The Evaporation of Sofi Snow Read online

  And for a moment I swear I can feel the sea waves calling, begging my blood to set us all free.

  Except just as with the Draewulf, my blood comes at a price.

  “Blast the crippled croaker! Would someone put him out of his misery?” the merchant shouts.

  A louder shout and then a cheer interrupt the inharmonious tune. Someone’s just been bought for a higher amount than expected. The merchant looks at the stage behind us and smiles. Then, without glancing at me, he says, “Done,” and fishes into his hip bag to drop three draghts into Brea’s open palm.

  Congratulations, Nym. You’re officially the cheapest slave sold in Faelen history.

  Brea hands the reins of my collar to the merchant and turns from him, but not so quickly as to confirm his suspicion that there’s something else amiss with me. Just before she leaves, she leans into me again, and her black hair brushes against my cheek.

  “Pity you weren’t born a boy,” she whispers. “They would’ve just killed you outright. Saved us all from what you are.” And then she’s gone.

  And I won’t even pretend I’m sorry.

  The merchant yanks my leather straps like he’s bridling a goat and leads me behind him to the side of the selling platform where twelve other slaves wait, tethered to a lengthy stretch of chain. Before he bends down to tie me in line, he pulls a thin knife from his right bootie and puts it against my chin. “Try to escape, little imp, and this blade’ll find you faster than a bolcrane goin’ for a baby.” He breathes an extra puff of foul air up my nostrils and grins when I squirm in revulsion.

  So, of course, I do what any self-respecting, uncooperative person would do. I spit into his annoying face.

  “You little . . .” His knife is as fast as his fury, and before I can move he’s cut into my skin just beneath my jaw.

  I cry out, and then bite my tongue because he doesn’t deserve to see my pain.

  “I’ll sell you off in pieces if I have to,” he says, growling.

  “Try,” I mutter.

  Obviously the heat’s gotten to me because I’m smiling a bit crazy in spite of the sting—until his arm rises. I barely have time to brace before the back of his hand finds my mouth with a force that nearly knocks me over. Warm blood gushes from my lip to join the trickle on my neck, and suddenly I’m blinking to keep the whirling world in focus. Curse him.

  He yells at someone I can’t see, “Get her up front and be rid of her. Now!”

  The assistant pushes me to the low base of the stand. Hands shove me onto the stage as a small girl with red hair, who can scarcely be older than five, is being led off the other side. My stomach twists at her frightened expression, at the terror-filled memory of my first selling—the brief image of coming home to the midwife after my curse had wiped out her entire herd of sheep. Within hours I was sold to a man who gave a whole new meaning to the word monster.

  The merchant’s assistant is standing beside me. He looms over the buyers and makes up attributes about me, of which he knows nothing and believes none of. What a sideshow.

  The bidding starts low. Despite the aching slash in my neck, I stare into the faces of the individuals yelling out prices, evaluating them as they freely evaluate me. Their ballooning silk hats and ruff led shawls, I swear, look strikingly similar to a pair of lady’s panties I saw in the sale booth last year. These people appear well-off compared to most I’ve known in our kingdom. Not as fancy as the politicians from the High Court, but clearly living above the poverty of the peasants. Panty shawls and all.

  The bidding begins to climb with the same frenzy the onlookers have been possessed by for the past half hour. Suddenly, a male voice clamors above the rest, “Take off the hood and give us a better look at her. Let’s see what she’s made of.”

  I scowl and lean forward, jerking on my reins to yell back, “Why aren’t you off helping win the war, you wastrel?”

  “Right there, let’s see her!”

  “Yeah! Take off her cloak!”

  The assistant grabs my shoulder. I bristle, but his hand is already reaching for my hood.

  I shove an elbow into his skinny stomach, hard enough to knock the wind from him. “Don’t touch me.”

  He yelps. Staggers back like the weakling he is.

  Then the merchant swears, and before I can blink he climbs onto the stage and lunges for my wrists.

  I kick him in his crotch.

  He screams but doesn’t crumble. A noise erupts behind me and just as I’m turning to check, two men grab my arms and the merchant is up and plows into my side, nearly knocking me over. He grips my cloak and yanks it off in one harsh sweep.

  Before I can count to one, the three of them are stumbling back and tripping off the stage.

  The crowd falls silent.

  The story continues in Storm Siren by Mary Weber.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PHOTO BY SARAH KATHLEEN PHOTOGRAPHY

  MARY WEBER IS THE AUTHOR OF the Scholastic Pick, Christy, Carol, and INSPY Award winning young adult novel, Storm Siren, and the Storm Siren Trilogy. As a conference and avid school speaker, Weber’s passion is helping others find their voice amid a too-loud world. In her spare time she sings 80s songs to her three muggle children and ogles her husband who looks strikingly like Wolverine. They live in California, which is perfect for stalking tacos, Joss Whedon, and the ocean.