Page 93 of The Secrets of Jane: Reborn
Within a few more moments, I’m out again.
I wakeup to being chucked onto hard sand. Pain radiates from every bruise and cut that covers my body. After a few gritty bites, I decide that I prefer dirt in my mouth. Hands yank me to my feet. My legs tremble beneath me, barely able to hold my weight. A shove sends me stumbling forward.
My head must have been hit hard the first time they knocked me out, because I seem to forget about my plan and throw a kick as hard as I can behind me in a moment of lucid movement; a real nice donkey kick. My foot collides hard with someone—Blackwell—and he falls square on his ass. Anya moans through her gag as she’s shoved onto land, as if to tell me to quit.
The men around laugh.
I spit on the ground to get the sand out of my mouth. “Stop fucking being rough with me. I’m clearly not fighting you.”
Blackwell’s eyes flare as he stands, his jaw tightening, wiping the sand off of his body as he glares at me like he did when he ordered Maryanne to be burned—cold, calculated, and cruel.
The transition from him trying to collect himself to beating the shit out of me occurs within seconds.
The agony is a blur as adrenaline kicks in like an old friend to numb the rest of the assault, hitting, slapping, punching, or shoving me into the sand. Without my hands, I can only do so much to defend myself. What hurts the worst is when his knee collides with my stomachjustright, dropping me to my knees as I struggle to breathe.
“Enough,” Misery commands.
Pain morphs into delirium as I slump over, adrenaline not strong enough of a drug. It aches so much deeper than the skin, my heart hurting just to beat. I’m hauled up and carried like dead weight for a long time while fading in and out of consciousness, the world darkening around me.
Eventually, I’m thrown onto the ground again; this time, it’s dirt. There seem to be more people, and some horses, but that’s all I can register.
Someone’s boot presses into my shoulder to turn me onto my back. The sky above looks like it might beckon the night soon. The bindings around my wrist are cut, and I inhale sharply, my hands held out like I’m not sure what to do with them.I can’t think, and all I taste is blood and dirt.Blackwell’s ugly face enters my line of vision, leaning down over me. “Not able to handle the pain? You want to be a part of Skull’s Rowso badly,” he says, spitting on my chest. “Disappointing, really. Your father must be so disappointed with how weak you are.” My eyes widen, and I try to focus on Blackwell, but he continues to blur, my head still spinning. “His daughter issodisappointing.”
The pain in my soul is fleeting when I can’t even remember why I’m here, breathing heavily as I just lie there.
“Heal yourself before we move further.”
I struggle to move my neck, but force myself so I can locate Anya. I don’t know what happened, but she looks worse than when she was on the boat.
Things blend and fade together, and the next thing I am aware of is a woman hovering over me with tattoos on her forehead and chin, one hand on either side of my skull until clarity returns. I almost regret this because I’m more aware of the pain,everythingaching like I fell over the Sea Wolf and smacked right into the water’s surface.
The more I feel, the more I groan.
I move my head so I can find—there she is; Anya lies there with labored breathing, all by herself. I feel an immense sense of gratitude that I’m not alone, all the while being wracked with guilt that she’s enduring whatever the hells is happening to us.
As soon as I'm able to move to my knees, I push the healer off of me to crawl over to Anya, leaning down next to her. Glancing around, I try to understand where I’m at—we’re in some wooded area again, and this reminds me a little more of what Coalfell looked like.
Not helpful at all.
Focusing back down on Anya, her nose, lips, and chin are stained in blood, and her usual stoic eyes are enraged and swollen, her gag now out and dangling around her neck. “Healyourself.”
“You need some, too,” I breathlessly say, squinting from the splitting headache.
I want to ask Anya so many questions that she’d probably bite me to get me to shut up. I know that we’re being watched, but what the hells is she doing here? A quick glance tells me that Misery stares at us through the impending darkness that dusk brings, the flickering glow of his eyes emanating like a wick of a candle that picks up steam.
Gods I can’t wait to kill him.
And I’m really fucking happy he can’t feel that from me.
Anya’s breathing evens out as I focus on healing her chest, her ribs giving off the sensation of being broken; I can feel afractured energy in my palms. Well what the fuck do I do with her here? Where ismyplan in all of this? I know I came here for a reason, but honestly, I had to see the lay of the land before concocting arealstrategy.Something that is much harder to do when I’m constantly drugged to sleep.
According to Cypress, I have to free the sirens, and I don’t even know what that means.
And what will Soren think when he realizes Anya is missing, too? Will he blame me? I can’t lose Anya, not on my watch.
The rough barkof the tree digs into my back as I sit against it, bound once more. I tilt my head back, staring up at the night sky through the dense web of branches; my body is a mess, and the humidity just makes it all worse with how sticky I am. Anya sits next to me, our shoulders pressed together—a small anchor in this oppressive darkness.
Beyond us, a campfire crackles and pops, twisting smoke coiling into the air. Its amber glow is like an island of camaraderie we’re deliberately being kept away from, the men’s shadow stretching and elongating on the jungle floor.
