Mikal stepped closer to the body—to Sissy. She lifted the gas can to Sissy’s lips.
*****
I sucked in the scorching hot air of the Pit. White-hot claws ripped open my throat and tore into my lungs. I choked, then vomited blood. It burned my mouth like battery acid. My head ached like someone was hammering a hot gutter spike into my eyes and anchoring it in my skull.
I was laying facedown on the floor of the Pit. The rocky ground seared my skin. I could smell myself cooking, the same as I’d smelled Sissy.
Thinking that brought up another wave of acid-vomit that blistered and corroded every part of my throat, mouth, and lips.
I wanted to shut my eyes again. It hadn’t hurt while my eyes were shut. Not physically. But—
But closing your eyes was a trap. You went into your head, and what was waiting there was worse than torture. And when you decided to surface again, the agony in your soul hurt even worse. From here, going back into your worst memories or maybe your worst nightmares almost seemed like it would be a relief.
I looked around at the humans and other creatures lying on the floors of their cells. That was why there were no locks or chains. No one left. Ever.
I took a step. Burning metal sliced into the ball of my foot and scooped the pad away from the bones. Trying to set my foot down carefully didn’t make any difference, but the instinct to walk softly was too strong to just barrel forward. The next step felt like the rusty edge of the can snagged on my heel bone and chipped part of it away.
Somewhere, Tiffani was laying on the floor of a cell, either lost in the Hell in her head or screaming in agony.
I made myself take another step.
Tough
I don’t remember the trip back up into the attic, but I remember once I got there deciding that I was going to stand by the broken window because the sun had changed angles and I wouldn’t catch on fire. Through the glassless window, I could feel the summer heat rolling in. Harper would’ve had a conniption fit over the broken window. She would’ve said we were running up the utility bill, air-conditioning the whole damn town. Apparently Lonely was rich enough that he didn’t care how much money he was wasting.
It was crazy bright out, brighter than I could remember ever seeing it. Looking, I could imagine the world exploding into fire and ash and taking me with it. I wished it would. Then I wouldn’t have to be responsible for what was coming next. I wouldn’t have to be the one who killed Will and Dodge and all those high school kids from Scout’s class and even those jock dickholes Drake and Jim.
Scout must’ve been right about the crow magic working better naked because I wasn’t flying as high as I’d been after the first magic blood-sucking, but I could feel the blood like a fuzz all around the inside of my head. Somewhere at the edge of the fuzz, I could feel the disgust and self-loathing crouched and waiting to spring, but it couldn’t get through yet.
I ground my teeth, hoping I’d get that sensation of biting down on something chewy and indestructible, but all I got back was scraping.
Dodge was right. I didn’t ask for this. This was Scout’s army and Colt’s job and Dad’s war. Even right after Mikal killed Mom, when Sissy and Ryder and Colt were all gung-ho to become Soldiers of Heaven, I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted it to be over so I could go home, play my guitar, and have everybody and everything leave me alone.
Standing there, looking out the window, one of Dad’s old sermons came back to me.
You know that saying about God never giving us more than we can handle? It’s a lie. He gives us more than we can handle all the time. He does it to remind us that we can’t do this alone. Then when we cry out to Him, He handles it, just like He promised he would in Philippians 4:13—“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” That old saying should go “God never gives us more than we can handle with His help.”
I twisted a leftover shard of broken glass out of the window pane and tossed it at the street.
Maybe that promise was conditional. Fuckups need not apply.
There was a commotion on the stairs, then that crow-girl Talitha came up, dragging Bailey—one of Jax’s protectors from the Witches’ Council—by the arm.
“Have a seat,” Lonely said, bowing and sweeping one fat arm at a crate marked M32 MGL.
Bailey crossed her arms and shot him a look over her glasses. “I’ll stand.”
“We need some information,” Clarion said. “You might be here a while enlightening us.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive,” she said.
Just ask her about the sword, I told Lonely. I’d heard Bailey argue with Kathan when he was in Big, Bad Mayor mode. She wasn’t going to be intimidated by a fat crow and a one-eyed coyote.
Scout must’ve heard me because she said, “Tell us everything you know about Mikal’s sword. We want to know where it came from, what it does, how, why, when, where, fill-in-the-blank.”
Bailey lifted an eyebrow at Scout, which was a lot more subtle than what I would’ve done if I’d still had my voice. It sounded like Scout had picked that line up from some crime show. Probably the same place she got all her Halo: Maximum
