Borderlands by Skye Melki-Wegner

there, dull and heavy. I blink hard, take a sharp breath and ignore the sting in my throat.
    A sudden longing for my crew fills me, wrenching my chest so tight I can barely breathe. I picture their faces as I struggle onward. Teddy: curly hair, freckles, mouth twisting into a grin. Clementine: blonde hair and painted nails, scowling as we plan another dangerous ploy. Maisy, so much like her sister, but with that glimmer of shyness in her downturned eyes. In my mind they stare at me, cold and accusing, while blood pours from their mouths like wine.
    You killed us, they tell me. You left us without a guard .
    I clamber forward, limbs shaking, and try to block the images from my mind.
    By noon, I’m back on the ground and barely staying on my feet. The trees are thinner here, but the whole forest is beginning to feel hazy. My chest heaves and burns with every breath. My legs throb. Must keep moving. Must keep . . .
    I scoop a fistful of water from the crook of a nearby branch, and splash my face. It’s cold and sharp; I rub it into my eyes, my mouth, my cheeks. Then I tip a handful down the back of my shirt. It jolts me awake, a whiplash on my spine.
    I take a deep breath, shake my head to clear it, and steel myself to walk on.
    A pistol clicks behind my skull.
    â€˜If you even think about running,’ says its owner, ‘I’ll blow your brains across this island like alchemy fire.’

It’s a female voice, but not one I know. Not Sharr Morrigan, and not one of my friends. A stranger.
    A stranger with a gun.
    I know she is close behind me – close enough to press the barrel against my head. I consider whipping around; maybe I could grab the pistol, wrestle her away, make her shot burst into the trees . . .
    â€˜Don’t even think about it, my friend,’ she says. ‘My finger’s on the trigger. One false move, and –’
    â€˜All right,’ I say. ‘I get it.’
    I hear her step away, but I don’t doubt the pistol is still aimed in my direction. I suck in a deep breath, tense my muscles and prepare to leap sideways. If I heard the crack of a bullet, could I jerk away in time? No, that’s impossible.
    â€˜On the count of three,’ she says, ‘I want you to turn round, all slowly like. No sudden movements.’
    If it were night, I could melt into the blackness. But the harsh light of noon shines above the trees, and my proclivity is dead to me. Perhaps I could risk an illusion; I could trick her for a moment, and then –
    â€˜One,’ says the voice. ‘Two. Three.’
    I turn.
    She’s older than I expected. Old enough to be my grandmother. Hair coils across her shoulder in a thick white braid, almost like a snake. Her clothes are plain and practical – and not the uniform of a hunter or soldier. Yet she holds the pistol like an expert: two steady hands, legs spread slightly to keep her balance. Her eyes are cold and her lips are thin. I can tell she isn’t bluffing. If this woman decides it’s necessary to shoot me, she will do it without ­hesitation.
    But on the other hand, if she knows some­thing . . .
    â€˜My friends are missing. They’ve got hunters chasing after them, and I have to find them. Have you seen any –?’
    â€˜Seen plenty of things, my friend.’ The woman’s tone is cool, unconcerned. ‘What I don’t see is why I should share ’em with a trespasser.’
    â€˜A trespasser? What, you mean here ?’ I glance around me, bewildered. ‘But this land doesn’t belong to anyone.’
    â€˜Yep. Here.’ She tightens her grip on the pistol, fingers twitching. For a second I think she’s about to pull the trigger. Then she gives a mocking smile, amused by my moment of panic.
    â€˜Look,’ I tell her, ‘I’m on a refugee crew. We’re travelling to the Valley, and –’
    She raises an eyebrow. I