15. Venomous Tension
Venomous Tension
Tarantula carried me through the hangar.
“Help,” I said. “I’m being kidnapped by a raging misogynistic, homicidal, despotic megalomaniac who’s afraid of a lady’s ankles.”
No one in the Middlelands cared.
Typical.
He brought me back to our dark room.
“Curse you,” I said.
“Curse on the spider slut!” Squire added (helpful). He sat on top of Tarantula’s head, plucking curls from his scalp. He waved his beak around excitedly, showing off his new prizes.
From the way Tarantula flexed his jaw, he deeply regretted his past choices. Good. He should find a new partner to torment.
In front of my bed, Tarantula came to a stop. I flinched, waiting for him to drop me. He gently lowered me onto the bed, tucking the covers around me, all the way down to my toes.
“Curse you,” I spat, wishing he’d just thrown me down.
Squire plucked another strand and squawked with distress, “Curse me?”
“No. Not you, dear.”
Squire chirped with relief.
“I’m already cursed,” Tarantula said stiffly. “Try harder to be threatening.” He rubbed his sternum like he was having chest pains.
“Darling,” I said as I pulled the shimmering strand out of Squire’s beak. “You don’t want to touch the Empire filth. He’s probably diseased.” With a dramatic gag, I dropped his hair onto the floor.
Tarantula looked shrewdly between me and Squire as if studying a mystery he didn’t quite understand. He opened his mouth to speak—
The door burst open.
He whirled to the newcomer.
Medic Sara practically fell into our room, looking harried. Her auburn hair, a common Midlander trait, hung freely around her shoulders. Her uniform was wrinkled and half on, as if she’d been asleep with no time to get fully dressed, and she clutched a medical bag overflowing with supplies.
Squire rustled his feathers with annoyance. “Not you!” he hooted (helpful).
“The Marshal wanted me to tend to your wounds. I just heard what happened!” Sara said hastily as she hurried over to my bedside.
Tarantula worked his jaw back and forth, tattoo pulling.
Sara pushed him aside, oblivious to his wrath, and leaned over me.
“Zora,” she gasped. “Damn, that wound is horrible. They told me, but I didn’t believe it. We need to remove your uniform.” She rustled through her bag, then brandished scissors with a blunt tip. She immediately got to work.
Squire hid under the covers.
Sara worked quickly, pulling away strips of fabric, careful not to disturb my shoulder.
“Are you feeling okay right now?” she asked. “Be honest. This is a pretty extreme injury.” She rested her wrist on my head. “I think you’re getting a fever. What’s your pain scale right now? Zero is nothing. Ten is astronomical.”
“Zero,” I whispered.
“Me ten!” Squire chirped nervously (not helpful).
Sara looked between us like she didn’t know what she was supposed to do with that information. “Go to sleep,” I whispered, and Squire closed his eyes obediently.
“Really—a zero?” she asked as she focused on me. “You don’t feel any pain?”
“No. I feel nothing.”
A long, awkward pause stretched as she studied me with empathy. “Listen, Zora,” she said with a friendly smile, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
Jittery dread twisted my innards, but her mouth kept on moving.
“I know the last time we met, we were both overwhelmed . . .” Sara trailed off. “I know you’re not really a stupid peasant. And you didn’t mean to drop Kane when he was injured. Friends?”
Uneducated Northern peasant.
My stomach bottomed out, and I looked away. How does one ever really know if they are stupid?
“Get out.”
The heavily accented words were spat so quietly it took a moment for both of us to process what Tarantula had said.
Sara turned to him with confusion, pulling away. I relaxed with relief as she put some distance between us. She was a physical reminder of how the Midlanders had all treated me before I became a Mage.
Chest tight, I tried to breathe through the heavy emotions rising like the living dead in the graveyard beneath my breastbone. Maggots in the soil of my flesh. Old shames lingered.
Sara frowned. “The Marshal ordered me to—”
“I order thee . . . Get the fuck out.” Tarantula pointed to the door, the profanity sounding strange from his lips.
Her eyes widened as he turned and she got a good look at the knife sticking out of his thigh, his pant leg stained with dried blood.
“Did I stutter?” Tarantula took a menacing step toward her, broken chains hanging uselessly from his wrists. “Medic.” His tone made her title sound putrid.
Paling, she dropped her bag with a clatter. “Sorry, Zora. Let’s talk about this later.” She barely spared me, her patient with a stab wound, a glance as she bolted out of the room, desperate to get away from Tarantula.
“It’s number Six, not Zora,” I whispered back on instinct, but Sara had already left. Thanks for all the help.
Bang. The door slammed shut, and fresh agony throbbed along my arm.
Squire poked his head out of the covers and chirped with relief, “Me a one now.”
He settled himself contentedly onto my pillow.
Tarantula tipped his head to the side, his mask shadowy in the umbra of night. He stepped to my bedside. “She insulted thee . . . yet thou said nothing to defend yourself.” He scowled. “But thou scream at me . . .”
I shrugged. “It’s different with you. You need to be put in your place.”
A strange light sparked in his eyes. “So I am . . . special to thee?”
“Especially annoying,” I mumbled mockingly.
“How does one know,” he blurted with uncharacteristic haste, “if a person is . . . afflicted with attraction?” A pink flush colored the tops of his sharp cheekbones.
I blinked, whiplashed by the change in topic. He’s not asking me about that right now. No. He can’t be that unwell.
His eyes held mine as he stood beside my bed. So much heat radiated off his skin that I began to sweat.
“I have never desired in the past,” he whispered hoarsely, accent thickening. Oh, he is. “But how would I know if that . . . changed? How does one interpret inclinations of a carnal nature? What are the signs?” As he spoke, he leaned over my bed, his hands resting on my pillow, trapping me.
Inclinations?
Carnal nature?
His breath wafted across my skin as my wide eyes were reflected in his approaching mask. Maybe it was the blood loss and pain, but this conversation had taken a turn I’d never seen coming.
“You just feel it,” I whispered. “Your pulse races, and there’s a tension that builds inside of you. An . . . awareness for the person, the object of your desires. You’re drawn to them, like cold dire beasts to a warm fire. It’s inexplicable but overwhelming.”
He wet his lower lip. “ ’Tis singular?” He exhaled roughly.
“What do you mean?”
“Thou have touched many a person.” He scowled at me accusingly. “But what if a person hungers for a single individual . . . and no one else will do?”
He fixated on my mouth, looming above me, larger than the night. My head spun. His proximity made it hard to think.
“Uh—yes.” I cleared my throat awkwardly, wincing as I shifted.
“Some people are only interested in having—” I choked, struggling to get the word out “—sex, with one person, many, or even no one at all,” I said in a rush.
“It’s specific to you. Everyone is different, and there aren’t rules. It’s just how you feel.”
“But the hunger,” he said forcefully. “What if I desire to . . . ruin . . . the object of my attention?” He inhaled roughly, his gaze glittering with magic as his eyes mapped my face.
“What if I yearn to consume her whole and I cannot . . . avoid the dangerous inclinations? This hunger is devastating, a constant ache—the darkest of compulsions.”
He pressed one hand to his chest, fingers spread wide across the DANGER on his jumpsuit, inches from my own heart. Our noses touched, and my senses came alive like I’d thrown myself face-first into a bonfire.
Why are we talking about this while I’m skewered?
Silence stretched as he waited for my answer.
“Um, maybe . . . don’t. Yeah. No. Nope. I don’t think you should do that.” I cleared my throat, shaking my head. “Do not ruin anyone with your, um, devastating hunger. It’s probably best if you keep to yourself.”
He frowned, fingers flexing against his skin, clawing at his heart. Silver came off him in tendrils, sizzling as it wrapped around my skin.
I nodded, sinking lower into the bed.
“Try not to feel anything,” I said louder. “Ever. For everyone’s safety. I think abstinence is an important thing for you. Some people are meant to die alone.”
He frowned.
“You are some people . . . the one who’s dying alone,” I said. “In case it wasn’t clear—”
“Not all pain is wicked. There is pleasure in torment,” he said slowly. “Is there not, Ravenal?” His breath fanned across my cheek, the lightest caress. I felt it in my core.
“What are we talking about right now?” I asked.
“I am special to thee.”
“Not what I said.”
“And . . .” He pulled away, unfurling to his full height, looming above my bedside. “Fleshly relations,” he said with a prudish air.
I scoffed at the archaic descriptor, then groaned as a wave of pain made it hard to see.
“Why are you asking me . . . about fleshly relations?” I blinked slowly, feeling increasingly clammy and disoriented.
“Because . . . ’tis repugnant.”
“No, it’s not.” Confused by the conversation, drugged by the agony in my shoulder, I asked something I’d been dying to know. “Have you had sex before?”
“Sex with Zora,” Squire chirped in his sleep (extremely unhelpful).
Tarantula inhaled loudly. “Do not use your twisted tongue on me.” Magic danced atop his head like a corrupt halo.
What is happening right now? I shook my head weakly, determined to end the conversation.
“You know, people on this base are interested in you . . . Don’t ask me why, but I could give you some pointers. I’ve been with some men. It’s not a big deal if you just—”
His calloused hand clamped down on my mouth, covering the lower half of my face. “Silence yourself,” he ordered stiffly. A shudder rolled through him, his ears bright pink.
He looked agonized.