Beyond the Red Page 3

  Two: Day is on his knees with a phaser pressed to his skull. There are four soldiers around him, including the injured one who murdered Bram’s family. Day’s face is bloody and bruised and his eyes widen as I step around the corner to face them.

  Three: My phaser isn’t shooting.

  I pull again and again, but the blazing thing is fucken fingerprint-locked and it’s useless to me. Thank the suns the soldiers are facing Day and haven’t noticed me. I grab my knife instead and run toward the nearest of the four as Day closes his eyes. There’s a sound like a muted screech and Day jerks sideways, crumpling into the sand.

  Something inside me breaks.

  A scream rips from my throat, but by the time the soldier turns and sees me, it’s too late—I slam my dagger into his neck. He drops, gurgling as I rip the blade away, whirling on the second soldier and catching him in the throat.

  Lightning cracks across my eyes—

  I’m on my knees. Someone has a fistful of my hair and is yanking my head so far back that my spine might snap. My vision returns in a slow fade, and a second dark-skinned soldier with sharp, angled markings who’s more muscle than a man-eating wildcat towers over me, my knife in his hand. Blood drips down my face and neck, soaking the scarf tied around my head, but I’m not sure whose it is. The soldier’s white uniform is soaked in red.

  “How dare you?” he hisses in Sephari, leaning over me so closely that the trim beard around his lips and chin nearly touches my nose. “How dare you take the life of a warrior?”

  He straightens and his boot slams into my gut. I gasp and jerk forward, but whoever has my hair yanks me back again. My stomach burns, my head is throbbing, but I don’t care. I keep seeing Day collapse, over and over; I keep seeing my mother and father tossed in the sand like trash.

  My home is burning. I don’t care what they do to me.

  The soldier brings my knife to my neck. There’s some irony to this—dying by my own blade when they’re each armed with phasers—but it’s no accident. Killing me with my own knife is their idea of punishment, like it matters to me whether my blade gets my blood on it, too.

  I guess it matters to them.

  The blade bites into my neck, and a shock of pain floods me with understanding. He didn’t just choose my knife out of some twisted sense of justice—he’s going to do this slowly. I could throw myself onto the blade—heave my shoulders forward and end it. But now that the choice is in front of me, I don’t want to die. Not like this, and not now.

  The knife slices deeper, wedging behind my jawbone. The agony is unlike anything I’ve felt before. It spreads across my face and down my spine. It clenches the space around my heart. My whole body shakes. I can’t breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite back a scream.

  “Stop,” someone says.

  The metal slides out of my neck and I gasp. Hot blood spills down my skin and drips over my chest. The soldier spits at me and spins on his heels, the knife clenched tightly at his side, his shoulders pulled back. All the soldiers have gone stiff, and together they drop to one knee, pound their left fists against their right shoulders, and hold them there.

  Then I see her.

  He is clearly not one of them—one of the redbloods. The faded paths of Kala’s mark on his light brown suns-ready skin, his tall, sculpted physique, and the dark purple-tinted blood spilling out of his neck make the truth clear enough. I don’t doubt he hides misshapen ears beneath his shaggy brown hair.

  Truth be told, he shouldn’t be alive. Half-bloods are an impurity, a dilution of our blood, and must be eliminated at birth to preserve our race. And yet, here he is, living among the rebels like one of them.

  Jarek’s uniform is drenched in deep red, but the knife in his dark, dripping fingers isn’t stained scarlet. I turn the full force of my gaze on him and cross my arms. “I don’t recall sanctioning torture.”

  Jarek keeps his eyes trained over my head. “He killed two of our men, el Avra.”

  I nod, but the soldiers’ bodies aren’t the only corpses in the near vicinity—a woman and two men are dead beside the half-blood, and judging by the way his eyes drift toward them, they were dear to him. My heart sinks and the heat of the nearby flames sends my mind to a different place, a different time. I lost my own mother and father to fires not so different from these—fires that left me to rule as Avra alone and ultimately brought me here. I should not have come. The blood, the screams, the fire and smoke and death—these are truths that I must accept as Avra. And yet the twist of my gut and the ever-present taste of bile and ash tell me I don’t belong.

  But I must not allow them to see my weakness. I accompanied the men to prove that I could, to show them I am not the inept ruler they believe me to be. I need to be here. I resist the urge to touch my earring or tug on the black wrapping covering my left arm and shoulder, and swallow the grief clinging to the back of my throat. The men are an unfortunate casualty of this campaign, but I specifically ordered women and children be spared.

  I nod at the mother. “And her?”

  Jarek glances back, then looks over me again. “She attacked a warrior as well, el Avra.”

  “I see. And she managed to kill your men, did she?”

  A pause. “Naï, el Avra.”

  “So you explicitly disobeyed my orders because a grieving woman attacked one of your warriors? Was she too much to handle, Jarek?”

  His lips go thin and tight. “Naï, el Avra. It was an oversight. An error in judgment.”

  An error in judgment. How many other “errors” have there been? I’ve already seen far too many small bodies twisted in the sand, far too many blood-drenched mothers and innocent dead. Men deliberately disobeying my orders, killing people I never meant to—

  My eyes sting and the back of my throat goes tight. I’m losing control of this campaign. Worse—I’m losing control of myself. This is my responsibility. I have to assert my authority before this gets any more out of hand.

  Strength and power. Demand respect.

  I clear my throat and level my most cutting gaze on Jarek. “That it was. Which one of you killed her?”

  Jarek hesitates, but the others glance at the warriors in the sand. Answer enough. “I see,” I say. “Then he carried out the same punishment I would have ordered.” No one answers, but I didn’t ask a question, so they won’t.

  I step toward the half-blood to survey him more closely. His eyes are human enough—one solid shade of deep green—and he wears his title-free skin with a sort of pride I will never understand. But more interesting is the way he looks at me—not over me. His gaze meets mine and he doesn’t blink or flinch away. He holds and I hold and his posture is firm despite the blood spilling from his neck and the way Jarek’s man holds his head back, ready for slaughter.

  He’s strong—in body and spirit.

  I need him.

  I turn away and face Jarek again. “Move him with the other servants. I want him cleaned up and assimilated with the rest.”

  Jarek’s eyes widen. “Avra?”

  “That’s an order.”

  “But el Avra, the boy murdered two—”

  “Are you questioning me?” I step toward him and stare up into his face, though he will never look directly at mine. He may stand a full head and a half over me, but my word is what keeps the air in his lungs and his blood off the sand.

  He presses his lips into a line. “Naï, el Avra.”

  “I didn’t think so.” I turn away with the half-blood’s glare cutting into me like shards of broken glass, and for a moment, I nearly regret this entire campaign. But I straighten my shoulders and walk confidently past the smoke and flame.

  I am Avra, and an Avra never bends.

  I’m in a camo’d dark port again, hands cuffed behind my back. Fancy high-tech paintjob on the outside, stripped metal walls, ceiling, and floor on the inside. No windows. Warm air pumped in through a thin vent against my heel. But this time, it isn’t my four-year-old nephew and me in the shadows of the stifli
ng compartment—there are at least two-dozen people crammed in here with me. And everyone is doing their very best not to touch me.

  That’s saying a lot, considering there’s barely enough room for everyone to stand, let alone leave extra space between people. But even though these are my people—even though I recognize the faces of the women and children huddled in the darkness around me—they won’t come near me. I’m not one of them. Not really.

  As far as they’re concerned, I am, and always will be, one of them. An alien. Because as long as I have Sepharon blood running through my veins, as long as I’m taller and stronger and faster than a human, as long as my senses are heightened and my body better equipped for this planet, how can my allegiance ever truly lie with the humans?

  It doesn’t matter that I grew up with them. It doesn’t matter that I was raised by humans. It doesn’t matter that the Sepharon just came through and destroyed my home, my family, and my life, too.

  I’m not human, and I never will be.

  To be fair, it probably doesn’t help that I’m covered in purplish blood. One of the guards tied a scarf around my neck to help stem the bleeding, but the cloth is soaked and my face is stained with purple and red. But despite everything, I got lucky. I don’t have any broken bones or fatal injuries. Unlike most of the men cut down in the sand, I’ll live.

  I’m the only guy here.

  That might be yet another reason they so carefully avoid me. Most of these people have seen their husbands, sons, and brothers butchered tonight. They’re probably wondering why their loved ones died and I lived.

  I’m wondering that, too.

  I lean against the corner and close my eyes. The air reeks of soot, sweat, blood, urine, and vomit. In my mind, Day collapses, empty, dripping in scarlet. My mother and father lie motionless, their fingers intertwined forever. The family who took me in when no one else would, when not even my birth mother could bear to keep me—gone. Biting my lip, I force my eyes open and stare at the ceiling. I can’t think of them now—I can’t break here in the back of a port with twenty sniffling women. I will not break. I will not break.

  I’ll be strong. For Day, who taught me the importance of masking my emotions from my enemies. For my people trapped with me, who may not see me as their own, but will be affected if I lose control now. Even for Esta and Nol, who said it was okay to break in the comfort of the people who love you. I may never see what’s left of my family again, but until I do, I’ll be strong—even if it means for the rest of my life.

  My eyes sting and the back of my throat goes tight. I take a breath despite the stench. Clench my fists and exhale.

  A part of me always wondered if I’d get the chance to leave camp and venture out on my own. If I’d want to, even if I had the opportunity. Maybe I’d go out to the coast one day to see the Endless Ocean, or go up north to the mountains, or just wander aimlessly and see the rest of Safara for myself. Or maybe not—I was fine with the life I had. I didn’t mind living my days in the desert surrounded by the people I loved. Sure, I’d probably never have a family of my own, but it didn’t matter because I was perfectly happy living with the Kits. But now the choice has been taken from me, from all of us. I doubt I’ll ever see home again.

  I doubt there’ll be a home to go back to, even if I somehow manage to escape. How many of us survived the slaughter? We’ve never been attacked like that before—the Sepharon have never been able to find us. But now all I can think of is blood, screaming, and fire, and it’s hard to imagine many of us managed to get away.

  Whispers whisk past my ears as glances are thrown in my direction, then ripped away. A little girl with long dark hair asks her mother if we’re going to die. Her mother hushes her and pulls her close.

  We’re not going to die, at least not right away. But this is worse. This is so much worse, because I’d rather be dead than serve the queen who ordered the slaughter of my camp. Who looked at my family’s corpses like sacks of grain. She may expect my loyalty, but she’ll never get it.

  I’ve been in this port for too blazing long.

  Esta, Nol, and Day won’t have funerals. That’s the reality pounding in my skull, echoing in my ears, pumping through my veins as I watch the women sniffle into their hands or children’s shoulders. Their bodies might burn with the rest of camp, but it won’t be complete and no one will be there to witness the release of their spirits to the stars.

  Or at least, I won’t be there.

  I’m not sure if I even believe the whole spirit thing—that by cremating the dead we’re doing anything more than turning their bodies to ash. But Nol and Esta sure did, and Day used to say it was a nice sentiment—that we were releasing our loved ones so they could watch over us from the unending expanse of night. We’ll be with you wherever the stars reach, Esta told me once with the softest of smiles.

  More than anything, I want to see the stars tonight and wish them well, but I doubt we’ll get out of this port before the suns rise.

  Leaning my head against the cool wall, I fight the lump in my throat as I picture their faces. I see Esta’s smile, the laughing lines on Nol’s tan face, and the mischievous glint of Day’s eyes as I breathe their names to the ceiling.

  “Go to the stars,” I whisper through the pain in my throat and the burning ache in my chest.

  Go to the stars. I love you all.

  It’s hard to sleep standing up, but eventually exhaustion wins over and I nod off. It’s not exactly a sound sleep—every turn and whisper startles me awake—but I do manage maybe an hour. Maybe less.

  Regardless of how much sleep I actually get, all it manages to do is confuse my sense of time. I’m not sure how long we’ve been standing in this blazing port, but my legs ache and my head feels light and the pain constricting my neck is a vice of red-hot agony. It almost hurts worse than the actual strangling.

  Eventually the port stops and the cabin falls quiet. One of the mothers starts sobbing and squeezes her young son tight to her chest, but otherwise the darkness is eerily silent. The murmur of voices slips through the walls, but their words are impossible to distinguish, especially as they’re speaking rapid Sephari. Most of the women and children here don’t speak Sephari. I learned it during my military training, all of our soldiers do, but otherwise it’s not a common tongue among our people. As useful as it is, it’s a dirty language. No one wants to be anything like a Sepharon. But now they’ll have to learn, and learn quickly.

  The doors open and sunlight floods the cabin. My eyes water and adjust all too slowly, but thankfully I’m in the back. It’ll take time to get everyone out, and hopefully by the time it’s my turn, I’ll be able to see.

  The soldiers are shouting and more people are crying now. Screams begin outside and I don’t have to see to know what’s happening—they’re separating mothers from their children. My stomach twists. I wish I could do something, I wish I could stop this somehow. But standing here cuffed in the back of a port—I’ve never been so powerless. Thank the stars Aren isn’t here.

  These children will probably never see their mothers again, but at least Aren is safe with his.

  When my turn comes, I step out of the port before someone can grab me, and a soldier beside me mutters, “Vejla ora’jeve.” Vejla greets you.

  We’re in Vejla, the Eljan capital.

  My moment of independence doesn’t last—I’ve barely stepped foot in the sand before a hand grips my arm and yanks me away from the rest of the crowd.

  I recognize the dark, bearded soldier the queen called Jarek.

  He doesn’t say a word, but he jerks me forward. My guess is he’d like me to fall so he’ll have an excuse to drag me, but I keep up despite my dizziness. The shouting dies away behind me as he pulls me onto the gleaming white street, then past the gate of the impossibly tall imported white sandstone wall surrounding the palace grounds.

  Everything here is white and red. Endless red sands stretch far into the horizon. Strong, smooth white walls reach to the stars. Gli
stening white stone buildings shimmer different colors under the heat of the suns, all draped in red flags and banners with the Eljan insignia. Eljan citizens of all ages walk quickly down the streets, doing whatever they voiding do in the city, every adult marked with varying degrees of black unreadable text on their bodies. All the buildings have darkened windows and closed doors—the people here are just so friendly. Reflective black spheres the size of my fist zip in and out of the crowd, ducking around buildings and between heads. Paved white pathways wind between the buildings, around the wall, and into the palace complex, where I’m sure it’s even more disgustingly elaborate, but we’re not headed there.

  Jarek pulls me behind a small building just out of earshot from the port. There’s no one here, and there aren’t any windows on the back of the building that someone might peer out of.

  It’s just me and a soldier who stands head and shoulders above me—a mountain of ridiculous, dark, tanned muscle that the Sepharon soldiers are so well known for. And I’m handcuffed.

  It’s obvious why I’m here, but at least I won’t go down quietly.

  “I take it these aren’t part of your orders,” I say in Sephari.

  If he’s surprised I can speak their language, he doesn’t show it. Instead he shoves his forearm into my throat and slams me against the building. Pain ricochets into my skull and heat gushes out of the side of my neck where the knife was earlier this morning. I blink back tears and take short breaths through my nose—he hasn’t cut off my airway. At least not yet.

  “Ken Avra may have ordered you alive, boy, but in the name of Kala, I will make sure you pay for the lives of my men,” he hisses. His breath rolls hot over my face and smells like meat and some kinduv fruity brew. “Starting now.”

  “Do you require assistance?”

  Jarek freezes. My mouth has been known to get me in trouble, but the question definitely didn’t come from me. A low whirring noise fills the air as a black orb hovers over Jarek’s left shoulder, spinning slowly in the air.