Cress (29 page)

And she had the longest legs Cress had ever seen.

The woman leaned forward and pushed a pile of plastic chips toward one of the other players. Thorne tilted his head in laughter. He took one of the few chips still in front of him and flipped it over his knuckles a few times before tucking it into the woman’s palm. In response, she trailed her fingernails down his neck.

The air burned around Cress, clinging to her skin and pressing against her, tightening around her throat until she couldn’t breathe. Suffocating, she turned and dashed from the lounge.

Her knees were shaking as she ratcheted up the stairs. She found door number 8, and dumbly shook the knob—seeing those fingernails teasing his skin again, and again—before she realized that the door was locked. The key was inside, beside the washroom sink.

She sobbed and slumped against the wall, beating her forehead against the frame. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

“Cress?”

She spun around, swiping at the hot tears. Jina stood before her, having just emerged from her own room down the hall. “What’s wrong?”

Cress ducked her head away. “I-I’m locked out. And Carswell … Carswell is…” She dissolved, crying into her palms as Jina rushed forward to embrace her.

“Oh, there, there, it’s not worth getting so worked up about.”

This only made Cress cry harder. How twisted their story had become. Thorne was not her husband, despite their made-up romance, despite the nights spent in his arms. He had every right to flirt with whomever he chose, and yet …

And yet …

How wrong she’d been. How stupid.

“You’re safe now,” Jina said, rubbing her back. “Everything is going to be fine. Here, I brought you some shoes.”

Sniffing, Cress looked down at the simple canvas shoes in Jina’s hand. She took them with shaking hands, stammering out her gratitude, though it was buried beneath hiccups.

“Listen, I was just going to meet Niels for a late meal. Would you like to join us?”

Cress shook her head. “I don’t want to go back down there.”

Jina petted Cress’s hair. “You can’t stay up here without your key. We’ll slip right past the lobby. There’s a restaurant on the corner. Does that sound nice?”

Cress tried to calm herself. All she wanted was to get into her room and hide under the bed, but she would need to go talk to the girl at the desk again to get another key. She would bring even more attention to herself, especially now that her eyes were red and her face flushed. People would talk, and she suddenly remembered how bad it was that people would talk.

And she didn’t want to still be standing in the hallway, sniffling and miserable, when Thorne came back. If she could have some time to calm down, then she could speak to him rationally. She would go on like her heart wasn’t shattered.

“All right,” she said. “Yes, thank you.”

Jina kept her securely tucked beneath her arm and hurried them both down the stairs and through the lobby. She guided her along the walkway that lined the main road. The crowd had dwindled, many of the shops now covered up for the night. “It isn’t right to see such a pretty girl crying like that, especially after all you’ve been through.”

Cress sobbed again.

“Don’t tell me you and Carswell had a fight, after surviving the great Sahara together?”

“He’s not—” She ducked her head, watching sand slip down the cracks of the clay pavers.

Jina took her elbow. “He’s not what?”

Cress sniffled into her sleeve. “Nothing. Never mind.”

There was a pause, before Jina spoke, slowly, “You’re not really married, are you?”

Clenching her teeth, Cress shook her head.

Jina lightly stroked her arm. “We all have our secrets, and I can venture to guess your reasons. If I’m right, I don’t blame you for the lies.” She leaned close, so that her forehead touched Cress’s frizzing hair. “You’re Lunar, aren’t you?”

Her feet stumbled and froze. She ripped herself away from Jina’s gentle touch, instincts telling her to run, to hide. But Jina’s expression was full of sympathy, and the panic quickly fizzled.

“I caught word of the fallen satellite. I figured it must have been you. But it’s all right.” She tugged Cress forward again. “Lunars aren’t so rare around here. Some of us have even come to appreciate having you around.”

Cress stumbled along beside her. “Really?”

The woman tilted her head, squinting at Cress. “Mostly we’ve found that your people just want to keep to themselves. After going through all the trouble of making it to Earth, why risk getting caught and sent back, after all?”

Cress let herself be led on as she listened, surprised at how rationally Jina was speaking about it all. All the Earthen media had led her to believe there was such a hatred toward Lunars, that she could never be accepted. But what if that wasn’t true at all?

“I hope you won’t be offended by my asking,” Jina continued, “but are you … ungifted?”

She nodded dumbly, and was surprised at the smug grin that passed over Jina’s face, like she’d guessed it all along. “There’s Niels.”

Cress’s thoughts were swimming. To think that she and Thorne could have told them the truth from the start … but, no, he was still a wanted criminal. She would have to think of a new story as to why she and Thorne were together. Did they think he was Lunar too?

Niels and Kwende were standing outside a big dusty vehicle with enormous traction wheels. Its hood was up, a cord plugged into a generator attached to a building, and a wide door was open in the back. They were loading things into it—many sacks of goods that Cress thought she recognized from the camels.

“Making room for the new cargo?” said Jina, coming up to stand with the men.

If Niels was surprised to see Cress there without her husband, he didn’t show it. “About done,” he said, dusting his hands. “The engine’s near a complete charge. Should have no problem getting us to Farafrah and back without having to break into the petroleum reserves.”

“Fara…?” Cress glanced at Jina. “You’re not staying?”

Jina clicked her tongue. “Oh, Jamal and a few others are, but we’ve had a new order, so we need to make a special trip. There’s always more business to attend to.”

“But you just got here. What about the camels?”

Niels laughed. “They’ll stay in the town stables and be happy for the break. Sometimes they suit our needs, and sometimes we need something a bit faster.” He thumped a palm down on the side of the truck. “Have you been crying?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, dipping her head.

“Jina?”

Jina’s hand tightened on Cress’s arm, and she responded to his unspoken query in their other language. Cress flushed, wishing she knew what Jina was saying.

Then he smiled cryptically, and nodded.

Cress was grabbed suddenly from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her startled cry as she was shoved past Jina, past Niels. Her head was forced down as she was thrust into the back of the vehicle, banging her shins on the bumper. The hatch slammed shut. Pitch blackness surrounded her.

Niels barked something she didn’t understand, and then the engine rumbled beneath her. She heard two more doors slam near the front of the vehicle.

“No!” She threw herself at the hatch, pounding her fists against the metal. She screamed until her throat went hoarse, until the rumble and sway of the vehicle grew rough and the bumps threw her against a pile of bolted fabrics.

Her mind was still spinning when, not minutes later, she felt the vibrations change. They’d already left the paved streets of Kufra behind.

BOOK

Three

“The cat has caught the bird, and she will scratch out your eyes as well.

You will never see your Rapunzel again.”

Thirty-One

The girl returned from her trip to the bar, setting a drink against Thorne’s wrist so he would know where it was.

He tilted his head toward her and lifted the cards. “What do you think?”

Her braids brushed his shoulder. “I think…” She tugged at two cards in his hand. “These two.”

“Precisely the two I was thinking,” he said, taking hold of the two cards. “Our luck is changing, right about … now.”

“Two to the blind man,” said the dealer, and Thorne heard the cards slapping down on the table. He slid them up into his hand.

The woman clicked her tongue. “That’s not what we wanted,” she said, and he could hear the pout in her voice.

“Ah, well,” said Thorne. “We can’t win them all. Or, apparently, any of them.” He waited until the bidding came around before folding. The woman leaned closer from behind him and nuzzled his neck. “The next hand will be yours.”

Thorne grinned. “I am feeling lucky.”

He listened as the bidding went twice around the table and the winner claimed the pot with jesters and sevens. From the man’s gruff voice, Thorne pictured a scraggly beard and an excessive belly. He’d drawn up detailed mental images of all the players at the table. The dealer was a tall and skinny man with a fine mustache. The lady beside him was elderly and something kept jangling when she took her cards, so Thorne pictured an abundance of gaudy jewelry. He judged the man to his right to be scrawny with bad skin, but that was probably because he was winning the most.

Of course, the woman who had draped herself over Thorne was viciously hot.

And not at all lucky, it turned out.

The dealer dealt out another hand and Thorne raised his cards. Behind him, the girl let out a sad whistle. “So sorry, love,” she whispered.

He pouted. “No hope? What a shame.”

The bidding opened, moving around the table. Check. Bet. Raise.

Thorne tapped his fingers against his cards and sighed. They were useless, judging from the woman’s sad inflection.

Naturally, he put his palm against his chips and slid the entire stack toward the center of the table, listening to the happy clatter of chips falling against one another. Not that he had a lot of them. “All in,” he said.

The woman behind him was silent. The hand on his shoulder didn’t even twitch. Nothing to acknowledge that he’d gone against her suggestion.

Poker face, indeed.

“You’re a fool,” said the scrawny player, but he folded.

Then the bearded man snorted with a sound that made Thorne’s spine tingle—not from concern, but expectation. This was his man.

“I’d raise if I thought you had anything left to bet,” he said, followed by the clicking and clacking of chips.

The last two players folded. The dealer passed out cards to replace the throwaways—two to Thorne’s opponent.

He kept all his cards. If his lady disapproved, her statuesque hands hinted at nothing.

They didn’t bother to bid for the second round, knowing that Thorne was maxed out. Thorne fanned his cards out on the table. The dealer called them out, his finger thumping against his opponent’s hand. “Doubles.” Then—“Royal triplets win!”

Thorne arched an eyebrow as the old lady with the jewelry let out a delighted giggle. “To the blind man!”

“I trust the royal triplets were mine?”

“Indeed. Nice hand,” said the dealer, pushing the chips in Thorne’s direction.

He heard a chair crash to the ground. “You outdated piece of junk! You should have told him to fold that hand!”

“I did,” said the girl behind Thorne, in an even tone that failed to acknowledge the insult. “He chose to ignore my recommendation.”

Thorne tipped back in his chair. “It’s your own fault for teaching her the game so well. If I’d won even a couple hands I wouldn’t have been suspicious, but even my luck isn’t this bad.” He twirled his fingers through the air, enjoying the explanation. “I just had to wait until there was a hand she claimed wasn’t salvageable—and then I’d know I had a winner.” Beaming, he leaned forward and scooped the chips toward him, enjoying the way they filled up his arms. He heard a couple drop to the floor, but left them, unable to suffer the indignity of rummaging around with his fingers.

“But,” he said, beginning to stack up his earnings, chip by chip, having no idea what color or value any of them were, “I’m willing to make you a deal, if you aren’t too sore a loser.”

“What deal? That was almost everything I had.”

“Your own fault, of course. For cheating.”

The man gargled something incoherent.

“But I’m nothing if not a businessman. I’d like to buy your escort-droid from you.” He waved his fingers over the stacks of chips. “Would you say she’s worth about … this much?”

The man spluttered. “You can’t even see her!”

Smirking, Thorne reached up and patted the hand that still rested on his shoulder. “She’s very believable,” he said. “But I’m a man of keen observation and, what can I say? She seems to be missing a pulse.” He gestured at the chips again. “Fair trade?”

He heard the screech of chair legs on tiles and the clomping of the man’s boots as he rounded the table. “Uh-oh.”

Thorne grabbed his cane from where he’d propped it against the table, just as he was pulled out of his seat by his shirt collar.

“Now, let’s be gentleme—”

A crunching pain rattled through his skull, snapping his head back. He fell onto the floor, his cheekbone throbbing and the taste of iron on his tongue. Testing that his jaw worked, he pressed a hand against his face, knowing the punch would leave one heck of a mark. “That,” he muttered through his muddled thoughts, “was not politically correct.”

A man roared, followed by more chairs screeching and furniture falling and something like dishes shattering and people yelling and then there was a mess of limbs crawling and tumbling as a full-scale brawl broke out in the bar.

Thorne curled up on himself, holding his cane above his head as a pathetic shield against the chaos, trying to make himself as small a target as he could. A wayward knee connected with his hip. A falling chair battered his forearms.