Page 51 of Rok's Captive
And suddenly I understand what he’s doing. He’s going to fight them. All five of them. While I escape.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No way. I’m not leaving you to?—”
One of the shadow creatures suddenly darts forward, faster than seems possible, and the others follow in a wave of dark, scaled bodies.
Rok tenses, the air stills, and then he’s moving, launching himself toward the creatures with a speed and power that takes my breath away.
Fear and adrenaline spike through me, and before I know what I’m doing, my legs are moving, carrying me away from the impending clash. The sand shifts beneath my feet, making running difficult, but terror is one hell of a motivator.
I glance over my shoulder. What I see stops me dead in my tracks.
“ROK!” I scream his name, watching in horror as he collides with the first of the shadow creatures, his body slamming into it with enough force that sand explodes around them.
I skid to a stop, my heart in my throat, unable to look away from the nightmare unfolding before me. Rok is a blur of motion, his claws slashing, his teeth bared in a snarl as he grapples with the creature.
The others circle, clicking and hissing, looking for an opening.
“ROK!” I scream again, my voice breaking with fear.
And then I feel it—a tremor beneath my feet, so slight I might have imagined it if I hadn’t been standing perfectly still.
Another tremor, stronger this time. Breaths heavy in my throat, I only have a moment to look down. The sand around my feet shifts, as if something beneath it is moving.
I’ve just enough time to draw a single, terrified breath before the ground beneath me tilts and gives way, and I’m falling, tumbling, sliding down into darkness as the sand swallows me whole.
Chapter15
SAND IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES
JUSTINE
I’m falling.
Sand pours in around me, over me, a suffocating avalanche that fills my screaming mouth, my nose, my eyes. It’s in my ears, under my clothes, everywhere.
I try to scream again, but more sand rushes in, scratching my throat, choking me.
Close your mouth, idiot! Close your eyes!
The thought comes from some distant, rational part of my brain that isn’t consumed by blind panic. I clamp my mouth shut, squeeze my eyes closed, but it’s almost too late—I’m already half-suffocated, half-blinded by grit.
And still, I’m sliding down what feels like a shaft in the sand. My hands flail, trying to grab on to something, anything, but there’s nothing solid, just more sand, endless sand.
Then, suddenly, I stop.
The impact knocks what little breath I have left out of my lungs. For a terrifying moment, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can only lie there with sand pressing in from all sides.
I’m going to die here. I’m going to suffocate in a sand trap alone, and no one will ever find me.
But then I realize something—I’m not completely buried. There’s space around me. I can feel it, a pocket of air. Half my body is stuck in sand, but I’m not entombed.
I force myself to be still, to calm the ragged gasping of my breath. Carefully, I wiggle my right arm, which seems to be the only limb not weighed down by sand. It moves freely. Good. That’s good.
With trembling fingers, I brush the sand from my face—my eyes first, then my mouth and nose. I spit out what feels like half the desert, coughing and gagging at the gritty taste. And don’t even get me started on my eyes.
It’s like someone decided to shovel an entire beach into them and then stir it around for good measure. They’re watering so much I’m probably crying mud at this point. I rub at them uselessly, only managing to smear the grit around. Perfect. Now I’m blindandexfoliated.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will the burning away, and focus instead on what I can feel. That’s when I notice it—the air is different here. Cooler.
