Unlikely

He kept her dancing until her toes burned. The Tinkers’ music played as wild and unfettered as the individuals themselves, and Satina swirled and leapt amongst them. She joined the circles alongside Marten and, on more than one occasion, danced in his arms while Gentry couples whirled and wound their way between the fallen stones.

  The pocket border reached almost to the staircase then curled around behind the line of their caravan and to the outer wall opposite. She’d been in a few that were larger, but mainly to the east, where the mountains had shielded the plains from the backlash of the Final War. When the pipers switched again, she slipped away to the far border and settled on the ground, leaning her back against a fallen stone and rubbing her toes through her soft boots.

  The pocket still swirled around her, blurring into the Tinkers’ ale and the burning of her own skin. She felt all afire and tingly, and it didn’t help that Marten had his hands on her for most of the night. Now he found her again, slid into the wall’s shadow and settled on the ground facing her. His left hand reached out and stroked the pocket’s edge. The membrane rippled under his fingertips.

  “A little too much, my dear?” His eyes sparkled like crystal in the pocket’s light. They had a lovely almond shape that fit his features perfectly. “Satina?”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “What is?”

  “Pardon?” She blushed and dropped her gaze to her toes again. They really did hurt. “My hem’s a mess.”

  “You know what’s in those flasks, right? With your connections, I assumed you would.”

  “I don’t like how you said that.” She dropped her boot and glared at him. “What do you mean, connections?”

  “Easy.” He put up his hands. “Truce. You’re not the only one who’s been drinking, I’m afraid.”

  She glared at him, but he wavered like the pocket and she had to look away. “What’s your story, Marten? How did an—you. Why?” She frowned and tried to remember the question.

  “How did an Imp Skinner end up in Westwood selling magical paint?”

  “Yes.” That was it. She nodded for emphasis and earned another sideways grin. Unless she was sideways. The rocks looked wrong. When he stood up, he hung in mid air.

  “Here you go, dear. Up is this way.” He lifted her back to a seated position and when she listed in the other direction, pulled her back gently to rest against his side. At some point he’d sat beside her, and she felt his arm slip round her shoulders. Her body melted under that heat, and she curled into him and rested her spinning head. “My story,” he said. “You really want it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means, you’ll owe me yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you’re a little more lucid.”

  “Not drunk.”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath, lifting her head up and down again on the exhale. “My parents were from the north. An area even less tolerant than here, if you can imagine that.”

  “I can ‘magine.”

  He patted her leg then seemed to forget what to do with his hand. It rested on her thigh while he continued, dividing her attention between his story and the warmth spreading from the contact. “They weren’t fully blooded, but more obvious than me. I was only four when my father died. I don’t remember what they did to him, but my mother saw it. She never left the pocket again.”

  “Never left it? You lived in a pocket?”

  “Until I was old enough to slip away. I learned fast how to get what we needed and get back to safety.”

  She did imagine it then, a young imp learning how to be a Skinner to care for his terrified mother. She imagined it, and it made her want to cry. She laid her hand over his and felt him tense immediately. “Sorry.” She lifted it away again, but again, his hand lingered on her thigh. He relaxed, and his voice continued, this time with careful, stilted words.

  “I was sixteen when I came back and found her.” He looked down, frowned at his hand as if he’d just noticed it and then lifted it away to brush his hair back. He laughed, but it was sharp and had a bitter edge. “She succumbed to her human blood in the end.”

  “She was sick?”

  “Maybe. Maybe she was just old. Life in one small bubble isn’t quite…healthy.”

  And yet he’d endured it. The Gentry moved around, they traveled from one pocket to the next. If rumors were to be believed, they knew of larger places too, huge pockets even, where the old world still held sway. To live always in one, small place, even a place that held all the beauty and magic of the Old Kingdoms, would be unbearable.

  “I’m so sorry, Marten.”

  He shrugged, but she thought maybe he softened a touch.

  “How did you get to Westwood? The shop?”

  “Hadja found me.” He laughed and this time it sounded real and full of humor again. “Actually, she caught me. Stealing, swindling a farmer out of more than he’d bargained for. After she’d tanned my hide and told me what for, she took pity on me. I lived with her for a solid year while she tried to teach me how to put my skills to better use.”

  “Did it work?” She only teased, but his shoulders set again.

  “Nope. I’m a lost cause.”

  “Marten.”

  He sighed and turned a look on her that sent a little shiver to her toes. “The boy you rescued is a thief. He’s stolen more from me than he paid for that box.”

  “His parents?”

  “If his father knew, he’d beat him.”

  “So you meant to teach him a lesson without getting him hurt.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I only meant to recoup some of my losses.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She touched him on the arm without thinking. The gesture felt right, and he didn’t pull away or even tense up this time. This time, he turned to her with a new fire in his eyes. Satina’s breath caught. They stared for a split second and then Marten moved. She leaned in, and they found one another’s lips. The jolt of power sent her arms searching for him. Her body blazed and trembled as the Skinner’s mouth covered hers, as the kiss pressed onward.

  His hand found her thigh again. The other slipped into her hair and pulled her face against his. The pocket shrank to a tight skin around them, a warble of sensations both physical and magical. Satina clung to him, wound her arms around his neck and held on while the maelstrom spun inside her chest. He pulled her onto his lap, leaned away enough to drag the kiss down along her neck.

  The world spun. It didn’t stop when he lifted his eyes to hers, nor when he leaned back and squinted at her. His arms loosened, and she fell into the spin. Her head broke the pocket barrier. The world outside still looked drab and washed out. It waited in real space, completely unaware of the glorious things in the pocket. Satina frowned at a sky with no spark. She should have hit the ground by now. Instead, strong arms pulled her back.

  The ruins blazed with magic again. She blinked and found Marten staring down at her. Something sad touched his eyes. She reached up without thinking, to bring him closer, maybe just to touch him. His lips curled up at the corners.

  “You are completely toasted.”

  “M’not.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded until his face whirled overhead.

  “Then sit up on your own.” He started to let go. She fell with his arms, limp. Not one muscle answered her command to sit up. “Drunkard.” He pulled her up. His eyes made the word an endearment. “Get some sleep, my dear.” One of his hands brushed her hair back, and he bent forward and touched a soft kiss to her forehead.

  She fell asleep curled in the Skinner’s lap, staring up at stars that remembered when the castle still stood. When she awoke, cool grass pressed against her cheek. She lay on the ground and the wrong imp stared down at her. This one had pointy ears and sharp teeth. She scrambled to sit up, and felt her stomach flip over. Her head throbbed and her lips tasted like sand.

  “Unngh.” She grabbed her head and lay back down quickly. The imp cackled and
scampered away. Satina rolled onto her hands and knees. She held still while the nausea washed over and then, carefully, sat back on her heels.

  The pocket bathed in golden sunlight. She felt it then, the longing that was the price of time spent in Old Space. Why couldn’t the whole world look like this? Hadn’t it, once upon a time?

  “A bit fuzzy this morning?” The voice was feminine, and only partly friendly.

  Satina looked to either side. The menhir stood directly across the courtyard from her, in one direction, the pocket wall shimmered. In the other, a huddle of Gentry sipped from the skin flasks and eyed her sideways between whispers. She twisted, but saw no one close enough to belong to the voice.

  The fiend messenger dropped to the stones, directly in front of her and with too much grace for her own situation. “Your man’s off haggling with Hamis,” she said. Her full lips smiled and she bent into a dainty squat and eyed Satina closely.

  “He’s not m—” Something about the cat eyes, the long silky hair and ample chest stalled her tongue. “He’s where?”

  “With Hamis.” The fiend stood. Either Satina imagined it, or her edge had gone. At least the smile seemed more genuine the second time. “Over by the carts.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman shrugged and leapt way, only half flying and managing to utilize her figure to her advantage as she worked her way toward another group of Tinkers. She had everything in the right place, and she knew it. Satina bit her lip and scanned the line of wagons. She smoothed her skirts and tucked the loose bits of hair back into the knotted bun before changing her mind and loosing the whole thing. If she couldn’t wear her hair down in the pocket, where could she?

  She didn’t intend to barge into the negotiations, but just sitting there would emphasize the damage she’d done to her body the night before and only open her to more mockery. She leaned one arm against the stone block and stood, waiting for the ruins to stop tilting before trying to walk. The standing stone still beckoned, and she worked her way in that direction.

  The symbols barely glowed in daylight—even in the pocket. She hesitated at the base of the huge monolith, craned her neck back and tried to read just one of the marks. Satina squinted, and the faint lines flared. The sigils squirmed and slipped away, hovering on the very edge of understanding. She recognized a piece of one, a fragment of another, the curve at the bottom there. She relaxed into the shifted vision and willed to symbols to make sense.

  One alone flared brighter. It focused and surged while all around it, the others dimmed and seemed to shift aside. She followed the mark’s lines with her eyes, drawing it in her mind over and over. The thought appeared without effort, Vision, and before she could register the success, the scene all around her shifted. She was thrust upward through her crown, pushed hard by an unseen hand and left to float above the castle ruins.

  Below lay, not the pocket, but the whole basin in real space. The colors dimmed and grayed. The caravans vanished, and all over the stones, the Starlights swarmed.

  The gang leader, Vane, strode through the ruins as if he owned the place. His band flanked him, and a small child led the way. The boy skipped and chattered and pointed out the stairs, the courtyard, and the standing stone. This, Vane nodded at. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. Satina could only guess at his plans, could only wonder what he’d given the boy to buy the town’s betrayal. She cringed away from the child’s familiar face. She knew him. She’d set him free on the dark road leading into Westwood.

  Shouting forced her gaze back down. A Tinker had burst from the pocket, darted a half dozen steps toward the stair before realizing she was not alone. Satina knew her as well—the fair fiend who’d delivered her message from Flaut. The girl sprang into the air at the sight of the gang. Her wings fluttered madly. Her cat-eyes stretched wide with fear. She flew up, toward the suspended pocket, while Vane’s men drew swords and rushed in.

  Satina saw the archer first. She screamed, but no sound came out. The man dropped to one knee and took aim. The fiend flew directly for the rift, and the man’s bow fired. She dived toward the pocket, but the arrow struck first. The girl staggered in mid air, one bat-wing torn and useless. She was falling now, all the time reaching for the pocket’s escape while her wings tried to compensate for the injury.

  The archer aimed again. The second time Satina screamed, the force slammed her down. She hit her own body as if it were stone, staggered and heard her voice howling for help as if it were far away in someone else’s head.

  The courtyard erupted. Tinkers ran shouting in her direction. Somewhere in the mob, Marten called her name. Her eyes fixed to the spot over the wagon. She pointed to the rippling air, shot one arm out and tried to make words that didn’t sound like a shriek. One heartbeat pounded in her chest, two, three. The fiend fell through the pocket. She hit the straw and didn’t move.

  The Gentry wheeled around. They converged on the form in the wagon, climbing over the sides and one another to get to the fiend’s aid. Satina’s chest heaved. She watched them, struck dumb at last and only able to stare and pray the woman lived. The voices continued, but she heard them through a fog, muted and distorted by the sigil, by Vision’s, afterglow.

  “What happened? What—Satina!” It was Marten who got through to her, his hands that took her by the shoulders and shook her back to the moment.

  “Wing.” She shook her head and blinked at him. He’d be so angry at her over the boy. His town would never lose the Starlights now. “The gang is in the ruins.”

  His face hardened. She saw it in his eyes, what the news meant to him. “They followed us.”

  “No.” She swallowed hard. Tears blurred her vision. How could she tell him? “Someone was leading them.”

  “Who?” The weight of his hands on her cloak, warm, even gentle brought back the night before, the kiss that he would likely never repeat. “Satina, who led them?”

  “The boy. Your thief with the booby trap.” The words choked in her throat.

  Marten’s face twisted between emotions. A snarl came out, but it had less force than the shadow in his eyes. His hands dropped to his sides. “Are you sure? How?”

  “The menhir. One of the sigils lets you see outside the pocket.”

  “And they’re there now, in the ruins?”

  “Yes.” She half feared he would break through to confront them, but he only frowned deeper and looked back to the wagon where a group of the larger Genrty were lifting the fiend out from the straw. Her injured wing hung like a curtain between the men. The other one fluttered in pathetic, spastic fits. “They shot her wing.”

  “More than that.”

  She could see it too. Once the Tinkers set the fiend on the ground and cleared a space around her. A single arrow shaft still stuck from the woman’s torso, toward the shoulder but not quite clear of her chest. Its flights blazed Starlight blue. The Tinkers closed in again. Their healer knelt beside the girl.

  Before she could see more, Hamis left the crowd. He headed in their direction, and his huge form blocked any view of the wounded fiend. She screamed once, and Satina cringed. Had they tried to remove the arrow?

  “You!” Hamis rounded on them. “Who did this? Your people?”

  “Starlights,” Marten spat the word. “Came into town yesterday.”

  “Something you failed to mention,” Hamis narrowed his eyes and rubbed a big hand through his beard.

  “They didn’t know about the ruins.” Satina felt compelled to defend their silence, though in hindsight, she agreed with the faun. They’d seen the Gentry playing tag with the real world, and hadn’t so much as warned them. She could see it on Marten’s face as well. They both suffered guilt pangs. The fiend’s screaming didn’t help.

  “Granted,” Hamis said. “Still, I suspect you should be going.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Just in case.”

  “Can’t we help?”

  The screams quieted into a steady moan. “We take care of o
ur own.” Hamis scowled, and though his look said enough, Marten still had to take her by the cloak and tug her away. She went after him for no better reason than because she had nowhere else to go. Their own most definitely excluded two half-bloods who lived among humans.

  Marten led her to the spot where they’d slept. He didn’t look at her once, only reached out and stroked the barrier just as he had the night before. “You remember the pocket where we met?”

  “Beside the stairway.”

  “Yes.”

  She put her hand against the magic, felt it pulse and ripple beneath her palm. She remembered it. She closed her eyes and stretched her mind to find it. A blur of imagined places slipped past. One by one the pockets shuffled. Satina focused on the one she’d stepped from on the night they’d met, the night she’d freed the boy who in turn had brought the Starlights to the castle.

  “Got it?”

  “Yes.” The image fixed in place. Solid, a real place where they could sneak away. Marten took a deep breath, but he didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t look up, and even though they stepped through together, even though she’d wandered by herself for fifteen years, Satina had never felt quite so alone.

  Chapter Nine