Secret Worlds (542 page)

I lie on my back and shimmy under that same section. I try not to catch my red cloak on one of its many barbed hooks, but I nick the fabric more than once.

Thorn starts to run into the thicket leading to the compound. Losing sight of him, I panic. Depot Man described these folks out here as violent. The desert seems to bring out the scary in people. “Stop! It’s not safe,” I yell. Thorn must hear me yet he keeps going. Does he see something I don’t?

“Thorn!” I yell. “Where are you?” The Fireagar’s bunchy leaves crunch underfoot as I run, straining my eyes through the leaves for a blur of movement. I hate to crush them, but I need to find Thorn. In a couple of minutes I reach a line of sandy dirt where the Fireagar ends. It’s too murky to see much, so I fire up one of the precious mini-torches I brought. Hopefully, it’ll last an hour or so. Under its glow, I see narrow tubing set along the line—an embedded water system? Pretty fancy, if so.

Beyond that, I see impossibilities.

Aiming the flickering light on a taller crop beyond the line, I study a field of red plants as tall as me, and tightly packed. Topped by star-shaped flowers, their branches wind down gracefully the same way they do on our compound’s sandstone statues at home. Fireseed? This must be a poison mirage. That’s it. Depot Man told me that tonight’s air is especially toxic. My brain is feasting on carbon dioxide and other poison vapors. My heart stuttering, I shine the torch on another section.

Wonders! It’s all still there, and ten paces ahead Thorn is on his knees, bowing to one of the plants.

“Fireseed! The gods are alive, Thorn,” I exclaim. He looks up just for a moment and grins. Or are we already up in the clouds with the Fireseed? “Are we dead?” I whisper under my breath so Thorn can’t hear. Did we crash in that glider? I touch my arms and reach out for the firm red stalk in front of me. The stalk and my arms are solid, not spirit.

Dropping to my knees near my brother, I hug the plant’s trunk and place my forehead on it. Cool to the touch, how is that possible in this desert heat? Swaying to an unseen wind, it arches down and brushes me with its tendrils, reaching for my shoulder almost in a gesture of affection, like my mother used to do when I was little. My mother, she would wonder over what I see here.

“You’re here, starflower,” I murmur, overcome with hot tears that spill onto the sand. “How can I serve you? Will you protect us from hungry nomads?” I glance to my left, at Thorn, who’s rocking back and forth, head to the roots.

Something moves in the corner of my right eye. I angle the torch up. This desert is eerie, especially under this crackled, sagging tarp that slumps down like an old lizard’s belly.

A rustle. Startling up, I squint into the jungle of red, and search for a repeat movement. Another sound of brushing against leaves, again to my upper right. Every nerve in me alerts. Is a Dragon Lizard skittering along the branches of a Fireseed plant? No, it sounds like something bigger, from about four feet up. I’m sure of it. I sniff the air. Only the heat of the sand and the mineral-sweet liqueur of veined leaves fill me.

Thorn isn’t visibly upset. He glanced up once, with mild curiosity, only to return to his rocking. My muscles relax as I lower my own head again to the pliable roots. If those sounds signaled something dangerous, Thorn would’ve known. He senses things my eyes can’t see.

Hard crunches explode by my right ear—a wild beast charging? I snap upright. And see it. A large human in an iguana skin suit with an arrow pointed straight at my heart.

“Hey!” I cry. No!”

The owner of the arrow steps forward. He grazes the sharp tip against my forehead above my molded burn mask. The guy’s dark eyes blaze out at me from his own mask. The little I see of his exposed skin is bronze and his long black hair gleams even under this dank tarp. Despite his fierce gaze, he doesn’t shoot the arrow. “Lift your mask,” he orders.

Thorn is up and clutching at my cloak. Am I this man’s dinner now, my brother his dessert? Why didn’t Thorn give me a sign earlier? My heart pounds through my ribs.

When the man sees my face and my electric haze of hair, his eyes soften. That spark of wonder that men get whenever they gaze at me is in his eyes. That spark I almost always hate. Somehow with this stranger, it fills me with unexpected lightening. “You’re from that desert cult,” he remarks, as if he knows everything about anything.

“How do you know?” The lightening fades.

He says, “Those flower brands on your wrists. There’s talk about your people, down in Chihuahua. How you think the flower is god, think it lives in the sky.”

“It does.”

“Does the flower god sit on a throne like a king?” Laughter escapes him.

“Fireseed
is
god. And god is right here. Fireseed saved us.” I give the red plant beside me a loving stroke.

Thorn frowns at the guy and aims his toy dragon tail out like a sword.

“That’s Fireseed?” The bronzed guy’s eyes widen as he examines it—its winding red branches that sway, its artful sprinkle of thorns, its curving tendrils that look like dancing cacti. He lowers his bow, slides the arrow back in its quiver and loops the bow over one shoulder.

Thorn, wordless as always, packs his toy away in his latch bag.

“Why don’t you take off
your
mask?” I ask.

The young man shrugs and pulls down the mask to rest it on his neck. A brand marks each high cheekbone with a leaf. A matching leaf earring dangles from one ear. Twine around his neck has a shiny, curlicue gem on it. His face is deeply tanned, chiseled, with a faraway glint in his eyes. I see now that he’s not a man, but a boy about my age. He’s dressed in the strangest clothes, a suit resembling lizard skin that clings to every muscle and slope. I try not to gape but it’s hard not to. The guys at home wear loose capes that hide these things. My sly gaze follows his slim hips that arc up to broad shoulders. He’s perfectly built except for one odd-shaped leg. Wait … where that flesh and blood leg would be, his is molded from a smooth, cream-colored substance. It’s thin at the ankle and then swells out, mimicking the natural curve of his other calf. The device is badly bowed and nicked, as if it’s seen better days.

Like most things here in the desert.

When the boy sees me studying his leg, his dark brows knit. He tilts his head down and his long bangs shroud his eyes.

“I’m Ruby,” I tell him, “and this is my brother, Thorn. Do you live here?”

“No. I’m from Black Hills Sector, up north. I’m Armonk.”

Most people I know are named after desert things, like Sage, or aspects of Fireseed, like Freeblossom, Crimson and Thorn. Armonk’s an odd name but I don’t say so. “What brought you to Skull’s Wrath?”

“Private business.”

“Here? At this compound?” I ask.

“It’s The Greening.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “The Greening? I see
red
Fireseed plants and a
sand-
colored compound. Not a smidgen of green! The guy at the depot said a crazy lady lives here, says she belonged to a bizarre group of killers.”

“You have no right to talk about bizarre,” Armonk snaps. And then, as if he knows he’s veered too far into mean, he continues in a milder tone. “The lady’s an old friend of my mother’s.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t be evil then, could she? “Well, then, I’m going to see her too.”

“Suit yourself.” He gives me a hard glance as if I’m the eccentric one for changing, rapid-fire, from one extreme position to another. “Need a hand?” Offering his, in a surprising gesture that gives me gooseflesh, he helps me up, while my brother scrambles up on his own, an odd calm still etched on his face.

We weave our way through the Fireseed field. Every leaf that brushes my face is a caress and every thorn prick is a pleasant nudge. My god is here on earth!

Armonk looks down at Thorn. “You’re awfully quiet, what do you think of this?”

Thorn only stares back at him.

“He doesn’t really talk,” I explain.

“Why is that?” Armonk addresses his question to Thorn.

“No reason,” I answer for him. How can I explain when
I
don’t totally know?

We’re almost to the front porch of the compound, where the tarp is seamlessly attached to its roof when we hear a war whoop and a loud crashing of branches.

I yell, “Who’s stomping on Fireseed? Stop it now!” I’m bold with the miracle of being surrounded by the star-faced beauties; also, from the way Armonk is looking at me, and his quiver full of sharp arrows.

His mask is back on but I can tell by his quaking shoulders that he’s laughing. “Brazen one,” he says.

His laughter stops when we come face-to face with three burly guys who tower over even Armonk. They’re wielding clubs. For a third time tonight, my heart is up in my throat. Will they club us and boil us for stew? Could everything Armonk said about his mother knowing the owner of this place be a lie? He certainly doesn’t know these guys. This may have been a huge, huge mistake, but it’s way too late to turn back now.

“Get off our property,” the biggest one snarls. I can’t see his face under his burn mask but his shoulders are massive.

Thorn hides behind me.

“Why are you trespassing?” says the guy’s sidekick, whose orange hair explodes over his mask like a lit pyre. His voice is a higher, more tentative. These guys are huge but judging by their voices, they may only be a couple of years older than me. Hard to tell under their suits.

Armonk steps forward and past them, onto the tarp-covered porch. “I’m here to see Nevada Pilgrim.”

A moment of surprised silence hangs in the air as the three guys pause to consider this. I guess they weren’t expecting Armonk to know the proprietress’ name.

The biggest guy’s mouth settles into in a sneer as he hops onto the porch and swings around to face Armonk. His burn suit is stretched tightly over his meaty torso and his square jaw underscores unfriendly hazel eyes set far apart. He sways his club in front of him. “No further. What do you need to see Ms. Pilgrim about?”

“I don’t have to answer any questions,” Armonk hisses.

“She’s not expecting visitors. You answer to me.”

Armonk starts walking toward the inside door.

“Hold it right there!” orders a third guy, tall and wearing a nose ring, the same green burn suit, with his blond hair cut short. Armonk continues walking.

To which the meaty guy smacks Armonk hard on the shoulder with the club. Armonk flinches though he manages another step. The guy whacks him harder this time, on the back.

“Stop that, you creep!” I yell, to which the blond, nose-ringed guy clamps a wide hand over my mouth and holds me there.

Armonk draws an arrow so fast I don’t see it coming from the quiver. He aims for the guy’s veined neck. The arrow tip pulses in mid-air to his heartbeat. “Let me pass,” he says slowly, determined.

The phalanx of guys lets him by, but Armonk only gets four more steps toward the front door before the brute with the club jumps on him, tearing the bow and arrow from Armonk’s hands and hurling it to the ground. Then he proceeds to box Armonk’s head like it’s a flimsy practice dummy. The red-haired guy is the only one who doesn’t participate. He has a pained look on his face, as he watches blood spray from Armonk’s nose. Even so, this guy is body-blocking Armonk’s entrance to the compound.

I wriggle free of the tall cretin and yell, “What is wrong with you people?” I’m ready to jump in the fray, but the font door opens and a woman bursts past the guy who’s playing blockade. She has wispy hair the color of morning sun. It’s tinged with green ends and she has the same leaf patterns on her cheeks as Armonk. Are they from the same tribe or what?

“Blane, stop right now!” she commands. She’s older than us, but not by a whole lot—maybe twenty-seven? Her safari style pants and shirt are all made from the same honeycombed iguana cloth as Armonk’s suit. Do they get it from the same fabricator? From her high-cuffed boots to the flimsy scarf around her neck, she’s coated in fine dust.

Blane, the overgrown bully, sneaks one more punch to Armonk’s already bloodied face. Armonk careens backwards. Behind me, Thorn clutches my cloak even harder. Poor kid, he’s terrified.

“They trespassed,” Blane claims. “They refuse to say what their business is.”

“Liar!” Armonk lowers his mask, leans over the porch edge and spits blood into the sand.

Nevada—I guess that’s who this is—helps Armonk to his feet, because his leg prosthetic has slipped and is hanging sideways. I see now, it’s way too short for him, and he’s tried to compensate by gluing a mismatched extension to the top of the leg.

He straightens it and clamps it back on as if he’s used to doing this. I feel so badly for him, even though he’s a stranger. Even though he had an arrow aimed at my face not even fifteen minutes ago.

The woman stares at Armonk with curious green eyes. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Armonk, from Black Hills Sector,” he rasps. His tongue makes bulges in his cheek as it works inside his mouth, probably exploring for cuts.

“Armonk, from Black Hills Sector,” mimics one of the overgrown louts behind Nevada. She whirls around.

“Another word from any of you and it’ll be three times the chores.” That does the trick. Impressive, a woman calling the shots even though these guys tower over her! This would never happen back at our compound where the women obey the men, or else. Nevada’s attention turns back to Armonk. “
Who
are you again?”

“Rain’s son,” he says simply, as if that’s enough.

Nevada lets out a cry. She rushes forward and hugs Armonk. His blood smears onto her chameleon-fabric shirt but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She holds him out at arm’s length to look at him again, this time grinning. “Rain’s son, wow. You’ve grown into a handsome man.”

At this, Blane and the redheaded guy exchange smirks. If Nevada notices she chooses to ignore it. “How’s your mama these days?” she asks.

“Worn out.” Armonk nods wearily at the image in his head. “The sector, it’s not so good. The trial gardens didn’t really take. Could be all of the rock, or the iron in the soil, or …” He trails off.