I Dare You to Break Curfew Page 11

  Easy on the eyes, Zaire’s handsomeness crumbled the logical side of my brain. Michelangelo’s David couldn’t compete. With Gaige’s formula still running through my veins, I wasn’t thinking with my head anymore. And even if I could behave myself because of the anima, it didn’t mean I didn’t feel hot and bothered by standing so close to him. Just a little tilt of my head and a shift of weight to my toes was all I needed to claim those slightly parted lips. Tempted. Sorely tempted. Was this what Troyan meant about the urges zooming through my body? But, if I bit Troyan and we had this strange physical connection, why was I feeling attraction for Zaire as well? Troyan and I didn’t have a set definition for our relationship (or lack thereof), but it didn’t seem right to feel all flushed standing so close to Zaire either.

  I licked my lips.

  “What is it, little cat?” Zaire asked, curiosity in his enticing eyes.

  I cringed. The answer to his question had potentially dangerous and totally delicious consequences. Why did he have to notice me at that moment?

  “Are you in pain?” he pressed. A blond curl fell across his forehead.

  Without thinking, I reached out. My index and middle finger curled around the spiral of sunshine—soft as mink fur. I shuddered. Embarrassed by the sudden heat pooling in me, I dropped my hand.

  “You’re dangerous,” he said.

  “In more ways than one,” I said. “Why are there so many of these anyway?” I glanced up and to the side to indicate the enclosure we hid in.

  He brought his lips closer to mine and whispered, “Let’s just say spying and gossip are a big part of what entertains us around here.”

  I needed… no, wanted fresh air. Like yesterday.

  “It figures.”

  “And you’re not afraid?” He raised an eyebrow that I suddenly wanted to trace with the tip of my tongue.

  Oh, for the love of—“Should I be?”

  For an answer Zaire leaned against his right hand while the forefinger of his left drew a line from my temple to my cheek, down my neck, and stopped at edge of my shirt collar. I gasped. Delicious shivers washed over my body.

  “I think….” I licked my lips and tasted salt. “Yes. Umm, yes. I should be afraid. Very, very afraid.”

  With all my might, I suppressed the urge to push him and stumble out of the alcove. His close proximity tortured my heightened senses. Too much to take in all at once. The heat in the tiny space between us—even with his cooler touch—threatened to cause spontaneous combustion if he continued to touch me the way he did.

  Just when I reached my limit, Zaire pulled me out of our hiding spot and away from the palace. I forgot my wobbly legs when we stepped outside, wonder replacing my frustration. The outer courtyard stretched two soccer fields wide and overflowed with mayhem. Women in french maid uniforms and men in butler’s suits—all with gray hair and eyes—scurried about. Some carried linens. Others were constructing a platform. And a group pushed long tables together. Guards in black breastplates helped out too. Lev wasn’t kidding when he said Darius’s Consort had everyone running around like mad. All the movement made me dizzy.

  “Zaire?” I said.

  He pulled me away from the courtyard without responding, so I yanked back, not giving him time to brace himself. He hovered in the air a second before landing on the gravel with a loud crunch.

  No matter how handsome he was, even he couldn’t pull off the fallen-and-startled expression on his face. He gaped like a five-year-old. His pants were gray with gravel dust, his jacket had slipped off one shoulder, and his curls were a wild halo. Laughter tickled my stomach and quickly bubbled up my throat and out my mouth. I couldn’t help myself. The stitch on my side caused me to hug myself. He frowned and let go of my wrist.

  “I didn’t mean to pull so hard.” Shame blossomed in my chest as I reached out to him.

  He took my hand, but instead of letting me pull him up, he wrenched me down. I crashed onto my knees. Hard. Every stone cut into my skin like razor blades. My chuckles died. I rolled to my side and curled into a fetal position, squeezing my eyes shut. Pain pulsed as if a mad drummer used baseball bats to play a beat on my knees. Clamping down on my teeth to keep from crying out, I waited for Zaire’s laughter or insult. But to my surprise, not a sound came from him.

  I peeked out of one eye. Zaire leaned on his hands, his expression guarded. I opened both my eyes and stared at him. He shifted to his hands and knees and came closer like a big cat on the prowl. I attempted to stretch my legs and winced. Instant pain sent electric currents up my thighs. Zaire stopped his advance for a second. Then he touched my ankle and slowly ran his hand up my leg.

  As I pulled my leg away, he grabbed my calf and kept me still. The untamed spark in his eyes froze me in place more than his cold, restraining hand. Sensing no further resistance from me, his hand continued up my leg until it crested the hill of my knee. I groaned.

  “Pain?” Zaire asked.

  “My pant leg is ripped,” I said.

  He returned his gaze to my exposed knee. A trickle of blood ran down my right leg. He bent his head, took a whiff, and wrinkled his nose. He pulled out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressed it on my wound. I flinched.

  “You’re stronger,” he said.

  I avoided his gaze.

  “What happened to you, Camron?” He removed the cloth and studied my now-healed knee.

  “Nothing.”

  Not asking for further explanation, Zaire stood up and dusted off his pants. He straightened his jacket and ran his hands through his hair—the curls bounced into place as if nothing had ruffled them.

  He stretched his hand out to me and warned, “Don’t pull me down again or you’ll get more than a bloody knee.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” I said.

  In one heave Zaire pulled me up and managed to wrap his arms around me. I gasped.

  “I apologize for hurting you,” he whispered into my ear.

  A shudder ran through me. “Zaire?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do Inshari have no respect for personal space?”

  “Only in the presence of someone very attractive.”

  “Ugh!” I gathered the pieces of myself that had fallen apart the moment our bodies touched. “That’s so cheesy. If you don’t let me go this instant—”

  “Effendi!” someone behind us called.

  My body went rigid. My first thought went to Troyan, that he had followed us. But the familiar rush I felt every time he was near didn’t manifest. I was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when Zaire took my hand and led me the rest of the way through the courtyard.

  “Come on,” he said.

  After we left the courtyard, and with no sign of pursuit, Zaire slowed down and finally gave in to giving me a quick lesson on the Inshari caste system. I’d like to think my personal charm had a hand in the lesson, but judging from the knot on his brow, he just wanted to shut me up. Sometimes, whining is more effective than torture.

  When he paused for breath, I interrupted. “Let me see if I’ve got it so far. The Regalia are at the top. They have black hair and eyes like Troyan. The Merks—or merchants—are the next level with varying shades of brown hair and eyes. And both castes can interact without extreme prejudice, hence the mix of students in your class. But what about you?”

  He shook his head. A shadow of the sadness he had shown in the elevator flitted across his features before he smiled it away.

  “I’m different,” he said.

  I didn’t want to leave it at that, but he launched into the next half of his explanation.

  “Now, the Bogatyr, the guards in black armor,” Zaire said, gesturing to a group of them passing us, “come from a special class of Merks bred for the job of security.”

  “Like Spartans.”

  “The Spartans got the idea from us.” He winked. “The Bogatyr train under the harshest conditions to weed out the weak from the strong. Once you are born a Bogatyr, you are a soldier, no questi
ons, no exceptions.”

  “What happens if you don’t want to be a Bogatyr?”

  “You are killed. Having no use in this society isn’t tolerated.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “You don’t know half of it.”

  I glanced at him and caught the tail end of a bitter smile. I wondered what the expression meant. The guy had issues. I kicked a pebble and watched it bounce away, continuing to listen to the calm cadence of his voice.

  “So, if having no use isn’t tolerated, what do you do?” I gave Zaire a sidelong glance and caught the stiffening of his shoulders. “I get that you’re a student, but Troyan is a student and a prince as well. That he needs to attend Assembly. Not that I don’t like hanging out with you, but don’t you have something else you need to do besides this?”

  “At the lowest level are the Serfs—the farmers and the Silent, characterized by their gray hair and eyes,” he said.

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” I stopped and faced him. “You get to pick which questions to answer, is that it?”

  Zaire paused, searching the dark ceiling for something before his gaze landed back on me. “Camron, some questions have more interesting answers than others.”

  “Don’t think you’re getting away that easily.”

  He smiled and continued walking. “I would be disappointed if I did.”

  Before I could ask my next question, Zaire answered it as if he had read my mind. “The Silent are Serfs who want to serve the Regalia. With the privilege of service comes the vow of silence. Whatever they hear or see, they can’t share with anyone.”

  My eyebrows rose. “What if—”

  “They’re put to death along with their family and their family’s family.”

  I let out a low whistle. “Lots of killing happening around here.”

  “The vow was only broken once,” he said, ignoring my quip. A twinge of sorrow colored his tone. “Six centuries ago. It was with good intensions, but because of the law, the one who broke the Silence sacrificed his entire family. We lost ten that day.”

  The misery contorting his face broke my heart. In a society so small and isolated, ten was too many. I had only read about that kind of cruelty. Sure, wars still raged around the world. Men still killed each other because of their beliefs, but to sacrifice an entire family because of a broken rule bordered on tyrannical. I understood the need to set an example, but the Inshari took things to a level the Geneva Convention wouldn’t approve of.

  Zaire stopped walking and looked up again. He seemed to like doing that a lot, so I followed his line of sight, but saw only the gloom of the ceiling in the hollowed-out mountain. My gaze landed on his face instead, pain apparent in its hard lines. We stood silent, until I impulsively touched his arm.

  Those eyes—the color of the sky—met mine. They glistened with unshed tears. His stillness, the secrets he kept inside, called to something inside me I thought I had lost when my mother died. Compassion coursed through me, so strong, so encompassing, that I wanted to wrap him up in it until his carefree smile returned. On the other hand, Troyan, that cold icebox of a guy, had never done anything to deserve compassion. Bossy, that was what he was.

  “You shouldn’t feel any pity for me,” Zaire said.

  “I don’t pity you,” I explained. “I feel for you.”

  “Me?”

  “I know how it is to feel so sad that there’s nothing left but echoing emptiness.”

  “Let’s go,” he said, leaving me bewildered and a little hurt.

  I watched him weave through the crowded market.

  “Come, little cat.”

  Afraid of getting lost, I hurried to his side. He pointed out several stalls. Some sold jewelry—silver bangles and hoop earrings and rings—while others sold clothes and household items. And a multitude of produce stands offered fruits and vegetables. Within minutes, he held a basket with a few odd mushrooms inside: electric blue with ivory spots, a brown variety the size of my fist, and orange ones so flat I needed to look twice.

  “Those can’t be mushrooms, can they?” I asked.

  Zaire paid the woman selling the funky-colored fungi with a coin, then said, “Genetically engineered. They mimic many of the nutrients found in… well, you know. Plus, they contain a lot more protein than average mushrooms.”

  “Did you just use gold to pay her?”

  He fished out a few more from his pocket and showed them to me. They had the Braylin crest stamped on one side and the motto on the other.

  “We still use gold and the barter system here,” he explained. “Simpler that way. But we do have human currency on hand for transactions made outside the colony, which we use trusted individuals to conduct.”

  “Like the headmaster,” I said.

  Zaire nodded. “Among many.”

  I followed him as he moved away from the stall. “So, where next?”

  “I want you to taste ariki.”

  Zaire’s excitement infected every part of me, like a fast-acting virus. He managed to bring down my guard, crumbling my walls to dust. Hanging out with him was as easy as breathing. No complications, no expectations, just wholesome fun. He didn’t hesitate to show me the world he lived in, unlike Troyan, who seemed hell-bent on keeping me at arm’s length.

  The smells intermingled and I couldn’t distinguish between the Inshari and the environment I was in. Just as I identified roses, jasmine would wipe them away. Soil overpowered wood. Honey mixed with cotton. Pumpkin and dirt. Lemons and leather. My nose went into overdrive. This was what being a dog must have felt like.

  “Hey, Zaire,” I called out to him.

  He stopped, and we became the only two standing still as a stream of Inshari glided past us. His eyes met mine and held.

  I felt a blush creep across my face. “Uh, I was just wondering… I haven’t seen any children around. Are they in school too?”

  Zaire looked away, a tic beginning along his jaw line. “We’ve had a slew of miscarriages lately.”

  First shock, then sadness struck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I dropped the topic and moved on. “It’s like the past and the present commingling here.”

  Zaire smiled. The corners of his eyes bore the ghosts of laugh lines. “The older Inshari prefer to wear clothing from the era in which they were born, while the younger ones like to play dress-up more. I honestly don’t understand the need to wear what you call jeans, but there are those among the Merks and Serfs that enjoy them. Adopting the English language came as a fluke, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Consort—bless her beauty—loves Shakespeare’s plays. She had many of the Regalia perform them, sparking a trend that changed the way we speak. The old tongue is still part of who we are, but I must admit, English is easier.”

  “What’s your rank?” I asked. “If you managed to make Troyan—the Effendi Excelsi—kneel before you, what does that make you? What’s higher than a crown prince?”

  “Has anyone told you you’re too smart for your own good?”

  “None that lived long enough to blab about it.”

  The window display of the deli Zaire had led me to caught my attention. Large squares of what looked like skin hung from hooks. I swallowed a gag.

  “I thought you can’t eat flesh.”

  “Human flesh is forbidden.” He pointed at the hanging squares. “That’s pig flesh, a close substitute. The Regalia touch none of it because they believe it’s beneath them. They settle for yusha—”

  “Which is synthetic.”

  “You know more than you let on.”

  I snorted. “Believe me, not as much as I’d want to.”

  Zaire gestured for me to enter the shop and followed me in. The smell of something fried wafted to me as we crossed the threshold. The place reminded me of fast food as I faced the glass counter. Curly, puffed, and fleshy things were piled into high mounds on
several trays.

  Zaire asked for a sample from the elderly woman with a red bandana covering her brown hair. She smiled graciously and handed him a plate with several pieces of the puffy curls. She said something in their language, and he glanced at me. His reply made her giggle like a schoolgirl.

  “What did you tell her?” I narrowed my eyes at him as the woman went to help another customer.

  “That you’re mine.”

  I smacked his arm, unable to hide the blush that burned my cheeks.

  “Here, taste this.” He picked up one of the puffs.

  I opened my mouth and allowed him to drop the piece inside. A dry, rough texture tickled my tongue. I chewed experimentally and fell in love with its crispness. It tasted like air and salt and something I couldn’t quite place. Potato chips? I chewed some more. Close, but no dice. Definitely different, but not bad.

  I covered my mouth and asked, “What is it?”

  “Ariki. Pig’s flesh when you dry it and fry it.” He popped one into his mouth and chewed merrily. “It tastes the best plain with a little vinegar and pepper, but you can get it in other flavors too.”

  I shared Zaire’s smile; however, before I could swallow, the deli around me skewed and swirled. I grabbed the counter to stay upright as the sudden wave of nausea threatened to topple me. I pressed my other hand tightly over my lips, trying not to spit out the ariki. My stomach twisted sharply. Bile came up my throat. Gagging and coughing, I doubled over, eyes closed. A hand on my back attempted to ease my wracking convulsions, but the contents of my stomach kept coming up.

  “Camron!”

  Zaire’s panic-stricken voice had me opening my eyes. A pool of blood spread across the tiled floor. Its spatter covered part of the glass counter. My blazer and pants were damp with it too.

  Everything seemed to be in motion at once. The woman behind the counter screamed. Customers ran out of the deli.

  “Camron!” Zaire had one hand on my back and the other hovered nearby, ready for anything. The basket he had brought with us lay on the floor, discarded and soaked with blood.

  My world tilted to a sickening angle again. I shut my eyes as another stream rushed up my throat and out my mouth.