Page 99 of Angel Lost

Farrell looks down his nose at me, on my hands and knees on the floor, in a puddle of my own spittle. “Yes, very.”

I can’t take the derision, the judgment, not for a second more. Not from him.

“Just as necessary as making murder a personality trait?” I hiss. “Or re-titling me rebellion punch bag?”

Pushing to my feet, I move shakily to the door. Neither one of them tries to stop me.

I stagger to the café, force some breakfast into my shrunken stomach, and down two cups of black, black tea. The leaves in the bottom of my mug shift and move, and I soften my gaze, letting my vision blur. Tea is talking to me now? Slowly, the pattern settles, and with it my mood drops a little lower.

Isolation, loneliness, loss.

Awesome. Even the tea leaves don’t think I have it in me. I sweep the mug off the table and it smashes into a million pieces. Standing, I stride through the broken crockery, out of the cafeteria. Not. My. Problem. I have enough.

My problem is named Farrell. Although, my allegiance members are up there too. Screw them. They don’t even know me. Not anymore. Don’t know how powerful I’m becoming, despite Farrell’s stupid compulsion. My hands tremble, and by the time I reach the observatory I’m slicked with sweat.

I settle into what’s quickly become my velvet chair and palm a vial. The blue liquid swirls, screaming at me. My body aches.I have to try. I have to, or this withdrawal is only going to get more vicious. I snap the neck of the vial, tip my head back, and force myself to swallow. My stomach heaves. I roll off the chair onto my hands and knees, retching again and again until every drop of Angel’s Delight has left my system. Along with my breakfast.

I huddle on the floor, pulling a drape around my shoulders, unable to move, whole-body shakes racking my frame.

Slow, ponderous footsteps move through the vestibule, toward the main observatory. I should move. I should clean my mess up. It’s an affront to destiny. But my legs won’t respond.

“Zephyr, my boy! What’s wrong?!” Professor Lumis crouches down to my eye level.

“Withdrawal, s-s-sir,” I force out.

“You shouldn’t just stop Angel’s Delight, even if you think you’re taking too much. And you were. It was on my list of things to do—address that with you.”

He slicks my hair back from my face.

“You need to cut down more slowly, Zephyr.”

“Tell that to my allegiance. He compelled me to stop. I can’t take any now. I tried and…” I gesture to the vomit at our feet.

Professor Lumis growls. “I told you they don’t have your best interests at heart.”

“They’re doing what they think is right,” I say. But I don’t have the heart to defend them properly. Not now.

“You’re a grown man. You should be able to make decisions, even if they think your decision is a bad one.”

I should be able to make my own mistakes.I run a hand through my greasy hair. “I’m beginning to think you’re right, prof.” The words are out before I even decided to voice them.

“Professor Lumis, Zephyr, or sir.”

I nod, and he helps me to stand. At least this time I kept the vomit off my clothes. And there’s no piss. We make our way slowly to the infirmary, where he explains the situation to the medics. Or the situation as he knows it. They decide the easiest thing is to give me more Angel’s Delight, then titrate the dose down across the next few days. Except, of course, it comes straight back up. Then they try something else to take the edge off and my body rejects that too. Finally, an exasperated doctor in a white coat insertsa cannula into my arm and sets up a drip. I sigh with relief as it starts to trickle directly into my bloodstream.

I wake with a start, the machine beside me alarming. My arm is on fire. I peer down. It’s twice the normal size, the skin swollen and puffy as if the medication is being expelled from my vein. I shift in the bed, edgy as all hell. It is, isn’t it? My body is rejecting this. Fuck this. Fuck Farrell.

Beside me, Professor Lumis clears his throat. “Perhaps you need to tell me what exactly your supposed friend said when he compelled you. I’ve never seen a compulsion quite like this.”

My jaw works, and I bite my tongue. I can’t even tell him about the slave bond, can I?

“He knows some tricks,” I explain. “He compelled me not to take any psychoactive substance for any reason.” Farrell’s puce-red face swims back to me. I mimic his high-and-mighty tone. “No earthly addictive substance, for any reason.”

The professor simply stares at me as the medic fusses, removing the tissued drip, bandaging my arm.

“Those were his exact words? Then there might be a way around it.”

I sit up against the pillows, my prickling skin forgotten.

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