Page 209 of Lana Pecherczyk
Then the pain, the speed, and the sheer wrongness of it all dragged her back under.
When she surfaced again, it wasn’t to sharp, hot agony. This time it was different. A deep, rolling nausea. A bone-deep ache had settled in her joints, making every muscle scream. This was more than just a fever, or maybe the fever was just worsening.
Something cold with sharp edges bit into her back. She was staring at a blushing sky, lying on a mountain of junk. Piles and piles of it, resembling a dumpster after a flea market. She vaguely recognized some ancient objects, old-world glass Christmas baubles, broken ceramics, and decaying fabrics. Everything looked dull in the misty, grey light. Trinkets. Bits of treasure, maybe?
A rush of dopamine flooded her system, temporarily washing out the aches. She tried to reach for a smooth, glassy dome, but her limbs were so heavy. It felt like someone had replaced her bones with lead.
At least she felt connected to the Well again. It was a faint thrum in her veins, but not the vibrant, life-giving force she craved.
Then the smell hit her. Thick. Acrid. Cloying. A coppery tang underneath it all. She barely managed to roll onto her side before vomiting up bitter bile.
Shapes formed through her swimming vision. As she blinked, they came into focus. Blobs of something dark were lying down. Little balls of light lazily drifted upward. Two hulking, black-furred … dogs? No, too big. Monstrous. Wounds oozed acidic blood from their mangled bodies and pooled inthe cracks of junk. Sizzled. Oh god. Maybe the bloodmadethe cracks.
Cloud methodically wiped dark stains from his daggers onto their hides, calm as anything. He didn’t even look at Blake when he sheathed them. Each detached movement was a death knell to her hope. Nobody normal moved like that.
The fever that had been brewing all night, the one River had worried over, now raged in her body. Her borrowed shirt—River’s shirt—clung to her clammy skin.
“Cloud…” she croaked, limbs trembling as she tried to sit.
“Quiet.”
“Quiet?” She blinked.
“Did I stutter?” His words were flat, cold. “Shut up. I’m trying to listen.”
He examined a ten-foot-high hill of treasure a few feet away, its pointed top half hidden in the mist. Cold wind gusted in, rattling trinkets. But all she could hear was Jeff’s voice echoing in her head.
You just sound like an uneducated parrot…
Tears stung her eyes, and she shrank back into herself.
He’s going to kill me.The thought landed with cold certainty.I’m nothing to him.
Blake’s hand brushed against something cold and smooth. A big, dark gem, its surface polished like a mirror. It reflected a warped, hazy version of her face. Sweaty. Fever-bright. Puffy eyes. Hair a wild, tangled mess.Not a beauty queen’s daughter now, am I?
Just a dumb bitch who couldn’t stop herself from sketching out this man’s private drawings. He must have found them, hated that she knew about his deepest secrets, and now he’d brought her here to dump her with the rest of the junk.
The Well-marks on her arm pulsed with a blue light that seemed too bright, too vibrant for this dim, miserable place, mocking her.
“You can’t fix stupid.” Her dad’s voice was as clear in her mind now as it was in the Donna’s hallucination. “But you weren’t broke.”
Scarface, her magpie, fell from the sky. She tried to reach for him, but then he soared away. His wings caught the sun. His warbling song faded the farther he flew.
“Two feet and a wingbeat, Bloss.”
You’re not meant to be here.The thought was a bitter certainty.You’re the one who’s broken now.
“He’s going to kill me,” she whispered to her reflection. “I’m … just a … a mistake.”
Cloud finally looked at her then. For a second, just a heartbeat, she thought she saw confusion in his eyes. Hesitation.
Maybe he wasn’t there either. Maybe she’d imagined everything—the world ending. This fantastical place.
Maybe her dad was sitting by the hospital bed, drinking bad coffee and watching the footy on the small TV above the bed. Maybe it wasn’t her mother in the bed. Maybe it was Blake.
Cloud glanced down at his forearm and tugged his sleeve up to reveal his triad tattoo. Something he read made his expression grow blank.
He moved then, all sharp action and cold purpose. Grabbed her arm, his grip like iron bands. He hauled her to her feet, but she stumbled.
