Page 50 of Hair, She Bears
Zenna swallowed. She flipped onto her stomach and pushed back onto her knees. Mother arched an eyebrow as she moved into a defensive crouch. He rolled his eyes and returned to the worktable.
“Malik doesn’t have an unlimited amount of time,” he said, dropping onto the stool. He lifted the pestle and smashed it into the stone bowl.
“It would go faster if you let me do it.” Climbing to her feet, two images of Mother danced in front of her eyes, blurring into one. She stumbled back, her hand on her head, and steadied herself against the wall.
“You’re in no shape to work.” Mother glanced over, a smirk pulling the corner of his mouth.
“Whose fault is that?” Zenna muttered, jerking her foot. The chain rattled.
“Yours.” Mother twisted around on the stool. Bending over, he extracted the knife from his boot, flicked his wrist, whipping out the blade, rose, and approached Zenna.
She jerked away from him, her escape prevented by the short chain. Laughing, Mother’s hand flew forward and grabbed the back of Zenna’s neck. She cringed, kneeling under his weight.
“How much hair do I need?” Mother gathered her short hair in his fist.
Zenna’s gaze flicked over to the mountain of grey-lavender powder in the mortar. Mother had not measured the ingredients. “About three inches.”
With a nod, Mother yanked her hair up and sliced the knife through her strands. He clumped over to the mortar and held his hand out over the mixture.
“It would be quicker to slice up the pieces into smaller amounts,” Zenna said.
Mother glared and tipped his hand. Dragging the knife across his palm, he brushed the strands into the mortar. After setting the knife beside the mortar, Mother’s hand closed around the pestle and attacked the mixture.
Minutes crawled by, accompanied only by the sound of stone scraping stone. Zenna shifted, uncomfortable in her kneeling position. She strained, listening for the soft flutter of Malik’s wings. Was he still alive? Her eyes shifted back to Mother. Bent over the worktable, his arms moved in a blur, pulverizing the powder.
Deep purple sparkles appeared on his face. He dropped the pestle with a clink and lifted the mortar, tipping it toward Zenna. She nodded once.
“Shall we test it?” he asked. His gruff voice held a note of anticipation. Without waiting for an answer, Mother waved his arm, and Carlyle appeared between them, bound in the same manner as before. He lifted his eyes to Zenna, their dull brown color filled with anguish.
Mother grabbed an empty vial and scraped it over the top of the mortar, collecting a sample. With a sneer, he marched to Carlyle and crouched. He held out the vial, shaking it between his fingers.
“Open your mouth.”
Carlyle refused, mashing his lips together. Mother’s eyes narrowed. His hand reached behind him, snatching the knife from the worktable. He held up the knife in one hand and the vial in the other as if giving Carlyle the option to choose. Carlyle’s eyes slid to the knife, then back to Mother’s face, a silent dare.
Snorting, Mother shrugged and shoved the knife between Carlyle’s ribs. He grunted and collapsed, blood pouring from the wound. Mother jerked out the knife, dropped it on the floor, and grabbed Carlyle’s head, forcing it back. He upended the vial and tapped the end, dumping the full dose into Carlyle’s mouth.
While Mother was distracted, Zenna inched forward, her hand slipped out and closed around the discarded knife. Mother’s hand landed on top of hers and smashed it to the floor, squeezing until she cried out and released the knife. He shook his head, a disapproving side-to-side movement that meant more pain was coming.
Carlyle groaned, drawing Mother’s attention. He twisted back, and one finger traced the fading scar on Carlyle’s ribs.
“I don’t enjoy punishing you,” he said, his eyes on the scar.
“Yes, you do,” Carlyle hissed and dragged in a jagged breath.
“You betrayed me,” Mother replied. The coldness in his voice rivaled the hatred blazing in his eyes.
“You lied.” Pushing up on his elbow, Carlyle glowered. “You told me the injury was permanent.”
“It is.” Mother stood, lifted his boot, and stomped on Carlyle’s knee, grinding it into the stone floor. Carlyle’s howl of anguish accompanied the shattering of his bones.
“Please, stop!” Zenna flung herself at Mother. The chain stretched taut and jerked her backward. She crashed to the floor, her hand less than a foot from Carlyle’s head.
Mother’s hard gaze flicked to her. He waved his hand, and Carlyle disappeared. Kneeling beside Zenna, Mother snatched the knife from the floor, and his hand stroked over her cropped hair.
“You’ve asked me for a lot of mercy recently.” He placed the sharp edge of the knife against her forehead and scraped it backward over her scalp. Tiny pieces of hair fell from her head.
“What are you doing?” she screamed. Mother’s grip on her head tightened, and the knife passed over her head again.
