Stolen (25 page)

A scraping sound woke me. I opened my eyes. The chest of drawers was moving, being pushed forward by the door. Someone was trying to get in. I tried to sit up. I was half off the bed, the bottle still in my hand. The rum wasn’t finished, but, judging by the wetness around me and the smell of stale alcohol, much of it had drained out into the sheets. I fumbled my way along the bed. I clasped the bottleneck tight, ready to swing.

The drawers shifted to the side, and your scratched arm came around the door. I lowered the bottle as you squeezed through the gap. I shrunk away, too weak, and still too drunk, to do much else. It was gray dawn-light, early. You looked me over, your eyes taking in the bottle, your nose wrinkling at the smell. I turned away from your frowning face.

“I had to get something,” you said. “It took longer than I thought.”

You tried scooping me up then, but I screamed at you to let me go and bashed the bottle against your chest. So you stayed at the side of the bed, just watching. After a while, you took the bottle from my fingers and lifted the sheet up over me.

“I’ll fix you breakfast,” you said eventually.

I slept.

“It’s on the veranda,” you said.

I shook my head, pain searing through my temples. To walk that far, on that morning, seemed about as probable as escape. But I knew I needed food.

“Come on, I’ll carry you.”

I shook my head again, but your arms were around me, lifting me up before I could do anything about it. I shut my eyes, my head spinning, sickness in my stomach. You carried me like you carried branches, delicately, with your arms open wide to cradle me. You made me feel about as light as them, too.

You lowered me onto the couch on the veranda. As you did, I could see that your eyes were red and tired, with dark hollows around them. But the pale sun was on your skin, making it glow. The light made everything glow that morning. It seeped into the landscape and made the sand sparkle like popping candy.

It didn’t make me glow, though. I felt more like I was fading away, like the world had forgotten me. As I stared at the glinting sand, I wondered if my disappearance was making the news. Was anyone still interested? I knew papers dropped stories when there wasn’t anything new to report. And what could be new about my story, when the only thing that ever changed was the way the wind blew?

I’d been in your house for more than a month. Was anyone still searching for me? Just how dedicated were my parents anyway? They’d always been shrewd. “Good business sense” are the three most popular words in Dad’s vocabulary. And maybe he was asking the question—was looking for me good business sense anymore? Was I a good investment? Right then, I don’t think I would have put any money into my search.

You gave me a plate of small yellow fruits. You took one and showed me how to dig my nails in and eat it, sucking out the insides. I tried it. It was sour at first, but the taste became a little sweeter as I chewed. The seeds got stuck in my teeth and gums. You sucked on another one, before you spoke.

“You met the guys in the shed, then?” you asked.

I remembered all those eyes staring back at me, all those scales and legs. I shuddered. “Why do you have them?”

“To keep us alive.” You reached for another of the yellow fruits. I gave you the plate. My stomach was too queasy for any more, even though I wanted it. You smacked your lips through the sour part, then picked the seeds from your teeth. “They’re going to help me make antivenom.”

I shook my head. “You don’t get antivenom from a snake, you just get poison.”

The corner of your mouth turned up. “You’re just as clever as you look, smarty-pants,” you said. “I knew it all along.” You looked at me like you were almost proud. “You’re right, though,” you said, spitting seeds onto the floor. “Those guys are all poisonous. And antivenom comes from collecting an immune reaction to the poison … another reason why we need the camel. Soon I’ll milk those creatures, inject their poison into the camel, then collect her antibodies, her immune reaction. I’ll filter all that and make antivenoms … at least that’s the plan. It’ll take awhile, and I still don’t know if I can do it, but I’m going to try anyway. That way we’ll always have a fresh supply.”

I frowned. “Won’t the camel get sick?”

“Nah, she’s immune, like lots of things out here. Us humans are the weak ones.” You tore at the skin of another fruit, nibbling off the fleshy bits. “But what we should do first, before any of this, is start to desensitize you. If we inject a little of those creatures’ poisons into your system, you can build up your own immunity.”

“You’re not injecting anything into me.”

You shrugged. “You can do it yourself; it’s not hard. Just prick your skin and put a little of the venom inside. I do it all the time.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Then you run the risk.”

“Of what?”

“Dying, being paralyzed … poison’s not much fun, you know?” You looked me over, one side of your mouth curling up. “But then, I suppose you know that already … what with all the rum you had last night. That was a year’s supply, that bottle.”

I avoided your gaze. It was the first time you’d mentioned the rum. I braced myself, waiting for you to be angry about me riffling through your supplies. But you just shrugged it off.

“With any environment, there’s risks, I s’pose,” you murmured. “It’s all the same, really: poisons, injuries, sickness … just different triggers. The difference is that in the city they’re caused by people, and out here it’s just the land. I know which one I’d prefer.”

My head was starting to spin again. I kept picturing those creatures in their cages, waiting with their poison to kill me, or to save me.

“How long have they been there?” I asked. “In those cages?”

You put the fruit down and wiped your hands on your knees. “I’ve been catching them since we got here. I’ve found most of them now, but some of them are bastards to find … still need a couple, actually.”

“And they’re all poisonous?”

You nodded. “Course. I wouldn’t have them otherwise. Not all of them are deadly, but you still wouldn’t want a little nip.”

“Why haven’t you been bitten?”

“I have. Nothing serious, though. I guess I’ve just learned to handle them; I know what makes them tick. Creatures aren’t so dangerous when you understand them.”

Again, you pushed the fruit toward me. “Come on, eat up.” You grinned. “Anyone would think you’ve got a hangover.”

You were nice to me after that. I mean,
really
nice. You kept the cold cloths coming and you fussed over me in a way that Mum would never have dreamed of. You even made me food you thought I’d like … or you tried to, anyway. (I guess it’s hard to rustle up ice cream when the nearest freezer is hundreds of miles away.) But you watched me, too, all the time. It was as if you were constantly assessing me, gauging what was acceptable, what you could say or do that wouldn’t upset me too much. I soon caught on to it. I started testing how far I could push you. And you let me push.

The next day I fed the chickens. You came with me, saying you needed to check the spring. When we reached the entrance to the camel pen, I slowed down and let you catch up. I let you walk in step. You glanced at me, checking if it was all right that you were there.

“You must really hate me,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“You must hate me so much that you don’t care if I die … otherwise you’d just let me go.”

You swung around to me quickly, so quickly that you stumbled on a rock. “That’s the opposite of how I feel.”

“Then why not let me go? You know it’s what I want.”

You were silent for four or five steps. “But I did let you go,” you said quietly. “You almost died.”

“That’s because your car’s a piece of crap and I don’t know how to get anywhere out here.
You
do, though. If you really didn’t hate me, you’d take me back to a town. You’d let me go.”

“Don’t start this again, please.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? You could let me go if you wanted to; you just don’t want to. So that means you must hate me.”

I plowed through a small shrub, my boots crushing its leaves. You stopped to straighten them.

“Things aren’t that simple.”

“They can be.”

I stopped, too. You finished straightening the plant and stepped around it. You took a hesitant step toward me.

“Just give it a bit of time, please, Gemma. A few months more and you’ll learn to appreciate all this, then …”

“Then what? Then you’ll let me go? I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me, please. Just for once.” You raised your arms toward me, almost begging.

“What will you do?” My hands were on my hips and I was trying to make myself look taller than I was. Even so, my head didn’t go past your shoulders. You sighed.

“OK,” you whispered finally. “Give it six months. Just six months. That’s all you’ll need. Then if you still hate all this, after that,
then
I’ll take you back. I promise. I’ll even take you to a town.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

“Try me.”

I kept staring at you. After a moment you looked down, putting your hands into your pockets. “I’m serious,” you said, your voice breaking a little. “What’s six months to you now anyway? What have you got to lose?”

You kicked the dirt. That dull thud of your boots was the only sound out there. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I still wasn’t sure I could trust you. I mean, who believes a kidnapper about anything? What had you ever done to make me believe in you?

“Even if you are serious,” I challenged, “even if you do take me back, what’s to stop you from doing all this again to some other girl?”

You ran your hand through your hair. “There is no other girl. Without you, I’ll live here alone.”

“You’re disgusting.” You flinched. I stepped toward you. “You’re just trying to flatter me, trying to get me to do what you want. You can’t help yourself. There’s always another girl. What do they say about dogs? Once they’ve got the taste for it—killing …”

“I’m not a killer.”

“You’re a dog, though.”

You looked at me, your eyes huge. You were like a dog then, waiting for me to throw you a bone … waiting for something I could never give you.

“I love you,” you said, simple as anything. You didn’t blink. You waited for what you’d said to soak in. It didn’t. It just bounced off. I refused to think about it at all.

“You’re a bastard,” I said.

I started walking. You spoke to my back, raising your voice as I marched farther ahead.

“The land wants you here.
I
want you here,” you called. “Don’t you care about that at all?”

I turned, incredulous. “You think I could care for you after what you’ve done? Are you really that crazy?”

“We need you.”

“You don’t need anything but help.”

You gaped at me. As I watched, your eyes became wet, drowning as they looked back at mine. I shook my head, refusing to be sucked in.

“This is screwed up,” I said. I spoke quietly, more to myself than you. You tried to speak, but I kept on, regardless, no longer scared. “You’re seriously messed up, aren’t you? And out here, I’m never going to get away from you. Not unless you take me back to a town.”

“I don’t want that.”

“It’s what I want.”

You flinched away from my words as if I were physically harming you with them. You avoided my gaze, clearly embarrassed by your reaction.

“You’re not so tough now, though,” I said quietly.

I turned and walked fast toward the Separates. I could feel myself starting to shake. I was fragile then, almost in as many pieces as you were. I didn’t want you to see. You didn’t follow me; just stood, motionless, your head down to the dirt. I stumbled through the rocks, glad you weren’t there. I could almost handle you when you were tough; I knew what to expect. But like that? I didn’t know what to think.