my hands back from Trey to hide them. “I’m fine,” I murmur quickly, seeing the fierce look that Trey is giving Wayra.
“She probably weighs less than a hundred turks,” Trey says in a low voice, piercing Wayra with a scowl.
“I should’ve used a smaller ratchet. I’m sorry, Kricket,” Wayra says before grasping the back of his neck with his hand as he frowns grimly.
“Uhh...okay,” I say softly, not sure how to handle an apology from one of my kidnappers who almost accidently killed me, but is still going to hold me against my will. “Next time, we’ll make sure I weigh more turks,” I stutter, nodding my head like I’m not still freaking out inside over what just happened.
Jax begins to laugh beside me, while pulling a pouch out of his duffle bag. “We’ll make sure Wayra takes you to Sequelle’s with him. That ought to put some turks on you.” Opening the pouch, he extracts a spiky plant limb that looks like aloe. “Hold out your hands for me palms up,” he orders.
Doing as I’m told, I flinch when Jax squeezes the plant leaf over my palms, extracting its salve and rubbing it onto my cuts. “Ahh, that burns!” I hiss, pulling my hands back from him.
“Does it burn more or less than pepper spray?” he asks with an ironic twist of his lips.
“You so deserved that pepper spray, and if I had anymore of it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, Jax,” I reply, entirely unrepentant.
“You have the confidence of someone who is at least a couple of crikes old,” he says, pulling my hands back to him and beginning to wrap them in soft bandages.
“How much is a crike?” I ask, watching him.
Squinting his eyes, he says, “Hmmm, about fifty years or so.”
“How old are you?” I ask suspiciously, gauging him at around 23 or 24, like Trey and Wayra.
“Two crikes and a floan,” he replies casually. Hearing me choke, he looks up in question, “What?” he asks, not understanding why my eyes are so wide. If a crike is fifty years then he’s over a hundred years old. “Oh, you think I’m too young to have been given a mission like this one. Well, you wouldn’t be the first to say that,” he grins.
My eyes widen further. “How old are they?” I ask, nodding toward Trey and Wayra who are packing the harnesses back in their bags and winding up the lines.
Jax shrugs, “About the same as me…give or take a speck.”
“How long do you, I mean, do we live? On average?” I ask, feeling completely weirded out.
“A few jamarch , and before you ask, a jamarch is about a thousand years, give or take.”
“So, like three thousand years?” I ask, my mouth feeling really dry.
“More like four and sometimes, if you’re really lucky, five.”
“Five…thousand,” I breathe, having a “holy crap” moment. Jax nods, unwrapping the bandages he had just wrapped around my hands. Pulling them off, I have another freak out moment, seeing that my palms are almost completely healed.
“Ready?” Trey asks, examining my hands and touching my skin gently.
“How did you do that, Jax?” I whisper. Putting one hand to Trey’s cheek, I turn his head so that his headlamp shines on my other hand more brightly. I stare at my hand in fascination.
“I didn’t do it. It was the hordabus plant,” Jax gives me an ironic smile.
“Did you see this?” I ask Trey in awe, still resting my hand against his cheek when I look in his eyes.
“Yes. It’s better. Let’s go,” he says gruffly, looking at me strangely while reaching up and pulling my hand from his cheek. Taking my arm again, Trey begins ushering me toward the mouth of another tunnel. A golden, luminescent glow shines from the tunnel as we near it. Stalactites, towering above our heads, drip condensation into the vast underground pool below them, making the pool ripple from thousands of tear-like drops.
The pool itself is aglow, as if it’s being lit from far beneath its surface. The light is reflecting off the walls and
“She probably weighs less than a hundred turks,” Trey says in a low voice, piercing Wayra with a scowl.
“I should’ve used a smaller ratchet. I’m sorry, Kricket,” Wayra says before grasping the back of his neck with his hand as he frowns grimly.
“Uhh...okay,” I say softly, not sure how to handle an apology from one of my kidnappers who almost accidently killed me, but is still going to hold me against my will. “Next time, we’ll make sure I weigh more turks,” I stutter, nodding my head like I’m not still freaking out inside over what just happened.
Jax begins to laugh beside me, while pulling a pouch out of his duffle bag. “We’ll make sure Wayra takes you to Sequelle’s with him. That ought to put some turks on you.” Opening the pouch, he extracts a spiky plant limb that looks like aloe. “Hold out your hands for me palms up,” he orders.
Doing as I’m told, I flinch when Jax squeezes the plant leaf over my palms, extracting its salve and rubbing it onto my cuts. “Ahh, that burns!” I hiss, pulling my hands back from him.
“Does it burn more or less than pepper spray?” he asks with an ironic twist of his lips.
“You so deserved that pepper spray, and if I had anymore of it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, Jax,” I reply, entirely unrepentant.
“You have the confidence of someone who is at least a couple of crikes old,” he says, pulling my hands back to him and beginning to wrap them in soft bandages.
“How much is a crike?” I ask, watching him.
Squinting his eyes, he says, “Hmmm, about fifty years or so.”
“How old are you?” I ask suspiciously, gauging him at around 23 or 24, like Trey and Wayra.
“Two crikes and a floan,” he replies casually. Hearing me choke, he looks up in question, “What?” he asks, not understanding why my eyes are so wide. If a crike is fifty years then he’s over a hundred years old. “Oh, you think I’m too young to have been given a mission like this one. Well, you wouldn’t be the first to say that,” he grins.
My eyes widen further. “How old are they?” I ask, nodding toward Trey and Wayra who are packing the harnesses back in their bags and winding up the lines.
Jax shrugs, “About the same as me…give or take a speck.”
“How long do you, I mean, do we live? On average?” I ask, feeling completely weirded out.
“A few jamarch , and before you ask, a jamarch is about a thousand years, give or take.”
“So, like three thousand years?” I ask, my mouth feeling really dry.
“More like four and sometimes, if you’re really lucky, five.”
“Five…thousand,” I breathe, having a “holy crap” moment. Jax nods, unwrapping the bandages he had just wrapped around my hands. Pulling them off, I have another freak out moment, seeing that my palms are almost completely healed.
“Ready?” Trey asks, examining my hands and touching my skin gently.
“How did you do that, Jax?” I whisper. Putting one hand to Trey’s cheek, I turn his head so that his headlamp shines on my other hand more brightly. I stare at my hand in fascination.
“I didn’t do it. It was the hordabus plant,” Jax gives me an ironic smile.
“Did you see this?” I ask Trey in awe, still resting my hand against his cheek when I look in his eyes.
“Yes. It’s better. Let’s go,” he says gruffly, looking at me strangely while reaching up and pulling my hand from his cheek. Taking my arm again, Trey begins ushering me toward the mouth of another tunnel. A golden, luminescent glow shines from the tunnel as we near it. Stalactites, towering above our heads, drip condensation into the vast underground pool below them, making the pool ripple from thousands of tear-like drops.
The pool itself is aglow, as if it’s being lit from far beneath its surface. The light is reflecting off the walls and
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