The Wounded (The Woodlands Series) (34 page)

“Wash!”
she snapped more aggressively, sitting down on a rock to watch me.

A tear slid gently from one corner of my eye. I felt exposed,
inadequate, and vulnerable as the woman sneered at me hatefully. I understood now. There was no kindness. This was just what was expected of her and me. My fear grew large like a pulsing wound in my throat. I might have to live this way. Would they hold me down and sharpen my teeth with a file while I screamed and thrashed?

I washed carefully, shivering
uncontrollably from the cold, tiny droplets beading and driving down my face, mixing with tears.

I dunked my hair in and
gave it the best rinse I could, squeezing out the ends while my limbs pulsed and jerked from the chill.

I crept out of the
mirror-like pool, shaking from embarrassment as much as the cold, and put the heavy layers of fabric on my body. A scratchy shirt, a long, dark skirt, and a bodice the woman pulled tight around my middle that was decorated with colorful beads and embroidery. At least she let me keep my underwear.

When I was
done, she slammed me down on a rock next to her by pushing my shaking shoulders. She turned my back to her, and I didn’t fight. I shook and whimpered, scared of the choice I’d made. She gently pulled her hands through my hair, teasing out the tangles. The knot in my chest wound tighter. This moment was tarnishing memories of Clara, and I hated the woman for it.

She faced me and rubbed pink powder on my cheeks and over my eyelids. She ran a
crusty, old lipstick over my lips that tasted like wax and old lady. I grimaced and she grabbed my face roughly, squeezing my lips together into a pout.

When we were
done, she clamped both my hands together and tied them with a bright, nylon cord produced from her bag.

She shoved me in the back
. “Walk.”

I glared at her.

I should have hit her with a rock when I’d had the chance.

How do you win? Is it strength? Is it strategy? Or is it your hardness, your willingness to break someone into pieces without caring? Please let it not be that.

I’d been moved to the other side of
the camp and tied to a post with two horses behind me. Joseph’s eyes were just pricks of green from this distance, but I knew he was thinking about me, thinking about how we could get out of this.

Two women marked out the fight
space, the same routine of sweeping and shifting the stones until they marked out a perfect circle.

The woman who
’d made me bathe was busy giving water and food to the others. I watched Joseph wave her away, only accepting a drink. I wouldn’t be able to eat either.

My admirer
, who I heard someone calling Sukh, made his way to me, walking with a bounce in his step. He smiled widely and made eye contact with Joseph across the camp. He strained against the ropes that tied him down like a wild horse. Sukh didn’t look at me; he kept his eyes on Joseph as he ran the back of his fingers up and down my arm. I tensed, though I could barely feel him through the layers of thick fabric. “Soon you be mine,” he said, voice thick and confident. I shook my shoulder, trying to push him off. He just laughed in a high-pitched squeal that reminded me of one of Salim’s monkeys.

He stood and went to the edge of the circle.

A woman’s voice tickled my ear. “You know what Sukh means in my tongue?” My eyes bore into Joseph’s, my mouth tightly shut. “Axe,” she laughed, walking away from me, swinging her arms like she was felling a tree.

I slammed
my back into the pole I was tied to in frustration.

But if Sukh was an axe, Joseph was a wrecking ball.

A need for blood to spill wrapped itself around me like a thorny vine.

*****

When Joseph removed his shirt, some of the women called out in what I assume was admiration, whooping and cackling like a flock of birds. When one of them had the honor of placing hand marks on his chest, she looked back at the other women and smiled, lingering too long on his sharply defined muscles so the handprint looked more like a bear claw as she dragged her hand down his torso, one on either side of his stitched heart scar.

I felt my skin heating up.

Joseph stood almost an entire head over Sukh, who in comparison was just as muscular, but covered in scars and bruises. His sharp fingernails seemed to glint in the afternoon slant of sun that planed its way across this barbaric boxing ring. Joseph gave me one last look. His eyes wide with adrenaline, his face brushed with pink. He ran his hands through his hair and breathed in deeply, which I knew meant he was really nervous, and he stepped into the ring.

Muscles locked and knees bent. They circled each other slowly. The
voices of men chanted on either side, indistinguishable from one another. It was just testosterone-filled noise, like clouds clashing in a storm.

Sukh
moved lightly, swiftly, on the balls of his feet, as he looked for an opening to begin the brawl. Joseph moved more slowly, and it scared me. He was lumbering, weak from lack of food and water, stiff from being tied to a tree for two days. A crack opened inside my throat as I realized he could lose. That it was likely he would lose. And I felt like I was choking.

The first blow seemed small, a
snap-like lightning as Sukh kicked Joseph in the side of his thigh but, by the way he buckled, it must have caused some damage. Joseph doubled over, rubbing his hand over his injured leg. He stared down at the red welt on his thigh, and the small, dark man took the opportunity to knee Joseph in the stomach twice before springing back and putting distance between them, dancing from foot to foot.

I felt it in my own stomach, the way the pain spread from the impact point and radiated out
, covering my whole middle.
Joseph fight,
I urged, silently.
Hurt him.

Sukh
’s sharp knee in his abdomen woke Joseph up and he moved with purpose. Fists up guarding his face, he swung through the air, but the punch barely grazed the side of his opponent’s face. I tensed, waiting for the recoil, but Sukh smiled and danced within Joseph’s reach. Joseph grabbed Sukh’s arm and wrenched him forward. Hope pressed in on me, as Joseph kneed the ball of muscle and scars in the stomach once, holding him on either side of his chest like he was a doll. He managed a punch to the ribs as well, and Sukh fell in the dirt, face first.

I sighed in relief and felt my body relax
, and so did Joseph’s.

It
took only a second, but that was all you needed, right? Sukh sprung back on his muscled haunches as Joseph straightened and swept his leg across the dirt like a metal detector, kicking Joseph’s legs out from under him.

I heard Rash swear from across the circle.

“Get up,” Pelo urged.

Joseph fell to his
knees, and his opponent took the opportunity to elbow him in the head.

Blood spurted from
Joseph’s nose and flowed down his chest, my own arteries splitting inside me.

I
watched it happen, slow, like hours were passing, even though it was only a few seconds. It sounded dull, like wood hitting damp mud: Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! As Joseph was hit on the side of the head, under his jaw, and then kicked in the chest. Acid rose as he fell in front of me, his eyes closed. It was too familiar.

I screamed
in panic, in fear, in anger. The rope dug into my wrists as I leaned forward, trying to broach the distance between us. But it was useless. The post wobbled behind me but didn’t budge.

Sukh stood over Joseph, his foot raised
, his heel about to come down on the base of Joseph’s skull.
No, no, no, no… Not like this.
My eyes bounced frantically from Joseph’s body lying motionless in the dust with his hands tucked under his chest to the Survivors across the yard. Rash was wincing, Pelo looked at the ground but Gus, the others, they were smiling.

Confusion seeped into every bone in my body. Were they glad they’d be rid of
me, even if it meant they would be captured by the Superiors? No. Gus maybe, but not the others, not Matthew.

I stared at that foot, hovering over Joseph, ready to break him.

Then I watched as Joseph’s hands surged back and he pushed into a crouch, knocking Sukh onto his back. Shocked, he didn’t react in time, and Joseph was over him. With strength on his side, it only took one momentous swing of his fist to knock the man out cold. He could have kept going. Joseph could have killed him, which was what the wiry, dark man would have done. But Joseph was no killer. He was a healer. He held his fist above his head and then brought it into the palm of his other hand, squeezing around it and sparing the man beneath him.

Blood spattered and shaking
, Joseph turned towards me and smirked. My bones rattled in my chest. My heart stammered and spluttered. It was his plan to pretend to lose.

No one stopped him as he
strode towards me and knelt to untie my hands.

“This belongs to me
,” he said with a wink.

He grabbed me under my arms
and pulled me up. I hurled myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck and closing the gap until there was nothing but rough, canvass fabric between us. His heart was beating so strong and fast; it was like a fist pounding on my chest. Strong arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer still. Not even air was between us now. I pressed my mouth to his, talking as our lips grazed each other. “Well fought,” I whispered against him. “But if you ever say that again, you’ll be the one lying unconscious in the dirt.”

He chuckled
, dust in his eyelashes, blood all over his face. It was a sound I’d never get tired of. One I’d always crave. One I’d nearly lost too many times.

“I almost was
,” he admitted.

My face creased, the pinch of
seeing him collapse hinged over me like folded sandpaper. “I know,” I said, burying my face in his dirt-crusted chest.

They let us go. Just like that. Two, broad angular men, weighed down by their thick, black tunics, scooped Sukh up under his arms and dragged him through a tent opening, while another untied the prisoners with a knife pressed between his sharp teeth. They kept us restrained, pulled sacks over our heads, and led us back to the brick building we had camped in. I peered through the holey material. Now it was light, I could make out vague shapes. Tree trunks sprang from the ground, jagged and black, snapped in half, stopping at my height or lower. The smell of wet charcoal burned my nose. A forest fire must have run through here. I wondered whether the Superiors had anything to do with it, but my thoughts were quickly silenced when a knife handle dug into my back, pushing me forward.

The men spoke in their native tongue
, so we couldn’t understand them. Their tone was light and every now and then, they laughed.

When my feet hit
pavement, the sacks were removed. I shielded my eyes from the white blindness and scanned the area. In daylight, the place looked even more depressing. This was a town of brick and glass and little imagination. We walked forward, noticing our captors had not moved.