The Earth Dwellers Read online

  The sand dunes go up and down, up and down, some bigger than others. I can feel the heat on me like a hot iron, pressing down, burning me. My skin’s not used to it. I wonder if I’ll catch fire. Can the real sun light a person on fire?

  Eventually, Siena speaks again. “You swear you ain’t never been to fire country ’fore?”

  “Will you believe me if I tell you?”

  “I might,” she says. “Skye, she’s…”

  “What?” I ask, wondering what her sister has to do with whether I’d lie to her.

  “She’s tough and brave and’ll do everything she can to protect our people. You remind me of her.”

  Not what I expected her to say. Like, at all. For a moment I’m speechless, dumbfounded, and then I say, “I’m nothing like your sister.” I can’t stop the words from bubbling up, because I mean them. I wouldn’t threaten complete strangers’ lives, wouldn’t take them prisoner, trudge them through lands filled with air that’s toxic to them. No. No way.

  Would I?

  The doubt creeps in right at the end, when my mouth stops working and my brain kicks in. What if I thought—no, truly believed—that those strangers were the enemy, that they’d try to kill my friends, my family, the ones I love? Then what would I do?

  The answer comes as hard as a kick to the gut and as trembling as a wizened old man’s hand: I might’ve attacked first and not asked questions at all. Compared to me, is Skye more forgiving, more reasonable? Am I more like her than she is like me?

  “Think what you want,” Siena says. “But don’t judge Skye for trying to protect us the only way she knows how.”

  Chapter Five

  Siena

  The girl, Adele, goes quiet after that. I keep leading her, on and on, ’cross the desert. And further still, even as the sun turns the red sky purple and orange and sends a bright green flash overhead as it sinks below the horizon.

  The sun goddess sleeps, and still we march on in silence.

  If Adele won’t talk to me, then I’ll talk to someone else. “Hey, Skye. You miss Dazz yet?” I ask. It’s not a real question, just one of those ones you use to get your fingers under someone’s skin, to get a rise out of ’em. It works.

  “Dazz? Scorch, Siena, I tol’ you a thousand times, he’s just a guy,” Skye says. That’s the rise I was talking ’bout. I snicker.

  “But you like kissing him,” I say, prodding with my words.

  “So?”

  “And he makes you laugh like a little Totter.”

  “He does not!” Finally Skye looks at me, and if looks could kill…well, I’d be deader’n a two ton tug after the last Hunt of the year. But I’m already laughing, and evidently Wilde’s amused too, ’cause her giggle escapes her lips, sounding as light and tinkly as rain on rocks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I ’spect your head to be sitting just ’bout over your heels right now. And that’s all ’cause of Dazz.”

  “You take it back, baby sister, or I’ll take it back with these two fists of mine, I swear it on the moon goddess shining down on us right now.”

  Her words make me pause, not ’cause I’m afraid of her hitting me—I know she won’t—but ’cause I crane my head back to look at the moon goddess, who’s hanging high in the sky, almost directly overhead. She’s full and bright and...is she smiling?

  “Hulloooooo up there!” I shout.

  Finally I get a laugh out of Skye. “Sun goddess, Siena. Sometimes I swear you’ve got tug for brains,” she says, which only makes me laugh more, ’cause it sounds like something I would say.

  Still tugging Adele with one hand, still staring up at the moon, I say, “’Gardless of my brain constitution, it don’t change the fact that you luuuurve Dazz.”

  And then Skye’s chasing me and I’m forgetting myself and releasing Adele’s arm and taking off down the dune we’ve just crested, laughing and laughing and laughing, my feet squishing in the trail of sand lit by the bright, full moon.

  And, of course—of course—Skye catches me, ’cause she’s stronger and faster and bigger. She tackles me to the ground, pins me there, and shoves my face in the sand. “Take it back,” she says, and when I won’t, she sprinkles sand in my mouth, which is gaping ’cause I’m still laughing.

  I think the realization hits us at the exact same time—maybe ’cause we’re sisters and we both have tug for brains—and it’s only when we hear Wilde’s shout that we scamper to our feet and look back up the sandy hill.

  Somehow, some way, Adele’s got her hands out in front of her and she’s taking off her blindfold, her eyes filled with action. I’m already drawing my bow and Skye’s got her sword out, but we’re both frozen ’cause Adele’s charging Wilde, who’s holding Tristan with one hand and a sword in t’other, and when she swings at Adele, she ducks under it and kicks low and hard, sweeping Wilde’s legs out from under her. Down she goes, dropping her sword in the process. Then, ’fore you can say “spicy ’zard soup,” Adele’s got Wilde’s sword and has freed her hands and Tristan’s, and stuck the tip of it into the crook of Wilde’s neck.

  “Oops,” I say, and Skye just glares at me, but I can tell she’s not madder at me’n she is at herself.

  Maybe not even tug for brains. Maybe nothing for brains. I almost want to rap on my skull with my knuckles and listen to whether it sounds hollow. Stupid, wooloo desert boredom’ll get you every time.

  That’s when I hear a worse sound’n the hollow echo in my own head: A snarl, raw and excited and close. A Cotee snarl.

  ~~~

  The moment Wilde and Adele and Tristan come barreling down the hill, I take aim upwards. Not to shoot either of our pale-faced prisoners, but to defend us against the snapping, snarling beasts that are surely ’bout to come over that hill.

  I’m not scared; not at all. Five of us against even a large pack of Cotees is doable. I’m ready.

  But when Wilde reaches the bottom and I see her face painted yellow by the moonlight, I know we’re in trouble. “Killers,” she says, her face awash with fear, her breaths coming out in ragged heaves. Wilde doesn’t scare easy. None of us do. But that one word—Killers—would strike fear in even the bravest of warriors.

  I’ve lived in fire country my whole life, plenty long enough to know that the bark I heard was a Cotee. So not just Cotees—Cotees and Killers. Great. We survive the attack from the Glassies, the whims of a mad king, and the brutality of a power-hungry admiral, all to die at the razor-clawed paws of furry wolf-like killing machines?

  Burn that. I’ll be seared if I’ll die now, not when my freshly rescued sister, Jade, is waiting for us back at New Wildetown. Not when Circ is waiting for me.

  “How many?” Skye says, her voice firm.

  “At least five Cotees, but they’re running from maybe three Killers,” Wilde says.

  “What the hell is a Killer?” Adele asks, but her stricken face tells me she saw ’em.

  “A big animal,” Skye says. “Get ready.”

  Steady, steady, I keep my pointer trained on the crest of the hill. ’Side me, I see Skye take out her second blade, hand it to Wilde, feel her tug my short knife out of its loop. She gives it to Tristan. Now’s not the time for prisoners, for human enemies. We’re in a fight for our lives.

  The first Cotee flies over the dune, its four legs moving so fast they’re barely touching the sand. Its mouth is hanging open, tongue lolling side to side, eyes wild and wide. It’s running for its life. I ignore it, let it come down unscathed. The Cotee won’t be stopping to take a snap at us, not when the jaws of death are hot on its tail.

  A second Cotee, a third. A pathetic yelp shatters the night. There are no longer five Cotees coming our way.

  Just as the first and fastest Cotee is racing ’tween us like we’re not even here, like we’re no more’n inanimate pricklers standing watch in the desert, the fourth animal soars over the dune in a final, desperate attempt to save itself. A shadow looms behind it, seeming to absorb the moonlight into its dark fur. Massive ja
ws come crashing down on the Cotee’s neck and the sickening crunch of bones rolls down the hill.

  “Oh my God,” Adele whispers, as the Killer lands on top of the Cotee, twisting its head sharply to snap the animal’s neck. Blood oozes from its white fangs, which glisten under the watchful eye of the moon goddess, who I doubt is still smiling.

  I can’t be frozen, but I am, shocked by the violence I’ve just witnessed. The last time I faced off against a Killer it was to protect Circ, and in the end, he protected me more’n I did him.

  But that was then, and this is now, and I’m a different person. Stronger, more confident. So even as Skye is screaming, “Shoot, Siena! Shoot!” I’m already loosing an arrow, watching it fly straight and true, right into the Killer’s eye.

  It roars, a mind-rending scream that’s filled with anger and pain and maybe surprise, too, like “How could a pathetic, skinny excuse for a human defeat me?” And then it falls, toppling onto its side, skidding down the hill, sending piles of sand rolling down in front of it.

  The Killer comes to rest at my feet, as big as five Cotees, black liquid dribbling from its eye. Deader’n…well, just dead, okay? I’m so shocked that I’m plumb out of silly comparisons. I killed a Killer.

  One down.

  Just as I nock another pointer and raise my bow to the top of the hill, t’other two Killers come charging over the rise. Not distracted by a Cotee—t’other three Cotees are long past us, secure in their knowledge that the Killers’ll go for the tasty humans first—they come right at us, teeth snapping, three-inch-long claws out and ready to tear, to rip, to end.

  I shoot.

  One of the Killers—the one on the right—twitches slightly as my arrow slams into its shoulder, but it keeps on coming. I reload, aim, shoot again. The Killer is ready this time, cutting hard to the side, my pointer sailing over its head, which is what I was aiming at.

  It’s right on top of me, too close to shoot again. No choice but to—

  I dive hard to the ground, rolling frantically away, feeling the heavy whoosh of air and sensation of hundreds of pounds of muscle and bone and fur fly past me.

  The beast’s growl confirms that it missed its mark. I snap to my feet, nock another pointer, release. The shadow snarls, paws at the feathers sticking from it neck. Breaks the pointer in half. Charges.

  And then Skye’s there, knocking me aside, slashing hard with her sword. The warm splatter of blood sprays my face as I fall to the still-hot sand.

  When I push to my feet, all I see is black fur, matted and wet, and blood, pooling at my feet. A groan as Skye shoves the beast off of her. A growl reminds me that it’s not over—not by a longshot.

  The third Killer is upon us, leaping at Wilde even as she jams her sword upward. The monstrous creature paws aside the sword and knocks her to the ground, landing hard on top of her, snarling and snapping. Oh sun goddess, no. Not Wilde. No, no!

  But then:

  Tristan plows into the Killer, shoulder first, bashing it away from Wilde, simultaneously jamming his blade—my knife—into its side. They roll end over end, t’gether, like they’re one animal, a strange mix of fur and flesh and paws and hands. When they stop, the Killer—knife handle protruding from its hide—slashes at Tristan with dagger-like claws, swatting him aside like a pesky desert fly.

  I realize I’ve got my bow raised, a pointer fitted, almost subconsciously, trying to get an angle on the Killer, which is back on its feet, sorta behind the edge of the dune, sorta behind Wilde’s unmoving body.

  Adele yells, charges, moving quickly and gracefully, swinging the blade she stole from Wilde somewhat wildly, like she’s used one ’fore, but’s still trying to get the hang of it. She leaps and the Killer does the same, lunging at her ’fore she can get enough strength behind her stab. It’s got her ’round the waist, in its jaws, picking her up and crushing her to the ground, her sword skittering away like a skipped stone.

  She’s as good as dead, but still I can’t shoot, ’cause what if she’s alive and I hit her? But I don’t hafta shoot, don’t hafta save the day, ’cause that’s what Skye does. That’s all she ever does.

  And even as I think it, Skye’s there, jamming her own blade into the Killer, missing its head ’cause it twists away, but getting it in the upper body, just below its neck. The Killer, even in the throes of death, two weapons sticking from its fur, keeps on kicking, raking its claws first ’cross Skye’s cheek and then on her shoulder, throwing her back with the force of the blows.

  Impossibly, it’s on its feet again, still full of life, standing over Adele’s dead body, growling at Skye, who’s now weaponless, on her back. I loose a pointer, Skye’s last hope, which slams into the beast’s hip, but all I draw is an angry snarl.

  The Killer leans back on its haunches, preparing to leap, to finish off my sister with its last living breath. It’s over. The fight, the part of my life that’s worth living, everything.

  And then a hand moves beneath the beast. Just a flash of skin and the glint of metal as Adele pulls Tristan’s knife—my knife—from the Killer’s flesh. The animal’s head cocks to the side, such a human expression, as if it’s confused at what it’s feeling beneath it, and then its eyes widen and roll back as the tip of the weapon emerges from the crown of its head.

  It falls, heavy and lifeless and nothing more’n a sack of flesh and bones and blood.

  Skye saved Adele.

  Adele saved Skye.

  Who woulda thought it?

  Chapter Six

  Dazz

  “Mother,” I say, feeling the word in my blood, in my bones.

  Jolie’s clinging to my side like she’s afraid to let go, but she can’t stop me from crossing the room, dragging her with me, embracing my mother, who looks so beautiful, her blue eyes clear, her dark brown hair clean and braided and hanging like a vine over her shoulder.

  With the soft glow of the fire surrounding us, her warm arms hold Jolie and me. Although her grip isn’t tight, I feel like it’s choking me, because our family seems so small now without Wes and my father. We’re all we have left in this cold, harsh world.

  “Thank the Heart of the Mountain,” my mother murmurs into my hair.

  “You’re still clean, Mother,” I say. Not a question, an observation. When I last saw her she had barely gone through withdrawal from the drugs—ice powder—leaving her system.

  “Wilde helped me until she had to leave,” she says, pulling away from me to look at my face. It’s weird to see her eyes so clear, so aware. Strange and amazing.

  “And after she left?”

  “I helped myself,” she says, which makes me gather her up in my arms once more, out of pride.

  “I knew you could do it. I always knew.”

  “We’re a family again, right?” Jolie asks from just below my armpit.

  “We never stopped being one, Joles,” I say. “Not for one second.”

  ~~~

  Wilde didn’t tell my mother anything before she left, only that it was an emergency. I don’t want to tell her either. How can I when, for the first time in so long, she’s happy, truly happy? Still sad about losing Father and Wes, but coping, on her own, without the fog of drugs to blind her to reality. Like the rest of us—coping.

  But I know I have to, because she’ll find out soon enough anyway, and I’d rather she hears it from me.

  “The Glassies are going to attack us,” I say through the swirling steam from my cup of tea.

  Mother’s eyebrows narrow, followed by Jolie’s. They look so much alike, their expressions so similar, I almost want to laugh. I would under any other circumstances.

  “Why would they do that?” Jolie says. “We haven’t done anything to them.”

  I shake my head, marveling at how my twelve-year-old sister, having gone through so much in her short life—abducted, nearly enslaved by a corrupt admiral, nearly killed by a deranged king—is able to maintain such a childlike innocence. The world would be a better place if the rest of us weren’t
so jaded by life and experience.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe they’re scared because we’re different than them. Maybe they’re just bad people.”

  “Like King Goff?” she says.

  “Yah, maybe just like King Goff.”

  “He’s dead, you know,” Jolie says, so matter-of-factly it’s like she’s telling me it snowed today, or she bought bread at the bakery.

  “I didn’t know that,” I say, unsurprised. There was no way the consortium would find the king innocent, considering all the evidence stacked against him. “When?”

  “Three days past,” my mother says, interjecting. “They did it publicly.”

  “I wanted to go, but Mother wouldn’t let me.” Maybe my sister’s innocence isn’t quite intact after all.

  “Mother was right. Death isn’t something that should be watched, like a competition.”

  Jolie shrugs. “Well, I’m still glad he’s dead.”

  I have nothing to say to that because I am too.

  ~~~

  I’m nervous. Despite all I’ve been through—from minor things, like facing pub fights with drunken men wielding shards of broken bottles, to major things, like fighting through hordes of soldiers and black-robed Riders—speaking to a bunch of irate and confused ice country leaders scares me more than anything.

  For one, they’re men and women, many of them twice my age. And three quarters of them aren’t from my part of town, the Brown District. There are four leaders from each District, White, Blue, Brown, and Black. Yo is huddled up with the other three from the Brown District, probably setting the record straight, telling them what I told him earlier, trying to get them all on the same page. The representatives from the White and Blue Districts are sitting together, speaking to each other more with their hands than with their mouths, as if the grandness of each arm gesture determines the weight and strength of the words attached to it.