Chapter 6
Six
The tent flap twitches. Gold rings flash as the man tightens his hold on the silk. Then, his nasally voice pipes up, “Do you want them alive?”
My stomach drops. My grip tightens on my bag, knuckles white. I can’t move. They’re going to come in, find me, and…and…
Declan’s hands clamp around my waist. His bruising grip yanks me deeper into the shadows.
The movement breaks through my freeze response. “Seriously?” I hiss, elbowing him. “I can move backward without being manhandled.”
“You weren’t moving at all,” he whispers. “And they’re going to kill us.”
I try to shrug away from him, whisper shouting over my shoulder, “I was assessing!”
“You were a statue.”
“I was processing,” I say through clenched teeth, clutching my bag to my chest while attempting to wiggle out of his grasp. “Some of us like to take a minute before leaping straight into action-hero mode.”
“Some of us like living.”
“I like living too.” I slap his hands off me without turning. “I do have survival instincts, you know.”
“Then use them,” he says, low and dry next to my ear.
A long-suffering sigh floats in from outside the tent. “Yes, Tarek. I want them alive. How else will the spies be questioned?”
My mouth goes dry. Spies. They think we’re spies. What does this place do to spies?
“Just checking!” Tarek chirps, drumming his fingers on the fabric. “You are often quite dramatic and kill-y. I never know which version of you I’ll get.”
“Tarek,” the other man grates out, “must you continue to trample on my lines? I put quite a bit of thought into these.”
“Apologies,” Tarek says sheepishly, and the silk stills. “They were fine lines, truly.”
“Chilling, if I do say so myself.”
“Most chilling!” Tarek agrees. “Gooseflesh up and down my arms. I only… Well, I didn’t wish to assume the degree of violence you intended.”
A silence falls, thick enough to chew on. My argument with Declan has evaporated, but my elbow still hovers near Declan’s chest, his palm halfway up my arm like we’re two dolls caught mid-motion. Neither of us moves. Neither of us dares to breathe too loudly.
“Ruin one more entrance, I swear by the sun, Tarek, I will bury you up to your nose in the sand.”
“Classic!” Tarek crows. “A classic punishment! Love that.”
The tent flap parts another inch.
Declan raises his hands in silent surrender and eases deeper into the shadows.
“Thank you,” I whisper and begin to follow when the pointed toe of my shoe catches on the lip of something hard.
Copper singing bowls crash into each other, tumbling across the sand-speckled rug in a clanging cascade that rings out like an alarm.
With a sigh, Declan closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly.
The silks fling open, and sunlight pours into the tent like a spotlight.
Well shit.
Two robed guards close in. They’re draped in layers of crimson and molten-orange fabrics that shimmer like fire in the sunlight, the hems heavy with copper coins and ruby beads that chime softly as they move.
Broadswords hang at their hips, hilts wrapped in crimson leather, the pommels shaped like flames.
They look like characters out of a fantasy epic filmed on an unlimited budget. Also like they’re absolutely about to murder us.
“I knew it,” Not Tarek growls, stomping forward, hand on the hilt of his blade. “Saw the sand burst all the way from the other side of camp. Only spies would have the gall to lurk this far from the stage during rehearsal. Have you traveled here from Cups like the others?”
Declan and I shake our heads in unison.
“Pentacles, then.” The guard’s bushy eyebrows furrow like two angry caterpillars.
Declan looks at me. I look back.
“No,” we say together. At least we see eye to eye on something.
“Swords?” he tries again, the thick ropes of beads and amulets around his neck clinking together like wind chimes.
“Wait.” I tilt my chin. “Are you listing tarot suits?”
If so, that’s weirdly on brand for the way my week is going.
“We’re not spies,” Declan says, stepping squarely in front of me like some kind of tall, sweaty, muscled human shield.
“I can speak for myself.”
He doesn’t look at me, but the tension in his shoulders ratchets tighter.
“They do not look to be spies,” Tarek offers cheerfully from behind the lead guard.
“And how are spies meant to look?” the other guard growls.
Tarek shrugs. “Not like them.”
“We’re not spies,” I repeat, rising onto my toes to peek over Declan’s unnecessarily broad shoulder. “We’re from Manhattan.”
“Manhattan?” the first man repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue like loose marbles.
“Oh!” Tarek brightens and snaps his fingers, jeweled cuffs glinting on his wrists. “Dav, I would wager these are the new performers!”
“Tarek,” Dav groans, dragging a hand down his tanned face.
“What?” Tarek blinks, wide-eyed and unfazed.
“If they were spies, they would now know to say they are the new performers.”
“Well,” Tarek responds with a helpless shrug, “they said they weren’t.”
“And we’re not,” I reiterate with all the confidence I can muster while covered in sand in a world I don’t recognize, and half sheltered behind a man I technically met an hour ago.
“We shall see about that,” Dav mutters.
With a sharp jerk of his wide chin, we’re flanked—him in front, Tarek bringing up the rear like a kid on a field trip—and herded out of the tent.
We’re led through the heart of the camp, flames leaping from massive copper braziers lining the path and casting our shadows like spindly monsters against the silk walls.
Wind snaps the fabric canopies. Incense winds through the air in thick ribbons while somewhere in the distance, drums pulse a slow, ominous beat.
“I take back what I said before. This is kidnapping,” I hiss under my breath.
“This is your fault,” Declan mutters back.
“My fault?”
“You were the one who wanted something witchy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I scoff. “Was magickally landing in the desert not your idea of the perfect first date?”
He doesn’t answer, but I catch the slight flex of his jaw like he’s fighting the urge to argue. It’s the smallest chink in that polished exterior. Victory.
Performers part for us in a stream of moving color—dyed feathers arranged like wings, carmine and tangerine silks that ripple with every step, bronze beads that shimmer in the sun.
Their faces are painted in slashes of red and curls of yellow.
Some have tiny mirrors affixed to their foreheads, catching and throwing the light like otherworldly third eyes.
They glide past like living illusions, all shimmer and sparkle. But up close, the cracks show—hollow eyes, smiles stretched too wide, shoulders, jaws, fists tight and locked in place.
One woman in a corset of obsidian beads and citrine gems catches my gaze as we’re led past. She’s perched on a barrel outside a tent, reading from a curled scroll.
Her painted face is split down the center, one half in warm oranges with feathery lashes, the other stark white with a single teardrop drawn beneath her eye.
“Where the hell are we?” I murmur under my breath.
Her head snaps up, and in one fluid motion she springs from the barrel, landing in front of me light as a sprite. She tilts her head, studying me like a bird.
I clutch my purse tighter as she blocks my path, cutting me off from the guards and Declan.
“It’s all for show,” she murmurs, her voice thin and papery. “No one listens unless it sparkles.” Her smile sharpens as her fingers twitch in the air, jerking like puppet strings pulled too tight.
“Back to your script!” Dav’s bark cracks across the sand. “Know your place.”
The woman flinches and scurries away to her tent.
My stomach twists. I wrap my arms around my middle and hurry to catch up.
We need to get out of here. Figure out where here even is.
I adjust the strap of my purse and glance sideways at Declan, voice pitched low. “Aren’t you supposed to do something? Like Hulk out or brood our way to freedom? Me, Declan. Me knock other man on head with stick. Me win woman.”
Declan doesn’t even blink. “Do you want me to lean into the heteronormative bullshit, or do you want me to be in touch with my emotions, Amanda? Pick a fucking lane.”
Shit, he’s right. He’s right and I hate it. But I will never admit that out loud.
“You pick a lane,” I grumble, squaring my shoulders.
He mimics me in a high-pitched falsetto. “You pick a lane.”
I whip my head toward him. “Real mature, Declan.”
Ahead of us, Dav turns with an exhausted sigh, his robes jingling with the motion. “Quiet,” he snaps. “We have arrived.”
He parts a deep-crimson silk curtain. Sunlight knifes through the opening. Without an explanation, he shoves us forward.
As I stumble through the curtain, a hand tugs on my purse. I whirl around, palm itching for another slap. Tarek’s eyes are wide and apologetic as he eases the strap from my shoulder.
“Forgive me!” he says quickly, holding it up like he’s fending off an attack. “I ought to have done so sooner, but… Well, you did not strike me as the sort to bear weapons.”
I glower but let him take it.
“Come along!” Dav barks.
I squawk as he grabs my arm and yanks me forward.
We’re marched up a steep wooden ramp, the boards groaning beneath our feet, then shoved onto a raised platform that sits at the center of the camp like the bright, burning heart of the sun.
Gleaming obsidian pillars encircle the stage and the crowd.
They stretch up from the sand and reach for the sky, their blunt tops reflecting the sunlight so fiercely they look as if they’re holding up the sky itself.
Beyond them, silk-draped tents burst out from it in every direction like flame-colored rays. The crowd surrounds us in a dizzying circle—onlookers draped in sun-bleached linens, embroidered tunics, and metallic accents that glint and flash in the harsh light.