Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
NICOLE
I’m tied to a pole, and maybe this is doing something for me.
Great. Add ‘getting a little hot and bothered in restraints’ to the growing list of things I’ll need to unpack later.
I’ll have to ask Laura for tips; she likes to pretend her secrets are well-hidden, but we all know better.
She’s definitely got a drawer somewhere dedicated to this kind of thing.
“Come on, Arture,” I mutter into the heavy, hot mist of the jungle. He'll come straight for me, and we can show what a Samarastock is to the All-Mother, together.
Blood Feather whinnies from my shoulder. He tests the end of the tiny lead rope I braided for him out of gold and silver thread pulled from one of the abayas, but he can’t go far.
“I didn’t want you getting lost in his jungle, boy,” I soothe him, shifting in my seat. I put my riding t-shirt on underneath the abayas and pants Arture made for me. I needed pockets for sedative; having the slim bottles pressed next to me makes this feel a bit more sensible.
Sweat trickles down my back as fast as one of the vines creeping along the ground toward me.
Around us, the plant life slithers and writhes, tendrils curling and uncurling like they’re testing the air—or my scent.
A thin glass tube is supposed to separate me from the alien jungle, but it still feels close. Too close.
The vine creeping along the ground curls toward me. It must be a really thin tube. Practically invisible. But Ellen said it was there when she did this, and she said it was safe.
I’m sure it’s fine.
…Right?
The silver grass ripples suddenly, and a Parthiastock clone bursts out of the trees. He makes it three steps before he clutches his throat and falls to his knees. A high-pitched whine escapes him before his body goes limp, collapsing in the iridescent underbrush.
I gasp, my pulse hammering, but a robot swoops in, lifts him with brisk efficiency, and carries him away like it’s business as usual. He’s still breathing, I think. Thank goodness for that.
A huge plant to my left unfurls a massive petal the size of a horsebox ramp, releasing a soft, floral scent into the air. It’s sweet, rich, and heady as chaff. Whatever it is, it actually smells nice. Relaxing, even.
The approaching vine slides, glistening as if coated in a thin sheen of oil that catches the light with every sinuous movement.
It weaves through the silver grass with unnerving intent, its tip curling and uncurling like a serpent tasting the air.
It’s definitely questing toward me, drawn by some unseen force—or maybe by my scent. It’s definitely hunting.
It reaches the edge of the supposed barrier, and I resist the urge to pull back. “There’s glass in the way,” I remind myself. “I’m safe. The tube’s still there. Has to be.”
I try to calm my breathing as the vine hesitates, hovering mere inches from me. Then, with a slow, almost languid crawl, it moves closer to my ankle.
Cold, wet, and unmistakably real, it wraps around my calf.
I freeze, heart lurching into my throat. There’s no glass. There was never any glass.
The vine tightens slightly, its smooth surface pulsing against my skin, and I bite back a scream as panic rushes in.
I struggle against the ropes binding my arms outstretched above my head.
My fingers scrape uselessly at the rough fibers, and Blood Feather whinnies again, this time with a note of panic.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I try to reassure him, as more vines creep over my boots. They wrap around my legs, tightening with every passing second.
“Hey.” I shout, my voice echoing into the jungle, but no one answers. “Help!”
Blood Feather valiantly charges the vines, but he’s brought up short by the lead rope. He tosses his head, wings flapping in my face.
The first tug against my pants nearly takes my breath away. My body jerks forward, and the pole creaks under the strain. The vines aren’t just wrapping—they’re pulling, trying to drag me toward the petal. More have unfolded, revealing a maw, wide, wet, and waiting.
Fuck.
The plant’s massive mouth yawns open, its inner surface glistening with sticky sap. Teeth line the edges, curved inward like the bars of a trap. My breathing shallows, fear rising like bile in my throat.
The vines tug again, harder this time, dragging me and my boots across the mossy ground.
The ropes around my wrists bite into my skin, and I pull at them, trying to brace myself.
I kick wildly, hoping to dislodge the vines, but they’re relentless, wrapping higher up my legs to press them together, tightening like living chains.
“Help!” I scream, my voice cracking. “Someone, please!”
The jungle around me is silent except for Blood Feather’s panic, the faint creak of the pole, and the sickening, wet sounds of the plant pulling me closer.
I twist my wrists, ignoring the pain as the ropes cut into my skin. I have to get free somehow. Where the fuck are all the cameras? What about a robot drone ready to swoop in and rescue me?
Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes. This must be the Prif’s doing. The vines are at my thighs now, the pull stronger, more insistent. But she wouldn’t kill me.
Would she?
Leaves rustle before I see him—a purple Parthiastock strides out from the shadows, sleek and sharp.
Relief floods through me but the clone stops a few feet away, his intense purple eyes meeting mine briefly before he cuts away. It’s not Arture, but that’s okay. Except he’s not rushing in to help.
“Stay still,” he says, his voice smooth. “I’ll handle this.”
“Okay, cool.” I’m kicking as hard as I can, which is difficult with my legs wrapped together. The vine slides up over my stomach, cold and slimy. I shudder. “Can you, like, hurry?”
He looks at the maw, looks at me.
Then he kneels down, watching as the vines pull me closer to the plant’s gaping maw. He tilts his head slightly, as if observing a curious specimen, but does nothing to stop it.
A scream rises in my throat. “Please,” I beg the clone, and his hands twitch. His face contorts into something dark, a shimmer of gold and black peeking under his scales.
He’s a Samarastock.
“I know I’m asking a lot, but just hold onto me until someone else comes.
Shit, this was a terrible idea, I thought it’d be safe, Shara said it would be.
” I’m babbling. I’m close to crying and screaming and all I can do is spill my guts to a complete stranger clone. “Please, go get someone, anything.”
“You’re not… Not a female. Not…” His gaze slides down my chest, to where the plant quests over my breasts.
And then the ropes snap.
I thrash on the ground, reaching up to grab whole handfuls of grass as stingy as nettles with my tied hands, Blood Feather circling overhead.
This can’t be it, this can’t be how I go, but the vines drag me closer to the maw, the sharp scent of decay hitting me like a kick.
I gag, bile rising, but I refuse to give up.
Digging my heels into the ground as much as I can, I push against the pull. No one has thighs like a horsewoman, but the vines are strong too. Inexorably my boots skid, leaving trails in the moss as I lose ground, the Samarastock just watching.
I snatch at the tiny lead rope, snapping it off my shoulder, and Blood Feather flies free. At least he’ll survive. The brave Equeleus charges at the plant, which whips at him with thick, lazy vines, like swatting a fly.
I scream again, hoping, praying someone will hear. “Arture!”
The vines sweep under the buttons of my shirt, pulling them free.
“You are a female,” the new clone breathes, staring at me as he gets to his feet, when the jungle crashes behind him.
“Nic-coal!” Arture’s voice roars through the clearing, and then he’s there, the cleaner Juran and the healer Ezra at his side.
Arture charges the plant, mechanical arm gleaming as he slashes at the vines. The plant recoils and Juran starts tearing at the vines around me with brute force.
Ezla darts to my side, his hands steady as he works to untie the bindings at my wrists. “Hold still,” he whispers, his voice a calm counterpoint to the chaos.
The Parthiastock-but-actually-a-Samarastock approaches the plant. “She’s not a female, but she is,” he says, as if this is the hardest puzzle he’s ever had to solve.
Arture locks eyes with him, then lunges. They clash with a smack, becoming a blur of fists. Arture’s mechanical arm whirs as it deflects a vicious blow, but the other Samarastock is fast.
Ezla finally frees my wrists, and I try to sit up, gasping for breath. Juran hauls the vines off me with one massive arm, shielding me as the fight rages on at my feet.
Arture lands a punch that sends the purple clone stumbling back, but he doesn’t stay down for long. He shifts, his form rippling into a Gerverstock in a red-scaled rage, his strength amplified.
The plant takes advantage of the chaos, its vines lashing out like living whips. One wraps around Arture’s leg, another around the Samarastock’s torso.
“No!” I scream as the plant’s maw opens wider, pulling them both closer.
The double struggles, his arm slashing at the vines, but the plant’s grip is too strong. Arture doesn't fight back—he takes the blows, gripping onto his opponent to hold him down, and he looks almost resigned, as if this was always the plan.
I kick off the dead and dying vines. “Help them!”
“Get back,” Arture snarls.
“Fuck off,” I yell at him, getting to my knees.
Juran stays in my way. “You’ll get caught too.”
“Move!”
He winces. “I can’t obey that.”
Arture turns his head, his eyes locking on mine.
Then he closes them.
“No, you don't,” I snarl. Fuck this. He's not sacrificing himself for this shit.
“Get off me right the fuck now,” I order Juran.
He immediately lets me go as if scalded and I get to my feet. The maw is swollen in readiness, digestive juices dripping from the petals at the top, as it reels in the two clones.
Think, Nutty Nicole. I slide to my knees in front of the plant, my hands braced against the ground.
My breaths come in short gasps, but I force myself to slow down.
Plants aren't animals, but this one is acting like one. It’s got behaviors, and patterns.
Focus. What are its triggers? What stimulus is it reacting to?
Blood Feather lands next to me, right on a vine. But instead of flipping over and grabbing him, it shivers. Still, I lift the tiny horse off, thinking as quick as I can.
“Stop!” Arture calls, his voice a deep rumble of panic, but I don’t listen, because fuck him and his fucking hero complex.
The vines not gripping Arture and his double retract, wrapping around themselves like coiling snakes. That means it’s not actively hunting anymore; it’s ready to digest, conserving its energy. I have a window, and that means Arture has a chance.
Ezla crouches beside me, his voice low and urgent. “What are you doing?”
I don’t take my eyes off the plant. “It’s like a Venus flytrap.”
“What’s that?” Juran’s voice is strained.
I grab a vine near the base of the plant.
It shudders at the contact, its maw quivering slightly.
“We need to overstimulate it,” I explain, pulling on the vine.
“Flytraps only start digesting if the hairs inside their trap are touched a certain number of times. Too much stimulation, and they think it’s a false alarm. They’ll release their prey.”
Ezla’s eyes widen. “You think this thing works the same way?”
“I fucking hope so,” I snap.
The plant reacts to my pull, shivering. I grab another vine, twisting it in my hands, forcing the plant to split its focus.
It writhes and bucks, but I don’t let go, yanking at the vines with everything I’ve got.
Ezla moves to the other side of the plant and copies me, grabbing a cluster of tendrils and pressing them together.
The plant shrieks, its body rippling like it’s in pain.
“Keep going!” I yell, sweat dripping down my face.
Blood Feather trots over to Arture, biting at the vines. The plant thrashes, and then with a lurch it launches Arture and the double away from its trembling maw. They go skidding across the grass and nearly into the pole I was tied to.
I race back to Arture's side. He's awake, eyes wide, big horrible burns up his legs and around his torso from the digestive juices on the vines. They seal up as I look at them, but what doesn't ease is Arture's heaving chest, as if he's struggling to breathe.
I grab Arture’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You’re okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “You’re okay.”
He stares at me like he's never seen me before.
The Samarastock stirs beside him, getting into his forearms. Arture growls low in his throat, but I hold up a hand.
“Leave him,” I say firmly.
Arture glares at me, his scales rippling, but he says nothing.
“He did nothing to save you,” Juran snarls. “You would have been hurt if we hadn’t arrived.”
Arture's head whips toward him, lips pressed shut, but I know what that behavior from him means.
My head swims, as if I’ve just been bucked off a horse and am about to hit the ground. “That was the intent. I think all the Samarastocks have been told to hurt me.”
Ezla gasps, and Juran staggers back a step as if he took a physical blow, scales going puke green.
“They can't hurt a female.” Ezla’s eyes are wide.
“It’s impossible for a clone to harm one,” Juran adds, voice thunderous.
“But he seemed amazed I was female; he was struggling with it. If a clone was told humans can't be female, would that work?”
Juran's mouth opens and closes. Ezla says, “I would hope not, but…”
A flock of cameras arrived, flitting around, focused on us and zooming in on the Parthiastock who shifted halfway through the fight. Hopefully the Game’s feeds are full of these new clones and their implications, and Samara's fucking panicking right now.
“It is possible for these clones to hurt a female,” Arture says, standing up. He's slick with sweat, the warmth from his chest radiating onto me.
I want to wrap my arms around him. Tell him he's a fucking idiot. Kiss him. Kick him. All at once.
His hand lands heavily on my shoulder, locking me in place. He's looking at the cameras surrounding us, zooming in on my face and his.
Cold metal fingers circle my throat.