“He’s not—” She ducked her head, watching sand slip down the cracks of the clay pavers.
Jina took her elbow. “He’s not what?”
Cress sniffled into her sleeve. “Nothing. Never mind.”
There was a pause, before Jina spoke, slowly, “You’re not really married, are you?”
Clenching her teeth, Cress shook her head.
Jina lightly stroked her arm. “We all have our secrets, and I can venture to guess your reasons. If I’m right, I don’t blame you for the lies.” She leaned close, so that her forehead touched Cress’s frizzing hair. “You’re Lunar, aren’t you?”
Her feet stumbled and froze. She ripped herself away from Jina’s gentle touch, instincts telling her to run, to hide. But Jina’s expression was full of sympathy, and the panic quickly fizzled.
“I caught word of the fallen satellite. I figured it must have been you. But it’s all right.” She tugged Cress forward again. “Lunars aren’t so rare around here. Some of us have even come to appreciate having you around.”
Cress stumbled along beside her. “Really?”
The woman tilted her head, squinting at Cress. “Mostly we’ve found that your people just want to keep to themselves. After going through all the trouble of making it to Earth, why risk getting caught and sent back, after all?”
Cress let herself be led on as she listened, surprised at how rationally Jina was speaking about it all. All the Earthen media had led her to believe there was such a hatred toward Lunars, that she could never be accepted. But what if that wasn’t true at all?
“I hope you won’t be offended by my asking,” Jina continued, “but are you … ungifted?”
She nodded dumbly, and was surprised at the smug grin that passed over Jina’s face, like she’d guessed it all along. “There’s Niels.”
Cress’s thoughts were swimming. To think that she and Thorne could have told them the truth from the start … but, no, he was still a wanted criminal. She would have to think of a new story as to why she and Thorne were together. Did they think he was Lunar too?
Niels and Kwende were standing outside a big dusty vehicle with enormous traction wheels. Its hood was up, a cord plugged into a generator attached to a building, and a wide door was open in the back. They were loading things into it—many sacks of goods that Cress thought she recognized from the camels.
“Making room for the new cargo?” said Jina, coming up to stand with the men.
If Niels was surprised to see Cress there without her husband, he didn’t show it. “About done,” he said, dusting his hands. “The engine’s near a complete charge. Should have no problem getting us to Farafrah and back without having to break into the petroleum reserves.”
“Fara…?” Cress glanced at Jina. “You’re not staying?”
Jina clicked her tongue. “Oh, Jamal and a few others are, but we’ve had a new order, so we need to make a special trip. There’s always more business to attend to.”
“But you just got here. What about the camels?”
Niels laughed. “They’ll stay in the town stables and be happy for the break. Sometimes they suit our needs, and sometimes we need something a bit faster.” He thumped a palm down on the side of the truck. “Have you been crying?”
“It’s nothing,” she said, dipping her head.
“Jina?”
Jina’s hand tightened on Cress’s arm, and she responded to his unspoken query in their other language. Cress flushed, wishing she knew what Jina was saying.
Then he smiled cryptically, and nodded.
Cress was grabbed suddenly from behind. A hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her startled cry as she was shoved past Jina, past Niels. Her head was forced down as she was thrust into the back of the vehicle, banging her shins on the bumper. The hatch slammed shut. Pitch blackness surrounded her.
Niels barked something she didn’t understand, and then the engine rumbled beneath her. She heard two more doors slam near the front of the vehicle.
“No!” She threw herself at the hatch, pounding her fists against the metal. She screamed until her throat went hoarse, until the rumble and sway of the vehicle grew rough and the bumps threw her against a pile of bolted fabrics.
Her mind was still spinning when, not minutes later, she felt the vibrations change. They’d already left the paved streets of Kufra behind.
BOOK THREE
“The cat has caught the bird, and she will scratch out your eyes as well.
Thirty-One
The girl returned from her trip to the bar, setting a drink against Thorne’s wrist so he would know where it was.
He tilted his head toward her and lifted the cards. “What do you think?”
Her braids brushed his shoulder. “I think…” She tugged at two cards in his hand. “These two.”
“Precisely the two I was thinking,” he said, taking hold of the two cards. “Our luck is changing, right about … now.”
“Two to the blind man,” said the dealer, and Thorne heard the cards slapping down on the table. He slid them up into his hand.
The woman clicked her tongue. “That’s not what we wanted,” she said, and he could hear the pout in her voice.
“Ah, well,” said Thorne. “We can’t win them all. Or, apparently, any of them.” He waited until the bidding came around before folding. The woman leaned closer from behind him and nuzzled his neck. “The next hand will be yours.”
Thorne grinned. “I am feeling lucky.”
He listened as the bidding went twice around the table and the winner claimed the pot with jesters and sevens. From the man’s gruff voice, Thorne pictured a scraggly beard and an excessive belly. He’d drawn up detailed mental images of all the players at the table. The dealer was a tall and skinny man with a fine mustache. The lady beside him was elderly and something kept jangling when she took her cards, so Thorne pictured an abundance of gaudy jewelry. He judged the man to his right to be scrawny with bad skin, but that was probably because he was winning the most.
Of course, the woman who had draped herself over Thorne was viciously hot.
And not at all lucky, it turned out.
The dealer dealt out another hand and Thorne raised his cards. Behind him, the girl let out a sad whistle. “So sorry, love,” she whispered.
He pouted. “No hope? What a shame.”
The bidding opened, moving around the table. Check. Bet. Raise.
Thorne tapped his fingers against his cards and sighed. They were useless, judging from the woman’s sad inflection.
Naturally, he put his palm against his chips and slid the entire stack toward the center of the table, listening to the happy clatter of chips falling against one another. Not that he had a lot of them. “All in,” he said.
The woman behind him was silent. The hand on his shoulder didn’t even twitch. Nothing to acknowledge that he’d gone against her suggestion.
Poker face, indeed.
“You’re a fool,” said the scrawny player, but he folded.
Then the bearded man snorted with a sound that made Thorne’s spine tingle—not from concern, but expectation. This was his man.
“I’d raise if I thought you had anything left to bet,” he said, followed by the clicking and clacking of chips.
The last two players folded. The dealer passed out cards to replace the throwaways—two to Thorne’s opponent.
He kept all his cards. If his lady disapproved, her statuesque hands hinted at nothing.
They didn’t bother to bid for the second round, knowing that Thorne was maxed out. Thorne fanned his cards out on the table. The dealer called them out, his finger thumping against his opponent’s hand. “Doubles.” Then—“Royal triplets win!”