It is estimated that fifty percent of Ghostings have died in the last five years from the sleeping sickness. The disease appears to strike suddenly in the night, killing Ghostings in their slumber. Given its nature, I will not allow any of the healers or masters of knowledge to study the illness, lest it mutate and become a threat to Embers. Ghostings will continue to dispose of the dead immediately and mark sites that are infected with a black cross.
—Memo from the Warden of Knowledge, Ollia, year 256
“It was so strange, like a strike or so after we started, her bloodwerk failed— No, you’re missing the flick on the left.” Jond was even worse at this than her.
“Maybe you’re right, she’s using someone else’s blood, and that’s just what happens.”
“Yeah, maybe. Or I’m wrong and she’s not a Duster at all, just an Ember with weird blood—no, do that again.” They’d been practicing for a strike, and Sylah was a little lightheaded. It was quite pleasant as it distracted her from her persistent nausea.
“Okay, I better go back, my lunch break’s over. She was practically crying yesterday when I turned up late for dinner.” Sylah sighed, rubbing her brows.
“She seems like a lot of hard work.”
“I guess she is,” Sylah agreed. “But half the time I think she’s just role playing a character she’s read about. Like she thinks that’s what the world expects of her.”
Jond started to laugh, but Sylah’s frown cut him off. He cleared his throat.
“Well, you better head back then…I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yes, first strike, same place every day. I’ll teach you what she’s taught me.” Sylah stood, brushing the sand from her uniform. She hadn’t bothered changing from her servant garb. The clothes arrived clean and pressed every morning. Besides, she was getting quite used to the swishy skirts and the way Jond’s eyes lingered on her legs.
The view from the water tower was more breathtaking while sober. Shame clouded her mind when she thought of their first reconciliation at the top of the steps. This had been their childhood hideout, and now it was fulfilling that purpose once more. Sylah looked back at Jond crouching on the ground, his brows furrowed in concentration.
And there next to him she saw Fareen, another one of the Stolen, in her mind’s eye.
Her heart burst like a ripe tomato, her chest shredded by bullet wounds leaking red blood onto the blue sand.
Sylah squeezed her eyes tight and felt the prickling of an oncoming spasm spread across her shoulder blades. Her mouth flooded with saliva as her cravings kicked in. Her fingers slipped into the pocket where she kept the joba seed she’d found in her room.
She kept it with her at all times. Just in case.
She began to withdraw it between her finger and thumb.
“Sylah?”
Jond. Warden Jond. Aktibar. Bloodwerk. Deal with Anoor.The thoughts rattled through her, and she released the seed, pulling out her hand from her pocket.
“I’m f…fine.” Spasms rippled across her torso. Jond was next to her in a breath, guiding her to the floor.
“Sylah, breathe, slowly, there you go.” He rubbed her back tenderly, leaving an altogether different type of prickling sensation.
She looked into his eyes.
He really was attractive.
“Thanks,” he said, throwing in a crooked smile.
“Did I say that out loud?”
Jond laughed. “Yes, you did. Are you okay now?”
“Yes, I’m okay, I’m okay.”
Sylah pushed herself to her feet and stumbled. “I’m okay,” she repeated when Jond reached out to steady her.
“Is it the joba seeds?” Jond asked softly.
Sylah didn’t want to admit it, not to him. Without the drug eclipsing her guilt it was hard to confront the addiction she had. Has.