Page 43 of Born for Lace

Blunt pain hits my stomach.

“Aren’t you lonely?” he says, tone roughening. “I could tell you were. I’ll send you back to your Collective. Just tell me where the infant is.”

Another punch.

He is beating me…

My vision crinkles in the corners. I blink over and over, trying to clear the image of the man hovering over me.

Pain flares through my side.

I don’t know what he did to me. I tense up, my body ready for more pain when the drifter lifts his head. “The infant is near.”

What?

He can’t be. Even though Spero can’t be nearby, I reach out a shaky hand and grip the drifter’s shirt, trying to hold him to me, to keep him from standing.

“Oh, baby,” he chuckles. “Do you want to play with daddy? I can give you attention after.”

That’s when the atmosphere thickens with fine needles, pricking my flesh and the taste of liquid metal slides along my tongue.

“Did Master send you?” the drifter says over his shoulder just as he’s ripped away from me. “What are you—" The sentence is cut to a howl of anguish that embeds in the rocky walls.

I cough blood over my face, feeble in any attempt to move. To escape whatever is happening. I want to crawl to Tide. Check on him. Maybe he is still breathing.

“Close your eyes, little flower.”

Lagos…

He’s here. A wail leaves me, weakness and fear bursting free. Relief, shock, and so much pain burns to the surface. I want to see him, to make sure it’s actually him, not a construct of my dying mind.

I squint. The silhouettes of two huge bodies clash and waves of energy seem to outline them as they fight. The smaller black figure quickly becomes parts, his arms torn from his torso and tossed into the black ocean beside us.

I can’t hold my stomach. Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn my head and heave, but can’t give in to my broken body.

Tide…

Through a guttural groan, I stagger to my feet and stumble along the boat, crumpling to a heap at the side of my grumpy, old friend.

“Tide.” I reach out and turn his face, seeing the smallest of life twitching his lips. “You’re going to be alright, Tide. Lagos is here.”

“Dahlia,” he wheezes, anguish holding his features in knots. “I can smell.”

I sob. “It’s blood.”

“No. No, it’s you. Perfume.”

Tears rush over my eyes, coating the vision of him clinging to life. “It’s Sweets’.”

“I like it.” And with that, the tightness in his face softens, taking on the same still, peacefulness that Maple’s did weeks ago.

Death’s serene presence.

I give in then. Lying on my back beside him, a complete bloodied mess, I sigh heavy relief when I hear bones break on the rocky ledge. When I know they are not mine.

PartThree

The Rogue

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