it with a smile, but she meant it.
As she jogged up the path, she heard Dash ask, “Is she always like this?” Hoku’s answer rang loud in her ears. “You have no idea.”
She wandered through the rubble until she found a smooth, flat piece of plastic as long as her forearm. She remembered jumping over it during her race to save Hoku. When she got back to the clearing, she crouched by Dash and measured the plastic against the length of his arm.
Up close, the boy smelled strange. Wild. He smelled of places she’d never been. Her heart beat faster, and she struggled to steady her arm.
“That will serve well,” Dash said. His accent sounded thicker, his voice deeper. “I have twine in my satchel. Can you . . . ? Do you mind . . . ?”
Aluna looked for his pack and saw it half crushed under his back. He leaned to the side and helped her retrieve it. She was careful not to touch him more than was absolutely necessary, and he seemed to be taking the same precautions.
Dash opened the sack with his good hand, dug around, and pulled out a length of thick twine.
“We’ve got to set the break first,” she said.
The boy nodded, grim. She took his forearm gently in her hands and felt around near his wrist. His arm was wiry but muscled, his hand callused. He knew work, and he probably knew how to fight. He didn’t seem like the type to slit your throat in the middle of the night or to stab you in the back when you weren’t looking, but High Senator Electra had warned her that such men existed. She’d have to be careful.
Luckily for him, only the smaller arm bone was broken, not the larger one, and none of the tiny ones in the wrist. Without warning, she used her thumb to push the bone back into place.
Dash uttered a short stream of curses in a strange language, but didn’t move. Not even a twitch. She grabbed the splint and twine and set to work immobilizing his arm as fast as she could.
“So, you’re a Human?” she asked, trying to distract him from the pain.
“No!” Dash said. He jerked back as if she’d struck him.
“Stop moving,” she commanded. “Tides’ teeth, it was only a question.”
The boy scowled. His eyebrows pulled into one flat line under his furrowed brow. “I am not a Human.”
“Then what are you?” she pressed. “You don’t have wings, so you’re not an Aviar. And you’re certainly no Kampii. I’ve heard the Equians have legs like a horse, but —”
“Never mind what I am,” Dash blurted. “Tell me about you and Hoku. I would like to know your story. You are Humans, yes?”
Now it was her turn to be insulted. “Of course not! We’re Kampii from the City of Shifting Tides.”
Dash looked suspicious. “If you are Kampii, then where are your tails? You are supposed to be frolicking in the water, braiding each other’s hair, and singing love songs to the sea.”
“What?” Aluna dropped his arm none too gently and stood up. “Those are stupid old stories. None of that is true!”
From behind her, Hoku said, “Well, your sister does spend a lot of time playing with her hair, and we do actually sing a lot of songs about the sea.”
She scowled at him. “Stop messing with that animal and bring over some food and water. And don’t pick on Daphine.”
At least Hoku tried to hide his smirk as he dug through their rations.
“I apologize for the offense,” Dash said. “I have never met a Kampii before. I thought . . . well, I believed you breathed water and never left the sea.”
“We don’t,” Aluna said, her hand going to her throat and the breathing shell that should have been lodged there. “Not usually. But our people are dying. Hoku and I left home so we could find a way to save them.”
Dash nodded. “This is a brave plan.”
Aluna felt heat flood into her face.
“So where are you from?” Hoku asked. “Only thieves and cutthroats could call this place home.”
Dash managed to pull himself upright and shifted to lean against the remains of a concrete wall. His shoulders looked stiff, and he held his chin high.
He said, “I have been exiled from my people. I no longer have a home.”
“EXILED?” Aluna said. Hoku winced, probably at her lack of decorum, but she ignored him. “Meaning, you can’t ever go back?” The thought of never returning