Wanderers (20 page)

Michal remembered the swaying, treacherous drop, when each of them was lowered by rope to safety. One wrong move and any one of them might have plummeted to her death. Who knew what would happen tomorrow? How long did any of them have to live? And so why did any of the old rules even apply anymore?

To live with death so close was terrible,
she realized,
but at least it meant one thing was true.

She was free to do what she pleased.

“Yes,” Michal said.

She took the hem of her robes in order to tear a strip from it. That was how it was done; they would bind their wrists together and speak their vows. But Skar held her back.

“I need you to see something,” she said.

The variant girl held out the underside of her right arm. Among the many scars and tattoos that swirled and wound their way around her slender limb, one stood out: a pink ridge of raised skin that flowed its way from wrist bone to elbow.

“This is my partnering scar,” she said. “From Tarq.”

With a finger, Michal traced it from one end to the other.

“That is over,” Skar said. “I am no longer partnered to him. Yet I can't remove this . . . it stays written on my skin.”

Michal nodded.

The variant reached into the pouch slung at her side. From it, she removed the hunting knife she had just used to skin and gut the rabbit. She held it out like a question.

“I can give us new markings,” she said. “Mine will be on the other arm and it will be deeper and longer than the one Tarq gave me. Yours will be on the same place on the opposite arm. But only if you want.”

Michal hesitated.

“It will only hurt for a minute,” said Skar. “And it will be beautiful.” Skar placed a soft hand against Michal's ravaged face. “Though you can never be less than beautiful. Not to me.”

“It's not that.” Smiling, Michal shook her head; she no longer feared pain or disfigurement. “I want us to do something new. Because
we're
new. We're something no one has ever been before.” She thought, then glanced up at Skar. “This will do instead.”

She took Skar's face in both of her hands and gently kissed her lavender eyes, her flattened cheekbones, the scars that wound around her throat. Skar did the same to her, brushing her mouth softly against Michal's ravaged features, her golden hair, her brilliant blue eyes. Then the two girls kissed on the lips, lingeringly.

“Now,” whispered Michal, “we are partnered.” Yet even as she spoke, they heard shouts.

Through the sparse foliage, they could see the diner in the distance. The sounds were coming from that direction.

Something was terribly wrong.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

W
HEN
T
ARQ HAD RETURNED HOME TO PICK UP HIS HUNTING EQUIPMENT
,
he noted Skar's absence with annoyance.

It happened every time she made a mistake or disobeyed him. After Tarq finished disciplining her, she would go off by herself for a few hours afterward—to cry, he assumed, the way girls did. When she returned, she would invariably be sullen and withdrawn.

He headed back out to meet friends for an afternoon of hunting, and afterward spent time with them skinning and cleaning what they had caught. One of them brought with him a bottle of clear liquid he had found in the clutter of an abandoned store. It was Tarq's favorite drink, the kind that was fiery to the taste, loosened your tongue, and took away your worries. He drank more than his share, and soon grew red-faced and loud, boasting and laughing.

The thought of Skar kept nagging at him, however, prickling like a burr.

Tarq was keenly aware of his place in the community and valued his position above all else. It was, in fact, one of the reasons he had courted Skar in the first place. She was the younger, beloved sister of their leader, Slayd, and a simple girl, eager to please. Winning her affection had been easy: a few sweet words, some meaningless trinkets, and she—and the status she brought with her—were his. Overnight, Tarq became someone of consequence, a person to be reckoned with. Even now, as he joked and bantered with his hunting companions, he knew that deep down, each was envious of him and covetous of his position.

So Skar's absence was a slap at him that others might see. It was essential that no one notice there was anything wrong.

Tarq had a flash of worry that Skar had gone to her brother: She treated her doting sibling more like a father. Then he dismissed the concern. Skar would never go behind Tarq's back and speak against him; her loyalty to him and shame at her own failings, he knew, were too great. And, until today, Tarq had always been careful to keep her face intact and not to break any of her bones. He also showed her how to cover her bruises with mud so no one would notice the extent of his corrections.

Skar would never involve anyone else in their business.

This time, admittedly, he had gotten a little carried away. The floor was still splattered with her blood, which she would have to clean up once she got home. Yet it was only because Skar had forced him to do it. She had gone against his orders. She had traveled to Prin to see that girl, the norm they called Esther, even after he had forbidden her to speak to her again. After all, Esther had once been cast off by her own kind; knowing her could only bring trouble.

Tarq felt he had acted appropriately, but he was aware that others might not agree. And if one of them told Slayd, there was no telling what the outcome might be. All this added to his sense of uneasiness.

By the time Tarq returned home with the skinned bodies of two squirrels and a woodchuck slung over his shoulder, the sun had dropped low in the sky. He was surprised to see that the main room was still in the same disarray as it had been early that morning, with furniture knocked over and blood blackening on the floor.

Skar had not returned.

The variant boy sat alone in the dark of their shack, his arms resting on his knees. The exuberance that the drink had brought had vanished; now, his head was heavy, his temples throbbed, and he was hungry.
Not having his dinner waiting for him,
he thought muzzily,
was yet another thing to be angry about.
To calm himself, he pictured the ways he would discipline Skar when she came creeping back.

He would put an end to this nonsense for once and for all.

This time, he wouldn't worry about being found out. By now, it was clear he had been wronged; it had been many hours since his partner had left, without permission or explanation. This was unusual in the extreme. Was there anyone who would argue with his right to discipline her?

But when the night deepened, Skar still had not returned.

Might she have run away?

The thought of Skar surviving on her own was so ridiculous as to be downright laughable. She was too small, too weak, too silly.

Tarq was tempted to go outside and search for her himself; but he didn't care to let any inquisitive neighbor know he was concerned about her whereabouts. Instead, he diverted himself by searching for her favorite possessions one by one: a pair of mirrored sunglasses, a blue glass bowl, a battered doll from her childhood, her clothing. He twisted, smashed, and shredded each item, until the floor was littered with trash.

Each small act of destruction gave him a sense of purpose. Yet as the hours continued to slide by he grew less and less satisfied by these escapades. He began to dwell morbidly on the possibilities.

Over and over, Tarq recalled what Skar had told him: something about the norms leaving Prin for good. Had Skar decided to abandon her home and run away with them?

As his incredulity gave way to certainty, it ignited an anger that blossomed until it became white-hot rage. He would not be made a fool of by a girl. And he would kill anyone who disrespected him.

Then Tarq looked down at the severed doll head clutched in his hand.

He knew he had to proceed with care.

If he were to hunt down Skar, he would first have to seek permission from her brother. Slayd was a ruthless warrior, harsh and punitive toward all females except his younger sister. He would not stand for any display of anger against her on Tarq's—or anyone's—part.

Sure enough, when Tarq appeared outside Slayd's home early the next morning, the variant leader did not usher him in. Instead, he kept him standing on the threshold like any common stranger, and his voice and manner were cold.

“What is it?”

Tarq averted his eyes.

“It is your sister,” he replied, putting on a look of sorrow and concern. “I overheard something the other day, and I am scared it has come true.”

The leader didn't answer, which forced Tarq to continue.

“The norm girl,” Tarq said. “The one called Esther. I heard her tell your sister that all of Prin was moving away, on account of the earthquake. She filled Skar's ears with some nonsense about a magical place that lies far away, a place full of food and water. Mundreel, it's called.”

After another long pause, Slayd's voice was weary. “That does not sound like something Esther would say.” Then he glanced up, his expression sharp. “Unless she had reason.”

Tarq avoided the implication. “I, too, was confused. But I swear upon my mother's grave that was what Esther told her. And although Skar refused at the time to go with her, she did not come home last night.” The boy squinted, studying the ground, as if taking pains to think. “I think she has run away to join them.”

Slayd grunted. “So what is it you want me to do?”

“I want your permission to take two men with me and go after her.”

There was no reply at first. Tarq was forced to sneak a peek at Slayd, who was frowning, gazing into the distance.

“You may go,” the variant leader said at last. “But you will go alone.”

“But—” started Tarq, but Slayd cut him off.

“Right now, I only have your word . . . and I have yet to learn how much that is worth.”

Anger flared hot in Tarq's breast, but he fought to control it. “I understand.”

“I will want to hear from my sister firsthand why she left us, if that is what she has done. If you harm her in any way on the way back, you will suffer dearly for it.”

“Of course. Of course.” Tarq was bowing his head, backing away, his hands raised in a show of conciliation. It was only when he was inside his own home that he regained his full height and expelled a sigh of relief. The hardest part was over.

Already his mind was busy. He was deciding on the story he would tell the variant leader after he returned. Perhaps there would be an unforeseen attack by a pack of wild animals. Maybe there would an unlucky stumble into a fast-moving stream, or an earthquake that swallowed his sister's body forever. For after Tarq tracked her down, there could be nothing left of Skar, no trace that might reveal what he was planning to do to her.

He would make certain of that.

* * *

There was no time to think.

Crouching low, Esther pushed Asha and Silas under one of the booths, where Joseph already cowered, clutching Kai.

The flaming arrow had stuck, quivering, in the far wall, next to a window; the cheap and filthy curtains next to it ignited and instantly fried to a blackened wisp. Grabbing a towel, Esther tried to yank it out; and when she couldn't, she attempted to smother its flames. But the projectile was wrapped in a T-shirt soaked in gasoline and the fire was unquenchable; it was already scorching the towel and she had to drop it. Underfoot, the threadbare carpet was starting to char in spots where orange embers had landed.

All around her, the air was filling with the stink of fuel as, one by one, burning arrows flashed through the broken windows and gaping door. They skittered across the floor, embedded in the upholstered benches and cheap walls, and bounced off the metal counter, trailing smoke and ash. One of them narrowly missed her, its fiery tail grazing her arm. By now, part of the low ceiling was blazing, as were several of the seats. The flames fed on their dry and ancient stuffing; and their cracked-vinyl upholstery burst open with a popping sound, melting and sizzling.

Somehow, Aras found her, his free arm clawing the smoke-filled air as the other kept hold of Pilot's leash. The dog was whining, anxious to get away. She pulled the boy down behind the counter.

“Who's attacking us?” she shouted over the muffled crackling and pops that surrounded them.

“They soaked with gasoline, right? That sounds like variants. A
variant.
They coming one at a time. Ain't no more than one shooter out there.”

Stunned, Esther nodded, as the realization hit.

It had to be Tarq.

Skar was hunting with Michal. Esther could only hope that she had found a safe place to hide.

By now, the small restaurant was filled with smoke. Esther could barely see Joseph and the others as they huddled together, choking and coughing. Eli crouched against the front wall, stealing peeks over the windowsill.

“Let's bring everyone out through the back!” he yelled at her.

Esther made a quick decision. “Not yet . . . we don't know if it's a trap.”

Even if Aras was right, there was no way of knowing if others were outside, waiting in ambush. The diner still provided a shelter of sorts. But Esther had to control the blaze before it grew any bigger.

As if reading her mind, Aras spoke. “Try to beat it out.”

Her eyes stinging, Esther grabbed a blanket. The fire was mostly contained in one area, by the open kitchen doors, but it was spreading swiftly, consuming the floor walls and speckled tiles, and eating through the wooden planks below. When Esther approached, the heat became unbearable; the air was full of the sounds of unseen items made of glass and crockery popping and shattering. She attacked the flames with the wrap, attempting to beat them down. But she only fanned them higher.