suspicious.

  “No!” Mala gasped. That swampy bastard!

  “You can't back out now! You promised when you kissed me!” Garon exclaimed, loud enough for the adults nearby to hear. Some of nearby women peered around their partners to watch the scene. Garon laid it on thick for them, letting his lower lip tremble a bit.

  “I never!” Her face grew hot under the disdainful stares surrounding her. Most of the women in the guard didn't trust a girl who kept to herself. One who bolted at blood. Ran from screaming faces. Not worthy to be a warrior. Not even able to be a medic. Mala avoided their eyes but stared desperately at Bara for help. The older woman was now regarding her with some suspicion.

  “A deal is a deal, Mala.” Garon used Bara's favorite saying and smiled at Mala with a glint in his eye. Mala's face flushed in frustration.

  Bara must have seen something else, because she smiled kindly down at Mala. “Be a gentleman,” Bara warned him. She clasped his right hand briefly, as if to impress her message. Then she walked away.

  “Of course.” Garon smiled and bowed to Mala. No one else could see the cruel gleam in his gaze. He loved the game of cat and mouse, no matter the mouse.

  His hands clamped down on her, pulling her slender form tight into his barrel chest. The alcohol seemed to form a haze around him; Mala found herself in a cloud of stench. The crowds pressed in close and the nearby dancers were too drunk to notice the way Garon leered.

  “What were you talking to my grandmother about?” he asked. Mala didn’t respond but kept alert for any possibility of escape from hi
s vice-like grip.

  “I asked a question,” he growled, crushing her ribs.

  “Sorgen,” she sputtered. “She was talking about Sorgen and how he would have been a great Kreis—”

  “Ha! Him? He'd never be able to hack it. Kreis are brutal. You have to be willing to do anything. Anything.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Trust me,” Garon laughed and his putrid breath swept over her face. “Now, weren’t you supposed to give me a kiss?” He grabbed Mala's hair and wrenched her head backward before she could blink. Her necklace of hooks dug into his hand and he yelped.

  “Muck!” He sucked an injured finger. “You know, that necklace doesn't suit you at all. I think it's time—” He grasped her neck. Tighter. Tighter. The starry sky blurred red.

  He's going to kill me. She knew she should try to get away. But her body could only focus on breathing.

  “Excuse me,” a cool male voice interrupted. Garon looked over, annoyed.

  “What?” He glared down at the speaker. Mala’s head was still firmly controlled by his hand; she couldn’t turn to look at her savior, but a swell of gratitude filled her and her knees went weak in relief.

  “Bara’s watching you,” the voice said levelly. “And I believe she told you to be a gentleman.” The last word was a snarl.

  Garon’s lips curled and he released Mala to reach for the speaker. Mala slid straight to the deck. There was no room for her to crawl away; the kicking feet of the crowd left no path. She curled herself into a protective ball and waited for the blows overhead to begin. But there was nothing. And suddenly Garon’s feet were shuffling away. She watched him retreat. He didn't look back.

  Dumbfounded, Mala glanced up to see what the newcomer had possibly done to dispel Garon. He stood calmly, straightening his collar. It took Mala a second to recognize the face in front of her as the shock faded from her system. A tall lean young man with ebony curls and brilliant blue eyes gazed down at her curiously. She stared back, astonished.

  People called him Lowe. He’d floated into their territory one day in midsummer on a homemade raft. His clothing had been shredded and his hair a frayed dandelion fuzz.

  Bara had instructed the guard to search him, question him, hold him. So they had. But, one day, not two months past, Lowe had escaped the confines of the guard ship and shown up on Bara's boat with a dead alligator. It must have been six feet long, not a hook or knife mark on it. Rumor was he'd wrestled it with his bare hands, reached down its throat, and pulled out the heart.

  Lowe had asked to speak with Bara alone when he'd presented her the trophy. He'd gone down into the cabin of her ship and remained there until dark. No one knew what had been said. Though people whispered.

  “He’s from the capital. Doing inspections for the government.”

  “No way. I heard he’s an outlaw. Hiding out here.”

  But by far the most popular and far-fetched theory was that he was Kreis. No one from Bara’s guard had been recruited in fifty years, and most of the soldiers were itching to be chosen.

  But no matter what they guessed or what they asked, no one knew where Lowe came from, or what had happened to him. He refused to talk. He also refused to settle into a natural place in the guard. He would disappear for days at a time and return to Bara’s boat without any explanation. He would go with the guard on patrols or stay behind, as he wished. No matter what he did, Bara let him stay. It didn’t make sense. And when things didn’t make sense, people asked questions.

  Of course, Lowe shot down every question he was asked. Asked about his past, he’d simply respond, “They stole it.” Asked about his life, he’d say, “They stole it.”

  “They stole it” was a common phrase among Mala's people. It was a phrase that summarized everything about the Erlenders, the northern tribe that plundered Senebal waters. Like locusts, they'd descended after the bomb. They'd tried to claim the Gottermund River, the only water source left untainted by the blast. They'd tried to cut off the life force that had nourished Senebal crops for centuries. It was unforgivable. Erlenders had tried, still tried, to steal the Gottermund.

  Erlenders were the reason Bara's children and grandchildren had barely known land. Every waking thought of those in Bara's regiment was of water, of protecting the river from the two-legged demons that sought to leave the Senebal people nothing but empty husks and desiccated bellies.

  Bara's group was the far north guard, closest to the enemy. Their righteous anger—Mala's mother's anger—held more potency than most. Tonight's antics were the glorification of a night fifteen years past when they'd put an entire Erlender encampment to the torch. But Mala didn't think of torches. Wouldn’t think of them. She bit her lip.

  Lowe held out a hand to her.

  “I'm fine,” Mala mumbled, aware that she had gazed at his eyes for far too long. She dropped her face to the floor, embarrassed. He didn't leave.

  “Are you really alright?” Lowe asked.

  “Yes. Thank you. I ... thank you.” She didn't understand why he wouldn't just walk away.

  “Falling!” A young bride with a tattered wedding hat tripped over Mala and smashed into Lowe. Sari stared up at him, her alabaster skin glowing with a gorgeous blush. “You can catch me anytime,” she giggled drunkenly. She trailed a hand along his collar. “Oh!” she exclaimed. Lowe quickly backed away.

  Sari smiled. “So you know?”

  “Know what?” His tone was guarded.

  Sari threw her arms in the air and spun. “Tonight's the end! Good-bye world! We're moving up! Everyone is …” She lost her balance and landed on Mala's bad ankle. “Oops.”

  Her groom hurried over and scooped up the raven-haired girl. “Honey!” He barely spared half a glance for Mala. “Sorry,” he muttered, turning back to Sari. “Are you alright?”

  Mala grabbed her throbbing ankle. Muck and shit!

  “Are you gonna stand up?” Lowe asked, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Or are you waiting around for the next drunkard to trip?”

  Mala flushed. “I can get up.” She used her good leg and her hands to push herself up, but balance became tricky at the halfway point. Her hands flailed and Lowe caught them. His hands were strong and steady, and he helped her slowly upright. She chewed her lip, unsure how to react. He was awfully close.

  “No worries,” he smiled easily at her. “I don't think floating platforms and broken ankles mix well.”

  “Do you think it's broken?” A sudden twist of panic flared in her stomach.

  “I think you'd better let me check. And I think we better get off this platform before you are trampled to death.”

  “Har har.” She rolled her eyes, but he was right. The drunken milieu seemed as oblivious as ever. Even now, she felt someone's elbow jab her back.

  Lowe kept her hand and guided her to the edge of the platform. People seemed to part for him warily. It made Mala wonder. Outsiders were rare, and Lowe was always quiet—at least he had been every time Mala had seen him—but what was it about him that cowed people so? Even people like Garon? Maybe he is the president’s man.

  At the edge of the platform, she made to jump to shore, but Lowe caught her as she crouched to leap. “Um, excuse me!” he demanded. “What are you doing?”

  “How else am I supposed to get off the platform?”

  “Let me lift you, like any sane injured person would,” he retorted. And before she could mutter a protest, she was scooped up in his arms.

  “I'm not a child!”

  “Trust me. I am aware of that.” His tone grew husky. Mala's face grew red as a beet until he laughed aloud. “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.

  Mala hopped down prematurely when they reached the shore. He's mocking me. She grimaced at him. But a slight thrill rushed up her spine as he smiled. She limped to a nearby boulder and tried to change the topic. “Where did you come from, anyway? You showed up out o
f nowhere.”

  “You aren't the only one who avoids crowds,” he muttered, kneeling to check on her ankle. He tossed up the filmy layers of her skirt and for a second, the trident on her thigh was visible. She quickly covered up the knife, biting her lip. Lowe raised his eyebrows, but failed to comment.

  “Where were you when I was on shore? I didn't see you. Ouch!” she exclaimed as he twisted her foot in a direction it wasn't willing to go.

  “I didn't want to be seen.”

  Something about the way he said that made Mala's shiver. She felt very certain that there was a dark undertone to Lowe's words. She was also just as certain, from the faraway look in his eyes, that he wouldn't be sharing anything further on the topic.

  “So am I broken? Do I need to hire you to carry me around?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood and ease the eerie tension.

  Lowe gave a small half smile. “Just twisted. But I wouldn't recommend swimming for a day or two.”

  Mala was a little dismayed. She typically spent a few hours a day sequestered in the water, gliding underneath like a mermaid, coming up only when her lungs were fit to burst. It was one of the few pastimes where she didn't notice how everyone else looked at her, where she couldn't hear the whispered taunts, where she could forget that she was the mumbler’s useless—and possibly psychotic—daughter.

  “I'll figure something out. I'll swim somehow.” She started to test the limits of her own foot. “Thanks. I'm fine now.”

  He ignored the hint. “That’s completely illogical, you know. Why would you injure yourself more just to go swimming?”

  “Swimming's the only way to get away when you live on a boat.” She stared at the water.

  Lowe looked amused and leaned back against the boulder, facing her. “And you swim a lot.”

  “What's that mean?”

  “Clearly, you're a misanthrope.”

  “What?”

  “You hate other people.”

  “I do not!” Mala was slightly offended, but with her ankle in its current state, she could hardly storm off.

  “Then why are you always swimming alone? Why were you avoiding everyone tonight? Why'd you sneak off into the woods? I'm guessing it wasn't to meet Garon.” Lowe's blue eyes swirled with expectation.