Chapter 12
If you would not consume the flesh of your neighbor, neither let yourself speak of them unkindly.
For those who partake in gossip and relish rumor have no more decency than ghouls.
If you could see their souls in the spiritual plane, their faces would be dripped in red from that which they gorge upon.
The bone-eater's salon is messy by the standards Shay was raised with. Sure, some measure of uncleanliness can be expected with seven males living under one roof, but how much effort does it take to clear the floor of dirty socks, ale bottles, and—wait, is that a pile of bones? Shay shudders.
A sage-green seddari frames the room in a U shape.
When one of the bone-eaters offers her a seat, she's careful to choose a spot free of the dirt stains she assures herself are not from someone's grave.
A lantern sits on a low round table in the room's center.
Its thin glow flickers over walls the yellowed color of phlegm.
The caped bone-eater, who identifies himself as Kabeer, retrieves a basket containing small surgical tools and various herbs typically used for making poultices.
He kneels beside her. Though he removes the moss as gently as he possibly can, Shay hisses when drying blood rips from her tender skin.
With a closer glance, she identifies the moss as sourshade, known for its antiseptic properties.
“Do you have medical training?” Shay inquires, watching the creature dab something that smells strongly of alcohol from a vial onto a clover bean leaf.
The other brothers, now positioned in various stages of recline around the room—at least one is already snoring—snicker.
Kabeer silences them with a bruising look. “You could say that.”
Shay stops his gnarled hand as he reaches for her neck. His skin feels tough as tree bark beneath her fingers. “Or?”
Kabeer runs his free hand down his scabrous face. “Or you could say I am a devourer of knowledge.” He gives his brothers a warning glare before they can make a sound and proceeds to clean Shay's wound.
“Do you mean you read?” Shay asks a beat later.
“I can read,” the bone-eater gruffly asserts.
“I wasn't suggesting—”
“Deebi.” Kabeer finishes affixing a wide bandage to Shay's neck, pointedly ignoring her. “Would you go find our guest some clean blankets and a pillow?”
“And see what you can muster for her to eat,” Aidi adds. Shay has pegged him as the elder, and she wonders if it is his habit to assert his authority.
“I don't think any of that will be necessary,” Shay says, though she can't deny her need for sustenance.
It is, after all, what drew her from the forest in the first place.
The last substantial thing she ate was Ghita's loubia, and by her estimation, a full day has passed since.
What she wouldn't do for a heaping bowl of the midwife's spicy beans right now.
Why, she'd climb the Umm Chanala mountains barefoot for a spoonful.
The brothers all stare at her, dismay cast across their distorted faces.
Aidi leans forward on the cane propped between his legs. He sighs. “You can't seriously be thinking of going anywhere in your condition.”
“Do you intend to keep me prisoner, Sidi?”
“You have lost a significant amount of blood, Lalla.” His voice, for all its gruffness, sounds sincere. “But we are not like our neighbor. We will not impede upon your free will.”
“Well, then, I do thank you for your assistance.” Shay nods gratefully at Kabeer, busy arranging his supplies back in the basket, and to the rest of the bone-eaters. “All of you. But it would be improper for me to stay.”
In truth, Shay is thinking less about propriety and more about the tenuous nature of her safety.
The lump in her throat has sharp edges, and the knots in her stomach have teeth.
She's unable to say with any certainty whether the greater danger lurks within the cottage or without it.
Therefore, despite the immense effort standing unassisted requires, she forces herself to walk across the room.
She opens the door and peers out upon the thick landscape of dawn.
“You really should wait until morning proper,” the bone-eater with downward curving horns advises.
Deebi. Unless Shay is misreading it, the look on Deebi's face suggests he is applying a wealth of restraint by not jumping from the couch and shutting the door himself.
Shay would not have imagined a bone-eater's expression could be so …
well, expressive. “You need to rest. And once the sun comes up, it will be safer for you to cross back through the forest to your home.”
Home. The word pokes between Shay's ribs.
Beyond the door, twilit shadows hover like a floating wall of invisible ink.
Diaphanous mist coats the domed towers and darkened windows next door like a skin of algae on a pond.
A breeze rustles the tall grass before sweeping over her like a spray of frost.
You tasted delicious.
“Not safer by much,” one brother scoffs.
Shay turns back around, considering. It's obviously dangerous for her to wander alone around Ard Al-Ghul in search of Hind.
Memories—of her mother's promises, their future plans, the warm, familiar scent of peach blossom—strike like stray arrows.
She shoves them from her mind. Whatever Shay felt on her side, Hind was only biding her time for the chance to discard Shay like spoiled milk.
With this realization, she feels the last bit of strength go out of her, as surely as if the bloodsucker had drained her dry. “Are you sure it will not be an inconvenience?”
Before Aidi answers, a bone-eater with crescent-shaped horns on his forehead—the scoffer—yawns loudly. “Since it appears the human girl will live, I'm going off to bed.” He ambles from the room, initiating a chain reaction from the other brothers, until only Aidi and Deebi remain.
“Deebi will get you settled,” the elder says, offering Shay a shallow bow.
“Thank you, Sidi,” Shay says, not wishing to question too deeply whether the scoffer sounded relieved at her favorable prognosis, or disappointed.
“I'm Deebi.” The remaining bone-eater tips his horned head low. “And who do I have the pleasure of hosting?”
“I …” Shay swallows. She perches on the seddari, brushing distractedly at the nearest stain. “I'm Shay.”
“Shay. It's nice to meet you.”
“Deebi.” She says the bone-eater's name, still finding it odd that they all have such normal-sounding ones.
Shay squeezes herself and realizes she's shivering.
The cottage was chilly to begin with, and she's made it worse by letting in the colder air from outside.
“I hate to be a bother, but would you mind starting a fire?”
“A fire?” Deebi stares at the empty hearth as if noticing its existence for the first time. He smacks his wide forehead. “Right. Humans get cold easily. Not to worry. I'll fetch coals from the kitchen stove.”
The bone-eater darts off. He returns quickly, armed with a metal bucket of hot coals and an armful of blankets, the latter of which he piles on top of Shay.
The fabric is coarse. Its rough fibers scratch through her djellaba.
But their bulk is blessedly warm. She huddles beneath them, dozing as Deebi fans the coals with a blowing tool.
Once he gets the fire started, he scurries away again, chattering on about food as he goes.
Hungry as Shay is, her tiredness prevails. Before the bone-eater returns, she's already drifted into a deep, if troubled, sleep.
Shay dreams of the bloodsucker. A dream in which he disguises himself as her mother to lure her within his iron gates.
There, he tells her all the things she'd want her mother to say.
That she's proud of her. She loves her. And she'll never abandon her again.
Words so sweet, Shay can almost pretend the scent of peaches she's come to associate with Hind hasn't been replaced by the reek of blood, lingering on her skin and clothes. Her breath.
He carries her into that awful house. Serves her bitter tea that coats her tongue with the taste of copper. It makes the room spin around her like she's a Marabout performing a sacred dance.
But this feels the opposite of sacred.
It feels like being peeled open, her every emotion, every thought exposed like the pulp of a fruit. Her nerve endings are on fire. And Tarik hangs over her, smiling down with her mother's lips, her Snow-ravaged teeth bathed red with Shay's blood.
She jolts awake, choking on a scream.
Thick shadows paint her surroundings in dark lumps and gray puddles. Her head feels doubled in size. Her skull feels black and blue. She listens and detects no sound. None loud enough to rise over her ragged heartbeat.
The pillow her head rests upon feels hard and lumpy.
The stiff bandage pasted to her neck itches.
She attempts to scratch it, but her hands are—bound at her sides?
She yanks her wrists, and the scrape of thick rope gnaws into her flesh.
The terror of her dream floods back, and with it, the alarming realization that it may not have been a dream.
Every part of Shay runs cold like her body is sliding into hibernation. She cannot stop shivering. All she can think is how disappointed Ghita would be in the choices she's made. How Hind would likely be disappointed she's still alive. And how that may not be a problem much longer.
She should scream or kick or do something to keep her wits about her.
Uselessly, piteously, Shay sobs.
Through a blur of tears, her eyes track the rope.
It runs from her wrists to the legs of the tables on either side of the sleeping pallet.
And there, to her left, like a boon from a benevolent spirit, winks the silver handle of her pocketknife.
The one she dropped when Tarik bit her. If she pulls hard enough, she might just topple the heavy table.
Might be able to reach the knife and cut through the ropes.