Of Beast and Beauty (16 page)

BY the time the sun winks its flaming eye and disappears behind the blue hills, I could have killed her ten different ways.

Claws to her throat and her body left outside the dome for the Smooth Skins to collect if they dared open their gate. A shove into a zion nest, where venomous insect stings would stop her heart. A handful of poison milk from the wrong breed of cactus; a step too close to the cliff’s edge as we reach the foothills and begin to climb. The moments present themselves, and her death plays out again and again in my mind.

She is at my mercy now. All it would take is a broken promise.

I could kill her and put an end to the Yuejihua family’s rule. If I were stronger, I could bring her to my chief and hold Isra until her people agreed to give us food and roses and anything else the Desert People desire. I could arrange for Isra to have her turn as captive, let her learn what it’s like to be caged, let her tongue grow bitter with shame as she flatters those who hold the key to her chains.

I like the thought of Isra at my mercy—head bowed, no longer giving orders and taking my obedience for granted. I like it very much.

She didn’t take you for granted last night. She made a deal. You gave
your word
.

A twinge near my heart reminds me the organ is still too soft. When I rejoin my tribe, I’ll cut my warrior’s braid and give it to my father to burn. I don’t deserve to stand beside Gare and the rest of the men. I am weak.

Kind, when I should be cruel. Gentle, when I should crush my enemy to dust.

“Gem? Can we stop?” Isra pants, tugging at my sleeve. “Just for a moment?”

I turn to see her hunched over, fist pressed to her side, face pinched, and my heart twinges a second time. I’ve done it again—forgotten that her legs are shorter and that a lifetime of privilege hasn’t prepared her for a night and day of hiking in ill-fitting boots across hard ground with only cactus milk to drink and a handful of dried meat to eat.

She brought enough meat in her pockets for one meal, not
three
days
in the desert.

I’m not surprised. She has no concept of what it means to be hungry.

But after this journey, she will. She’ll survive—we’re rationing the meat, and cactus milk has strengthening properties—but she won’t enjoy it.

Maybe that small suffering will be enough to convince her to honor her part of our bargain.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, leaning on the walking stick I found to help her navigate the unfamiliar terrain. “I want to keep going. The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back, but …”

Her tongue slips out to wet her lips. She tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. Despite her sun-pink cheeks, she looks pale, and more fragile than she does in her domed city. I should be pleased to see her in distress. I should push her further for the joy of seeing her break. But I only wish I had my walking pack and supplies. If I did, I could build a shelter against the rocks. I could unroll my grass mat to soften the ground and cover her with a skin.

Puh
. I want to make a warm bed. For my enemy.

No, I want to make a warm bed for a girl I
care
for. It’s the caring that shames me the most. I don’t understand it. How can I feel pity for a queen I’ve killed a hundred times in my mind? How can I admire the determination of the girl who has held me prisoner? Why do I put my arm around Isra’s waist and offer what strength I have, when I should crave distance from her the way my people crave enough food to feed their children?

“Don’t.” She shies away, as if my arm is a snake she’s discovered under a rock. She dances out of reach, closer to the edge of the path, where the wind blows harder than it does near the rocky face of the hill.

A sharp gust tugs her shawl down around her shoulders and lifts her hair, making it writhe like a bonfire made of shadows. Behind her, the setting sun paints the tired desert a hungry orange, the color of vengeance, while far in the distance the dome squats smugly on the horizon, confident the people it shelters will never be held accountable for what they have stolen.

The desert bears their scars. The land spread out below us is all but barren. The desert floor is baked hard. The wind can barely move it. There are no more dust storms here. The ground cracks like eggshells, the pieces moving farther apart with every month that passes without rain. The trees are dead, and the few cacti that stubbornly push their way up from the scarred earth cast gnarled shadows, crooked fingers that would snatch Isra’s pant leg and pull her over the edge if they could reach high enough.

I could deliver her into their hands. One firm push, and in an instant she’d tumble down the hill it has taken us an hour to climb.

I say, “You’re too near the edge. Let me help,” before taking her arm and guiding her back to safer ground. I rearrange her shawl to hold her wild hair captive, brush the dirt from her cheek, warn her to “Be careful. The path drops sharply on your right side,” and ignore the way she flinches at my touch.

“I …” Her eyes squeeze closed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

I
know. Now that we’re alone, far from the city she rules, with no guards to protect her or chains binding my arms or legs, she remembers that I’m a monster. She remembers to be afraid. I should be glad of that, too, but it only makes my stomach clench and my voice harsh when I remind her, “I gave my word. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I know you will,” she whispers, eyes still closed, her dark lashes fanned out over her cheeks.

I want to call her a liar, but it would serve no purpose, and I’m too tired to fight. I’m feeling how far we’ve come. We’ve stopped long enough for my muscles to cool, and the places where the spears pierced my flesh ache more than they have in weeks.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” I say, turning to assess the trail.

“There’s a wider place in the path just behind us, and rocks to block the wind. There’ll be nothing to drink until tomorrow, but there’s enough dry wood for a fire.”

“That would be nice,” she says with a thin smile. “I haven’t felt my nose for hours. I can’t believe I thought I knew what it felt like to be cold.”

I grunt in response, and her smile slips away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Your people must suffer during the winter.”

“They suffer. They starve. You don’t care. Remember?”

“I care. Of course I do. That day in the infirmary was a long time ago.”

When she reaches for my arm, she’s trembling harder than she was before.

I take her hand and pull her to me with more force than I intended.

“If I were going to kill you, I would have done it already,” I growl, not bothering with the Smooth Skin inflection that I’ve perfected in my months of captivity. We are in my world now, and I will speak the way a Desert Man speaks. “This is a foolish time to lose your courage.”

Her breath rushes out, and a wrinkle forms between her brows. “I haven’t lost my courage. I … You …” The wrinkle smoothes, and something flickers deep in her eyes. “You think I’m
afraid
of you?”

“I
know
it.” I hate the wounded note in my voice. I must be more tired than I thought, or I wouldn’t allow her fear to affect me, let alone allow her to hear it.

“Oh, Gem.” She lifts her chin, tipping her face up to mine. I know she can’t see me, but in that moment I can
feel
her attention. It prickles the place on my forehead where flesh meets scales, makes my nose itch and my mouth wrinkle. “I’m not afraid of you. I swear it.”

I grunt again. “That’s why you flinch when I touch you.”

“No. I … That’s not …” The wind blows her shawl open at the throat. I watch the muscles there work as she fights to swallow. Ripple, clutch, ripple, shudder.

Seems her lies aren’t going down easily for either of us.

“Don’t bother,” I say, gripping her fingers harder, reminding us both I could snap her bones as easily as the sticks I’ll gather for kindling. “Hold your fear close. It will make for poor sleep tonight but peaceful nights back in your tower. If you stop thinking of my people as monsters, how will you ever sleep again? Knowing what you’ve done?”

ISRA

I’VE done nothing!
I want to scream.
It’s not my fault your people are
starving. I had no idea until I met you that the Monstrous weren’t beasts
perfectly suited to life in the desert. And a Monstrous killed my father less
than three months past. Is it my fault I’ve been too miserable and angry to
think of the good of your people?

By the moons, I can hardly bear the weight of what’s good for
mine!

I’m only one woman, and most of the time I still feel like a girl. I wasn’t
raised to rule; I was raised to die. You know
nothing
about what it’s like to
be the queen of Yuan, so don’t stand there and growl your judgment at me,
you stupid, moody thing!

But I don’t scream. I don’t speak at all.

I endure Gem’s less-than-gentle guidance to our campsite and his angry silence as he stomps back and forth gathering wood for the fire without saying a word. I cross my arms and bite my tongue and keep my peace, because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure what will come out.

It could be a reasonable argument, but it could also be something much more dangerous. I could find myself confessing that I’m not afraid of him, I’m afraid of me. That I’m afraid of how much I want him to touch me, and keep on touching me, no matter how wrong it would be.

A wicked part of me would like to observe the quality of Gem’s silence after
that
sort of confession. I imagine it would be very different from the cold, efficient one I’m enjoying right now. More shocked and off balance. Far less sanctimonious. The pleasure I’d take in pulling the rug out from beneath his self-righteous feet would almost make up for the shame of his knowing my secret.

Almost.

“Hand me your shawl,” he demands, startling me.

“What?”

“Your shawl. Hand it to me.” From the direction of his voice, I can tell he’s standing. Glaring down at me, no doubt, too sickened to sit and enjoy the fire he’s miraculously built. I would ask him how he did it, but it’s clear he’s not in the mood for polite conversation.

“There’s plenty of room by the fire.” I leave my scarf where it is, lift my chin, and do my best to look imperious, though I can’t remember

feeling this filthy in my life, even right after my mother died, when I refused to let anyone bathe me for weeks. But back then I was a little girl locked away in my music room, the only place the tower fire hadn’t touched. I didn’t spend my days roaming the desert, collecting dirt and grit on my skin, somehow managing to work up a sweat despite the winter chill.

Frozen nose, damp undershirt.
Eck
. I should have taken off a layer when the sun grew warm in the afternoon. At least then I’d be dry right now. I’m discovering the only thing worse than cold is cold and
damp
.

“I’m going down the mountain for something to drink,” Gem says tightly, making it clear he’s noticed that my nose is as far in the air as it can get without tipping me over backward. He sounds even angrier.

Good. Let him stay angry. I’ll stay angry, too, and we’ll both be better off.

“If you want me to bring some back for you, I need your shawl to soak up the cactus milk,” Gem says. “I’d use my shirt, but I’m sure you don’t want to drink from
that
.”

His
shirt. He wasn’t wearing a shirt the night I saw him through the roses’ eyes, but I don’t remember what his bare chest looks like. I was too focused on his immense size and large, white teeth.

You should
still
be focused on his teeth
.

I should. I lick my lips and think of my father, but even imagining Baba’s horror is no longer enough to banish the tingling at my fingertips. I would like to see Gem’s chest with my hands. I would like to see his face again, to find out if his hair has grown, and if it’s still as soft.

Abomination
. My internal voice is as venomous as ever, but harder to hear over the wind whistling through the rocks.

I love the wind more than I thought I would, even when it is tangling my hair into fantastic knots and freezing me to the bone. I can’t remember ever feeling so alive, so—

“As you wish, my lady,” Gem snaps. “But don’t complain of thirst come morning.”

I reach for my shawl, but before I can hand it over—or tell him I was only
thinking
, not ignoring him—he’s stomping down the mountain.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter beneath my breath, but it’s hard to hold on to my anger for long.
I’m
the one who’s being ridiculous.