2. Mari

Chapter two

Mari

M ud, putrid black mud, sucks at my feet. I'm up to my calves when I realize what's happened. Every inch moved or pulled is another inch into the bog.

It's lapping at me like a black tongue, sucking me into its depths. I can't reach the solid ground circling the mud, and there is nothing to grab onto, nothing I can use to pull myself free.

Is this like the mud in The NeverEnding Story ? Meaning I need to keep my thoughts positive to stay on top. I close my eyes tight, conjuring images of my friends, my work, the beach. Anything that lights hope in my chest—all to no avail.

Thigh-high sludge and no clue what to do.

Soft footsteps and the crush of leaves have me swinging my head. He's here, and I'm stuck. Shit.

He approaches with more caution than needed for the current situation. His face set but not in a hard line, neutral, and his long, pierced ears glinting in the sunlight.

"As I told you before, miss, I don't want to hurt you. I haven't hurt you." He emphasizes that last sentence. "Let me help. I was leading you to a village with humans who can assist you."

Humans? Isn't he human? I scan his features again. The ears are off-putting but nothing out of the ordinary from someone who calls Portland their home. "What do you mean, human?" I ask, and he moves a few steps closer.

"I'll explain everything once I get you out of that mud. It might not give you back if you go past your shoulders." Give me back? What the hell? Like it's a living thing that can consume me.

I start to struggle, the panic rising like a tide. "Hold on now." He reaches behind and pulls a rope from his belt. "The more you struggle, the more you sink." That makes sense, somehow, like a flytrap. It takes movement to trigger the attack.

He throws the rope out, and I tie a hoop around my torso, then hold on tight with both hands. I'm completely at his mercy.

There is nothing to push off of. It's his strength against whatever I'm in.The bog makes squelching noises as my body emerges from its depths.

Black, sticky mud clings to every inch of my skin and clothes, and the smell of it has bile rising in my throat. The rocky ground under my body is hard, but I welcome stability.

I lay flat on my face, holding the firm earth below. He hovers above, watching me like a child pulled from a current .

"Come on, miss. The river is just through those trees. You can wash the mud off."

"Oh, hell no, you just want to see me take off my clothes!" I get to my feet, planting my stance in stern defiance. Blood rushes to my head at the sudden movement. My ears ring, and my legs buckle under my weight. No, no, no , is all I can think before my drugged body gives out.

The stranger catches me before I can crash onto the rocky ground. His skin is rough, and he smells slightly of livestock, but he doesn't hurt me. He simply lowers me back down to the ground. "Just sit there for a moment. Get your bearings back."

"What the fuck do you know about my bearings?" The words come out like a slap, but I can't help it. It's in my nature to fight, to be abrasive. To kick, scream, and throw my weight and words around until I'm safe again.

He sighs, exasperated. "You haven't moved in three days; I imagine your strength isn't what it was."

My blood boils. Who in the hell does he think he is? He knows nothing about me or my strength. My unchecked anger and rage can be a thing of power. I can sense it now, churning and gathering like a storm. I take in a steady breath.

For the first time in your life, Mari, let ' s think about this. Answers, you need answers. Let ' s at least get those before you decide to go postal.

Right. I stretch my shoulders and roll my neck, resulting in a slight pop .

"You said we could go find humans. What did you mean by that?" I grit the question out through my teeth like an attempt to be pleasant physically pains me.

"Before I explain, let's clean the mud off and let you rest. I will not harm you." He emphasizes that phrase again. "I will not harm you." Like he's pushed to a limit of some sort, he holds out a hand to help me up, his posture gone soft, gentle even.

I slap it away, choosing instead to push myself up off the ground, taking my time, aware of every nerve firing and muscle tightening. My head swims slightly, so I go even slower,sensing.

He was right. The river is over a small embankment a few feet away. The trees stand tall and lush, their leaves rustling in the light breeze. Birds call out in the air, and the smell of rushing water fills my senses.

My body eases at the sight of the cool water.

I go in, clothes and all, ridding my skin of the black filth now starting to harden and crack. It sloughs off into the clear spring, quickly taken up by the current.

I sit in the shallows longer than I should, letting the cool sink in and allowing my reeling mind to examine the information given thus far.

The riverbed looks different. I've spent enough time in this part of the state to develop a familiarity of sorts. This feels different—from the ramshackle dirt road that follows the bank to the utter lack of river trails, cars, or people. We are lowland enough that there should be a little traffic. Maybe a plane overhead, but there is nothing.

There is a strangeness to this place that makes me uneasy.

The defensive system I have built around me reinforces and winds tight. Guards are up and game face on.

"You think we should get a move on?" his voice calls from behind me. "Better not waste any more daylight when we could be moving."

"Do you have a knife?" I ask matter-of-factly.

"A knife?"He seems confused by the question.

"Yes, if you are truly not going to assault or harm me, arming me shouldn't be a problem."

He looks at me, mouth agape. He rights himself, straightening his broad shoulders, his hide jacket cracking with the movement.

A leathery, freckled hand slings the heavy coat out of the way, revealing a belt adorned with five different knife pouches clipped to it. He pulls one from the middle of the pack and unsheathes it—the blade, etched with symbols I don't recognize, shimmers in the sun.

I can't decipher how sharp it might be, but it's nothing a stone and some water can't fix. For a brief moment, I forget myself, taking in the ancient and otherworldly-looking weapon. Where did it come from? What symbols are these? How can steel appear to undulate and dance with the sunlight?

The blade rings when sheathed back in the leather pouch, a sound it shouldn't be making, but it snaps my attention back to the task at hand.

My heart races when he points it at me. "Here you go. Don't stab me." He hands it over like it's nothing. Like it isn't the most beautiful piece of steel that has ever existed.

In one clean motion, I palm it, remove it from its case, inspect it, and sheath it again. "I suppose this will do," I say, trying to sound nonchalant, trying to hold back the way it makes the nerves in my fingers stand on edge, like electricity or, perhaps, magic.

He scoffs at me like he knows the effect of the blade firsthand as if he sees through me, but I don't care. Holding a stoic front is better than giving all your cards away.

We return to the cart, and I sit beside him on the bench seat, feeling the knife's weight in my pocket.

"My name is Mariana." I lean slightly over, speaking quieter than usual.

"Pleased to meet you, miss. The name is Patti."

Patti snaps the reins, and the cart moves with a jolt. We can't converse easily over the noise. I want to ask where we're going or how in the hell I wound up in the world's largest LARP game.

However, the cart squeaks and rocks, making the ride so loud that we can't carry on a conversation. Instead, I take in everything. I map out the sun's direction, finding my east and west points. I note the other rugged dirt roads that split from this one.

This road must be a main thoroughfare. We look to be following a rocky trail that mirrors the river.

The sun sinks behind craggy mountains that stand tall and ominous in the distance—casting shadows off the cliff peaks that look like giants waking from a deep slumber.

I don't recognize those peaks. That's not a mountain range I've ever seen. The names of the canyons and the trails that lead to them, or the creeks flowing into the river we follow are all unfamiliar. I'm lost in every sense of the word.

The light gets low as the minutes tick on. White, puffy clouds are lined with electric orange and pink, making the horizon look almost whimsical. Patti pulls on the reins, and the oxen grunt and snort their distaste at his command.

They lead us off the main path into a flat field area with a few rock fire rings strewn about haphazardly.

The carriage bounces and lurches off-road. I hold onto the seat, really not wanting to be thrown off again because bruises are blooming on my ass and arms after my initial fall. Thankfully, the cart halts, and I get to my feet on the stable ground as quickly as possible.

My head still rocks from constant motion, like disembarking from a boat after hours at sea.

Patti unhitches the oxen from their lead and ties them to a tree with food and water. Then, he pulls out what looks like an old-timely sleeping bag and backpack.

He sets up camp with precision, and I watch, awed. I can't fathom the number of times he must have done this to make such quick work of it.

Before I can get my bearings, the camp is already orderly, the fire made, and a pot with root vegetables and herb broth is placed on a tripod over the fire.

That was shockingly fast. I don't question it, though. I just can't right now. I don't need to pile on to the already insurmountable number of questions I have.

The fire flames are high, and vegetable stew seasons the air with rosemary and sage. My mouth waters. I remember what Patti said: I was out for three days. A long, audible groan rips from my stomach, and Patti snaps his head to me.

"Hungry, miss?" his voice teases, but we aren't that friendly yet.

"Well, I haven't eaten in three days. What did you expect?" I spit. He shakes it off, having already become accustomed to my outbursts, returning unfazed to the pot, now peaked to boil over.

He removes it from the fire with a bare hand and then allows it to cool. Shit, I need to remember not to underestimate this guy if we ever come to blows.

Two mixed metal bowls glint off the firelight, and he heaps stew into both. The steam rises into the dimming night.

I set my face in a hard line, trying to hide the desperation taking over my body. The first spoon into my mouth is absolute heaven, and I moan at the pure pleasure of it.

Shit, shut up, Mari. That was way too sexual of a noise to make around this guy. I tap the knife in my pocket absentmindedly, reassuring myself I'm safe.