But I’m not listening. Well, I’m listening,but not to Buff. I’m listening to the wall, because I hear thescrape again, only this time it’s louder, and it almostsounds…intentional, like someone’s trying to get myattention. Well, if so, it works, because I scoot across the stonefloor, unconcerned about the dirt and whatever else has stained itso dark over the years. I shove my ear right up against the wall,willing Buff to shut his trap.

“You know, I might just ask for yourfirstborn at some point,” he goes on. “If you can ever find a womanwho’ll tolerate you, that is.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I hiss.

“Or maybe you can just take my brothers andsisters off my hands for a while—or forever.”

“Shut it, Buff,” I finally say loud enough sohe can hear.

“Heart of the Mountain, Dazz. No need to gettesty. I was just kidding. Well, mostly.”

The wall pinches me, right on the cheek.

I pull back, expecting to feel the wetness ofblood, but it’s dry. My skin stings slightly and I feel a tiny bumpforming, but that’s it. I reach out to touch the wall, to see ifit’ll sting me again. That’s when it jumps out at me.

A stone clatters to the floor, leaving a gapin the wall.

When I peer through, dark brown eyes stareback.

“Who in the burnin’ scorch are you?” the eyessay, as raspy as a punch to the face. “And why the scorch are youfollowin’ me?”

“What the chill is scorch?” I say, feeling awarm blush on my cheeks. What the chill? I’m not a blusher. I don’tblush.

“What the scorch is chill?” the icy voicesays. Did I say icy? I meant raspy. Yah, just raspy.

“I’m Dazz,” I say, memories of a strong,brown-skinned girl floating through my mind. A punch to theface.

“I don’t give a burn whether yer King Goff,”the Heater girl says, which confuses me for a second, becausedidn’t she ask who I was? But she’s speaking so different than whatI’m used to, using words that make no sense and rounding them off,almost like the curve of her hips.

“Uhh,” I say.

“Why’re you followin’ me?”

“I’m not,” I say.

“Who’re you talking to?” Buff calls.

“That Heater girl,” I reply.

“I ain’t no Heater girl,” the Heater girlsays sharply. “I’m a Wild One.”

I grin. “I’m sure you are,” I say, instantlypleased with my wit.

“You are?” Buff says.

“No, you ’zard-brained baggard. NotWild—Wilde, like with an e on the end.”

Roan’s words come back to me. The Wildessteal more and more of our women every year.

“Yah, Buff, I am. Now can you please shutyour icin’ trap?” I shoot over my shoulder. I turn back to the holein the wall and the set of mysterious brown eyes. “You’re a Wilde?”I ask stupidly, considering that’s what she just told me.

“Well, that settles it. I’m speakin’ to asearin’ fool. Sun goddess help us all.”

Well, I don’t know about the searin’ part,but the fool bit’s probably right, considering I’m in a dungeon onan impossible mission to rescue a sister who might not even behere. “Can we start over?” I say hopefully.

“Watcha mean?”

I take a deep breath. “I’m Dazz. I’m an Icer.I’m not following you.”

“Oh-ho,” the Wilde says.

“Okay, okay. I am, but not like you think.You see, my friend and me, his name’s Buff. Say hi, Buff.”

“Hi, Buff,” Buff says. The Yag.

The set of deep brown eyes just look at meand I can see what they’re thinking: his friend’s a searin’ fooltoo. Which is probably a fair thought to have at thispoint.

“Anywayyy,” I say, “we were trying to getinformation on what happened to the Heaters, because there wererumors flying around about bad shiver, all kind of bad shiver, andthen I saw you and I thought you were a Heater and so I chased you,not because I wanted to hurt you or anything like that, but becauseI wanted to talk to you, to ask a couple of questions about theHeaters and whether everything was okay and whether…” I stop. I’mrambling like a river of melting snow in the summer.

“What kinda questions?” the girl says, therasp of her voice tickling my eardrums.

“I guess just, do you know what happened tothe Heaters?” I ask.

“I was there,” she says.

“But how? I thought the Wildes stole theHeaters’ children.”

“That’s a burnin’ lie,” she says. “Give meback my brick.” Because of my bumbling, arguably the most importantconversation of my life is spiraling out of control.

“Wait, nay, I’m sorry, that was just whatRoan told us.”

Silence. Her eyes blink. Once. Twice. Threetimes. I feel the blush I never knew I had coming back. Somethingabout being under this woman’s scrutiny is like having my stonesclamped in a vice.

(In a good way?)

“You know Roan?” she asks. There’s somethinghard in her voice.

“Not really. I met him once at the border. Aspart of my job. He told us a lot of things, but maybe it wasn’t alltrue. Do you know him?”

“Roan’s my father,” she says, pulling awayfrom the hole.

~~~

I try for a few hours after that, trying toget her attention, to get her to come back to the hole, to talk tome, but she’s not having any of it.

Buff interjects every once in a while, butmostly he’s tossing jokes around, like the hits he took to the headhave made him a little loopy.

Eventually, I get tired of speaking throughthe hole, so I shove the brick in, but only halfway, so I can pullit out again if I have to. I slump against the wall, force my eyesclosed, try to sleep. I say one last thing before I drift off.“What’s your name?”

“Buff,” Buff says.

“Skye,” the Wilde woman says, and then she’ssilent for good.

I sleep.

~~~

I’m awakened when the heavy dungeon doorcrashes open. For a moment I’m disoriented, scrabbling at the wallsand reaching into the empty space in front of me, but then Iremember where I am. In my cell, slumped against the wall, sleepingsitting up.

Big’s voice is a deep rumble of thunder. “Nofunny…” Well, you know the rest.

Feet scuffle on the floor. More prisoners. Iwonder if this is a busy day in the dungeons or if every day islike this, prisoners in, prisoners out. Do prisoners ever goout? Or is the sentence the same regardless of the crime:life in the dungeons. I wonder if they’ll even feed us, or if wejust wither away until we can’t wither no more—and then we die.

The feet trod along, at least three sets,maybe four, in addition to Big’s crashing footsteps, and I findmyself shrinking into the shadows, like Skye—that’s her name, isn’tit? Or did I dream it?—musta done when we passed by her cell.

“What the scorch happened?” Skye says, hervoice firm and echoing.

“Shut yer Heater pie hole!” Big roars.

“I ain’t a Heater, you great big tub o’ tuglard!” Skye retorts. I grin in the dark. She don’t take nothingfrom nobody, and I’ve got the black eye to prove it.

“It’s alright, Skye,” another female voicesays, its tone the exact opposite of Skye’s husky timbre. Hersfloats like a simple melody from a flute, calming everything andeveryone that hears it.

Skye stays quiet.

Four people pass by my cell, their skinorangey-brown under the torchlight. They’re wearing light-brownskins, exactly like Skye was wearing when I first met her. Theylook in at me but their eyes don’t register any sort ofrecognition, because they can’t see me in the shadows. A few hoursago I’d have said they were Heaters, but now I have no clue,because no one except the men at the border seems to beHeaters.

Two are guys, two girls. I only get thebarest glimpse, but one’s got shortish black hair, longer thanSkye’s but only by a few months’ growing, and could almost be hersister, if she wasn’t so much skinnier. Still muscular, but withbones no bigger than the splinters I occasionally pull out of myfeet. Next to her is a guy, lean, muscular, with a look of strengthabout him. Behind them is another woman, with long, black hair anda regal walk to her, almost like she’s dancing. She looks strong aschill, too, but in a way that’s more graceful than Skye. Andbringing up the rear is the Marked man, every bit as full of muscleand hard edges as Buff described, covered with dark markings thatshine a bit in the light, which, when combined with his dark eyes,give him an intimidating look.