The Earth Dwellers

“I don’t know,” I say. “I ’spect your head to be sitting just ’bout over your heels right now. And that’s all ’cause of Dazz.”

“You take it back, baby sister, or I’ll take it back with these two fists of mine, I swear it on the moon goddess shining down on us right now.”

Her words make me pause, not ’cause I’m afraid of her hitting me—I know she won’t—but ’cause I crane my head back to look at the moon goddess, who’s hanging high in the sky, almost directly overhead. She’s full and bright and...is she smiling?

“Hulloooooo up there!” I shout.

Finally I get a laugh out of Skye. “Sun goddess, Siena. Sometimes I swear you’ve got tug for brains,” she says, which only makes me laugh more, ’cause it sounds like something I would say.

Still tugging Adele with one hand, still staring up at the moon, I say, “’Gardless of my brain constitution, it don’t change the fact that you luuuurve Dazz.”

And then Skye’s chasing me and I’m forgetting myself and releasing Adele’s arm and taking off down the dune we’ve just crested, laughing and laughing and laughing, my feet squishing in the trail of sand lit by the bright, full moon.

And, of course—of course—Skye catches me, ’cause she’s stronger and faster and bigger. She tackles me to the ground, pins me there, and shoves my face in the sand. “Take it back,” she says, and when I won’t, she sprinkles sand in my mouth, which is gaping ’cause I’m still laughing.

I think the realization hits us at the exact same time—maybe ’cause we’re sisters and we both have tug for brains—and it’s only when we hear Wilde’s shout that we scamper to our feet and look back up the sandy hill.

Somehow, some way, Adele’s got her hands out in front of her and she’s taking off her blindfold, her eyes filled with action. I’m already drawing my bow and Skye’s got her sword out, but we’re both frozen ’cause Adele’s charging Wilde, who’s holding Tristan with one hand and a sword in t’other, and when she swings at Adele, she ducks under it and kicks low and hard, sweeping Wilde’s legs out from under her. Down she goes, dropping her sword in the process. Then, ’fore you can say “spicy ’zard soup,” Adele’s got Wilde’s sword and has freed her hands and Tristan’s, and stuck the tip of it into the crook of Wilde’s neck.

“Oops,” I say, and Skye just glares at me, but I can tell she’s not madder at me’n she is at herself.

Maybe not even tug for brains. Maybe nothing for brains. I almost want to rap on my skull with my knuckles and listen to whether it sounds hollow. Stupid, wooloo desert boredom’ll get you every time.

That’s when I hear a worse sound’n the hollow echo in my own head: A snarl, raw and excited and close. A Cotee snarl.

~~~

The moment Wilde and Adele and Tristan come barreling down the hill, I take aim upwards. Not to shoot either of our pale-faced prisoners, but to defend us against the snapping, snarling beasts that are surely ’bout to come over that hill.

I’m not scared; not at all. Five of us against even a large pack of Cotees is doable. I’m ready.

But when Wilde reaches the bottom and I see her face painted yellow by the moonlight, I know we’re in trouble. “Killers,” she says, her face awash with fear, her breaths coming out in ragged heaves. Wilde doesn’t scare easy. None of us do. But that one word—Killers—would strike fear in even the bravest of warriors.

I’ve lived in fire country my whole life, plenty long enough to know that the bark I heard was a Cotee. So not just Cotees—Cotees and Killers. Great. We survive the attack from the Glassies, the whims of a mad king, and the brutality of a power-hungry admiral, all to die at the razor-clawed paws of furry wolf-like killing machines?

Burn that. I’ll be seared if I’ll die now, not when my freshly rescued sister, Jade, is waiting for us back at New Wildetown. Not when Circ is waiting for me.

“How many?” Skye says, her voice firm.

“At least five Cotees, but they’re ru

“What the hell is a Killer?” Adele asks, but her stricken face tells me she saw ’em.

“A big animal,” Skye says. “Get ready.”

Steady, steady, I keep my pointer trained on the crest of the hill. ’Side me, I see Skye take out her second blade, hand it to Wilde, feel her tug my short knife out of its loop. She gives it to Tristan. Now’s not the time for prisoners, for human enemies. We’re in a fight for our lives.

The first Cotee flies over the dune, its four legs moving so fast they’re barely touching the sand. Its mouth is hanging open, tongue lolling side to side, eyes wild and wide. It’s ru

A second Cotee, a third. A pathetic yelp shatters the night. There are no longer five Cotees coming our way.

Just as the first and fastest Cotee is racing ’tween us like we’re not even here, like we’re no more’n inanimate pricklers standing watch in the desert, the fourth animal soars over the dune in a final, desperate attempt to save itself. A shadow looms behind it, seeming to absorb the moonlight into its dark fur. Massive jaws come crashing down on the Cotee’s neck and the sickening crunch of bones rolls down the hill.

“Oh my God,” Adele whispers, as the Killer lands on top of the Cotee, twisting its head sharply to snap the animal’s neck. Blood oozes from its white fangs, which glisten under the watchful eye of the moon goddess, who I doubt is still smiling.

I can’t be frozen, but I am, shocked by the violence I’ve just witnessed. The last time I faced off against a Killer it was to protect Circ, and in the end, he protected me more’n I did him.

But that was then, and this is now, and I’m a different person. Stronger, more confident. So even as Skye is screaming, “Shoot, Siena! Shoot!” I’m already loosing an arrow, watching it fly straight and true, right into the Killer’s eye.

It roars, a mind-rending scream that’s filled with anger and pain and maybe surprise, too, like “How could a pathetic, ski

The Killer comes to rest at my feet, as big as five Cotees, black liquid dribbling from its eye. Deader’n…well, just dead, okay? I’m so shocked that I’m plumb out of silly comparisons. I killed a Killer.

One down.

Just as I nock another pointer and raise my bow to the top of the hill, t’other two Killers come charging over the rise. Not distracted by a Cotee—t’other three Cotees are long past us, secure in their knowledge that the Killers’ll go for the tasty humans first—they come right at us, teeth snapping, three-inch-long claws out and ready to tear, to rip, to end.

I shoot.

One of the Killers—the one on the right—twitches slightly as my arrow slams into its shoulder, but it keeps on coming. I reload, aim, shoot again. The Killer is ready this time, cutting hard to the side, my pointer sailing over its head, which is what I was aiming at.

It’s right on top of me, too close to shoot again. No choice but to—

I dive hard to the ground, rolling frantically away, feeling the heavy whoosh of air and sensation of hundreds of pounds of muscle and bone and fur fly past me.

The beast’s growl confirms that it missed its mark. I snap to my feet, nock another pointer, release. The shadow snarls, paws at the feathers sticking from it neck. Breaks the pointer in half. Charges.

And then Skye’s there, knocking me aside, slashing hard with her sword. The warm splatter of blood sprays my face as I fall to the still-hot sand.

When I push to my feet, all I see is black fur, matted and wet, and blood, pooling at my feet. A groan as Skye shoves the beast off of her. A growl reminds me that it’s not over—not by a longshot.