Chapter 42
Ani
The whale song breaks us all out of our merriment. It carries a warning. An aggressive… cry for help?
Everyone bolts upright as Azoeul, dripping from the lake, staggers into the light from the fire, Wroahk’s tentacles following along behind him, almost like they want to strike him down as much as they want to help.
There’s no elegant entrance this time. No smug lean against a trunk after an impossibly fast appearance. He stumbles and nearly goes to one knee before catching himself on a rock.
Blood runs down the side of his face.
Not pink slime. Not alien goo. Red, like human blood, but darker, almost brown.
“Shit,” I breathe.
He sways.
Szhe’ka is on his feet in a blink, wings stumps flaring, but it’s me who moves fastest. I’m to Azoeul in a blink, assessing, offering support.
There’s no screaming. No freezing. No mental spirals about how this is all my fault or how we’re doomed.
I just… act.
“Sit,” I snap out in his toneless language, already at Azoeul’s side. “Now.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, then actually listens and lowers himself onto a flat stone.
Good.
I grab his rough chin, the spikes there digging into my palm as I turn his face toward the light. The cut on his temple is deep but not fatal. There’s a slice across his ribs too, soaked through his shirt.
“Ree!” I call, but my voice is steady. “I need the wound kit.”
She’s moving before I finish the sentence.
Szhe’ka hovers too close, massive and anxious.
“He is bleeding,” he says unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” I mutter.
And I can.
That’s the strange part.
There’s no haze. No panic. Just assessment.
Head wound. Rib wound. Possible cracked bone. Breathing shallow but even. Conscious. Responsive.
“I’m fine,” Azoeul insists.
“You’re not fine,” I shoot back. “You’re leaking.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh and then winces.
Ree presses the kit into my hands and crouches beside me. Surprisingly, she watches instead of taking over.
My skin prickles. She trusts me.
“Hold this,” I tell Szhe’ka, pressing a wad of cloth into his hand and guiding it to Azoeul’s ribs. “Firm pressure. Not crushing.”
Szhe’ka obeys instantly, careful and precise.
I clean the temple wound first, working methodically. The blood is warm on my fingers. The smell of it doesn’t unsettle me the way I expect it to.
“I was followed,” Azoeul says through his teeth. “Three. Took two down. Third got away.”
“Mm,” I murmur, focusing. “Stay still.”
He does.
Eli is bobbing, just out of reach, no longer able to contain herself. “Why didn’t you accept the nanites, Azoeul? You’d be healed by now.”
Her usually bright voice sounds especially odd in his language, but I don’t let it distract me from my work. I can feel him stiffen, but he doesn’t respond.
She bobs some more, words bursting out of her again like she knows she shouldn’t keep talking, but can’t help herself. “This is crazy. Get him nanites!”
“Enough, Eli,” Ree barks. “It’s his choice.”
Eli starts muttering in English. “Those slimes should have injected him like the others. I could crush them like grapes…”
She trails off, then starts up a surprisingly descriptive litany of Spanish curses as she makes her way back into the water.
It’s easier to focus with her gone. I stitch the temple wound with shaking hands that steady as I go. Ree passes me what I need without commentary.
By the time I move to the ribs, I’ve slipped into something that feels… natural.
I press, bind, secure.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies, breath hissing.
“Good. That means you’re alive.”
He snorts.
Szhe’ka’s hand brushes my shoulder as I tie off the final knot.
“You are calm,” he says quietly.
I blink up at him.
I am.
There’s no Bitch. No sarcasm. No performance.
Just me.
Azoeul exhales slowly as I sit back on my heels.
“You didn’t hesitate,” he says, studying me in a way that feels different than before. Not wary. Not amused. Respectful.
“I’ve seen worse,” I reply automatically—then pause.
I have.
And not all of them were makeup. Plus sets where someone fainted and no one knew what to do. Directors panicking. Assistants crying. I was always the one who stepped in, who called 911, who kept things moving.
No one ever called that strength. They called it being difficult. Controlling.
Ree squeezes my wrist lightly.
“You did well,” she says.
I shrug, but my chest feels warm.
Szhe’ka steps back as Azoeul leans against the rock, breathing easier now.
“I am proud of you,” Szhe’ka says.
“I’ve… always been good in emergencies,” I admit slowly. “I just never thought of it as something valuable.”
“It is,” Ree says firmly.
I glance around our little camp.
The lean-tos. The smoking rack for fish. The crude water filters Thivoll built near the shore. Szhe’ka’s treehouse in the tree above.
It’s not much.
But it’s ours.
Szhe’ka’s hand settles at the small of my back.
“I am proud to be part of this,” he says softly. “Our little aerie.”
The word makes me smile.
“Aerie?” I repeat.
“Yes.” His eyes sweep over Ree, Kira, Thivoll, Azoeul, then back to me. “Even if none of us can fly properly.”
I laugh.
“We’ll work on it,” I promise him.
He hums, pleased.
Ree leans back on her hands, exhaustion creeping in now that the crisis has passed.
“We’ll need more,” she says quietly. “More people and we have to keep them safe… And also somehow make sure they can fight.”
She snorts, the sound all that’s needed to let me know she sees the contradiction within that plan.
My gaze shifts to the lake. There are others out there. Women taken. Women changed. Women who think they’re alone.
“We’ll find them,” I say.
It doesn’t feel like bravado. It feels like a plan.
Szhe’ka hums an affirmative. “We build,” he says. “Together.”
Azoeul shifts, wincing slightly. “Community is stronger than running,” he mutters. “We will stay together.”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” I tease gently. “All you do is run from tree to tree.”
He grunts, but I can tell he’s pleased. I rise and brush dirt from my knees.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands once. “He needs rest. Szhe’ka, keep pressure on that binding if it loosens. I’ll take over soon.”
“You’re taking a shift?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “Alright.”
Szhe’ka watches me as I move, something soft in his expression.
“What?” I ask.
“You are not what they made you,” he says simply. “Or what you used to be. New feathers and new notes.”
The words settle into me. Maybe who I am is someone who keeps her head when things fall apart. Someone who can build something new from a wreckage.
I look at the small cluster of us. Missing wings, stitched wounds, tired eyes.
“We’ll find the others,” I say again, quieter this time. “We’ll make this bigger.”
Szhe’ka’s feathers rustle. “Our aerie will grow.”
Even if none of us can truly fly yet. Even if we’re all still learning how to use the pieces we’ve been given.
No, I’m not fighting other women for space. I’m building space.
And I’ll be fucking amazing at it.