Page 1 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

Part One

The Rising

Chapter 1

Sometimes I Think I Could Be a Killer

DESDEMONA

The septic is a worn down and indigent place. All orphia who reside there are equally as depraved as their lands and of no greater value than the corenths that were birthed upon their soil.

– COLONEL JENDA’S GUIDE TO SUPERVISING THE LESSER ORPHIA

Blood soaks my palm, and I press Damien’s dagger deeper. Everyone in my life and I agreed: I would be better off powerless. But as I watch the separated skin of my self-inflicted wound sizzle and blister before turning to one ugly, orange, and closed slit, I know the dreams are more than I’d initially hoped.

The leaves above me rustle, and I clutch the dagger by the tip of its blade so I’m ready when the catch falls into my territory. I push away all thoughts about the dreams or the cut.

The austec scuffles through the tree. An ugly thing with bulky teeth and a long, bushy tail that is almost inedible, but it’s the best we have in these woods. Easy to catch, skin, and cook. Damien lifts his hand and a string of whitish blue lightning shoots one austec out of the tree. Before it reaches the ground, I throw the blade into its throat.

“Pst,” Damien whispers down, trying not to scare the catch. He’s high up now, to the point where the branches don’t even look strong enough to hold him. His words echo down the concave of trees. “Come up.”

I give him a look, one that I can only assume he deems unpleasant because it’s the one I always give him when my answer is no.

Not much later, he jumps down from the tree, holding a smoking gray bird by its feet while it seizes just before it stills. We don’t normally hunt the birds, they’re harder to catch and don’t have as much meat as the austec, but they sure do taste better.

“Should’ve come up,” he says.

“Why? Cause you burnt it?” I open our bag for him.

“No way.” He holds up the bird like it’s a trophy and smiles at me like I’m a child. “It’s perfect, Red.”

I shove my shoulder into his bicep, and while he throws the bird in the bag Marice bound for us I close my fist tighter, even though I want Damien to see the cut, my shaking hands and worried eyes. For his eyes to bulge before he diverts from his concern by saying he knew he couldn’t trust me to handle the daggers. But ultimately when he asks me “What happened?” I would tell him that my magic is manifesting and I’m scared of what it means, if the murder in my dreams is any consolation.

Of course, none of that will happen. Because my hands aren’t shaking and my eyes… well, there may be a hint of worry that I’m unable to conceal, but nowhere near enough to make him wonder any more than usual.

“We’ll have to cut it to see,” I say, wiping the blood—mine and the austec’s—from the dagger before I hold it up, smiling, even though I don’t feel like smiling.

Damien tugs the bird away from me. “No way you’re mutilating today’s prize.”

I don’t mean to get quiet, but I do. Mutilating is a word that hits too close to home these days. The burnt bodies and faces of my dreams haunt me into the waking hours.

“You know I’m messing with you,” he says, using his forearm to wipe his auburn hair from his sweaty forehead. “This is as much mine as it is yours. If you insist on butchering it, have at it.”

I wave his dagger in his face. “Maybe I’ll butcher you.”

Five austec and a bird aren’t enough to feed my mom and his family for the day, not with the trading he’ll have to do. So Damien scales another tree, looking for another catch, and I follow suit, preparing the dagger.

I used to think Damien only let me tag along with him to help my mom and me. It’s no secret that three years ago when we arrived in the welders’ village, we weren’t doing well. No belongings, nothing to trade, and starving. I hated pity, but even now, I think that if pity is the reason Damien and I became what we are to each other, maybe I could live with it. But looking back, he was just as bad at hunting as I was. He couldn’t aim and I’m still much faster, always been better with his daggers too.

Damien stays in the trees and me on lookout until the late hours of the morning. I carry the bag into the septic, but when he holds his arm out to me to take it I oblige, but not before giving him a long look. A warning.

“Be careful,” I whisper. When he starts shaking his head, I grab his arm. “There’s more keepers out than usual. I saw them huddling up this morning.” Then I say again, “Be careful.”

“Always am, Red.”

He walks to the saul, where he’ll trade the catch for the necessities—clean water, since the closest river to our village is a four-hour hike; clothes for his growing siblings, since the nights are getting colder; and the most taxing luxury, salt. I walk to school.

They teach us what they call the useful things here, which is mainly how to use our powers to strengthen our odds of survival, which are never very good in the septic. Even though the Folk can live well into their hundreds—sometimes even longer—most of us die out before we reach seventy. The Fire Folk hardly make it past thirty, and this is the last year I’ll get to be a student before I’m forced to take up a job as a welder. All Fire Folk are required to start working at nineteen, four years earlier than the rest. In the septic, at least. They want to make sure they get a good decade out of us before we self-combust.

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