Page 22
Traitorous Scum
Rumi
Rumi and Melba spent the day making bread, drying herbs, and smoking meat from some kind of large reptilian animal.
They draped the beast’s leathery skin across thin rods to dry.
Melba had informed her that they would use it for things like shoes or furniture and the claws for tools.
She liked Melba, Rumi decided.
She reminded Rumi of a nut: a hard outer shell with sweet meat inside.
Every so often, she got a flash of a smile and counted it as a victory in her mind.
She and Melba made a stew filled with tubers, root vegetables, and some of the meat from an animal Gavin had caught.
She took the time to teach Rumi about the herbs and plants they added to the stew, their names and uses, and Rumi, in turn, made comparisons to the plants and spices from her own land.
By the time it was ready, Melba’s smiles came to the surface readily, and Rumi had even earned a couple of hoarse laughs.
When it was time, they brought the food to the dining room, only to find it full of men removing their protective scarves, the scent of sweat hanging heavily in the air.
Rumi hung back by the door, unsure of her place here.
“Heya Lil’ Miss!”
Fyn waved from where he sat on the chair, removing his boots.
He had taken off his hat and she was surprised to see a head of hair so brightly orange it reminded her of the flowers her people ground into paste to paint their skin during the winter months to chase away the gloom.
She waved at Fyn before flashes of bare skin caught her attention.
Rumi gasped, hiding her face as the men, one by one, removed their sand-caked shirts and pants, leaving only pale drawers hanging from their hips.
She heard the plops as they deposited their clothing into a wicker basket.
“Ah, don’t be shy, dear,”
Melba said, urging her further into the room to put the food on the table.
She heard some of the other men chuckle at her clear embarrassment, her cheeks flaming and her ears burning.
Melba clucked at the room, “Stop laughin’ at the poor dear,”
she scolded before turning to Rumi.
“They didn’t mean to give you a fright.
I’m just goin’ to take the dirties out to do washin’ later on.
You can freshen up for supper in the bedroom.”
Gentle hands pressed on her shoulders, guiding her down the hallway on uneven feet.
Rumi squeezed her eyes tightly together to avoid seeing any more of the undressed men than she already had.
“Thank you.
I do not mean to be a nuisance…I was not expecting…”
She continued muttering until she heard the door open with a snick.
Heaving a sigh of relief when she crossed the threshold, she slowly opened her eyes and turned to face Melba and found the woman looking her over with warm brown eyes.
“Don’t worry ‘bout them.
They’re only teasin’ a bit, but they know better than to give you any real trouble.
You worked hard today.
You can put your clothes in a pile outside the door and I’ll be ‘round for ‘em.”
Melba nodded her head toward the small bedroll Rumi had used the night before, an apologetic smile crossing her face.
“Wes’ll get somethin’ better for you soon, too.
The boys don’t like t’share, but they won’t bother you none tonight.”
Then she was gone, leaving Rumi back in the unfamiliar room where her day had begun.
After a few moments, she methodically removed the protective wrapping designed to keep the devastating heat off her skin.
She sat on the little pad that had become her bed and faced the bunks lining the other two walls and found herself wondering how her people were faring.
How was Sezsha and her aba? Had her betrothal to Zinhar unraveled? How would they mend the relations between their tribes without her?
She refused to cry, but she took a moment to connect with her Ti’la—to fill her breath with the grounding calm while she finished undressing.
She wondered where everyone else had slept last night if not in here.
No one had entered, and she had assumed correctly that these bunks belonged to the men.
Were they merely being polite? Having no answers that made sense, she began to dress.
When she was clad in only her borrowed shirt and the too-big trousers, held up by the straps that Melba had given her to sling over her shoulders, she exited the bedroom.
Again, the smell of too many sweaty men filled her nose, but it was preferable to the cloying feeling of being stuck in a cell.
She padded back down the hallway until she spotted Fyn.
He, the colonel, and Weston were all settled around the table near the window, silvery moonlight limning their faces as if they were touched by gods.
She kept her eyes on their illuminated faces, trying to remain unaware of their bare torsos—or at least, to appear to be so.
The other men in the room had formed a semi-circle around the fireplace and were conversing merrily with plates or mugs in their hands, the occasional guffaw interrupting the chatter.
The smell of alcohol was sharp as she drew closer, carefully avoiding looking at the near-naked bodies everywhere.
Sliding along the wall so as not to disturb anyone, she crept up to Fyn, who scootched a chair out for her between himself and Weston.
GreenEyes sat across from them.
Fyn’s own bright eyes lit up with his smile and he draped an easy arm around Rumi, ignoring the way she stiffened and the heat that rose to the surface of her skin—surely they would all see the crimson creeping up her neck right up to the tips of her pointed ears.
Melba smiled warmly as she approached, setting a plate in front of Rumi stacked high with the foods they had spent the afternoon making.
Fyn turned to Rumi and spoke.
“Hey, yer lookin’ a mite shaken.
Don’t ya worry, tell ol’ Fyn what’s on yer mind.”
“I was wondering where everyone slept last night,”
she asked the table, her eyes carefully glued to the items before her.
The plate.
Utensils.
A basket full of small faded blue towels.
Anything to keep from looking at the bare chests.
She was spoken for, and such displays in the presence of a claimed woman were…improper.
The colonel shifted and leaned back in the chair, turning his gaze out the window as Fyn broke into a wide toothy grin.
“Me ‘n Cal slept out here with Dirk ‘n Jamie, too.
Weston said dem two bunks was guest bunks, but we didn’t mind sharin’ the floor, eh Cal?”
Fyn elbowed the colonel in the ribs, earning a grunt from the man, who refused to meet her eyes even as she spoke again.
“I do not want to take your sleeping space.”
“I’m happy t’ hear you say that! The floors out here ain’t that comfy,”
Fyn said, lightheartedly.
Weston chuckled and leaned toward her with a mug in his hand, a shallow bowl in the other, offering her a choice between the two.
“We don’t have more mugs that ain’t broke,”
he explained.
“You’re welcome to what we’ve got.”
“Oh,”
she lifted her eyes to his, a shy, embarrassed smile curling her lips.
She took the bowl, letting him keep the mug and using the movement to slip out from beneath Fyn’s arm.
“Thank you.”
Weston stood and took a bottle from the nearby table, pouring some liquid into the base of the bowl and then into his mug before settling into the chair beside her once more.
“Cheers,”
he said with a smile.
Bringing the bowl to her lips, she surreptitiously looked around the room once more.
It seemed less daunting now that she was no longer half-starved and delirious from extreme dehydration.
The clay that made up the walls was solid, and it was clear that great pains had been taken to ensure the building would last.
The cracks between the materials were filled with some sort of mud or putty, no doubt to keep the weather out.
There was not much in the way of decorations like she had in her home, but above the mantle in the living room was an endearing array of what she imagined young children would find in the woods.
Feathers of various colors, a large rock with a strange streak of blue through it, an animal skull, and a makeshift knife.
Rugs littered the floor haphazardly.
As if the men remembered their mothers putting down rugs but did not understand the reasoning behind it, just that it was proper.
Melba clearly kept to the kitchens and garden.
Her ears perked up as the others laughed again, pulling her attention.
“I tell ya, they was the biggest breasts I ever saw!”
One of them, Gavin, said indignantly.
“Yer a damned liar and a fool,”
another man, she had forgotten his name, replied boisterously, shoving the first man’s shoulder and causing his drink to slosh over his cup.
Their laughter was contagious, and she felt her shoulders relaxing.
Clearly this was just how things were done.
An easy, casual sort of gathering.
She began to pick at the food on her plate, nibbling as she listened and observed.
In very little time, the plate was nearly empty.
Surprising, given how much food had been on it.
She flushed again, taking another sip from her bowl, but she was beginning to feel a bit foolish to have reacted to their lack of inhibition.
Clearly, they simply did not regard nudity in the same way she did—the way her people did.
As long as she was not asked to strip down, then there would be no issues.
Rumi felt the hairs on her neck stand on end as her eyes met Dirk’s.
He regarded her cooly from across the room, over the rim of his mug, as if the laughter and raunchy humor didn’t touch his ears at all.
She sat rooted to the spot, her nerves tingling and her heart leaping into her throat.
She knew all too well the precariousness of her situation.
Any one of these men could hurt her, and being surrounded by strangers who could easily kill…her stomach churned and coiled like a frantic serpent.
They could try.
But she would be no one’s victim.
Not ever again.
She met Dirk’s stare with one of her own and raised a single eyebrow as she lifted her bowl in a salute.
If he decided to make himself a foe, she would ensure that she would be a worthy opponent.
Dirk snorted at the salute and rolled his eyes before quickly excusing himself and ambling into the hall.
She turned her attention back to Fyn and Colonel Reid, who were still chatting with Weston, though the colonel was watching her shrewdly.
“Can I give you a nickname?”
Fyn drawled and once again leaned over her chair to drape his arm over her shoulder, his breath smelling strongly of alcohol.
Rumi was torn between pulling away or allowing the friendly gesture.
“How’s about Sandcat? Kitty?”
Fyn winked at the colonel, like they were sharing a joke.
“Curly Sue? For yer hair.
Sweet Pea? Oh!”
Suddenly he held up his hand, swaying slightly in his seat.
He curled over, folding forward and digging in his pocket.
“Not Sweet Pea.
This here is Sweet Pea.”
He presented a small knife about the size of her palm, with a creamy white hilt and a leather sheath.
“Claws for the sandcat.”
He winked again and handed her the blade.
Rumi’s fingers closed around the handle, the small weapon feeling warm and comfortable in her hand.
“Fyn! What’re ya doin’?”
the colonel hissed, bending over the table.
“You can’t just give her a weapon.”
“Sure I can.”
He shrugged nonchalantly, patting her back.
“Cal here just needs a good nap,”
Fyn chuckled.
“You finished wi’ dat?”
When she nodded, he stood and offered his arm like a gentleman might.
“C’mon, Kitty, I’ll keep ya company.
They only get more boist’rous the more they be drinkin’.”
Fyn guided her away from the group and the colonel’s scowl.
As Weston turned to look out the window, stroking his greying beard and watching the stars, Rumi could not resist a challenging smile, feeling the rush of victory as the colonel’s frown tightened and his face flushed.
As she turned away, she clutched the knife in her hands, grateful for the kindness that Fyn had paid her, and crossed the threshold into the dim bedroom.
She could see Dirk’s silhouette on the bottom bunk on her right, his eyes flashing in the dim light as he turned his face to watch Rumi and Fyn enter.
He scoffed and rolled to face the wall.
She did not know what she had done to make him dislike her, but she clutched the knife tighter.
“I’ll just be right there.”
Fyn pointed to the top bunk above Dirk with an easy grin as he closed the door behind them.
Rumi found herself wishing that he was on the other bottom bunk and a little closer to her.
Having Dirk so close made her stomach knot and the back of her neck tingle uncomfortably.
“Thanks, Fyn,”
she whispered, kneeling on her bedroll and tucking the knife under her pillow.
The bed creaked as Fyn pulled himself onto his bunk, each groan of the wood mapping his actions in the dark.
She could picture his leg dangling over the edge as he grunted, swinging it up over the lip of the bed.
The image made her smile.
She eased back into her spot on the floor and curled beneath the blankets, squeezing her eyes closed.
Rumi struggled to sleep.
The sound of strangers breathing so nearby, combined with the creaks of the beds and the groaning of the old house, set her teeth on edge.
The familiar, soft rumble of conversation just outside the door did little to alleviate the anxious tension knotting up her shoulders.
Every time a bed creaked, her eyes shot open and her fingers brushed the hilt of the knife, just to be sure it was still there.
Eventually her eyelids grew heavy and exhaustion won out.
A slice of light swiped over her face as someone opened the door.
Blearily, she looked up to see Dirk slipping out of the room, followed by Fyn.
Again, she was alone, but before she could think on it, her eyes drifted closed.
***
Bang!
Rumi leapt from her skin, tossing the blankets in a blind panic and rolling to her feet before her eyes adjusted to the light from the other room.
The door had been left open.
Shouts from outside the bedroom had her heart pounding in her chest, each pulse making her body buzz with adrenaline.
She could not make out the words, the accents too thick and loud to comprehend with her sleep-addled brain.
Rumi crept to the door on silent feet and peered through the space between the door and the wall.
Light glinted off the metal of a strange weapon.
One she recognized.
Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.
A piercer.
Weston, Jamie, and Gavin held their weapons up at chest height, aimed at the front door.
The colonel and Fynten stood slightly to the left, closer to her, but had not drawn their weapons, though their hands brushed the holsters at their hips.
They had all gotten dressed in new clothes while she had been sleeping, apparently.
She eased her head out more to peek past the corner at who would dare attempt to step into this den of testosterone.
Dirk’s dark head came into view at the window, but only just.
She craned her head to see more, when a voice that made her blood run cold spoke.
“We’re not looking for trouble.
Dirk here says you’re harboring our prisoner, and we would like her returned.”
A swell of panic slid up her spine and the scars on her back burned at the memories.
“Dirk says a lotta things that ain’t true,”
Weston replied.
“As I said, you cross that doorway, and I’ll defend my home.
Bet your life on that.”
“She’s an Arryvian woman.
Dark hair with markings on her face.”
Sullivan’s voice was calm, ignoring Weston’s threat.
Fynten hardly turned his head, but he met her eyes, and she froze in place.
Her heart squeezed as the colonel followed the shift in Fyn’s movement and glanced her way as well.
This was not good.
She was stuck.
That green-eyed devil would surely turn her in.
“Go,”
Fynten mouthed, barely moving his lips.
Beside him, Callum whispered a curse and looked up at the ceiling.
Rumi did not wait to see what happened next.
She darted back into the room and gathered the bedroll in her arms, checking to make sure the knife Fyn had given her was still there before knotting it all together inside a blanket.
She grabbed the boots, debating putting them on before realizing they would only slow her down.
She tossed them aside as she slipped the makeshift sack over her shoulder so the bundle laid across her back, then she dashed for the window.
Her breath soughed out of her dry throat as she tugged at the shutter over the window and she muttered a curse.
She felt for the latch, urgency causing her hands to shake, but finally, the shutter swung open.
She shoved the bag out the window and listened for the faint thump.
It was not too far to the ground, thankfully.
Her arms shook as she lifted herself up onto the ledge.
Still so damned weak.
Rumi eased herself into the small, square window frame, moonlight illuminating her way, and clung to the outside of the strange, clay house, her muscles screaming as she demanded they hold her weight.
She gritted her teeth as she lowered herself down, but her body gave up halfway and she fell to the sandy ground unceremoniously with a grunt.
Rumi did not wait to be discovered.
She grabbed the bag and dashed away from the house.
Tall plants stretched up to the moon—the ones she had realized were not trees at all, though they were large and towered over her.
What she thought had been a spindly forest before was merely many of these strange prickly plants of varying sizes.
She wove around them, her feet skating over the gritty ground, hoping that weaving would make her more difficult to catch.
Moonlight lit her way, each footfall on the ground resounding through her body like a drum beating out a chant: Get away. Get home.
She did not know where she was going or how she would get to safety, only that she had to stay out of his reach.
Though it was night, the sun-cooked sand was hot against the bottoms of her feet, and she cursed the wind for not allowing enough time to slip the shoes on.
She ignored the pain, using it to urge her ever onward.
Wind ripped at her hair and she imagined it trailing behind her like a dark flag, a war cry to those who would have her submit.
Her arms pumped at her sides.
She fantasized that they were wings, so she could simply fly into the skies.
Or—if she had claws, she thought—she could climb to the top of the mountains and disappear.
“She’s over here!”
Damn Dirk to Behiba’s depths!
That villainous scum.
More shouts rang out across the desert sands.
Sullivan’s voice could be heard clearly.
“Clip her wings, but check your shots! It would be best to bring her in alive!”
Several loud cracking sounds made her jolt, nearly causing her to lose her footing as she ran as fast as she could.
She imagined she was the shadow cat, leaping through the jungle on soft paws, moving faster than light.
Dust sprayed just to her left as something struck the ground ahead of her.
They were firing at her? She glanced back.
Chasing after her were five people—Fyn and the colonel, followed by Sullivan and two of his soldiers.
Projectiles hit the ground near her feet, sending explosions of sand into the air and grit into her mouth and eyes.
Fire seared across her calf and she saw stars as pain froze her muscles.
Rumi cried out and collapsed, clutching her leg to her chest. Crimson wept from the wound just below her knee and dripped onto the sand, causing little sprouts of green to twist upward, reaching for her. A pitiful display of beauty, if macabre.
With a whimper, she pulled herself to her feet and began a hobbled dash away, hot tears streaking through the dirt on her face.
She could not go back.
She would not.
“Go, Kitty!”
Fyn called, waving her onward.
“Don’t look back!”
She glanced back, her heart hammering, blood dripping, trying to find purchase on the rocky terrain.
Sullivan stopped and raised his piercer.
“Traitor,”
he stated calmly, the barrel leveled at Fyn.
No, no, no! She opened her mouth to warn him.
Crack! Fyn’s eyes widened as blood sprayed from his shoulder and soaked through the front of his shirt.
His body shuddered as he fell to the sand.
Rumi stumbled to a halt, a scream ripping from her throat.
The colonel dipped to help his friend, guiding Fyn’s hand to staunch the bleeding.
With a roar that echoed against the rocks, full of rage and sadness, the colonel drew his piercer.
Moving faster than a viper, he whipped around and fired two shots into the nearest of Sullivan’s goons, who hit the sand with a shout, curling into a fetal position.
Blood seeped from their fingers as they clutched at their legs.
The next shot flew wide as Fyn gripped the colonel’s shirt and pulled him close.
“Get Kitty outta here, Cal,”
Fyn hissed, his voice carrying over the desert sand, and he shoved the colonel away.
“Don’t ya fuckin’ stop.
I’m as good as dead. Go.”
With her heart ricocheting in her chest in perpetuity, she turned away from Fyn and ran, a lurching stumbling run, as blood seeped down, down, to sprout the sands beneath her feet.
The moon mocked her struggle and the stars winked like they knew something she did not—some twist of fate that was keeping her here in this godsforsaken place.
Well, Rumi would have the last laugh. Somehow.
Her ankle twisted over an uneven rock, sending her stumbling.
Again.
But she did not fall.
She pinned her lower lip beneath her teeth, caging in the yelps of pain with each limping step as she pressed on.
“I gotcha, Twiggy.”
No sooner had the words been spoken than firm hands lifted her from the ground.
An arm slid beneath her knees, another around her back.
Instinctively, she wove her arms around his neck to ease her weight.
The colonel held her to his chest, soft pants falling from his lips as he ran, his long legs carrying them farther than she could have alone.
Rumi risked a glance over his shoulder.
Sullivan stood watching them flee, his face a mask, his eyes piercing the distance.
Moonlight shone off another piercer.
Weston prowled forward and leveled his weapon at Sullivan as his men circled around him like a pack of wolves.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22 (Reading here)
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60