4. Stage of Grief Denial #2
I started to pull away, but he grabbed my forearm, his grip a vise, holding my dagger up to his stomach. His flesh was on fire; it was like touching burning coals. Both of us jolted as if electrocuted, and he released me, but I kept my blade pointed at him.
“Zora Ravenal.” His accent butchered my name. “I finally comprehend thee.”
Shivers trailed up my arm, the magic burning between us.
“And what am I?” I stared down at the glowing weapon, refusing to turn my face up toward his.
His warm lips brushed against my flesh, and I jolted.
“Thou art feral.”
I threw my shoulder into his with all my might, pushing to give myself some space.
He watched me retreat from the room, eyes alight with enjoyment.
“Art thou afraid?”
“Never.”
He hummed. Turning, he didn’t bother to close the washroom door and went about his morning ablutions. Giving him my back, I hastily put on a clean training uniform like it was a race, making sure I kept the device in one hand and my dagger in the other.
Seconds later, he lazily emerged, a toothbrush hanging from his mouth, jumpsuit unzipped to show off the hard planes of his chest. The chains hanging from his wrists and ankles looked more like fashion accessories than constraints.
His eyes tracked me with predatory intensity as I backed out of the room. If I’m feral, then what are you? There was nothing to do but get away from him, because the Marshal had thrown me into a cage with a monster.
The twins were still asleep, as usual, and the sterile hall had an eerie quiet. Panic clawed at my subconscious as I ran-walked out into the hangar, toward the desert, focusing on my routine.
A routine was good.
Centering.
I needed space to pretend I was strong enough to complete the quest.
In total discombobulation, I jogged out into the sand at a much faster pace than usual.
Squire bobbed his head back and forth on my shoulder as if riding a steed.
Adrenaline mixed with cortisol, creating a jittery sensation that needed to be expelled before it exploded.
I’d always had too much energy for idleness.
Dunes stretched in every direction, a darker orange in the glow of morning, as I ran like my life depended on it. It was deadly quiet, nothing but the whisper of sand passing over the undulating mounds.
The back of my neck prickled like a dire bear was chasing after me. Impossible. The predators of the North were miles away. I miss them.
Premonitions of terror multiplied.
It’s just in your head.
It’s just in your head.
It’s just in your head.
“How far art thou running, partner?” Tarantula matched my stride. A red balaclava made of breathable material covered his masked face, hiding everything but his unmerciful gaze.
I shrieked, tripping in the sand, wishing it was a dire scorpion and not him.
Tarantula reacted quickly, grabbing my shoulder to keep me upright. His hand tightened, disturbingly rough against my skin, covered in hard calluses. He shuddered.
Sparks of hot awareness streaked down my arm while his shadow cast me in complete darkness. His fingers curled, nails digging into my flesh. Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe? I felt like I was on fire.
Tipping his head back, he inhaled loudly like he was in physical agony.
“Unhand my arm, creepy bast—”
He shoved me over.
Squire and I toppled into the sand.
Sputtering with outrage, I popped back to my feet, pointing the metal device at him like a sword. Squire flapped his wings with distress, then flew up high, circling a safe distance away.
“What are you doing?” I spit sand out of my mouth, gesturing to the endless terrain he could choose to haunt instead of me.
“Running,” he deadpanned as he lazily crossed his chained arms over his chest. They’d left enough slack in his ankles that he could run. What is wrong with the Crimson Army?
“Find someone else to torment,” I called over my shoulder as I sprinted in a different direction, away from him.
“No. I choose thee.”
He fell in step beside me, casually matching me stride for stride. His heavy musculature moved across the sand in a way that defied laws of physics and civility. He breathed easily as he bounced on his toes, settling into a swift cadence.
I pushed the pace.
He sped up.
Squire soared above, screeching with understandable terror.
I ran with everything I had, gasping from exertion, but Tarantula’s shoulders stayed perfectly parallel with mine. I tried to lose him, but he never left my side.
Cruel bastard.
We turned back around, both of us swiveling at the exact same spot, somehow in unspoken agreement about the length of our run. When the ornate brick exterior and sterile white of the hangar came back into view, Tarantula looked down at me.
He smirked tauntingly and broke into a full sprint. I matched him for a few seconds, pushing with everything I had, but his longer stride was impossible to keep up with. He started to pull away.
He can’t win.
I lunged forward, and my shoulder slammed into his back. I shoved him over with a grunt but kept my feet. Not expecting the attack, he tripped and rolled down the dune.
“Thou wicked wench!” he shouted as he scrambled to get up while I once again sprinted past him with everything I had.
As I savored the endorphin rush of beating him, the crushing pressure of my task was forgotten.
When I got to the hangar entrance, I did a victory dance. Then exhaustion hit me, and I barely caught myself from falling over. Vision spinning, I staggered and collapsed to my knees, gagging from exertion.
“Am I the desert wench?” Squire asked as he landed on my head.
“Sure.” I groaned in agony.
Squire preened his feathers, chest puffing up with pride. “Me very sexy.”
“No comment.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ever pushed myself so hard, and the heat made everything a million times worse. Dry-mouthed, I tried to swallow, but my lips cracked because I’d donated all my moisture to the desert.
Hands on my knees, I struggled not to be sick. Silver leather boots wrapped in chained ankle cuffs stepped near my face.
Tarantula stood over me, unmoving and silent as he watched me suffer. I clutched the metal dial in my hand so hard that my fingers cramped.
“Thou art a cheating, unmannered brat,” he said quietly, his tone full of rage. “I shall teach thee decorum.”
For a second, pure terror seized my throat, but the exhaustion crested, beating it out.
With a pained groan, I hauled myself up straight, and Squire just barely kept his balance atop my head.
Tarantula took a step toward me, and if his eyes were daggers, I’d have been skewered.
I jerked backward, bumping into a soldier, head spinning.
The quest.
“Where’s the Marshal?” I turned to the soldier I’d accosted, refusing to spend another second in Tarantula’s awful presence. “I need to speak to her. Now!”
A few minutes later, I sat at one end of a wooden table with Squire perched on my shoulder in an austere conference room. Tarantula sat at the other end. He’d originally sat in the seat next to mine, but I’d moved until there was enough separation between us to avoid an incident.
The Marshal had walked in while I switched seats for the third time, her expression aggravated. Now she rubbed at her temples like she had a headache.
“He needs more chains,” I said as I begged her silently to understand how serious I was.
“Request denied.” Her blue eyes were cold, no recognition in them. “Sazha has agreed to train you for a pardon. He’s already shackled and collared. You will learn to trust each other, and you will master your Knight abilities. This is an opportunity for both of you.”
I stared at her in confusion. “Who . . . is Sazha?”
She pointed at Tarantula.
“You named him?” I asked.
Tarantula scoffed. “She did not give me anything—”
“He shared his real name as a gesture of good faith.” The Marshal’s gaze was shrewd, like she was trying to tell me something.
“You need to put your personal prejudices and past grievances with Sazha behind you. For the good of the Commonwealth.” She arched an eyebrow as if challenging me to disagree. For the quest was left unspoken.
“Stop calling him that!” I pounded on the table, debating the best angle to flip it and crush him.
“Sazha?”
“It’s Tarantula,” I spat, losing all semblance of control. “He’s not a person. He’s a slimy insect.”
“The spider whore,” Squire sang solemnly (helpful). Then added, “Slut” (too much).
The Marshal looked perturbed, but she recovered fast. “Sazha has undergone extensive questioning and has traded us . . . impressive intel. He has sworn an oath not to hurt you.” She glared over at him. “He knows the consequences.”
He stiffened in his chair.
The room was laden with deception.
I pointed at him, strung out from the sleepless night. “His face spells treachery, his mouth spills filth, and his eyes promise retribution. He’s going to kill me . . . I can smell it.” I paused, trying to articulate the unspeakable without jeopardizing the quest. “He needs more restraints—”
“Silence, soldier!” The Marshal banged on the table. With a deep breath, she shuffled her folders. “Sazha is your new partner. Drop it, Knight.”
A metallic taste flooded my mouth as I bit down on my tongue.
“Your afternoons have been blocked out to train with him—at his discretion.” She stood up.
“You will meet with me at high noon tomorrow to continue filling in the . . . gaps in your education. Today you have off to acclimate to each other. Once you’ve obtained some level of mastery, you will both be sent on missions with the twins.
We have intercepted intel that an Empire attack is imminent. Remember your duty. We need you.”
I slumped over. “Please—”
The door slammed shut as the Marshal left the room, cutting me off.
We were alone.