The Hanging City (82)

In answer, my toe slips beneath his waistband, and I pull the ties free myself.

We make it to the bed, but we cannot simply give in to our passions. Humans and trollis are compatible, yes, but Azmar is a large man, and I’ve never opened that part of myself to anyone. But I want all of him, however slow, however painful. And Azmar is everything I know him to be—tender, patient, fervent. I know from the moment we come together that I am changed forever. That I will never again be the woman I was.

Yet neither do I want to be.





Chapter 21


The room is bathed in predawn light when I open my eyes. I lie on my side, facing Azmar, who lies on his, facing me. His arm is tucked under my head, my ear pressed to his bicep. A fur haphazardly covers our hips and legs. My breasts are fully exposed, but I can’t find it in me to be embarrassed, even by the fading pink marks left over from the night’s ardor. I study Azmar’s sleeping form. His face looks younger, relaxed like it is. There’s a slight bump to his nose, right below where it connects to his brow. His eyelashes splay darkly with the slightest viridian tint. He has high cheekbones and a strong jaw, emphasized by the slight bony protrusions running along it. A few cords of hair waterfall over his neck and across his chest.

A hand’s breadth below them stretches that silvery scar, the one I first saw when I witnessed him coming out of the bath. I trace the length of it, from just below his ribs to about four inches to the left of his navel. The muscle beneath it feels leaner than the rest of him, likely from the way it healed.

The story behind that scar reminds me what day it is. I’m supposed to meet Tayler this evening. I’ve worked out my shifts for the last week and a half to make sure I’d be free, but with the extra scouts, keeping my promise will be difficult, though not impossible. I wonder if Tayler will bring Baten.

At the thought, my fingers skim over my abdomen. I know the trollis struggle to conceive—it’s one of the main reasons my ancestors were able to dominate theirs before the drought. I wonder if that struggle is the same with trollis-human pairings. Would a half-human babe gestate for nine months, or twenty-three?

I wonder what Unach and the council would do if I gave birth to a child like Baten. Like Perg. Nerves flutter beneath my skin. They make me want to talk to Tayler and Baten that much more. I need to know what my—our—options are, just in case.

I want to tell Azmar about the rendezvous, but I’m sure he’ll insist I not go, though with some persuasion, he may agree to come with me. Yet I promised Tayler I would come alone. I want so badly to know about him and his mysterious township. If he or one of his friends spy a trollis with me, he may run, and I’ll never have another opportunity to talk with him. That, and I fear being seen together with Azmar more than ever. I am his sister’s servant now, but Azmar is no longer tied to their apartment. I will not implicate him in any way. I have to keep that promise as well. But I will not lie to him, and the only way to do that is to keep Tayler to myself and confess later tonight, after I return.

I only hope I find Tayler before any Cagmar scouts do.

My knuckle runs back up Azmar’s scar. His breathing changes, and a second later his hand moves to encapsulate mine. He shifts; I imagine the weight of my head has cut off the blood flow in his arm. He leans onto his back and pulls me close, lining me up with his side.

I nuzzle into his pectoral muscle and resume tracing his scar. “When is your ticket up? For the scouting parties. Unach said hers will be soon.”

His fingers caress the small of my back, raising gooseflesh in their wake. “Not for a while.” His voice sounds lower at this early hour. “It isn’t based strictly on caste. More on utility. Engineers, school teachers, those on the . . . task force”—a slip of chagrin emphasizes that last one—“will be the last ones assigned. But if there aren’t any human parties or attacks reported, the city will calm down within a few weeks. Are you worried?”

My fingers glide down the scar. “Not too worried.”

I know I need to leave soon, to change and take care of Unach and her apartment, but everything here is too perfect. Every minute is a gift. I let my hands roam over Azmar’s chest, his stomach, his hips, laughing at how quickly his body responds. The hour is early enough for us to engage in our affections one more time, and it’s easier the second time, even more tantalizing, and in truth I could lose myself to him all the day long. But we both have responsibilities that tether us: Azmar to the city, and me to Tayler.

When I finally pull myself away, I wish so badly that I could wear his bloodstone proudly. It’s a fanciful dream, and I tuck it away quietly. Once I’m home—as much as I can call my dark quarters home—I press a kiss to the stone before tucking it away again, change my clothes, and hurry upstairs to set water boiling on Unach’s fire. I notice a new rug and cushion in the main room; Kesta must have moved in.

I have breakfast ready for the both of them by the time they wake.



That afternoon, around the fifteenth hour, I make my way to the human enclave. It’s not as blustering as it was before; most of its tenants must be working elsewhere in the city. I spy Wiln at his clock shop and give him a wave, but the person I want to visit sits in the back of the short hall on a blanket, working dried herbs with a mortar and pestle.

“Ritha.” I kneel down across from her.

Her face lights up. “Oh, Lark! I haven’t seen you around. Were you involved with the spreener yesterday?”