Page 93 of Love, Nemesis
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She felt a brief surge of panic, reaching out to steady herself against a nearby tree.
Her hand balled into a fist and she slammed it against the bark.
“Keep it together,” she said, straightening as she inhaled deep into her chest.
She sank the flare gun back into the holster next to her Atlas. Every tick of the watch blamed her. Every tick of the watch demanded that she do something.
The sound was suddenly unbearable.
It was her fault Jasper would die.
She’d kept her distance from him all her life, but that hadn’t saved him.
She was cursed. She was broken beyond being a Strike’s slave. She was an absolute monster.
Tick.
Monster.
Tick.
She should have been the one to die.
Tick.
She adjusted her watch and sprinted out into the clearing.
She caught the nearest soldier by surprise, disarming him and then knocking him unconscious. The second she took down almost as quickly, but the third alerted the others.
The nearest soldiers converged on her. She kicked one back, dodging a swing of a sword before drawing the holster from her belt and shooting another in the neck with the flare.
The flare whistled and exploded. Ana knocked another unconscious with the flare gun. Soon there was nothing in her sight but a garbled mix of faces, hands, and weapons.
She caught a woman’s extended arm, slamming her palm against the elbow in the opposite direction. It snapped. The warrior shouted.
She dodged behind her as another charged, drawing her Atlas and freezing two for a second to buy her enough time to defeat them systematically.
The activation of an Atlas seemed to spur something in them, some to rage, others to fear.
There was still no smoke from camp.
Ana stumbled back as she felt a blow to her side and activated her Atlas in just enough time to catch a sword headed straight toward her.
She disarmed the culprit, the close calls growing closer with each passing second.
Her muscle memory was reengaged in a deep way as she fought.
The world ran away from her. The lights of the camp existed off on an island she’d never find, and out at sea, the most natural sensation was the hungry reach of her drowning hands.
Each warrior rushed with some promise of victory but crashed against her like another wave, followed by the pursuit of another. She’d freeze and disarm, freeze and attack, the dance and flashes of the Atlas like casting spells in her blackened fingers.
Several warriors backed away and then an arrow grazed past her. She panted, turning just as a second archer released another.
