Secret Worlds (548 page)

My ears flame up. A defensive retort is ready on the tip of my tongue. I bite it down. What good would that be? It would only be a lie.

So I stay as still as a butte until I hear her snore. I sneak downstairs, out the door, and release all of the lizards and beetles. Then, back upstairs in bed, I snatch the pouch and sprinkle out a stingy dose. I sniff it up hungrily with barely time to close the pouch before I slump onto my covers.

The next morning, over beetle loaf and Fireagar juice, Nevada declares a house meeting. She wastes no time with small talk. “The Fireseed fields have been breached,” she starts.

“Have any plants been stolen?” I ask, my gut jumping.

“I can’t be sure,” says Nevada. “I haven’t checked the entire field.” Her eyes are underscored with sallow arcs and she’s thrown on a plain, colorless outfit, not her style.

“How do you know someone was in there?” Blane asks as he serves himself a large section of beetle loaf. He seems suspiciously unconcerned.

“Someone slashed three large holes in the tarp. I only checked part of the field. There may be more damage.” She gives us each a lingering stare. “This exposes the crop to overhead surveillance and detection, and to further breaches. To theft or destruction of the entire field.”

We all stop eating and the room grows heavy with worry. Nevada has taken on so much with this valuable crop. Now that Axiom has announced the contest, many people may know about us, this very special field. No doubt, it’s worth a ton of money. Who knows how many thieves and black market profiteers are hovering out there?

“Why would anyone do something as stupid as ripping the tarp?” Vesper asks. Her accusing eyes look directly at me. Automatically, I feel guilty. Did I lead the elders to my whereabouts? Oh, horrors, that hadn’t occurred to me until now.

“We have to fix the problem,” Nevada says. “But the repair will be expensive. I’m out of tarps. Even that one was hard to come by.” Her pale eyes widen inside the smoky kohl she lines them with, and I picture how she might’ve looked as a younger girl, living in the wild, always alert for danger, planning out missions with the Zone Warrior Collective. Not so far removed from this apparent mission to breach the Fireseed crop. If it were someone who followed me from my old compound, I’d be indirectly at fault, for putting my spiritual gods in harm’s way.

“Thieves,” Blane stabs his fork into the beetle loaf.

“Crazies,” Jan echoes.

“Hooligans,” hisses Vesper.

Even though they’re accusing with words they look frightened; all except Thorn, who’s absorbed again in chewing on his fingernails. Why isn’t he registering upset? Is he still too young to appreciate the gravity? Or perhaps his brain really
is
damaged. Perhaps the elders were right. I refuse to accept this, but I can’t help my doubts from seeping in.

“We can’t afford to lose the crop,” Nevada remarks as she stirs her tea.

Looking around, I notice the threadbare curtains, a chair missing an armrest, the chipped bowls and mismatched silverware. I notice the dull patches in her shirt where the iguana-cell fabric has rubbed away with wear.

“We can’t afford to lose any of it,” she repeats, “or The Greening will go bankrupt.”

“We’d be out in the desert, on our own again,” says Blane.

“Sucking moss from inside rock crevices,” Bea whispers.

“Sticking up folks for food,” says Jan.

And kissing toady men for rotten hunks of meat and a wrinkled bed to pass out in.

Nevada instructs us to work in teams of three, and to sew up the three jagged tarp rips nearest the compound, with worn rolls of twine she hands us. I get stuck with Vesper and Bea.

Nevada deems Thorn too short to help. He runs off with an odd grin on his face. What’s so funny, I’d like to ask? But I’m forbidden to run off after him. Sometimes I wonder if he’s more spoiled than brain addled, and then I silently scold myself for having the thought. He has been through more hell than most.

The tarp is so dry from sun damage that it may have cracked on its own. I suspect this until I see that it’s the clumsy cuts of an amateur using a very dull blade. Which makes it all the harder for Bea and me to pull the two sides together while Vesper tries to sew. Vesper has quite a mouth on her and Bea and I are subjected to every rotten curse in Vesper’s rotten vernacular. It gives me perverse satisfaction to see Bea roll her eyes at Vesper.

“How will you use the Fireseed leaves for clothes?” Vesper asks Bea in a lighter moment.

“I make my own patterns,” says Bea. “Leaves for flat parts, parts of the stalk for belts.”

“Where did Nevada get that incredible cellular fabric that you all wear?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” Bea admits. “But it’s worn out. We need something new. We get burns through it now, in the faded parts.”

“I’d be a model for you, if you need fittings,” I offer.

“Who asked you, Cult Girl?” Vesper scowls at me.

I look to Bea to vouch that I’m okay to talk to since we’ve shared a word last night. But Bea’s eyes are impassive and she’s not saying anything. “No one asked me, Vesper, I believe I asked Bea,” I retort. Bea stifles a snort of laughter. I may not be able to see Bea’s true expression under her mask, but I surely hear it, and it gives me great satisfaction.

Radius and Jan saunter by on their way out. “Hey, Beehive, how’s the repair job going?” asks Radius as he brushes against Bea. She lets out a delighted laugh and gives him a playful shove. Blane gives me a long look, but doesn’t say anything obnoxious. “You girls need to work harder,” Jan remarks before they all thunder off into the crimson jungle.

We do work hard. We manage to fix one massive tear before lunch.

Exhausted from the effort of clutching the heavy tarp above our heads, the sweat pours off of us as we remove our suits. Vesper and Bea talk about going up to sponge off before lunch. As soon a Bea leaves the room, Vesper turns to me. “Drug addict,” she hisses. “We all know it.” Has Bea told her? They don’t get it. Oblivion powder is not to get high on. It is for deleting.

Rattled by this latest comment, I wait to clean up, and instead, look for Thorn. When I last saw him, he was headed to the parlor.

He’s not there. Not in the project room, or his room, or in the bathroom, or anywhere. I feel a hard spasm of panic. Why is he biting his fingernails day and night? Why was he grinning when the Fireseed crop is in jeopardy? I need to find him and get something out of him, even it if involves no words.

I head to the big chair in the parlor, ease into its friendly squash and smell its dusty essence. Let me rest here, take a break from all of the stress, Bea’s mixed messages, Vesper’s petty jealousy, the worry of where Thorn could be.

Armonk wanders in. “Mind if I sit in here?” he asks.

“’Course not.” I raise my heavy lids to glance over at him, in the seat under the Axiom poster. “Your face!” I hurry over to him. “The cut opened when you were playing soccer. It’s infected.”

“It’s nothing. Just needs time to heal,” he says but doesn’t sound so sure.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” I examine it closer. It’s an angry, swelled up mess with edges that are turning almost blackish-green. Gangrene? My belly curdles.

“What’s your verdict?” he asks, studying my face for clues.

“You need something, fast. I’ll be back,” I say and dash up to tier three.

The project room is blessedly empty. I get out the Spatter venom and mix it with a peck of the Fireseed and Antler Powder. Determining that one of the Axiom oils is a simple fixer, I add in a few drops, blend the ingredients and carry the jar downstairs. It will heal him, do nothing, or make it much worse. There’s no way to predict, not even my dad could’ve called this one. All I can hope is that Spatter is similar to Dragon Elixir. After all, they are from the same lizard genus.

Drawing in an uneasy breath I say, “Settle back on the headrest.”

I smooth his long, shiny hair from his swollen forehead and cheeks. He gazes up at me with his deepset eyes before shutting them. I so admire his trust. Would I do the same with a relative stranger? Doubtful. “Let me know if it hurts,” I say, as I apply the mix and gently rub it in with the index finger of my good hand. With my other hand, I keep strands of hair from the gooey mix. When I apply it to the pus-filled gaps in the cut Armonk groans but claims it’s not so bad. He’s lying. A wound that badly infected stings even when nothing touches it.

“What are you doing?” Blane treads in with heavy boots, his weight and presence sucking up the free air in his wake.

“Armonk’s face is infected,” I snap. After all, it’s Blane’s fault! Blane slinks out, knowing better than to encourage another arrow in his back. But not before he throws me one of his shrouded, troubled stares. What does he want from me?

After the salve is smeared over the expanse of Armonk’s once-chiseled features, I slip back into the sagging easy chair to wait—for signs of allergic swelling, or toxicity from poisoning. And I wonder what I’ll do, with no doctor for miles, if that happens. The only one that I know of is back at my old compound. Would I risk going back to save Armonk, a boy I hardly know? I hope I never have to make that decision. My eyes sink lower. Sleeping is safer in the afternoon when the sun still hovers on the horizon.

Waking with a shudder, I jump up to look at Armonk’s injury. He’s not in the chair, and the sky outside is purple night. Good god, how long was I sleeping? Why didn’t he wake me? I scramble into the dining room. “Anyone see Armonk?” I call out.

Armonk himself emerges from the kitchen carrying a steaming plate of potatoes. For a moment, his face is covered with hot vapor, so I rush forward, impatiently swerving around the plate to examine him up close. Will it be bad?

Sweet baby Fireseed! The swelling is entirely gone. And the black-edged cut is now a pink, rheumy zigzag traversing his facial planes like a spirited river. My dad’s voice plays in my mind. “Fairy princess of mine, poof! Your magic has worked.”

Armonk places the potatoes on a hotplate in the middle of the table. He faces me, with his eyes alight. “Great job, Ruby, It’s not throbbing anymore. I don’t know how you did it.”

Bea comes out with a bowl of sautéed Fireagar. She sees me gaping at Armonk’s face. “
You
fixed that?” she asks. I nod.

Thorn slips in through the kitchen door as the last of the dinner is carried to the dining room. He peels off his burn suit, avoiding my stare. “Where were you?” I ask him when the rest of the crowd is in the dining room. He shrugs. “You can’t just go out anytime, anywhere you like. Speak up!” I demand before realizing that in my reflexive command, I’ve ordered him to do something he absolutely can’t. I sigh. “At least show me a sign that you get what I’m saying.”

He pats his pockets and takes out his fingernail clippings. Holds them up proudly.

“What in the world? Thorn, really! You’ve been outside chewing your fingernails? Stop it! You’ll eat your fingers to the bone with your obsessive nibbling.” I hate that I’m so exasperated by him these days, but isn’t it a guardian’s duty to apply a firm hand when necessary? Surely Nevada must keep a tight leash on her rowdy male students—on Vesper too.

Radius opens the door to the kitchen and peeks in. “You coming to dinner? We’re all waiting.”

“Be right in,” I tell him.

Thorn’s moon face grows dull with disappointment, which fills me, in turn, with terrible guilt. He sticks the fingernails back in his pocket. God only knows what he’s collecting them for. I put a hand on his shoulder as I ferry him to dinner.

When we sit down, people are already buzzing about Armonk’s miraculous healing. But they don’t all believe it had anything to do with me.

“I did see her messing around with his face,” Blane reports before he stuffs in almost half of a potato.

“What did you put on it, Ruby?” asks Bea. She’s freshly sponged off and her hair’s in a long ponytail. Radius, sitting next to her, glances at her admiringly.

“One of my special elixirs,” I say as I look around the table. “That’s what
I
bring to the equation. I can heal people who are burned, who have bad infections.”

“That’s a very handy skill, Ruby,” says Nevada. “Pass the greens,” she tells Jan, as she hands him the bowlful.

“Heal them with your
drugs?
” A sinister smile spreads across Vesper’s face.

Bea’s mouth opens as if she wants to come to my defense, but she’s silent. Is she so controlled by Vesper that she’s afraid to speak? Why?

“They’re elixirs,” I correct Vesper.

“Whatever they are, the infection’s gone,” Armonk insists. Indeed, his face is glowing with an ebony sheen, and once again, his high, elegant cheekbones are evident above his jaw.

“I call them drugs when you sniff them up and pass out,” says Jan.

“That’s enough!” shouts Nevada. She looks at Armonk and smiles. “I’m just glad you’re face is healed, however it got that way,” she adds, as if she can’t quite believe me either.

I sigh. This will still be an uphill battle. I guess I’ll have to prove myself again; although I hope no one gets sick enough to need it.

We’re still in our beds the next morning when Nevada’s voice explodes up the stairs and into my eardrums. “Everyone up! Another emergency repair. More cuts in the tarp. Someone was here during the night.”

People scramble out of their beds and grab the first thing they find to wear. I throw on my old red cloak. Bea hurriedly tucks her nightgown into her pants. Blane’s shirt is on inside out. Armonk has on his faded lizard-cell pants. Only Vesper has chosen her outfit with care: a pair of her best shimmery Harem pants and solar-cell shirt. She shoots me an evil stare as we assemble in the parlor.

“This is the second breach,” Nevada announces. “Clearly someone’s out to steal the plants, or destroy us.” She’s the worse for wear, in a patched shirt and sand boots badly cracked at the toes and ankles.

“One of the schools is trying to ruin our chances of winning the competition,” Jan guesses. He sounds paranoid. But who knows? The stakes are certainly high enough.