With incredible effort, Tarek sat with his hands loose and easy on his crossed legs, keeping an neutral, affable look on his face as he looked at nothing in particular. The one who fed and watered them ignored him, as usual. He’d worked very hard for nearly a moon now – ever since his bloodthirst-fueled madness had abated – to be as compliant, pleasant, and harmless as possible, and it seemed to have worked. Even the woman was less wary of him now. As he waited his turn for the water bucket, he mused on the reality that people could forget almost anything so long as you did what they expected for a while. It was a cynical thought, and he didn’t like it, but he wasn’t such a fool as to deny its truth, or its power.

The iron nail hidden between the pointer and middle fingers of his maimed left hand had finally come free from the plank in the corner in the darkest part of the last night, and it had taken all his self-control to keep from laughing aloud and waking the others. It had taken twelve nights to pry the corroded bit of metal from the cage floor. Even now, hours later, he felt as if his bones were vibrating and his face was shining with his hidden intent. Surely the man would notice something was strange and avoid him. He’d hit Tarek with the ladle – he did that sometimes when the other two mocked him ‘round the fire – and the nail would fly out of his fingers and be discovered. If that happened, Tarek wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his sanity. He’d been sitting in his own filth for too long, and the two guards only changed the straw beneath them every sixth or seventh day. Add to that the fact that the woman was sure to start her bleed again in just a few days’ time… Tarek could not afford a mistake.

“Ganadu harsen, pentillay,” the man said, approaching him with a jerk of the chin. “Snuk snuk.” He smirked and gave a little chuckle at his own barb, or perhaps joke. He said snuk snuk all the time, but Tarek had no idea what it meant. Ganadu, on the other hand, meant water. He’d managed to pick up a handful of words in their gabbling language despite the despairing muteness of the other three in the prison cart; he listened as fiercely as he could to the babbles between their captors. He was fairly certain the man’s name was Progget, though the way they pronounced the g in the middle was guttural and strange.

Smiling benignly at the man, he stood on his knees with face stretched forward to meet the ladle’s lip. Everything’s normal. No need to pay any more attention than usual. The nail seemed to burn between his fingers, and his heart was hammering.

The guard plunked down his bucket in the usual spot to Tarek’s right and dipped the ladle in, holding it at the right height for Tarek to drink from. Tarek didn’t need to feign thirst as he gulped at the brackish water – the weather was only getting hotter as they went, and they hadn’t been watered since the night before. The ladle slipped and clacked painfully against his lip, spilling a bit, but he knew better than to reach out to steady it. Any reaching for the ladle meant getting it square in the face. Their captors knew better than to let any of them get their hands on something that could be used as a weapon, no matter how harmless a ladle might look. A second ladleful followed the first. He’s in a good mood today, then. That will help.

Progget turned to the side, bending to pick the bucket up by its rope handle, and his nearer arm was only two handswidths away, well within the slack of Tarek’s chains. Tarek let the nail slide down into his grip, holding it like a needle.

Now or never, he thought grimly, and lunged for the man’s arm. He used his good hand to clamp around his forearm, clutching it tight and jerking Progget off-balance toward him. The guard squawked and stumbled, surprised, and Tarek clung all the tighter. He jabbed his nail into the hairy meat on top of Progget’s arm, pushing as hard as he could with his two existing fingers and thumb. The man’s confused mumble rose to an angry yell, and he thrashed. The others would come check on them in a dozen heartbeats. Desperate, Tarek brought the forearm in his grasp to his face. He got an elbow in the temple for his efforts, but he persisted, dragging his mouth across the man’s arm, lips open and tongue out, searching blindly for the wound he’d made.

His tongue knew the instant it touched blood. It was only a pearl-sized bead – he hadn’t stabbed very deep – but even a drop would have been enough. Joy and power coursed through him at the metallic tang, and his jaws clamped down of their own accord, trying to extract every last drop of the heady stuff.

“Get off me!” Progget howled. “Hey!” The other captives were yelling too.

He could understand him. It had worked. Tarek had a sudden vision of the other two men approaching and seeing him latched onto his captor like a leech, and it reminded him of that terrible, unspeakable day when Yaretzi and his parents had caught him feeding on Kanga. If I don’t let go now and stick to the plan, they’ll kill me for this.

Even with that thought firmly in mind, it was all he could do to pry his mouth off Progget’s arm and let him go. If he hadn’t fought himself to exhaustion every night of the woman’s mood bleed and been forced to endure the presence of blood even then, he didn’t think he’d have been able to do it. It wasn’t control, exactly, but it lived in the same forest.

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“Be silent,” he whispered to the man. “Stand up and stay still.”

Glaring furiously, Progget obeyed. The other two men were shouting too, and he could hear pounding footsteps.

“Smile. Act normal,” Tarek instructed him in an urgent, low voice, licking the last, perfect trace of blood from his lips. “Say nothing of this. Tell them you spilled the bucket and tripped on me.”

The other captives had fallen into a confused silence, watching the guard warily. Tarek could almost read their thoughts: why wasn’t Progget beating him senseless? He’d been standing between them and Tarek, so they likely hadn’t seen exactly what happened, but even if the scuffle were entirely the guard’s fault, they had to be confused as to why he wasn’t taking it out on him – or them.

The other guard and their boss ran into view on either side of the cage, spears at the ready and faces hard. “Boogadilan, dapest! Be yokum, Progget? Rak shamba wecomber.” He had his spear hefted and trained on Tarek’s throat. Tarek let his eyes go wide and held up his hands defenselessly.

“I… just tripped over the bucket, is all,” Progget said, almost choking on the words. His smile was forced and his face was white, but he stood at ease there in the cage, obviously safe, the captives still in their chains. “I fell on Three-Fingers here. That’s when I shouted.” Now that Tarek was paying attention, he realized that even though he could understand the words as if Progget were speaking his language, he could still hear actual sounds he spoke, as well. Three-Fingers was mar bixen, and shouted was shamba. Fascinating.

The other guard started laughing, and the boss’s face twisted in disgust. He dropped the spear to his side. “Humbaka sa pukan, pentillay. Na vikal mar duplicon bo pandum kip.” He shook his head and spit in the sand at his feet. “Bishpup.”

The way Progget’s pale face flushed, he’d either been insulted or reprimanded, but Tarek only had eyes for the two men and their spears. With more muttered words that had the sound of curses, they retreated back to their seats at the head of each wagon, and the cage cart soon jerked back into slow, rumbling motion. Tarek’s muscles unclenched by a degree, and he turned his attention back to his captor. My captive, now. Progget was staring murder at him.

“Crouch down and come close,” Tarek told him, and he obeyed instantly. It felt good to see the man who’d taunted and abused him for more than a moon’s turn bound, scared, and helpless. Tarek knew he shouldn’t enjoy it, but the fact remained. “Put out your arm.”

Progget did so, and Tarek angled himself so that Progget’s back was between him and the others on the back side of the cart, then hunched forward and sucked the spot of welling blood again. It wasn’t enough – it was nowhere near enough – but as the trembling hunger frayed the edges of his resolve, Tarek reminded himself that if the others started screaming, the other men would return with their spears, and they’d be far more suspicious the second time. Still his mouth lingered on Progget’s arm, and he sucked hard at the puncture spot until it stopped giving blood.

He almost put his hand to the knife at Progget’s belt and pulled it to make a fresh wound. He wanted to. It made sense to. As he reached out, though, the panicked, sensible part of himself shrieked out in his mind, Remember how it felt!

Instantly he recalled the sensation of being utterly weakened and exhausted on the floor after hours of screaming and lunging for the woman and her blood. There had been a febrile kind of freedom in that weakness – it was a complete inability to be driven by his bloodlust, and that had been a relief. He summoned that shaky, helpless peace and let it pervade his mind, telling himself that once again he was on the floor, unable to move.

It was a pathetic mind game, but it gave him just enough strength to take his mouth off Progget’s arm and stop reaching for his belt knife.

“Cover that spot with your hand,” he told the man, who instantly obeyed. Tarek grabbed a fistful of dirty straw and put it to his nose. The ammoniac scent of stale urine was like a bucket of cold water to the face, and he gagged a little, but the terrible desire waned. It didn’t disappear, not with the aftertaste of that heavenly red nectar still on his tongue, but he could think more clearly.

“You’re never going to hit any of us with the ladle again,” he told Progget, “or anything else. Do you have any food with you?”

Progget shook his head, his face a mask of fury.

“When you feed us tonight, bring as much as you can without the others noticing. You will act completely normally around them and not say anything about me or the other prisoners except that we’re behaving normally and being good.” He scanned Progget’s face, noting the mounting confusion and fear. “You want me to explain what’s happening, but I don’t care what you want. You do what I say now, and only that. You are never allowed to hurt me, say anything bad about me, or tell anyone what I can do.” He sat back, rejuvenated by his taste of blood and feeling for the first time as if this might go off as he hoped. “Now stand up.”

Progget did, and Tarek could see the others watching in disbelief and bafflement. They couldn’t understand him, thankfully, but having a guard sit in whispered conference with a captive without a hint of violence or even upset was an impossible thing. Get used to it, friends. A lot of impossible things are about to happen.

“Don’t fall asleep tonight,” he told Progget. “When you’re sure the other two are out cold, come bring me the keys.” He held up his manacles. “You’re going to set me free.”

He felt a smile grow on his face. “And then we’re going to have a chat with your friends.”