Page 7

As he neared, the small firelight illuminated a scar tracing around the shell of his left ear. It felt… intentional, like a mark or a brand. His eyebrow raised as I took him in, not being subtle about it at all. He palmed one of the swords at his hip. That was enough to have me dropping my gaze and focusing on the blankets mussed around my feet.

The smaller of the two men—the one without a visible weapon—stopped at the foot of the bed. His eyes tracked over me and then Sloane, this perusal longer than the first. It felt like he was seeing through me, into me, laying me bare underneath his scrutiny. It made me want to bare my teeth and say something rude back, but I swallowed the words, my eyes flashing to the swords longer than my arm.

He held his hand out to me, palm up. It was evidently a signal. The taller man crossed the three spaces to the bed and grabbed me. The movement was so swift, so practiced, my hands were already held behind my back and I was held taut to his broad chest before I realized he was reaching for me at all. My heart raced, and instinct took over. I elbowed him in the side, exactly the way I was taught after the first assault my freshman year. He only grunted and readjusted his hold, forcing me entirely immobile. I cried out, trashing harder.

Sloane eased closer, crawling across the bed and grabbing my elbow.

“Please don’t hurt her,” she begged, tears in her eyes again.

The man sighed and called something, his entire body radiating annoyance. Another person, armed the same as the one who held me immobile, crossed the space and pulled Sloane away. He held her against his body with the same practiced ease. Scars stood white against his brown skin, small ones all over his hands and knuckles along with a few on his arms. His ear didn’t have the arcing scar along its inner edge. His body was hard and honed.

Soldiers. Just like Sloane had said.

Soldiers with no guns, no earpieces, no camouflage uniform and heavy soled boots. Even in the depths of the Amazon, they had guns.

What in the hell happened when we touched that mirror?

With Sloane no longer blocking me, the shorter man approached me, pulling a small vial from his pocket. It reflected purple in the firelight. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out what it could be. Cabbages were purple, right? Or maybe a dye of some kind? Something reasonable that could help explain away the odd room and outdated weapons and lack of electricity.

Did cabbage even grow in the rainforest?

“I’m not drinking that,” I said, trying to put fire behind the words.

Sloane’s eyes widened with a look that clearly said, Don’t make the armed people angry.

It didn’t seem to evoke any kind of reaction in them at all, though. The man that held the vial carefully moved my hair over my shoulder, his fingers deft. The touch still left my head throbbing from the headache to end all headaches, which was good all things considered. I didn’t want the touch to be soothing, didn’t want anything to ease the panic into something duller. Panic could keep me aware, keep me safe, even though my body was in rough shape.

After a few moments, he flattened his hand against my head, pulling my hair up and away from my neck. A splash of liquid fell into the open space just behind my ear, oddly warm, and he rubbed it in. Then he muttered a single word.

Pain lanced through my head, more painful than everything else I’d felt since waking up. I screamed, the sound bloodcurdling. My vision blacked out even as I fought to keep my eyes open. My legs buckled, but the soldier held my weight, keeping me upright. My stomach turned over itself. I couldn’t help but be sick.

The man pulled his hand away from me before the retching stopped. With it, the pain slowly ebbed, and my vision returned. Sloane’s eyes were so wide I could see the whites all the way around, and she was paler than I’d ever seen her. I swallowed and then nodded once, trying to tell Sloane I was all right. The man pursed his lips and then turned away from me, focusing on my sister. Belatedly, I realized he’d managed to avoid all of the vomit. I, however, was covered in it.

Lucky bastard.

“And now her,” he murmured as he rounded the bed. “Pity they found offerings who don’t speak our own tongue.”

Confusion raced through me again.

Offerings?

And then the reality of it all slammed into me.

Holy hell. He’d worked literal magic. There was no other possible explanation for my sudden ability to understand him.

Sloane closed her eyes as the man stopped in front of her. She swallowed, her throat moving with it, when he ran his hands through her hair, too. He didn’t linger as long with her—probably because she stopped squirming before I had. He tipped the vial, letting a single drop of that strange purple liquid fall onto the bare skin behind her left ear. He said the same singular word, but it didn’t translate like the others.

Sloane screamed, louder than I had. Her body locked up, and the man who held her grunted as he had to adjust his hold on her. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and then her body relaxed, like a puppet being dropped from its strings.

It was so eerie, it made a shiver race down my spine.

The man stepped back.

“Well, at least we won’t need to request two sets of replacement linens,” he said, a thread of something near amusement in his voice. “Julius, set her down and get Lillian from the washroom. She’ll need to clean this up and get the offering into a new dress.”

Without a word, the soldier set Sloane on the bed and then disappeared out of the doorway without a glance back.

“When Lillian comes,” the smaller man said, turning to the soldier who still held me, “you will alert Gareth they are prepared for travel tomorrow.”