Of Beast and Beauty - Jay Stacey (читать хорошую книгу txt) 📗

forget that, even for a second.

I think of the first moment I saw her, with her head thrown back and

her arms open wide, laughing as she ran through the garden. I thought she

was crazy then, but what I wouldn’t give to hear her laugh like that right

now. I have to find her. I have to. She has to be alive. If she’s not …

“Isra!” I roar, my voice echoing off the rocks. I can’t think of her body

lying bent and broken halfway down the cliff. I won’t.

I search the dirt around the fire once, twice, and finally, on the third

careful circle, I find an uneven set of footprints. The moons haven’t risen

high enough to touch this side of the mountains, but the stars give enough

light for me to see the scuff marks leading up the trail. She was walking.

Not steadily, but alone. That’s something. Something.

I start up the mountain at a run, ignoring the agony in my leg every

time my left foot connects with the ground. I deserve this pain. I’ll gladly

take this pain and more if only—

There! An Isra-sized lump, curled on the ground by the side of the

trail.

“Isra!” I kneel beside her, expecting her to wake up and snap at me

for frightening her. Expecting her to stir in her sleep, or grumble beneath

her breath. But she doesn’t move, even when I push her hair from her face

and cup her cheek in my hand.

Instantly, I know something’s wrong. She’s so cold. Colder than

anything living.

All this time, I thought I was changing Isra’s mind, but she was the

one changing mine, so much so that I forgot that there are differences

between us. Serious differences. She has no scales or claws to protect her

from the hardships of the desert; she has a body that must be fed and

watered more often than mine; she is smaller and more delicate and clearly

isn’t able to tolerate variations in the temperature of her blood.

The Desert People grow cold during the winter, but there’s no danger

in it. We are more vital in summer, but we don’t lie down and die when the

winter nights take hold.

Die. She can’t.

“Isra. Is—” My voice breaks as I gather her into my lap. Her limbs are

limp and lifeless; her head rests heavily in my palm. “Isra?” I whisper,

throat so tight, I can’t speak any louder. “Can you hear me?”

She doesn’t move or speak, but when my gaze drops, I see it—the

flutter of a pulse at her throat, there, but fainter and slower than it should

be. She’s alive, but if I don’t find a way to warm her, she might not be for

long.

The thought has barely formed before I’m on my feet, running back

to the remains of the fire, with Isra in my arms. I no longer feel the pain in

my leg. Fear has banished the awareness of everything but Isra’s life, so

close to slipping through my fingers. By the time I fall to my knees by the

fire, I’m shaking. I have never trembled with fear, not even on the night we

swam up the river and crept into the dome.

I settle Isra across my lap, fold her head into my chest, and hold her

there with one hand as I rearrange the wood and tuck dried grass beneath

it with the other. I could move faster if I laid her down, but I’m afraid to risk

it. I’m not as warm as a fire, but I’m warmer than the night, and my blood is

certainly hotter than hers.

“Just a minute or two,” I whisper into the hair on top of her head,

some part of me certain she can’t die as long as I’m talking to her. “You’ll

be warm soon.”

I reach carefully around her limp body, and extend my claws, using

them to sharpen the end of one stick and notch a hole in another, before

reaching for the wood with my hands. I fit the pointed stick into the

notched one and spin it as fast as I can, shaking Isra from my chest in the

process and sending her tipping off my lap.

I take only a moment to pull her back to me and shift my position,

before starting to spin the wood again. I spin and spin, holding my breath

until I smell smoke, and then spinning even faster. My muscles burn and my

breath comes fast, but just when I think I can’t keep up the pace any longer,

sparks fly from the notch and the grass beneath the kindling catches. The

grass flames, high and fast, and the slender twigs at the bottom of the pile

flare to life. After I add more grass and coax the twigs with a stick, the

larger limbs begin to smolder and, finally, to burn.

I am famously quick with a fire, even among my people, who all have

a gift for flame, but I don’t know if I’ve been quick enough. I shift Isra, and

her head falls limply over my arm. Even in the warm light of the fire, her

face looks pale, her parted lips bloodless.

We’re sheltered from the worst of the wind by the rocks on either

side of our camp, and the fire warms up quickly, but even as her cheeks

regain their color, Isra remains terrifyingly still. I whisper her name what

feels like a hundred times. I smooth her hair from her forehead, pat her

cheeks a bit too hard, rock back and forth and back and forth in the hopes

of raising my own body temperature, growing more frantic with every

passing minute.

I’ve made a fire. I’m giving her the heat from my body. There’s

nothing left to do. I could wrap her in her shawl, but it’s no longer around

her shoulders. She must have lost it when she wandered up the trail.

“Why didn’t you feed the fire?” I whisper, lips moving against her

cool forehead. “Why?”

I’m suddenly angry, belly-burning angry, but not with Isra. With

myself. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have left her on the mountainside, even

for an hour. I shouldn’t have taken her from the city in the first place. I

should have insisted on going alone. That would have proven I was

trustworthy; this only proves I’m a fool. I had no idea she’d be so sensitive

to the winter chill, but ignorance is no excuse for what I’ve done. If Isra

dies, it will be for nothing, a senseless waste.

Yes, there are bulbs at the top of these mountains, and they’ll take

root in her garden and put out a pretty flower that sweetens cactus milk

into a treat that makes a man dizzy, but drinking it won’t give Isra what she

wants. This garden she’s desperate to plant will accomplish nothing. The

hope I’ve given her is a lie, like every other word out of my mouth since she

let me out of my cage, like every smile and laugh I’ve forced while we’ve

worked the ground together, like everything I’ve pretended to feel.

And everything I’ve pretended not to feel.

It took this—her nearly lost, and me wanting her back more than I’ve

wanted anything in so long—to make me understand.

If she weren’t lying so still, it would be laughable.

It’s pointless. Hopeless. Even if she weren’t afraid of me, at the core

we’ll always be enemies. She rules a wicked, selfish city, and my tribe

suffers for her people’s comfort. She’s a queen; I’m her prisoner. I resent

her and she fears me, and there are times when I fear her, too. I am her

monster, and she is mine. But right now none of it matters.

“Isra, please. Open your eyes,” I beg, but I don’t think she will. When

her lashes flutter, I’m so surprised that my elbow jerks beneath her head,

sending her chin jabbing into her chest. Her teeth knock together and she

moans, low and grumpy.

It is the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard.

“Can you hear me?” I support the back of her head and smooth the

hair away from her face in time to see her eyes slit open.

“Gem?” Her voice is sleep-rough and cranky and even