19. CHOSEN #2
Ysira knew what she would choose. She might well be immortal, but a life of helpless insignificance was no life at all. She would tear out her own still-beating heart and freely trade it, if it meant she would not die feeling like this.
And she was done listening.
She let Ertagaz sermonize on as she shifted subtly into position.
She clenched her teeth, drew a deep breath through her nose, and wrenched her right hand back.
Out. Joints popped, flesh tore. Whatever Ertagaz had been pumping into her with those devices dulled the pain but did not eliminate it.
She didn’t let it slow her down. She reached up.
Her thumb cracked back into place by the time it was level with Ertagaz’s chest.
He hadn’t expected she’d be capable of this, let alone have the nerve. He tried to stand, stumbling back in shock. Too slow. She seized him by the smock.
“Unlock the restraints.”
He tried to wriggle out of the garment. She yanked him forward, pulling him off balance, and took advantage of the lapse to grab his forearm. Her fingers encircled it, overlapping her thumb. “Now.”
With his free hand, he fumbled for a device at his belt. Ysira’s remaining restraints clicked open. She stood, not letting go of him.
Ertagaz had seemed slightly on the small side, but standing, Ysira proved a head and a half taller. His silvery skin blanched.
“Releasing your restraints triggered the alarm,” he said. “These doors won’t even open for me now. There’s nowhere to run.”
He was still attempting to do something with that device. She seized him by the opposite wrist and yanked it away with a snap. He screamed. Ysira let go, more than a little stunned. His forearm had an extra angle—badly broken. She’d barely touched him. Hadn’t she?
Before the realization could fully dawn on her, Ertagaz tried to bolt. Ysira got in his way, grabbed him by the smock again, and pinned him to the bed. He was lighter than Neri. If he’d tried to stop her, she hadn’t noticed.
“What can I do if you use that fog again?” she demanded. Her demon might have learned immunity to that by now, too, but she couldn’t afford to risk being wrong.
He struggled, grasping ineffectually at her. She forced him around, face-first against the bed, pinning his neck with one hand and his wrist with the other. He cried out, helpless. She swore she could feel the terror radiating off him—terror of her—and a little thrill darted down her spine.
“You’re disposable,” she told him. “That’s why you’re the one in here talking to me, isn’t it? Tharanoth is planning to feed you to your superiors. No one is coming to save you. Answer the question.”
He pointed to his left. She followed his trembling finger to a concave metallic plate on one of the tables. With some effort, he stammered, “We use helmets to keep out radiation planetside. But there’s nowhere to—”
“Let me worry about that,” Ysira said. “Where is Tharanoth?”
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with. You could never understand; your lifespans are so short—”
Ysira shoved him into the wall again. He fought with what must have been all his might. A mild nuisance. “Look at me,” she snarled, “and tell me how you’re feeling about that life expectancy of yours.”
He whimpered.
“How long will it take Tharanoth to get here?”
No answer. Ysira tightened her grip.
“Not long,” Ertagaz gasped. “An hour, maybe two.” “Where are the rest of those parasites?”
“Lady Ileth was in the Fractured Peninsula. Lord Rakalem—don’t know—could still be in Zivora—” Ertagaz was almost too distraught to speak. “Turil . . . I’m not told the details of their plans; I don’t know!”
“Tell me where you’re keeping Neri.”
“I don’t know,” he said yet again, but when she squeezed his shattered wrist, he screamed, “Level seventy-four, with the other Harvested!”
Those words made Ysira see red.
She slammed Ertagaz’s head against the wall, smashing his skull flat on one side. Easy. She was not sure whether she’d actually meant to kill him, but . . . it was so, so easy. He slid to the ground, leaving a smear of brain matter and blood. Red blood, like hers. She did not dwell on that.
She examined the helmet Ertagaz had pointed out and tentatively held it up in front of her face, trying to peer through it.
Firm, flexible material slithered over her neck and scalp.
After a few seconds of panicked fumbling, she realized she could retract it by pressing on a spot below her ear.
Though its smooth, featureless surface was pitch-black from outside, she beheld her surroundings with perfect clarity.
It limited her peripheral vision and smelled of something pungent, but she could breathe.
More importantly, it protected the base of her skull—her demon—from external trauma.
She searched for an exit, finding only that sealed metal door to what she assumed was the rest of the .
. . they’d called this sky-bound structure a station.
There appeared to be no other routes outside besides another compartment for dirty clothes, labeled with a pictogram like the one in her washroom.
A pile of bloody fabric lay in a heap below.
Ysira stuck her hand into the chute, feeling around. A sucking sensation pulled at her skin. She might have to dislocate a shoulder, but she could fit in there.
It was a foolhardy course of action, and she had no real plan, but what else was she to do? Wait for Tharanoth to return and extract
more of her memories? Do exactly what he’d asked of her and sit at his beck and call? Let him do as he pleased with Neri?
Not a chance.
She would not allow her child to suffer at the hands of these monsters. Neri would not endure what she had. She’d kill everyone on this vessel before she let that happen.
And if her captors hadn’t expected her to break her own hand to get out of her shackles, they would never anticipate her to try something like this. They had no idea how badly she could be broken and still survive.
Ysira was almost grinning as she climbed into the chute feet-first—and dropped.