Sky Stitcher, page 7
He belonged there.
He threw his arm out, catching himself against the edge of the tear when I gave one last heave to push him through. He wrapped golden threads of energy around his outstretched wrist to buy himself purchase against my advances and leaned into my pushes, showing how easily he could have resisted all along. His eyes left mine for the briefest second, losing their glint with a flash of something darker as he turned his gaze to the rift.
I saw the flicker of displeasure in his eyes, the subtle pulse of fear darkening his visage, but when he turned back toward me, he resumed the same effortless calm. A lopsided smirk surfaced on his lips. He leaned forward ever so slightly, brushing my senses with the familiar dune rush scent, and my breath hitched. My heart raced inside my chest, suddenly all too conscious of the charged space between us, of the knowledge that he could so easily destroy me.
“Go. Back,” I commanded with an edge to my voice, though it fell short of anything compelling.
“No.” His tone was gravelly but luxuriously rich—like the most complex tea blend. Warm and smooth but laced with something spicy. He jerked his head to indicate the rift, then leaned closer to me. “I’ll not be going back to the In Between. Too many monsters, like you said.” His eyes danced with delight when he winked, his lashes darting together so fast I wasn’t entirely certain I’d seen it. I stared blankly at him. His face settled into a look of smugness, and his spine lengthened as he stood taller. He knew the effect he had on me, the way his unexpected charm surprised and unnerved me.
I backed away hastily, needing to separate myself from whatever spell he’d cast upon me that had so thoroughly inhibited my good sense. What was it about him? Why couldn’t I hurt him…or, at the very least, banish him back to his rightful place? I hadn’t exactly mastered Ahma’s art of stitching Prisha’s creatures back into the skies, but I’d never struggled to kill one of Prisha’s creatures before. This must be his doing—and if so, he was likely far more dangerous than I’d anticipated.
“Why won’t you just…die?” I asked in a voice that felt foreign—raspy and encumbered by confusion. He cocked an eyebrow in response, making me realize I’d spoken my thoughts out loud. Really, Zara? You’re asking Prisha’s creature why he won’t die? Perhaps if you ask him nicely next time, he’ll be more inclined to oblige your request.
I exhaled my frustration in a dramatic huff. Laughter rippled in the air—the magical sound glittered like sparkling wings of beetles in the sun. “You’re fully capable of killing me, Starlight, but something in your subconscious won’t allow it. Pity for you. Intriguing for me.”
“My entire consciousness is set on destroying you. I promise you that. This is your doing.”
“It would be unconscionable for me to take credit where credit is not due. This isn’t my doing, but yours.” Mischief glimmered in his eyes, and he took another bite of my halfmoon bread. “And I’m curious enough to let you live until I figure out whatever’s holding you back.”
“Thanks for the thoughtful accommodation,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. “So you’ve changed your mind about killing me, then?”
He lifted his brows and shrugged. “I didn’t say that. I said I won’t be killing you yet. There’s always tomorrow. Why rush?” He shoved another huge bite of bread into his mouth. “This is really good, by the way,” he said, waving the flat crescent.
My nose crinkled with disgust as he spoke through the mouthful. What kind of a monster lacked the decency to chew his food properly before speaking?
This one.
He swallowed the rest of the bread and ran his hands over his black trousers. My eyes wandered to the sculpted muscles of his thighs before snapping back to a more appropriate level.
“Have you got any more?” he asked hopefully.
“For the creature planning to kill me? No. None for you.”
“Ah. Too bad,” the sky ruffian responded, seemingly oblivious to my unrest. He turned his back on me and walked a few paces away, stopping in front of a puddle of green fabric pooled together in ripples of shimmering satin. The Stitcher lay unresponsive, curled into a ball at his feet. Shit.
The memory of the arrow piercing the Eldress’s shoulder rushed back to me. I’d been so concerned with subduing the monster, and so disoriented by his presence, that I’d forgotten. She needed help. The arrow…the inky blood stain across her shoulder…Is she dead? Oh no. Fear lodged itself in my throat.
Chapter 8
Not the Type
I froze, holding my own breath in my lungs while I watched her chest rise and fall slowly—perhaps too slowly—but she moved. She breathed. Relief washed through me like a gulp of fresh water after a day in the dunes.
The creature’s black wings twitched slightly as he repositioned them behind his shoulder blades, arms folded over his chest while he contemplated the Eldress. Concern bubbled uncomfortably inside of me.
“Get away from her,” I warned. “If you touch her, you die.”
Amethyst eyes lifted toward the heavens, and a slight breeze rifled through the roots of his hair. The dark brown crop fell into effortless, windswept perfection when he turned over his shoulder to speak to me. “Perhaps we can take a little break from all this fighting. The old woman needs some attention. A proper healer. Do you know one?”
“What?”
“I did what I could for her while you were…incapacitated. Removed the arrow. Stopped the bleeding. But if she doesn’t see a healer soon, she’ll likely die of infection. Or worse.” He pointed to the broken shaft in the sand. “Arrow might have been poisoned…her skin is festering, and she’s quite fragile. And very old. Though not as old as me.” His voice climbed with his rambling, as if moderately entertained by his own observations.
Several mindless blinks later, I stomped toward the Stitcher and placed my hands on the dark stain that spidered over her tunic to see for myself. He was…older than her? He…helped her? No traces of the arrow remained in her shoulder, and black sutures threaded through the Eldress’s papery skin to seal the wound closed, though a putrid fluid drained from the swollen flesh. Her blue veins twisted alongside the wound like a map of Rashii’s winding city streets, but the flow of blood had stopped. She was alive.
She would need the attention of my Sisters if she had any hope of lasting.
“It will be fastest if we fly,” he announced dryly. As if that decided the matter.
I craned my head so fast, it cricked a muscle in my neck. “We? There is no we. You stay out of this.”
His twinkling charm faded into a glower. “You’re welcome, by the way.” He tossed his hands to the side to accentuate the expectant expression on his face, clearly waiting for my thanks. He could keep expecting until the sand wings resurfaced from their dormancy a hundred years from now…I didn’t trust him and didn’t plan to. I would not be thanking Prisha’s monsters. Not now. Not ever.
“Go away.” I turned my back to him again, ignoring the way the hair at the nape of my neck bristled with the knowledge that he was watching. Hyper-aware of the focus of his eyes on my back, I turned to the Stitcher. Her skin shimmered with the faintest trace of perspiration, and she looked even smaller than I remembered—her face pale and clammy.
If I hurried, I could get her to the guryas by nightfall and let the healers work on her while I convinced my Sisters to prepare to leave for Rashii. If we left tomorrow, we’d make it to safety before the start of the festival with time to warn the guards to fortify their protections against Prisha and keep everyone within the city gates. Then, I could sort out all of these other troubles. But what to do with the unintended keepsake I’d ripped from the sky?
The Daughters would want to interrogate him, but he was no mindless, bloodthirsty creature from the In Between. This one was sentient, with all the ability to scheme. He could overpower me, especially while vulnerable with the Eldress. I moved Ahma’s garment to recover the wound, quickly cataloging my options.
The sun struggled just above the dunes, the vibrant red hue of its crown an attempt to compensate for its waning consciousness. It would soon go to sleep with the rest of the world—and I knew the dangers of lingering in the open after dusk. Too many monsters to worry about…especially the winged one casting me into his shadow. I had to move now.
“Ahma? Let’s get you home,” I whispered into her ear, wondering if she was even cognizant enough to hear me. I moved to scoop her frail frame into my arms, but froze as the weight of his hand fell on my shoulder.
“I’m coming with you.”
My spine grew rigid. “No.” Why would he presume I’d allow him to follow me anywhere? My stomach flipped. Why did I presume I’d have the power to stop him? I have to try. I chanced a discreet glance over my shoulder, stealing a look at the easy stance he maintained, his wide shoulders framed by obsidian canopies. His dark brows lifted with that expression of halfhearted interest he seemed to favor—the infuriating one that immediately solidified my dislike for him. Yet somehow, my skin flushed when I realized he’d caught me staring.
That’s enough of this nonsense. I stood, letting my silk skirt fall around my ankles, and I carefully adjusted the band around my midriff to make it lay flat. My rucksack sat abandoned in the sand a few feet from the Eldress, half buried. The rumpled leather rustled as I rummaged a hand inside.
There. The bristled texture of the cording scratched my fingers. I wound it around my hand and removed the bundle, holding it in front of my abdomen where Prisha’s monster could not see. Deep breath.
I whirled and disrupted the sands, spraying streams of sparkling dust into the air with the sharpness of my movement. Prisha’s creature frowned and folded his arms over his chest, his chiseled cheekbones more pronounced beneath the emerging moonlight. I charged toward him, driving my shoulder into his ribs to knock the wind from his chest. He fell backward into the sand, but no sign of alarm ever marred his demeanor—he remained as calm and collected as ever.
He did not even give me the dignity of fighting back. Bringing his hands together, I knelt and set myself to work, winding the rough cord around his wrists with a series of complicated knots. Knots I knew with intimate familiarity from a lifetime of pitching the guryas.
Next, I secured his ankles. When I allowed myself to steal a glance at him, I frowned at the smirk on his face. He remained calm as ever, watching patiently, as though he did not notice how the world had shifted on its axis. How the dunes and the sky melted away behind him, so all I knew was his eyes locked on mine. I shook my head. It is just a trick of the shadows. Shadows he commands. Pull yourself together.
He stifled a laugh, and my gaze sharpened in response.
“What?” I asked, a bit more angrily than I’d intended, but nothing about the situation seemed funny to me.
He shrugged nonchalantly and motioned to the bristled cords around his wrists. “I’m not against it—just didn’t expect you to be the type.”
“The type to what?” I asked, my face scrunching up. Understanding dawned on me, and my mouth warped into a display of horrified revulsion. He lifted his bindings, quirking a dark brow.
Every inch of my body blazed a fiery shade of crimson. “Oh goddess. Gross. No. I’m not—I don’t. I’ve never—No.” The warmth in my cheeks flared. I moved backward a few paces to extend the distance between us and looked him firmly in the eyes. My stomach churned at the smirk on his face, no matter how fiercely I ignored it.
After a sufficiently drawn-out staring match of awkwardness, I huffed and braced myself. Ignore him. He’s just another one of Prisha’s monsters. Don’t let him fluster you. I stepped closer to him, reluctant to close the distance between us but needing to finish the job I’d started. Purely to ensure his bindings would hold. My weaving was a disaster, but knots—knots I could do. I pulled them tight and checked my handiwork. He wasn’t going anywhere. If only I knew how to stitch the skies and hide him beneath its canopy so I could keep him concealed until I returned with my Sisters, but this would have to do for now. My priority had to be getting the Eldress to our healers.
“You. Stay here.” My voice wavered slightly, unaccustomed to the attempted tone of authority. “Don’t follow me.”
He rolled his eyes but lounged back in the sand, making the dunes into his rajasana—like he was a prince of Rashii. “Okay, Starlight.”
Chapter 9
Invisible Lacerations
I walked a few paces away, stalled to listen, and checked over my shoulder to ensure he remained firmly where I’d left him. He waved. Not an eager wave or even a polite gesture of greeting, but one with a deliberate motion meant to provoke, one that made my face twist into a sour grimace.
Stop watching me. My eyes narrowed at him and my teeth ground together, but I did not dignify him with another word. I slung the backpack over my shoulder and went to retrieve Ahma. With any luck, we’d be back to the guryas by nightfall, and if Prisha’s less sentient beasts didn’t do the dirty work of destroying the winged one for me, I’d send the Daughters to handle him in the morning. I stopped in my tracks, gripping the straps of my backpack with whitened knuckles—what if Prisha’s monsters freed him, and he led them straight to us? What if all of this was part of Prisha’s larger scheme? I shook my head. The Daughters could interrogate him tomorrow and do what they saw fit.
Tomorrow. We’ll deal with him tomorrow.
I brushed Ahma’s white braids from her forehead, tracing the deep triangle of tension between her eyes with a gentle touch, urging it to disappear. Her chest sank with each exhale, but she did not awaken. Hang on, Ahma, I willed in silence. It wasn’t unusual for the Stitcher to sleep for long stretches of time, but with the angry gash in her shoulder and a significant amount of blood loss, I worried. And if the arrow had indeed been tipped with poison…
I shook my head and trudged forward.
Her limp form weighed exceptionally more when carried in my arms. On the way to stitch the skies, her knobbled knees and lanky arms contributed at least a little to my efforts, but now she dangled like an awkward satchel of onions in my arms. And she sort of smelled like them, too. I wrinkled my nose.
Beads of perspiration trickled down the nape of my neck. They seeped through the fabric at the small of my back, where my tunic pasted itself uncomfortably to my skin. As I crossed the dunes toward the sound of the Daughters’ threading—the compass that always led home—my breathing became labored, my steps more and more sluggish. My thighs protested, shaking with the effort, and the sand seemed to swallow my feet with each footstep. My sandals grew heavy, weighing down every pace across the dunes. I willed each foot in front of the other, but it felt as though leaden weights had been strapped to my ankles, pulling me deeper and deeper into the sand until I could barely move them at all. As if I were pushing through a giant vat of lorbean paste instead of air. I gasped, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
Venom and hell, Zara. Are you really that spent?
But as I continued, I knew this was more than fatigue. An aching pain spread in my heart, slowly at first, in the way ink seeps across wet paper. Then, all at once, with more conviction—like a bottle of ink knocked over onto the parchment, drenching the page with black. I gasped, halting midstep to grate my teeth against the pain that suddenly erupted in my chest like sharp shears shredding through fabrics or—strings pulled too tightly until they sliced through flesh.
I looked down at my chest, fully expecting to see that my skin had flayed apart. Expecting the eviscerating pain to send droplets of blood down my front to stain the sands. But there was nothing. Just the agonizing, all-consuming pain of something wound too tightly around my beating heart. Squeezing tighter with every step forward.
I froze when the horrible realization struck me. Slowly, I craned my neck over my shoulder, glancing back toward the dunes I’d left behind. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there—I could feel it. I was certain. Bolstering myself, I tested my theory and pulled.
The ribbon of starlight shimmered to life, stretched taut between my heart and the place where the dunes dipped out of view. The place where I’d left him tied up in the sands.
“Shit,” I swore beneath my breath, vaguely surprised by the flecks of spit that left my mouth with the huff of frustration. Considering the unholy amount of sweat that soaked through my clothing, I was surprised that any fluids remained in my body to be expelled.
The stars shimmered above, and I stood, stranded between both connections that called me in opposite directions. A call to home…and a highly inconvenient call back to that monster.
One last attempted step toward the guryas brought me to my knees in the sand. I clutched a hand over the invisible lacerations in my chest—the gashes deepened the more I strained against the magical binding between us. What has he done to me?
The ribbons ensnared the glowing heart of stars, burrowing within it like some sort of parasitic infestation. I panted, straining to catch my breath, and the Eldress groaned in her slumber where I’d let her fall.
I couldn’t leave her here, unconscious and vulnerable to the monsters of the dark. But I couldn’t make it to the guryas…I couldn’t push past whatever spell that cursed beast had cast upon me. My gaze swept over the conical tops of the guryas, just visible in the haze of darkness blanketing the horizon, and my stomach wrenched with the realization that I’d never make it if I didn’t change course. “I’m sorry, Ahma. I can’t.”
My brows knitted together, and my gaze followed the gleaming trail of starlight—the curse wrapped around my heart. The source of the agony that restrained me. How did this happen? How do I free myself from him? My heart pattered faster in a flurry of unrest—and then slowed as resolve washed over me. Resolve, and a hefty dose of anger. That fucking monster.
