Of Dreams and Rust - Sarah Fine Page 0,75

a strangled sob and holds Sinan tighter. I focus on getting as much of the jie cao into Sinan as I can while Melik strokes his hair. The boy is wretched with searing agony. “Help me, Wen,” he gasps, his blue eyes filled with tears. “Don’t let me die.”

“Shhh; it’s going to be all right,” I say, forcing each word from my throat. I smile at the dying boy while his older brother shakes with tears he is trying not to shed. I touch Sinan’s face. “You did so well. You are a hero.”

His lips twitch in an attempt at a smile. “We did it,” he says, even as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

“You saved your village,” I tell him. “You have done your people proud.”

He closes his eyes, his breathing rapid and wet, each exhale a squeaky moan. “But I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die. Melik, oluma zhayaben. Oluma zhayaben.”

Sinan whispers his plea over and over until his voice goes quiet, and then Melik’s voice takes over, a broken song, choked words of love and devotion. I creep backward as Sinan’s curled fingers relax, as his skinny legs slide along the spider’s back, as he fades away. And I am thankful. The bullet must have hit an artery. He has been saved from the agony of a slow death as his guts spilled poison into his abdomen.

I slip my fingertips over his wrist and feel the moment his heart stops. I bow my head. “Melik—”

“No.” Melik tenderly lays Sinan’s head on the machine and slowly gets to his feet. His chest is splattered with his brother’s blood. His face is so pale that each freckle stands out, as does the smear of crimson along his jaw.

“You,” says Melik, his voice a brutal, hoarse accusation. His gaze is not on me. It is on Bo, who is standing behind me, looking stricken and helpless and small despite his fearsome armor. “You did this. He was going to stay in the village. He would still be alive if not for you.”

Bo stares at Sinan’s body. “He knew he could help,” he says weakly. “He knew what to do.”

“He was a child!” Melik roars, striding forward, his fists clenching. “He was my only brother. You had no right to interfere!”

“He was his own person,” Bo says, taking a step back, putting his arms up. The spiders on his shoulders twitch restlessly, as if they respond to Bo’s heartbeat, his internal distress. “I couldn’t have stopped him.” He glances around us to see the Noor staring at him, shock and anger in their gazes.

I push myself to my feet. “Melik, stop.”

Melik raises his hand and catches a rifle tossed by Bajram, who is glaring at Bo as if he is a monster. My rust-haired Noor swings it up smoothly, like it is part of him, like he has become a machine too. “You have taken too much, Ghost,” he says, the promise of death in every word. “Your disregard for my life is understandable, even forgivable. Your disregard for Sinan’s . . .”

“If not for Sinan and me, these machines would be out of your reach and on their way to your village,” Bo says softly. If he is afraid, he is not showing it. “And you and the others ignored me. You did not listen to the knowledge I offered. Only Sinan did. Without us—”

“Shall I thank you by making yours a quick death?” Melik asks, his voice shaking with rage.

When his finger slides to the trigger, I step between him and Bo. “It wouldn’t make up for what you have lost.” My voice is the steadiest here, though I am trembling in my bones. The barrel of his weapon is pointed at my forehead. “Melik, we have to get the wounded back to Dagchocuk. Many can be saved. There is much to be done.”

Pain flashes in his jade eyes as he holds the weapon steady. A tear slips from his cheek and slides along the stock of his rifle. “My brother is dead, Wen,” he whispers, his gaze boring into mine.

I step to the side and push the barrel down, and Melik does not resist. “I know, Melik,” I say, my throat closing over the horrible sorrow of it. “I know.” I reach up to smooth his hair from his face, but he steps back and points at Bo.

“Go. Now. I do not want to see your face ever again. I do not