Page 8 of Dare

Control. Always keep in control.

I lounged and tapped my lips. How to locate my prey? Aside from the tattoo and those eyes, I recalled the amenities of her cell, in which she’d sketched some manner of artwork into a dirt pile. That led to an image of sand impacted within her fingernails, the permanence of which pointed to one type of Summer native. One nomadic group was reputed to have that trait, a product of their lifestyle. This detail gave me enough to work with.

Time passed. When the queue of carriages crossed borders, I felt the first drop in temperature. Pine trees sprouted needle leaves. Scabrous alpine mountains loomed. A chalet castle foiled in silver glinted like a blade.

Winter.

The polar breeze blasted through my hair as I exited the carriage, the fur coat snapping against my frame. A squall thrashed about, thus limiting visibility.

Inhaling a brisk draught of air, I seized the arm of a passing soldier, frost slicing from my lips. “Get me a messenger. I have tidings for Summer.”

Making a deal with Rhys was a tedious but small price to pay. When the warrior departed, I regarded the fortress chiseled into an alp of charcoal gray rock, the tips of its spires knifing into the sky.

I had two grandaunts to reunite with, subjects to lead, patients to treat, specimens to test, spies to execute. That aside, I envisioned finding the beast when she least expected it. Like an elixir, my head swam with visions of her chained, stripped, at my behest.

Whips came to mind. Her back would look gratifying after a few lashings. Perhaps forceps too. Or something longer, harder.

It might take a considerable while to trap that creature. But for her, I would wait. She might retreat to a nation of seafarers, but I hailed from a court of scholars, scientists—and hunters.

Privately, my lip curled. A hiss rolled off my tongue. “I’ll catch you, Little Beast.”

4

Flare

One year later.

An ocean breeze sailed through my hair. The tide swabbed my bare feet, deep blue water foaming across the wet sand. Kneeling beside the peninsula’s shoreline, I daydreamed while looking toward the horizon.

Kingdom of Summer.

In this land of sandstorms and tidal waves, humidity drenched people’s flesh in sweat, and the briny air salted their mouths. Despite everything it had taken from me, I could think of no better place in the world.

Turning from the view, I glided a finger across the sand, my mouth lifting into a fond smile. A messenger hawk had arrived this morning with a scroll fixed in its mouth, which had contained a note from Poet and Briar inquiring about my safety and then finishing with a magical announcement. Now that Autumn had been restored, they had pledged themselves to each other, marrying on the same night they’d renewed Reaper’s Fest. A year after the riot, the jester and princess had resurrected the revels, then bonded as husband and wife.

My spirits took flight. They had found lasting happiness. And someday, I would find mine.

After months of questing on foot, squatting in abandoned mills, and avoiding predators and passersby on the roads, I had crossed into Summer. Then I collapsed. More months of seafaring had followed, once I successfully abducted a boat.

From there, it had been easier to hide and finally send word to Poet and Briar. Since then, we’d been reaching out through confidential fauna messengers. Certain types of winged creatures could fly long distances between Seasons. Autumn, raptors. Summer, butterflies. Though, constant wandering meant communication with my friends was scarce.

The breeze rustled my pants and camisole. Compared to the roughspun I had spent years wearing, this material felt as soft as a cloud. Fishing for supper was effortless, but I’d swiped the garments from a market stall, as I had stolen many other things necessary for survival.

I tucked a scarf closer around my neck. Making sure the fabric concealed my collar tattoo, I glanced over my shoulder at the neighboring encampments. Moored on the beach, a cluster of boats like mine bobbed near a rocky outcropping. Sunset splashed the heavens in pink and yellow. Figures wearing caftans and jingling anklets moved across the decks, built fires in their own corners, and prepared to narrate stories.

Sand drifters. Like me.

Our kind traveled independently, aside from sharing encampments such as this one.

From one of the boat decks, an older man inclined his head in greeting, his grin theatrical. His wife waved as well, the motions exaggerated.

I furrowed my brows. Sand drifters—and most people in Summer, for that matter—didn’t greet each other with this much enthusiasm.

Nevertheless, they hadn’t spotted my inked neck. In all this time, I’d kept it covered since anyone who saw it would know what I was.

Shaking off the uncertainty, I returned their smiles. Trust unfurled in my chest, my hand lifting to greet them back.

Then I twisted back to the sea, closed my eyes, and listened to the lapping waves, their melody peaceful. I savored the moment, imagining a time when I had lived freely. I remembered an era from before, a drifter’s life with Mama and Papa, back when we traveled in our tidefarer boat.

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