The Devil's Concubine ARC Page 7

  The Thampurian gurgled.

  “What did he say?” QuiTai asked.

  “Who cares what the fuck a vapor dreamer says?”

  “He looks pretty far gone. We’ll get nothing useful from him now. I’ll come back to interrogate him later.”

  The Thampurian gurgled again.

  “Let him go, Ivitch.”

  Ivitch wiped his hand on his trousers. “I already did.”

  QuiTai knelt before the man. His tongue protruded from his mouth.

  “Why are his lips turning purple?” Ivitch asked.

  “Because you crushed his throat, you idiot.”

  “He shouldn’t have been so weak.”

  Red bubbles foamed at the edges of the Thampurian’s mouth as he gasped for air. His hand clawed at something only his glazed eyes could see.

  “Excellent work, Ivitch. You’ve killed our only link to the smugglers, not to mention a Thampurian citizen, and the brother of the harbor master.”

  “An addict and a thief.”

  “I’m sure that the colonial government will take that into account when they try you for murder.”

  Ivitch slapped his hands together as if washing himself of the matter and crossed the skiff.

  “For the love of – Ivitch, get down. We can’t afford to be seen now.” QuiTai turned back to the man on the cot. His struggle for air was painful to hear. “Petrof will hear about this. You weren’t supposed to kill him.”

  Ivitch already had a foot on the next boat. “He’s not dead.”

  If only she could keep him alive. She glanced frantically around the bare shack, but even if an entire surgery full of instruments had been there, she wouldn’t have known what to do for him. She was overcome with sadness: One day, Jezereet’s beautiful face would be like his, her eyes abnormally large, her lips virulent red, her soul lost forever in the nothingworld of vapor.

  She risked raising her voice to say, “Ivitch, you bastard, get back here!”

  “My orders were to make sure you didn’t sleep with Zul. You’re on your own now.”

  QuiTai bit back the insults she gladly would have shouted at him if it hadn’t been for the soldiers.

  She waited for Ivitch to reach the dock before she leaned over the dirt Thampurian and lowered her fangs. Fear seeped through the fog of the vapor as his eyes darted about in search of help. She pressed her mouth to his, gently parted his lips with her tongue, and milked enough drops of her venom into his mouth for a gentle death that would end his suffering; she stroked his throat to help the poison down.

  He gripped her arm with sudden, bruising strength. His eyes widened as his pupils imploded. Fleeting wisps of his thoughts, blurred by fear and dreamer’s eyes, pushed into her mind as her venom invaded his brain. Words bubbled from his mouth with the red foam of his blood and burst gently on his lips. Help Kyam Zul find what he seeks.

  The Oracle had spoken.

  Before the Thampurians had brought their black lotus to the island, evoking the Oracle had been an ordeal. The women of her clan gathered rare roots and seeds and cooked them into a red tar that was then smoked, much as the black lotus was. The difference was that black lotus wasn’t fatal; at least, not if used in extreme moderation. The red tar always killed. The visions were more potent, but given the price, her clan rarely evoked their goddess.

  The dirt Thampurian’s head lolled. She felt his waning life. At least he wasn’t afraid anymore.

  She crawled across the hull and peeked over the side. Ivitch was already at the beach. He bypassed the harbor master’s office and went to the funicular station. Thank goodness he wasn’t smart enough to send someone to the skiff and frame her for the dirt Thampurian’s murder.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at the crenellated walls of the fortress. Two soldiers leaned against the ramparts overlooking the harbor. From the movement of their hands, she suspected they shared a kur. She had no idea how often the harbor master came to visit his brother, but as soon as the body was found, there would be questions, and she couldn’t risk the soldiers remembering her crossing the line of boats. And despite growing up on an island, she wasn’t a strong swimmer. Not to mention the dark shape gliding through the harbor water, its head swaying gently side to side opposite the movement of its tail. A fin broke the surface. The biggest sharks rarely swam into the harbor, but a man-killer could be lurking near one of the monolith stones. Even if she made it to land safely, the soldiers might wonder why she was swimming through shark-infested waters.

  Another glance up at the ramparts. One of the soldiers sat on the wall now. They weren’t moving anytime soon.

  QuiTai crept back toward the lean-to. Water pooled in the sections along the keel of the skiff, and as she crawled, her hand slipped off the damp wood into a puddle. Fiery pain shot through her palm.

  With tears running down her cheeks, she examined her hand. A thick, dark red welt rose along her skin. She squinted at the pool of water: at the right angle, she could see shards of thick glass.

  She rolled onto her back and gulped in air. The pain grew worse.

  She held her palm close to her face, expecting to see a sliver of glass in the welt. Instead, she saw a long, gelatinous, nearly invisible medusozoa tentacle clinging to her skin. A bright orange stinger, no thicker than a thread, ran through it. Her fingertips burned as she tried to peel it away. Cursing, she crawled to the cot in the lean-to, grabbed the corner of a threadbare blanket, and used it as a makeshift glove to pull the stinger from her hand. Fresh, raw pain seared across the welt. Her face felt hot, her mind dizzy, heart pounding, and now she couldn’t stop her legs from churning. She stared at the roof of the lean-to as she writhed helplessly. Sweat dripped down her temples. Tears poured freely down her cheeks.

  A bloodied shard of glass appeared in her mental vision as pain once again sliced through her palm. She grasped her wrist and forced her trembling hand closer to her face. There was no blood on the ugly dark red welt. No glass.

  Think of anything but the pain.

  The welt looked like the scar she’d seen on the hand of the Ravidian in the Red Happiness, the one he’d hidden when he saw her staring. He’d been sunburned, as if he’d spent a lot of time out in the sun. Maybe on a skiff.

  She could hear choppy waves slamming against the seawall. The skiff rocked. She could envision the scene: three Ravidians huddled in the hull when a rogue wave hit and a crate tumbled over. They rushed to set it upright and discovered a glass container broken. Perhaps they simply tossed it over the side without noticing that some of the contents had spilled. It would be hard enough to see glass and stinger in the puddle when the water was calm.

  The vision was so clear, so specific.

  She stared at the dirt Thampurian. This was what he’d seen. And then, with his last horrible gasp, his death cut their connection.

  The vision cleared and the real world flashed over her like flames across dry tinder.

  Her heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her ears. She could barely catch her breath. She wondered briefly if she might die, then hoped she would, then scolded herself for being so dramatic. The pain would pass. It had to pass. Until then, the trick was to keep her mind occupied.

  Sometimes, Ponongese workers fell into the tide pools and suffered multiple stings from the blue-light medusozoa. They might be in pain for days, and the stingers left scars, but nothing like this. The stinger that marked her had to have come from another species. No one fished from a skiff, so it was unlikely something got hauled on board in a net; but why anyone would deliberately bring such a creature aboard a boat puzzled her.

  Her heart still pounded as if she’d run miles. She staggered to her knees and reached toward the bottles of vinegar. They clinked together with the dull thud of empty glass, but she shook them over her hand one at a time in the hope that a few small drops were left. Sobs lifted her shoulders as she flung the last empty bottle away.

  Then she pushed the tears back down. Her anger shoved the pain a
way for a moment and cleared her thoughts. She took the vial of black lotus from the pocket in her blouse. A tiny bit of the resinous tar could put her into oblivion for a couple of hours. Ponongese, for some reason, seemed immune to the powerful addictive properties of the vapor, but not the effects.

  But if someone came to check on the dirt Thampurian, she needed to be awake to protect herself.

  She unhooked the chain around her neck with fumbling fingers and threaded it through the top of the black lotus vial. It seemed to take forever to make her shaking hands work, and pain shot down her arm with every movement.

  Ten minutes. Ten minutes without resorting to the vapor.

  With a long sigh of resignation, she began a slow, methodical search of the lean-to. She didn’t expect to find any record that the dirt Thampurian had taken the Ravidians and their mysterious crates to a hidden location, but it was something to do.

  Finally, the only thing she hadn’t checked was the body.

  I made it the first ten minutes. I’ll make it another ten before I give in. Save this for Jezereet. She needs it more than I do.

  She began her examination of the dirt Thampurian at his feet. Across his toes, she found a welt like hers, only not as red.

  “Poor ghoul. How you must have suffered,” she told the corpse as she closed his eyes. “But at least someone cared enough about you to bring you vinegar.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The sun took its damn time setting. The lavender shades of twilight, which usually delighted her, lingered too long in the sky. A new watch of soldiers had come and gone from the fortress ramparts before QuiTai dared to leave the skiff.

  Even in bright moonlight, moving from boat to boat in the dark was difficult. Without using her injured hand, it was almost impossible. QuiTai reached the dock and sank to her knees. The pain hadn’t dulled during the four or five hours she’d spent on the skiff, but at least her heart had stopped racing.

  The beach sand weighed down her steps. The harbor master’s office was dark, and the wharf was deserted. By the time she reached the funicular station, tendrils of hair stuck to her sweaty face. When she found the station closed, she leaned against the station building. Her gaze rose up the long climb to the town square. Cursing, she clutched her arm to her body and forced herself to begin walking.

  Bats filled the sky as she stumbled into the town square. A few brave Thampurians gathered inside a café, but no one dared sit outside to enjoy the fine night. Even the Ponongese had withdrawn from their verandas, closed their window screens, and bolted their doors tonight.

  She staggered past the little tables outside the café into an alleyway and pounded on the kitchen door.

  “It’s full moon,” someone called from the other side.

  It had been two years since the werewolves had terrorized Levapur during their full-moon shift, but it was seared into the memories of the town folk. No one in their right mind would open their door to her tonight. If they only knew that the moon did not control the werewolves’ ability to shift, perhaps they’d never open their doors again.

  “Please! I need vinegar.”

  The door cracked open. Fragrant steam, heavy with the scent of Thampurian spices, rolled over her.

  “Auntie QuiTai!”

  She half-expected the man to slam the door in her face: She loved her people, but they didn’t always return her affection. Instead, the heavyset Ponongese cook shouted over his shoulder, “Bring a bottle of vinegar!” as he glanced anxiously up and down the alleyway.

  QuiTai wavered. She had no idea how to keep going. She only knew that she must. “Forgive my manners. Have you eaten, uncle?”

  “Yes. And you?” he asked. It was a rote response while he uncorked the bottle of vinegar.

  She winced as she extended her hand. Her arm hurt all the way up to her shoulder. The sharp pangs ebbed as the vinegar flowed over her skin. She drew her first deep breath in hours.

  The cook held the door open to shed more light on her hand as the other kitchen workers crowded near to look. “I’ve seen stings before, but nothing like this,” one said. “Medusozoa?”

  QuiTai shrugged. “That would be a story worth telling, if I knew.”

  “My brother is a fisherman,” the youngest man said. “Should I warn him to carry vinegar on his boat?” Worry furrowed his forehead.

  Why did they bother her with questions she couldn’t answer? Still, she bit back her sharp tone because they’d opened their door to her. “I don’t know.”

  “Is it something new? Did those damn sea dragons bring a new evil to our waters?”

  The Oracle’s vision had showed that the stinger came from the Ravidians and their mysterious crates. Whatever it was they transported in glass jars, she never wanted to touch one again.

  An older man produced a damp towel. She smiled her thanks. It felt cool and perfect on her face and neck.

  “The jellies always bloom for the moon,” a short, sweet-faced dishwasher said as he wiped his hands on his soiled apron.

  So did the werewolves. There was no reasoning with them while they were under its influence. As much as she wanted to go to the Devil’s den and defend herself against any lies Ivitch had told Petrof by now, she already knew what they were capable of once they were in their wolf forms. She’d have to wait.

  “Do you need shelter, auntie?” the oldest man asked. He seemed to regret the invitation as soon as he uttered it, but being Ponongese, he’d never take it back. He corked the vinegar bottle and handed it to her.

  “Your kindness does you credit, uncle, but I must be on my way.” He didn’t offer again, although at least twice was custom. She bowed and headed down the alley. Behind her, she heard the door slam shut against the night.

  Despite the relief of the vinegar, her hand still hurt. She touched the vial of black lotus on the chain around her neck. Somehow she’d managed to get through these painful hours without its help, but her resolve was ebbing with her energy.

  Jezereet would be crazy with need by now. And all Qui Tai wanted to do was sleep. For once, she could risk spending the night next to Jezereet.

  Only three more blocks to go.

  She heard a sound behind her. Not paws: a footstep. Ears sharply focused, she kept walking. At the next alleyway, she hurried to the main road.

  Another sound.

  Tapping deep into the last of her energy, QuiTai ran, weaving across verandas and over railings. By the time she reached the vine at the back of the Red Happiness, she heard no more tracking sounds behind her.

  Staring up at the vine, she was tempted to go around through the front doors. Waves of exhaustion swept over her. Then, gritting her teeth, she tucked the back of her sarong into the waistband so the skirt wouldn’t tangle in her legs, gripped the vine, and began to climb.

  Chapter 5: Jezereet

  QuiTai paused on the door of Jezereet’s room, leaning wearily against the frame. Jezereet smiled at her: The long scratch marks on her arms had faded, and she had dreamer’s eyes.

  “I’m relieved to see you so tranquil,” QuiTai said. “Do I smell vapor?”

  Jezereet wrung her hands together, then darted to her window and knelt on the divan to push open the window screen. “It’s hot in here. You must smell my sweat. Isn’t that breeze nice?”

  QuiTai heard footsteps in the hallway. She stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “I thought you hated the feel of the air on your skin.”

  Jezereet hugged herself and rocked side to side.

  QuiTai looked longingly at the bed. The soft mattress would feel so good… But until Jezereet got her pipe, there was no chance of sleep.

  The footsteps in the hallway were closer. Heavy; a man. QuiTai turned to the room door.

  “Why are you going already? You can’t leave. You can’t!” Jezereet stumbled to QuiTai and gripped her arms.

  “I’m not leaving, I’m locking the door,” QuiTai said calmly.

  “No one will bother us.”

  “I wante
d to be certain. I think I was followed...” But no, she should not mention that. Jezereet might think of wolves and panic.

  Jezereet sighed loudly. “I hate it when you think too much. It makes me tense.”

  Not too far down the hallway, a door closed with a quiet click.

  “Anything for you,” QuiTai said.

  Jezereet laughed merrily: if QuiTai hadn’t heard that musical laugh so many times as she waited offstage for her cue, she might have believed it was real. Jezereet kept looking toward the window as if she expected a customer to stroll by on the veranda. It struck QuiTai as a little odd that she hadn’t demanded black lotus yet. Then she felt bad that Jezereet always had to beg. “Get the kit,” she said.

  Jezereet clapped her handed together and bounced. “You brought me some?”

  “I promised.”

  Jezereet rushed to grab a small cabinet from her wardrobe, and then shoved everything on the low table beside her divan onto the floor to make room for it. She licked her lips as she watched QuiTai cross to the divan.

  QuiTai opened the cabinet doors and folded down a wooden tray. Delicate clay pipes with tiny bowls and long slender stems clattered out; a short glass spirit lamp nestled inside the purple velvet, but the black leather restraints that held it in place hadn’t been snapped closed. She took the glass flue off the lamp and trimmed the wick, something she always did before she put it away.

  “You used this,” she said.

  Jezereet’s feet tapped against the floor as she shrugged up at the ceiling.

  “What did you do? Scrape it from the bowls and recook it?”

  “Um. Yes.” Jezereet nodded hard. “That’s what I did.”

  “I wasn’t aware you knew how.”

  “I watch you all the time.” Jezereet rose from the divan. “You didn’t bring me any for so long, and the bugs were under my skin, and then the wolf came...”

  Overcome with guilt, QuiTai rushed over to hug her. “Hush, now. That was a long time ago.”