I have more of them, I think. Three in a crooked line. On my ankle, on my back, just above my left breast. But I never paid them much mind before now. Even now, I’m more interested in why he is interested in them. Though, some questions are better left unanswered.
Head still bowed, he lifts his gaze from my arm and looks at me from beneath his long lashes. “You have more of these?” he asks.
I can only manage a nod in answer.
This satisfies him. He releases my arm and turns his back on me. I stay glued to the wall as he murmurs something in his language to the blond fae who waits by the opposite wall.
The blond one nods, then turns his attention on me. I shudder under the intense curiosity in his eyes. He moves for me, and without thinking, I just react.
I shove from the wall and make a run for it, headed for the blazing street. I make it two hobbled steps that sear pain in my ankle before something strong grabs my shoulder and hoists me back. I stagger, unbalanced.
The leader has me by the shoulder.
I jerk back as if to escape him, but he doesn’t give me the chance. In one swift move, he lets me go, then boots me hard in the stomach. I fly back and hit the wall—my head smacks against the brick with an audible crunch.
I crumble to the ground, seeing boots move for me.
I’m sprawled on my side at the boots of the fae leader. He stares down at me with an impassive look, as though he didn’t just crack my skull against the wall. His head tilts to the side as he studies me. I can only manage a hazy look back up at him, my lashes drooping and my grip on consciousness is loosening.
Guess they really don’t want me to get away. I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t have those crooked-line-freckles all over my body. Would he have run me through with a sword instead?
I doubt they would go to this trouble if I didn’t have the freckles. But the meaning of those small dots on my body gives way to the exploding pain at the back of my skull.
Dazed, I reach back to my aching head and gingerly touch the throbbing spot. My fingers wet instantly. Blood seeps out of the wound and clots my hair together. I bring my fingers back to myself. The blood glows bright crimson in the fiery light. Now, I feel the burn of tears searing my eyes.
I blink away the tears and watch as the leader’s boots retreat. He’s gone, leaving me with the blond fae—the one with the cheekbones as sharp as shards of glass.
Cheekbones marches over to me, scoops me up in his arms, then hoists me over his shoulder. All I can see is cobblestone and the heels of his boots. Some blood starts to trickle down my face. Drops make their way into my mouth, and I have to spit out the bitter taste from my tongue.
I’m as limp as a noodle slung over a fae’s shoulder. But I cling to consciousness as he carries me to the main street. The closer we get, the hotter and thicker the air becomes, and my breaths feel more suffocating than fresh. Already, ash and smog floods the air. I can taste the bitterness on my tongue.
Out on the street, it’s even worse. I can barely keep my eyes open against the violent blaze that’s swallowing the whole village. And that’s exactly what it’s doing. I turn my head just enough to see the street. The grocery shop we’d camped out in last night is gone already. Crushed under the weight of the flames that now simply dance over its grave.
How long has the village been burning? It hasn’t felt like very long for me, maybe an hour or so, but the total destruction all around me speaks of a whole day that might have passed.
Somewhere above the dark skies, is it night? Does the moon shine down on an impenetrable veil of black, never to touch our world again?
My thoughts are drifting away from me. A flurry of panic blossoms deep in my gut—how much damage have my head injuries done? A broken ankle and bruised ribs I can live with. But fear nips at me at the thought of my cracked skull, whose blood now completely coats my face.
I spit out a chunk of blood as Cheekbones comes to a stop. I can’t see where we’ve stopped, only the cobblestones and his boots. Then, he jerks me off his shoulder and throws me away from him.
Arms and bodies catch me before I can slam to the ground, hard. They break my fall, whoever they are. The human prisoners, I realise, as I look up at the faces hovering above me. The fae threw me to them, like I was nothing more than a bag of grain.
The tear of fabric ripping draws me in. I watch as a middle-aged dark-skinned man rips the hem of his shirt then brings it closer to me. My eyes flicker as he wraps the make-shift bandage around my skull-wound, securing it at the back of my head.
I try to focus on the faces above mine. Some look down at me with pity and worry etched onto their expressions. Some look like stony statues simply watching me. But what’s odd is that all of them are a blur. Each
