in case you try anything funny.”
The collar was tight against her skin; it was made of iron, dull and heavy.
“Come on now,” the guard said, tugging at her chain. “Come on, get a move on. Say good-bye to your boyfriend.”
Good-bye? Then she realized—if the traders took her—this was it. She would never see him again. This might be their last moment together. It came upon her so suddenly, and seeing the stricken look in his eyes, she couldn’t help but tear up as well. But what could they do—they were trapped here. She didn’t want him to fight them, she didn’t want him to get hurt, and so she would go quietly and say good-bye. “Well, I guess . . . good luck, then?” she said, trying to appear nonchalant even as she swallowed the lump in her throat and walked toward the door.
“Nat, wait . . . ,” Wes said, and before she could take another step, she felt Wes’s hand reach for hers. He turned her toward him, his dark eyes burning.
Without a word, he leaned over and kissed her.
Nat was startled, but she raised her mouth to meet his, and as his lips pressed on hers, she felt his arm encircle her waist, pulling her close, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if they fit together and always had. She could feel his heart beating in his chest, the heat between them—and the desperation. She ran her fingers through his soft hair—something she had yearned to do since they’d met. His kisses turned hard, passionate, and as she inhaled his sweet scent—felt his body against hers, she felt the strength in him. She could keep kissing him forever, she thought . . .
Why had they waited so long for this? There was so much she wanted to say but so little time to say it. She fluttered her eyes open.
Wes had a hand on her cheek, looking at her with so much feeling. “Nat—” he said, in a strangled voice.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I can take care of myself.”
“So you keep telling me,” Wes said, his voice strained and hoarse, as the guard pulled her away. “But see, the thing is, it doesn’t matter that you don’t need me, because . . . I need—”
But before he could finish his sentence, the guard pulled her away from him. With a great roar and a look of deep and unfathomable anger on his face, Wes kicked the gun from the slaver’s hand and pummeled him with his fists, sending him sprawling to the ground.
“Nat, run!” Wes yelled.
A group of slavers were upon him, and Wes fought ferociously—ten of them were heaped on the deck, bloody and bruised, but he couldn’t take on the whole ship, and as strong as he was, they outnumbered him until he was lying in on the floor, blood streaming from his eyes, nose, his face raw.
Nat screamed but there was nothing she could do, and so she continued screaming all the way through the length of the ship. Even as he lay broken and bloodied in the cage, Wes could hear her cries.
42
THEY TOSSED HER BACK INTO HER CAGE. Wes was still lying in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor, and she ran to him. She was so afraid of what she would find that she could hardly breathe.
“Ryan!” she cried, turning him over.
His face was bruised and bloody, but he was breathing, and she ripped her shirt to wipe blood from his forehead. The slavers had been brutal, but they had left him alive, and for that she was thankful.
Wes opened one eye. “You’re back,” he croaked. “Thank god. I’m still going to kill him,” he said. “I’m going to kill him with my bare hands. Tear him limb from limb. What happened? What did they do to you?”
“Shhhh,” she admonished, wiping his face gently. “Shhh . . .” She shook her head. “No. No. I’m okay. I’m okay. Nothing happened.”
Wes groaned. “What do you mean?”
“Traders didn’t want me. They said I wasn’t marked and they wouldn’t pay, said I was worth nothing. Avo was furious, but he couldn’t talk them out of it.”
“But how?”
She whispered into his ear. “Look at my eyes.”
He opened the other eye and stared up at her.
Her eyes were gray.
“Lenses?” he said.
She nodded her head.
“Well, I’m still going to kill him,” Wes mumbled. “That promise I’ll make sure I keep.”
Nat smiled, remembering his lovely kiss. “Okay,” she said, as she continued to clean him up. He would look pretty banged up for a while, his handsome face swollen and cut, but he would be all right. His wounds would heal.
She kissed his forehead and held him close. “You know what?”
“What?” he asked.
“I remember now why you look so familiar. You’re a death jockey, aren’t you?”
“Used to be.”
“The night I escaped from MacArthur, I walked right into the race. Do you remember?”
He sat up and opened his eyes. “I remember. You . . . you kept the car from hitting me, and from hitting you. You were the girl. The girl on the tracks. I looked for you, you know. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m okay.”
His eyes crinkled. “What happened to your shirt?”
“You’re wearing it as a bandage.”
“Is that right?” he smiled wickedly. He looked at her again, and she saw that he was looking at the mages’ mark on her skin, the flame that she always kept hidden, right above her bra.
“So that’s it, huh?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, grimacing. “That’s my mark.”
He reached his hand to it, and she recoiled, preparing for the pain, but when his finger touched her skin, she was warm, so warm, and there was no pain, only . . . peace. “It’s beautiful, like you, like your eyes,” he said. “Now cover up, you’re going to get cold.”
That night, when Wes had fallen asleep, Nat spoke to Liannan through the walls. Nat told her friend everything. The traders’ arrival. How the traders had made the marked prisoners stand in line for inspection.
“What did they want with us? Do you know, Liannan?” she asked. The head trader had been garbed in priestlike robes. Their skin was coated in white powder, and their hair dyed to match. She described the way they had culled the marked prisoners, and those who were showing signs of rot—sallow pallor, yellow eyes—had been dismissed.
“I’ve heard stories about the white priests,” the sylph said quietly. “They believe that they can transfer the powers of the marked to their own bodies. It’s a lie. They’re butchers. False prophets. Fakers. They pretend to have power, but all they have is their mad religion.”
“Transfer our power . . . how?”
“In a ritual . . . a sacrifice.”
Nat shuddered. “They had some specialist with them, but she said I was nobody, that I wasn’t marked so they didn’t want me.” She told Liannan about Wes’s kiss and the miracle of her safety. “My lenses . . . they came back. I don’t know how . . . I’m a lucky girl,” she said.
“Luckier than you might guess; only a spell could provide such protection to hide your true nature,” Liannan told her.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Nat protested. “I had an iron collar on, I couldn’t do anything. Maybe the trader just didn’t know what to look for.”
“No, don’t you see? When Wes kissed you, he blessed you with a protection spell. One that even iron could
