The Bone Wall (32 page)

“You’ll see more of my sister,” I tell him. “Mikel’s agreed to give her a crossbow, and you’ll be evaluating her for…her skills.”

“Is she any good?”

“I think so, though I’m not much of a judge. She wants to protect the wall.”

“Our wall isn’t in much danger,” he concedes. “Most raids occur on outlying farms, on travelers, our hunters, and foragers. We have mills down at the river, quarrying and logging to the east.”

“How many people live here?”

“A rough guess?” He wags his head side to side. “Thirteen thousand, roughly half inside the wall, two thousand in the stronghold, mostly officers, some specialized tradesmen worthy of a few privileges, medical, chiefs of certain trades.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

Ahead of us, the stronghold’s windows shine like golden mirrors, reflecting the last gasp of the dying sun, the city below already succumbed to shadow. Cullan looks at me askance, and scratches his stubbled chin. “Soldiers are only so useful, Angel. And we’re expendable, meant to be replaceable by a plow-boy with a little training. But surgeons? Smiths, a good tooth doctor, weavers and potters, men who understand how to light the filaments, run water uphill, and make things function. They’re valuable. That old knowledge is almost gone.”

When we reach the stronghold’s wide curved steps, Cullan invites me to sit. Not ready to retreat inside, I take a seat beside him, mulling over his words. “Where I come from, everything simply worked. We thought it was God’s magic, until it all just…fell apart. And none of us knew how to fix anything, how to make it functional again. We didn’t know how to survive.”

“Everyone inside the walls needs to contribute,” he informs me. “What are your skills?”

“Weeding, milking goats, digging up potatoes.” I chuckle. “All replaceable with a little training.” My legs stretch out in front of me, and I brush at the dirt from my knees. “I can read,” I concede, “but I don’t know what half the words mean.”

“It’s a worthy skill,” Cullan encourages me. “We collect books for the old knowledge.”

“I suppose I should go before its dark,” I tell him, the city’s colors fading to blues and grays with the dusk. I find my feet as he rises beside me.

“I’ll walk you,” he offers. “You shouldn’t travel the city at night until you know it better.”

“Is it dangerous?” I ask, knowing he thinks I live somewhere below. “I thought the laws here were…would keep everyone safe. I saw the gallows.”

An apologetic smile crosses his face. “Laws are only as good as the men who uphold them, Angel, and we’re all a bit flawed when it comes down to it.”

“I suppose if I expect the worst of the world, I’ll stop being disappointed.”

“There’s rarely a day when I’m not pleasantly surprised at least once,” he says. “So let me walk you.”

“I live on the seventh floor.” I point over my shoulder.

“Huh,” he says, looking disappointed.

“My sister’s caught Mikel’s attention.”

“Huh,” he says, looking pleasantly surprised.

As we head to the door, I pause to face him. “I need friends, Major. Allies who’ll try to keep my sister safe. Rimma will demand to go wherever she’ll face the greatest danger, wherever there’s an opportunity to kill, and trust me, my sister makes an art of getting what she demands.”

23

~Rimma~

The dress, Mikel assures me, is over three hundred years old, a slip of a thing, black as blindness, smooth as water, soft as a breeze against my bare legs. Black is an old color, the dyeing of pure blackness in textiles a skill long gone. This black slides down my skin, liquid and heavy, suspended on my shoulders by delicate straps, clinging to my breasts, belly, and hips. He chose it for the contrast with my pale skin and hair, the ice gray of my eyes. His gaze follows my movements as I explore his chambers.

His appraisal, however glorious, makes me feel like a thing, a bauble, a glass plate to hang on the wall, a body to fuck. It’s part of our bargain though, and I’ll wield it as a weapon.

“You’re stunning,” he says, chin drawn back, holding out a goblet of clear spirits. Thankfully, he has the decency not to pounce on me.

“I clean up nicely.”

“Nicely indeed.” He raises his glass, and I copy the gesture without a clue as to why. “To us.”

“To our bargain,” I add.

A stumped expression on his face, he lowers his goblet. “I hope you find this somewhat more enjoyable than a business contract.”

“I hope I do too.” I let slip a smile, a dare to his skill as a lover, a calculated hint of coy eagerness. He laps up the bait.

“To mischief,” he suggests, raising his goblet again.

“To desire,” I offer. He clinks my glass with his and sips at the contents.

My swallow of spirits ends with a cough, watery eyes and burning throat. His eyes open wide as I blink and gag. “Gah!”

“You’re not supposed to gulp it,” he laughs.

“You didn’t tell me,” I bark at him.

“I figured you’d know,” he explains, still chuckling.

“How would I?”

“Because you’re…bewitching.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Obviously nothing.” He sips his spirits, encouraging me to do the same. I take a tentative taste and handle it a whole lot better, though the appeal is beyond me.

A knock on the door announces the arrival of food. The soldier on guard in the corridor peeks at me as a timid woman sets bowls and platters at one end of the elegant table and hurries out. I smell meat and vinegar, and freshly baked bread.

“Are you hungry?” Mikel asks.

“I’m drooling,” I reply, sipping on the spirits. “I haven’t eaten a decent meal in almost two years.”

“You’re a riddle, Rimma,” he says as we sit at the table’s corner.

“Unknown even to myself.” I meet his blue eyes and smile. “Maybe you’ll unlock the secret, solve the mystery.” He reaches over the food to caress my face, and I don’t cringe as his hand brushes my jaw, his thumb moving over my lips, against my teeth. I taste another sip from my goblet, letting the heady spirits dull my fear. That’s what it is, stark raving-mad fear. As if he’s intends to kick my face in, break my arms and fuck my insides to shreds. I’m shaking, breathing as though drowning, and I think he interprets it all as lust. “Can we eat?” I ask, my voice a husky whisper.

While he serves, he smiles and chats about the Fortress. I hear his voice in the distance as I breathe and sip and tell myself Sloot is dead, that I fucking killed him, that this man isn’t a Biter and this is what I asked for, exactly what
I
maneuvered and manipulated
him
into. The food helps, steadying my head, reducing my impulse to vomit all over the black dress.

“This is wonderful,” I admit, attempting to savor the flavors, my eyes closed, gathering myself back to the moment, back in control of my fear. The lamb in my mouth tastes salty, fatty, and sweet all at once.

“Who are you?” he asks, a question not truly seeking an answer.

“A devil in disguise,” I suggest and tip my goblet, emptying it. I smile at him, blinking and shuddering. “Gargh!”

“In some ways, Rimma, you are delightfully…crude.”

“Crude?” I laugh.

“Unworldly. Innocent.”

“Huh. You must have me confused with my sister.” I lean toward him, intent on changing the subject. “Do you always wear a weapon to dinner?” A long knife rests comfortably sheathed at his hip.

“A requirement of leadership,” he concedes with a smile.

“Do you ever take it off?” I tap my bottom lip, wondering at how numb it feels.

“Only under the most persuasive circumstances,” he replies as he pours me another inch of spirits.

“You’re trouble.” I shake my head at the potent drink.

“I rather think I’m outmatched.” He narrows his eyes, studying me beneath the dark eyebrows and tousled hair. I tip to the side to see if his ears are actually pointed, but they’re not. “How long did you live with Priest?” he asks.

“With Priest?” I laugh. “My sister is…was Priest’s lover. At the Colony? A year.” I don’t wait for the next question, can’t talk about that other year. I clasp Mikel’s hand and draw him from the table, taking my drink with me to stand by the window. The western sky burns bright copper, fading to starlit blue overhead. The city is a rumpled coverlet, smoky gray with the gold lights of a thousand lanterns peeking from open shutters.

His breath touches my ear as he sweeps my hair aside, kisses my neck and shoulder. His hand slides over the black silk, over my hip to my belly, up to my breast. I stiffen and gulp the spirits, my goblet miserably empty once again. I drive that rampaging beast of fear into the back of my skull, into that slotted chest where I corral my snarling horde of feelings. I slip in there too, removed from my skin, from authenticity, a mere witness to my body’s participation. Mikel fucks me, and someone unknown to me fucks him back. But it’s not me, because I’m scarcely there.

**

The bow is sweet, a pound or so heavier than my last but with a whisper of sound and minimal vibration, nicely balanced, everything up close for improved accuracy and consistency. Despite my throbbing headache, I pound all four bolts close to the target’s center from twenty paces without blinking, step back to forty and do the same while Cullan tries to appear unimpressed.

“Seems you know your crossbow,” he admits.

“It’s better than the one I learned on.” We stroll to the target to retrieve my bolts.

“Any good with a recurve? Or flatbow?”

“Nothing to brag about.”

“What’s your second choice?”

The question isn’t unexpected, a crossbow useless in tight quarters after the first shot. “Knives,” I reply. “A nice, long, pointy dagger if you have one and something a bit shorter but sharp enough to slice wood.”

“You ever fight with a knife, Rimma?”

The skepticism on his face is obvious and irritating. “Do you ask every new recruit these questions?”

“No,
I
don’t, but the sergeant who’s responsible for the man does.” He scratches his jaw. “Mikel wants an honest report and that’s what I’ll give him.”

“I’ve killed three men with a crossbow, three men and a woman with a knife.”

“Any thoughts about that?”

The morning sun on our backs, we cross the archery field behind the stronghold. I fled Mikel’s bed early, my only reminder of the evening a thumping ache behind my eyes accompanied by a desperate desire to wash him off my skin. Any sense of privacy I possessed is rapidly disintegrating as one man pokes my body and this one probes my brain. I look up at the major, assess the muscled strength, wonder at the bent nose, the recent scar across his cheek. “You first,” I say.

“Me first what?”

“How many men have you killed? How many women? And your thoughts?”

His pace slows as he frowns at me, considering his answer. I suppose the major asks more questions than he answers. “Not as many men as you might think but still more than I cared to. And no women.”

“How many men, Major. I’m sure you’ve kept count.”

“Eleven. In the same number of years.”

“You’re right.” I blink at him. “I’m stunned.”

“It’s easier to kill a man than it is to capture him alive and keep him alive,” Cullan says. “Yet, our goal isn’t to wipe out the People, Rimma. Our goal is civilization, survival, bringing healthy men and women into the Fortress, gathering skills, clearing more farmland, reclaiming the world.”

“You should rescue the descendants of Sanctuary,” I suggest. “Two thousand healthy bodies to add to your collection.”

“Would they come willingly?”

A shrug rolls over my shoulders. “I’m surprised the Bite…People join you willingly.”

“They usually don’t.” He absently runs a finger over the scar on his cheek as we head into the stronghold’s muted light. “We give them a year to think it over. We feed and clothe them, work them during the day and lock them up at night.”

“Sounds like slavery.” The word tastes like shit. My brain bashes against the inside of my skull, and I can barely see after the bright light outside.

“Some call it slavery, but Mikel prefers to think of it as probation.”

“Huh. Then I suppose my sister and I were on probation with the River Walkers.” He gives me a dour look and opens his mouth to speak, but I’m not done yet. “Do you fuck them, Major? Because if you do, you’re no more
civilized
than they.”

“Rape isn’t tolerated in the Fortress, Rimma.”

“Most Biter women don’t expect to have a choice, Major. That’s different from consent.”

“I concede the point. Now can we move on? The weapon’s locker is three doors down.” He waves a hand to the long corridor at our left. I cast him a smug smile and lead the way.

“I like your sister better,” the major says as he unlocks the door and flips on a filament. The light buzzes and flickers, stabbing my eyes. At least the Biters conjured up decent light.