“Sir,” one called, “You know none of us to be virgins. Th’mighty Cymotherian would be furious if she tasted our spoilt blood!”
The brigade trundled on, and Kane followed in the shadows. The next swell of red light allowed him to see a fourth girl in the cage. She was at the back and was not crying. She held her arms crossed over her chest and looked outward with an expression of annoyance. She wore a rosy dress that belled just above her knees, and the stiff magenta belt clasped around her waist matched her shiny magenta pumps. Her copper hair had been coiffed into a bulbous beehive that stayed up—huge and proud—with no deference to gravity, and on her upturned nose balanced a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Quite clearly there was a dent of contempt between her newly sculpted eyebrows.
Kane gasped. It was Ursula.
He began to comprehend her final words before he’d slammed the door shut.
I’ll find you. It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning. A promise. She’d known.
This was the reverie. This was what Kane was not supposed to discover but was somehow supposed to unravel.
He crept to the back of the cart, where no barbarians were stationed, and was able to get right up to the cage without anyone even noticing.
“Ursula.”
Ursula’s foot tapped impatiently. She didn’t respond.
“Uuursulaaa.”
Nothing.
Kane stuck his finger through the bars and poked her side. One of Ursula’s hands darted out and caught Kane’s finger, then dragged him close.
“Hush,” she hissed, still facing away. “You need to hide. Now.”
Her grip was like iron. Kane thought of the torn fence. How easily could she break his knuckles if she wanted to?
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he whispered.
“Run.” She squeezed so hard he was surprised his bone didn’t snap.
“Just break the bars,” Kane begged. “I know you can do it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I mean of course I can, Kane, but I can’t.”
“Why?”
Ursula huffed. “It’s not ladylike.”
A crack rang out like a gunshot, and Kane’s arm erupted in pain. He was dragged to the ground, the whip of braided hair burning around his wrist. It yanked hard as the leader rounded the cart, grimacing at Kane, his pupils two black pits bored into irises of cloudy white.
“Hands off the meat,” he slurred.
Pain fuzzed Kane’s vision as he tore uselessly at the tether, which only bit deeper into his wrist. The cage ground to a halt and the boys huddled over their new capture. The stink of them was real. This was all real.
“Found this one prodding around,” said an underling, a sophomore Kane recognized from his lunch period last year, except in this world his cheeks were covered in bright scars. Unlike the leader, his eyes were their usual blue.
“Cut out his jaw!”
“Smother him with his own guts?”
The leader knelt over Kane. “Where’s the rest of you?”
“Rest of me?”
“The other Keologists.”
“I don’t—”
The leader nodded, and two boys pinned Kane down while a leader wrenched the whip back, pulling Kane’s arm. Someone handed the leader a gigantic axe and took the whip from him. He lifted Kane’s chin with the serrated tip, gently, showing his exquisite control of the weapon.
“Tell me.”
“I said I don’t know!”
The leader backed up, raising the axe, and then took two quick steps as he brought the axe down toward Kane’s limb. Kane screamed and jerked against the weight of the boys holding him, but the bite of the blade never came. When he opened his eyes, he saw shock eating away at the leader’s bloodthirsty grin. One of the other barbarians had intervened, catching the ax’s handle.
“Enough.”
This boy was unlike the others. He wore matching harnesses of leather and bone, but his status was marked by an elaborate mask of bone shards fastened to his brow, cheeks, and nose, as though his skull lay exposed. There was a deadliness to him that the other underlings lacked. An authority that even the leader felt compelled to obey despite the boy’s youth. The axe was lowered.
“You must go to the ceremony. Leave this one,” commanded Kane’s savior.
Thank God.
He unsheathed a blade from his harness.
“I wish to slaughter him myself.”
• Nine •
PARASITES
Oh shit.
The brigade simmered with irresolute whispers. Kane looked from the boy to the leader to Ursula, but he didn’t see any of them. He saw only the numerous ways he could—and was probably going to—die.
“Why should I leave this Keologist to you?” asked the leader.
“The ceremonies are starting soon. You must deliver the sacrifices.”
“Why not bring him along for sacrifice?”
The brigade murmured in agreement.
“Because he’s a Tiįxorn.”
No subtitle showed for that word. Just <EXPLETIVE>.
“Tiįxorn!” the slur echoed in hushed horror.
The boy went on: “Th’Mighty Cymotherian would never host in such spoilt blood. He is better slaughtered beyond the sanctuary. Otherwise, we risk defilement.”
The brigade simmered with irresolute whispers.
“So be it.” The leader shrugged, and the boy was handed the whip. “But you may not kill him. Put him in the dungeons. I will cut out his jaw after the ceremony.”
The masked boy bowed. “As you command.”
Deflated by the utter civility of it all, the brigade resumed their slow trek, and the cart rumbled off. Kane tried to catch Ursula’s eye, but she had turned away. And now Kane was trapped. The boy was much bigger than he was. Stronger. He looked down at Kane with mild distaste.
“Come on. Let’s go,” he said in English, walking off. Kane trotted after him like a dog unsure of being walked. He looked for an opportunity to escape, but the whip was secure around his wrist. The boy was less hostile now, almost disinterested as he lead them through a network of walkways, into a hollowed-out stalagmite, and up a staircase of smoothly carved steps.
“Where are we going?” Kane wheezed as they reached a landing.