Stacey Jay - Of Beauty and Beast

They say they feel watched here, as if the roses have eyes.

They have no idea.

The roses have more magic than anyone, even my father, understands. I am the only one who knows their secret, who knows that they are more alive than other flowers, that they see and hear more than anything else on our world.

I throw out my arms, running faster and faster, until my heart beats in time with the slap of my feet, a layer of sweat coats my skin, and the giddy feeling inside swells so big that I have to leap and twirl, to spin with my head thrown back, the wind I’ve created whipping my hair. I want to scream with delight. I want to howl like the dogs on hunt day. I want to announce to the world that I’m free, free, free!

Instead I leap onto the ledge of the central bed, where the oldest roses’ roots dig deep into the ground, where vines as thick as human arms twine through ancient trellises, snapping the brittle wood. Where flowers as big as melons bloom and thorns as long as fingers warn, Don’t touch!

Hands to yourself! Back, savage!

I reach out, the pads of my fingers prickling. I never know where I’ll find a thorn. The wind never blows in Yuan, and the roses seem to grow like any other flower—though larger and older and always blooming—but the vines move. They move .

From one night to the next, a girl never knows when she might—

“Ssss …,” I hiss as my finger finds a thorn, a sharp one that glances off my fingertip and slides beneath the nail, piercing the bed. I grit my teeth and fight the urge to snatch my hand back to my chest. We must be connected—the thorn and the flesh—for the magic to work. I hold perfectly still until the sharp pain becomes a mean little ache, until the blood flowing from my cut eases the hurt away with its warmth. I stay and I breathe and I sigh as, one by one, my eyes open.

All one hundred of them.

THERE’S a woman in the garden.

No, a girl. Tall but young. She runs like a child. Big, loping steps with her arms held out and her head bobbing like one of the giant flowers.

I’ve never seen so many flowers. Flowers, plants, fruit, green things bursting out all over. When we first crawled from the caverns, I stumbled in the face of it. I fell, and my hands felt alien against the soft, wet grass. The smells devastate me. I don’t have Desert People or Smooth Skin names for them, can’t tell where one smell ends and another begins. The land under the glass dome overwhelms with its life.

Fierce, vicious life. Stolen life. Paid for with the deaths of my people.

We’re starving. The children first. Their skin cracks and bleeds. They cry until they have no strength left, and their silence is worse than their moans. The tribal medicine men have become death dealers. Better to eat poison root and have the pain over in an instant than to die slowly.

The autumn harvest of cactus fruit has bought the Desert People time, but only a little. We must have the roses. According to our chief’s visions, they are the key to the magic that keeps the land under the domes flourishing and abundant.

“Take them at any cost,” Naira said when we left our camp a month ago. “Die for them. Kill for them if there is no other way.” Our chief is a peaceful woman. But these are not times for peace.

Or mercy. If the girl sees me, she’ll scream. The guards will come.

They’re everywhere. They were here a few minutes ago. I hid in the orchard, but they’ll come again, and I might not be so lucky next time. The moons are so bright, it’s practically daylight under the dome. I have to act.

If Gare were here instead of on the other side of the city, he would have already slit the girl’s throat and wrested a plant from the soil, and would be halfway back to the caverns.

It took generations of digging to build the tunnel down to the underground river. It will take generations more to find another way in if we fail, generations we may not live to birth. This path will serve us only once. When the Smooth Skins realize what we’ve done, they’ll shore up their underground defenses, build another impenetrable wall. They already suspect an attack will come. Their guards shot arrows at our scouts as they circled the city. This is our only chance.

Kill her . I hear my brother’s voice in my head. One death is nothing, a drop of water in a sea of the Desert People’s blood .

I flex my hands. My claws grow loose inside the grooves above my nail beds. There’s no choice. There’s no time.

I step from behind the thick tree, out of the shadows, into her line of sight. I bend my knees and bare my teeth. My claws slick from their hiding places as I ready myself for the rush. Her eyes fall on me, huge round eyes in a face so different from my people’s, but somehow still so … familiar.

I hesitate. I shiver.

I didn’t expect the Smooth Skins to look like this. I expected softness like uncooked dough, empty eyes sunk in privilege-rotted flesh. I didn’t expect whisper-thin skin peeling like old tree bark, skin so pale I can see the blue blood flowing beneath. I didn’t expect a sharp chin or a sharper nose or eyes that seem to see everything.

Except me.

She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t startle. She doesn’t scream. Her gaze doesn’t waver. She looks past me, into the orchard. I turn, but there’s no one there. I turn back to find her still motionless, her hand in the flowers, her eyes focused on some faraway nothing. The truth hits, and my claws slide back into their chambers with a shup so hard, it hurts.

She’s blind. I was about to kill a blind girl. Maybe even a simple blind girl. Now that I’ve seen her face, there’s no doubt she’s nearly a woman, but she skips and plays in the flowers like a child. No near adult of the Desert People would behave that way unless they were rattled in the brain.

A strange heat creeps up my neck, making my face burn. Shame.

That’s what this is. Not something I’ve had reason to feel more than once or twice, but now it curdles inside me.

This isn’t the way. No women or children. We’re not like the Smooth Skins. They are as soulless as a sandstorm. We are better. We know the power of transformation. This planet has changed us, but its magic is good magic. It would be enough to sustain us all if the Smooth Skins hadn’t twisted it to serve their unnatural purposes.

They are the murderers. Their domed cities rob the surrounding lands of vitality. Their prosperity is paid for by the slow death of the desert, and if something doesn’t change, it will lead to the extinction of my people.

This raid isn’t about killing Smooth Skins; it’s about keeping them from killing any more of us .

I back into the shadows under the orchard trees. I’ll wait. The girl will leave eventually, and then I’ll—

“Please,” she says.

I freeze, skin crawling, claws slicking out again. Was I wrong? Has she—

“Show me this garden,” she begs. “Show me myself. Just once.”

She isn’t talking to me. There must be someone else. But where? The flower bed looks dense, the thorns dangerous. I ease closer, circling around her on quiet feet, braced for attack. But there is nothing in the shadows beneath the roses. Only her hand, with a thorn buried deep in one finger and her blood dripping slowly to the earth below.

“You’ve shown me the nobles’ cottages and the soldiers on the walls and the desert outside and the monsters who live there,” she says, spitting each word. “But you refuse to show me what’s right here. Right now. All I want to see is my face! You promised me. You promised!”

The girl is rattled. No question.