A Girl Named Calamity (Alyria 1)

POOR LIFE CHOICES

I sat cross-legged near the fire, and my mood was as hot as the flames in front of me. He made me unbelievably angry.

As soon as he’d disappeared, it festered like a disease, and I was washed away in a haze of angry thoughts and plans of his demise.

The only thing that kept me sane was—I didn’t say the words.

I could take whatever he dished out.

Okay, I knew I couldn’t. But he still hadn’t proved me otherwise.

I didn’t want to sit here and stew in a pile of anger alone, and I kept thinking the city would have been a refreshing contrast to my heated skin.

I stood up in a state of uncertainty. What would it hurt if I went to take a look? His comment rolled through my mind, and my decision was made with the next flare of fierce heat that ran through my body.

I grabbed my cloak and some soap, planning to find the bathhouse so I could bathe the dust off my body. I decided to go by foot; I could run and be there in a few minutes. I took off across the field, the air growing colder the closer I got to the city. I walked up to the massive entrance. The only reason I noticed it, was that every once in a while the fire flickered out in this area and a rider would exit. Then, the fire would begin again.

“What is your business here?” a deep voice asked from an indiscernible location.

“I would like accommodations,” I said. The blue fire flickered out in an arch, and I felt apprehensive but stro

de through the entrance. When I was enclosed in the city’s flames, I was surprised to feel the temperature. It wasn’t cold but warm. I could see my reflection in the immaculate white, stone streets as if no one ever walked on them. I almost cringed as I knew my boots were leaving some dust behind.

The houses were all made of colorless stone. They were rectangular in shape, a foggy-paned window on each side of the wooden door. Each house stood taller than the other as the streets went uphill. The only similarity the Burning City had to Alger was the revelry taking place. Men still inhabited the taverns and prostitutes the brothels. Except for the women who all wore pastel dresses that covered them from neck to foot. I was grateful for my cloak because I was grossly underdressed.

I stopped at an inn, and the innkeeper pointed me in the direction of the bathhouse. I walked down the spotless white streets until I found the right building. There was only one giant bath with a long thin divider covered with blue flames that ran down the middle. It was the only light in the room, sending a blue glow throughout, and I quickly noticed no one else was present at this hour.

I scrubbed up and washed the cloths covering my cuffs; they were dark brown from Sylvian dust. I tucked them into the waistband of my shortened pants. I couldn’t tie them back on myself—not that I was going to ask Weston to help me. I’d rather stab myself.

When I was done, I headed out of the building and began my walk back to the gate. I’d passed a tavern on the way to the bathhouse, but there hadn’t been any men outside of it like there were now. My hood was low over my face as I strode by on the far side of the street.

“Where are you going?” one of the men shouted with a slurred voice. My legs moved faster as fear snaked through me. When I saw a man out of the corner of my eye start towards me, I took off. I ran a few feet before running into a man as he stepped out of the alley. I hit the man straight-on, and he stumbled back a step. I quickly tried to move around him.

“Where are you going? I have a coin for you, but you have to earn it,” the man slurred as he grabbed my arm, and I could smell the ale wafting off him. No matter how drunk he was, his grip on my arm was painful, and I winced at the pressure he held me with.

“I’m not a prostitute,” I urged, hoping that he would let me go when I cleared up his mistake. I tried to pull away from him, but I swore I would’ve pulled my arm off if I continued because his grip was secure. A couple of men stood behind him, watching the scene and my mind screamed at me for being so stupid.

“I don’t care what you are. I’ll tell you what you will be: on your back.” His smile was malicious as he tried to pull me into the alley.

Fear clawed through me when he started to drag me behind him. The second I got the right footing, I stepped in front of him and kneed him in the groin.

He groaned and fell to his knees while I turned to run, but one of the other men was close enough that he grabbed me by the cloak. The neck ripped, and it fell to the ground. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, and I cried out when it felt as though he had ripped a chunk out as well.

“A Sylvian woman! They are free with their favors. Don’t pretend you are not,” he said while he took in my clothes and then my cuffs as well. “What fine cuffs . . .” he said while he reached for one.

“No!” I yelled, but he ripped it off before I could finish. How could I have been so stupid? The thought was a mantra inside my head, but could barely be heard with my heart pounding in my ears. I elbowed the man in the stomach. He made a noise of protest but didn’t release my hair. He did after I threw my fist back into his groin.

“Fucking bitch!” he yelled while he grabbed himself and dropped my cuff. I snatched it off the ground and ran, but something tackled me from behind, and my head bounced off the stone. All the air was squeezed out of my lungs while spots flew around behind my eyes. My lungs burned and panic assailed me while I tried to catch my breath.

I was flipped over like a rag doll and was too dazed to do anything to fight it. My mind was blank as I stared at the man on top of me. I barely felt the hit when he backhanded me. The pain of it was nothing compared to the sharp ache in my skull. He was saying something, but I heard nothing but a ringing noise. He ripped my pants open and smiled at me while I lay there stunned, with no fight left in my body.

He died with a smile on his face and a knife in his forehead.

He fell forward, and I barely moved in time to dodge the handle. My movements were slow and choppy, the ringing in my ears a constant. I lay there for a while, struggling to breathe with the man’s heavy body on me. I had no energy or strength to push him off.

A boot kicked the man, and he rolled off me. I took the time to suck in a couple of breaths and feed my hungry lungs to capacity. Weston stood before me and for a moment, there were two of him.

Two bloody hims. Two ragged breathing hims.