Twenty Melinoë
Twenty
Melino?
It’s done. I let go of Inesa’s hand, flexing my fingers. The agreement has been made. Like signing a Caerus contract. Now we sit in silence, staring at each other guardedly. The knife and the gun still lie between us. My gaze skims over them, muscles itching to reach out.
“You should take it,” Inesa blurts. “The rifle, I mean. I don’t know how to use it.”
I nod, still wary. But if she really were planning to spring at me, she’s had plenty of better chances to do it. As I reach forward, I feel a prickling in my hand, my skin still humming with the memory of Inesa’s touch. The strange heat spreads, and I hope it doesn’t reach my face. I don’t need her to see me flush.
When I have the rifle in my grip, I’m overcome with relief. Just the smoothness of its barrel, the familiar weight, makes me feel like myself again. Well, like an Angel, at least.
Inesa isn’t stupid. As I was reaching for the rifle, she grabbed the knife, slipping it into the shaft of her boot. Mutual assured destruction. It ended—tenuously—decades of war between New England and New Amsterdam, so maybe it will work for us, too.
I meet Inesa’s eyes, as if to ask, Now what ?
She inhales. Then she pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dirt from her knees. “We should get walking, I guess. If you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’m fine.” I don’t mean for the words to sound cold, bitten-off, but it’s just instinct. I stand up, faltering a bit, which definitely undercuts my point.
Inesa’s gaze is concerned. It seems genuine, but I have to remember that it’s not concern for my well-being, not really. I’m a sentient weapon to her, just something to keep the Wends and the other dangers of the forest at bay. I should be used to it. I’m just a sentient weapon to Caerus, too.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Inesa asks, brow furrowing.
“Yes,” I say curtly.
She doesn’t look convinced. “It’ll help both of us if we can find a source of water. Unless you somehow have that in your suit, too.”
“No. But I have decon-tabs.” I feel a surge of unexpected bitterness toward Azrael. Why wouldn’t he at least supply me with clean water? And why was I too stupid to think of bringing it myself?
Because it was supposed to be easy. Because it was supposed to be over in a matter of hours. My gaze zeroes in on the bruises around Inesa’s throat. If I had only pressed down a little harder—
“That’s good,” Inesa says. “I think I know where to find something to drink.”
She starts out of the cave, beckoning me after her. I follow slowly, still unsteady on my feet. As she steps into the sun, the light casts a dappled pattern on her face, drawing out the flecks of green in her eyes. I freeze for a moment, just watching her.
Inesa pauses, too. “Come on. I’m not going to try to poison you.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” I bite back, too quickly.
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Then let’s go.”
That’s not what I’m worried about, her killing me. Not anymore. If I unfold my fingers, I can still feel the warmth her hand left behind. And if I close my eyes, I can see her face from my dream, the playful quirk of her lips, the dancing, mischievous gaze. I sling my rifle over my shoulder and blink repeatedly, trying to dispel the images. They’re more alarming to me than a knife to the throat.
I stand still and let the coldness seep back into my bones, ice forming a wall around my heart. When the time comes, I know I can still find the strength to kill her.
Inesa is not quite the unflappable navigator I hoped she would be. Once we’re out of the cave and into a small clearing, she pauses. Her eyes dart around uncertainly. Then she walks over to a tree and examines its lichen-crusted trunk.
After a few moments, she says, “This way.”
“Which way?”
She indicates with her chin. “South.”
“Why south?”
“The farther north you get into the outlying Counties, the wilder the woods are,” she says. “We’re looking for civilization, right? That means our best bet is south.”
It’s logical enough. “How do you know which way is south?”
“The way the moss grows on the rocks and the trees,” she says. “It’s usually on the north side, where it’s darker and damper.”
The word usually doesn’t fill me with unreserved faith, but Inesa’s tone is assured. “Where did you learn that?”
“My dad.” She doesn’t look up when she says it, and there’s a faint tremor in her voice. “He wasn’t good for much, but survival was kind of his specialty.”
Her father, the one who fell off Caerus’s grid. Or maybe jumped off. I don’t want to let Inesa know I’ve been briefed on her background; I feel creepy, suddenly, carrying around secrets I shouldn’t have. Secrets that should be hers to keep. But Caerus sees everything, and through them, so do I.
We walk without speaking for a while, under the deep-green canopy, through the clutter of fallen leaves and the damp soil. Now that the withdrawal has mostly passed and my exhaustion has ebbed, the moist air doesn’t feel quite so oppressive. There’s a strange clarity to it, a coolness that isn’t artificial, like what we breathe inside the City buildings. No air conditioners rattling away in the background—just the trees, quietly and gently stretching their branches over our heads.
Inesa stops so suddenly that I have to skid to a halt to avoid crashing into her. She crouches down and says, “Look.”
I squint over her shoulder, but I don’t see anything except mud and mashed leaves. “What?”
“Deer tracks,” she says triumphantly. “That means they’re close. And if they’re close, water is nearby, too. Every creature needs to drink, so animals tend to stick near a source of water.”
I would never have noticed the small indentation in the earth, and I certainly wouldn’t have identified it as evidence of animal life. Studying it carefully, I can make out the vague outline of a hoof. Maybe. But then it stretches outward, in five odd, uneven points.
“It doesn’t look like a deer print,” I say at last.
“Most of the deer don’t have hooves anymore,” Inesa says. “They’re mutations. They have webbed feet. Even scales, some of them.”
The idea of a deer with scales and webbed feet makes my skin chill. “I’m not eating one of those.”
And, then, unexpectedly, Inesa laughs. It’s a clear, bright sound, like water from a spout. “No, that would be a bad idea.”
“You said that’s how the Wends become Wends.” I can hazily recall the conversation we had before I passed out, when the withdrawal was still clouding my senses. “By eating the mutations.”
She nods.
“And you said the mutations are outcompeting the unchanged animals,” I say. “So the Wends must be outcompeting people.”
Inesa doesn’t reply. She glances away from me, casting her gaze around the clearing. Her eyes are shining and slightly damp, but they’re elsewhere. Watching something that’s invisible to me. Replaying a memory I wasn’t briefed on. A secret she’s managed to keep.
After a few moments, she turns back and says, “We’ll see.”
We don’t talk for another long bout. Inesa dutifully follows the deer tracks, and I dutifully follow her. My tongue is thick and fuzzy in my mouth, and my throat is hollow with horrible, scraping thirst. I’m almost tempted to start licking rainwater off the leaves, but I have a feeling that that, like everything else, is contaminated. It seems perverse and cruel that anyone could die of thirst here in the outlying Counties, in the drowning world.
Inesa pauses, less abruptly this time. She falls silent, her gaze traveling slowly over the nearby trees and rocks. Before I can ask what’s wrong, she puts a finger meaningfully to her lips.
And then, in the silence, I hear it: trickling water. It’s faint, but unmistakable. My knees go weak with relief.
We walk on for a few moments more, and then, mercifully, we reach a small stream. It’s a tiny furrow carved into the earth, and again, I’m not sure I would have noticed it on my own. It burbles softly as it runs over tree roots and its bed of gray stones. I’m surprised by how clear the water looks—but maybe that’s just my own wishful thinking.
Then I make a gutting realization. “I don’t have anything to drink it from.”
As tempting as it is, scooping the water up with my hands is not an option. It looks clear, but I don’t trust that the water is potable. It’ll need a few fizzling decon-tabs before we can drink it without worrying about bacteria, or worse.
Inesa frowns. She casts her gaze around the area again. Then she says, “Wait here.”
I do, staring longingly down at the stream at first, and then letting my eyes creep over toward her. She’s on her knees, rooting around in the fallen leaves. Her dark hair is tumbling over her shoulders in loose, unruly waves. I suddenly become self-conscious about my own hair and take the opportunity to pull it back into its usual sleek ponytail, leaving no strands to flutter around my face. It should make me feel better, more like myself, but instead I just feel stranger. More out of place.
Inesa gets to her feet, holding something up with a pleased expression. It’s just a piece of wood. Part of a fallen tree, by the looks of it, spongy and slightly porous with termite erosion. She doesn’t wait for me to question her; she just removes my knife from the shaft of her boot and starts sawing at the wood.
It bothers me a little bit to see my knife, with its artfully honed black steel blade, used for such ignoble purposes. But I’m not in any position to be sentimental. Carefully, Inesa whittles away at the piece of wood, curly slivers falling to the ground. Her brow is furrowed with concentration, and when she clenches her jaw, a small dimple appears in her left cheek.
I’m annoyed at myself for noticing that.
Finally, she manages to carve a distinct depression in the wood, a smooth indentation deep enough for water to settle. It would be a bit too generous to call it a bowl, but it will get the job done.
I can’t bite back my curiosity. “How did you learn to do that?” If she can handle a knife this well, maybe I have more to fear than I thought.
“Dad again,” she says.
I picture her father’s face on the holoscreen, the defiance burning in his gaze. I shouldn’t say anything, but this time, the words seem to just spill out before I can stop them.
“I heard he was gone,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.
Surprise briefly flickers across Inesa’s face. “I suppose you know everything about me, don’t you.”
“Just what Caerus was able to compile.” Unaccountably, heat begins to creep up my cheeks. “Just what Azrael needed to create a narrative.”
Inesa arches a brow. “So what was his narrative about me?”
Shame forms a knot in my stomach. When I speak, I fumble over my words.
“Well, the audience likes an element of tragedy. So with your missing father, and your sick mother...” I pause. “And then your relationship with your brother; that was a key selling point, too. The audience is also, well... shallow. The fact that you look like—that you’re so pretty...”
My voice drops off. My face is burning.
The corner of Inesa’s mouth twitches. There’s a faint flush painting her cheeks, deepening her freckles. After a moment, she says, “That’s very shrewd of him.”
I just nod, wishing Caerus had taken away my ability to blush entirely.
We fall silent for a few moments. There’s something charged in the air, like the static around a circuit board. Inesa’s fingers tighten around the bowl.
“So you really don’t know where he is, either?” she asks quietly.
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about her father. I’m not sure why, but the question makes me feel bereft. Like I’ve lost something I’m not sure I even had in the first place.
“No,” I reply. “There’s been no activity on his account. If he were dead, Azrael figured you would have applied for a death certificate. To be eligible for benefits.”
Inesa’s mouth tightens. “You can’t apply for a death certificate without a body. We just woke up one morning and he was gone.”
The tremor in her voice seems to ripple the air itself. I don’t probe any further.
Inesa crouches down beside the creek and tries to scoop up some water, but the bowl is shallow and hard to fill. After a few increasingly frustrated tries, she sets the bowl aside and takes something out of her pocket. It’s a piece of metal, small and scuffed, and it glints in the sunlight.
“What is that?”
“A compass. Well, part of one.” Inesa’s gaze is fixed on it. “One of the more useless things we inherited from Dad. Luka has the other half.”
She uses the broken piece to scoop up water from the stream and fill the bowl. Though its construction was slapdash, the bowl works well: No water leaks out from the wood as she lifts it from the ground.
I remove the decon-tabs from a pocket of my suit. It’s not much water, and I can’t afford to be wasteful with them, so I only put one in. It fizzes for a few seconds before it dissolves, leaving the water slightly carbonated.
Inesa holds out the bowl with two hands. “You first.”
Considering she’s the one who found the stream and made the bowl, it seems unfair. “No, you.”
Her eyes gleam. “Afraid I’m poisoning you?”
“No.” My skin prickles with heat. “Okay. Fine.”
I take the bowl from her and tilt it to my mouth. Cool water trickles down my parched throat, and almost immediately I feel woozy with relief. My instincts tell me to gulp it all down, remorselessly, but Inesa is waiting, so I ration my sips.
Somewhat reluctantly, I offer the half-filled bowl back to her.
She puts the compass case away, so both of her hands are free, then takes the bowl. While she drinks, I watch her. I find myself oddly fascinated by the way her throat pulses when she swallows, distorting the garish bruises that are turning from red to violet. When I remember how I touched her there, I feel a jolt of heat.
My temple throbs, reminding me of the thrust of the rifle against it. Finally, I bring myself to ask the question that’s been on my tongue since we first ran into each other in the woods.
“What happened to your brother?”
Slowly, Inesa lowers the bowl. There are a few beads of moisture clinging to her lips, and she wipes them away. My heart does an odd little stutter in my chest.
“I told you,” she says at last, “we got separated when the Wends were chasing us.”
The bowl has been completely drained. Inesa takes out the compass piece again to refill it. Wind comes shuddering through the trees, lifting my hair and making goose bumps rise on the back of my neck.
Inesa looks up at me from under her lashes.
“I’m going to find him,” she says. “I don’t care how long it takes. I know he’s looking for me, too.”
I don’t reply. There’s a sheen of pain in her eyes, but underneath it there’s determination, fierce and bright. I wonder if there’s anyone in the world I love enough to never give up on. To follow to the end of the world. Maybe Keres, but she doesn’t see me anymore. I’d be chasing a ghost. Azrael? He’s looking for me. He must be. But I don’t know if he’s looking for Melino?, because he can’t bear to lose her, or for his perfect Angel, his most adept creation—and is there any difference between the two?
Inesa might be chasing a ghost herself. Luka could very well be dead, and we’re both aware of it, though it doesn’t bear speaking aloud. I should hope for my own sake that he is. But when I look into Inesa’s burning gaze, there’s a tiny flare in my own chest to match it.
I try to stamp it out as quickly as it sparks to life. We drink our fill of water in silence, though I never quite manage to return my heart to a steady rhythm. And, as always, there’s the hum of her tracker, pulsing faithfully alongside it.