out. Drugged or not, there had to be a way.
Each of the otherworlders peered over at him with differing shades of emotion. Some with terror, some with glee. But no one castigated him, and Dr. E—laughing and suddenly alive with color—and X—sighing with regret and suddenly pallid—once again vanished.
Solo wrapped his fingers around the bars and shook, shook, shook . Of course, they held steady, causing frustration to rise and eat at what little remained of his control.
“Uh, I wouldn’t do that, either,” Criss said. “You’ll regret it.”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I’m strong enough for anything, even this. Another shake. But again, the barsheld steady. Anger blazed into rage, and the frustration formed jagged edges that sliced through him, making him bleed.
Now, now, now. Another shake, a harder shake. Shake, shake, shake.
Rage . . . melding with a sudden burst of weakness . . .
Frustration . . . blending with a sudden spring of icy water . . .
The drugs, he realized as his mind hazed. The drugs must activate with stronger emotions, because with every moment that passed, the weakness grew and the icy water flooded another part of him, until he no longer had the strength to grip the bars.
His arms fell heavily to his sides, and his head lolled forward, his chin hitting his sternum. He lost track of his surroundings and just sort of tipped over. Right before landing, he thought he heard Criss say, “I told you so.”
Nine
Break up your fallow ground, and do not sow among thorns.
—JEREMIAH 4:3
V IKA PACED INSIDE HER trailer, the second biggest vehicle in the lot. (Her father’s was number one, of course.) The walls were covered with pink lace and draped with several jewel-toned tapestries. Every piece of furniture was plush, white, and expensive. The coffee table was Victorian and the legs carved to resemble dragons. The side tables were topped with crystal vases and ornate bowls.
A fairy-tale home fit for a fairy-tale princess, her father often said.
Fine fabrics were strewn about. Velvets, satins, silks, and even the highly expensive cotton. She knew how to sew, and was supposed to design herself “a wardrobe fit for the daughter of a king.” She hadn’t. And she wouldn’t.
To go along with her clothing, she had jade necklaces, ruby bracelets, and sapphire pendants, plus a set of diamond fingernails with rings of gold that wound all the way to her knuckles, and a brooch in the shape of a lion head, its fur made of amber, its eyes of ebony.Each piece sparkled as the overhead light cast out soft, golden rays. So pretty. So useless. They were items she was currently unable to sell, because her father would miss them.
“Why don’t you wear the things I give you?” Jecis demanded at least once a week.
“They’re not my style,” she would say. And so he would try again, giving her something else, something bigger, not understanding she had no desire to wear his guilt offerings—which was exactly what they were.
But last night at dinner, all that had changed. She had worn one of the necklaces, as planned, and he’d ruffled her hair, quite pleased with her, never noticing the slight bulge of the bandage under her shirt.
Oh, what a life I lead.
Her mother would have loved the trailer and the clothes and the jewels. She would have sewn as many gowns as possible, and danced across the entire home, laughing and twirling, and making Vika giggle.
A sudden lance of sadness pierced her. Her beautiful mother, who had claimed to love her more than anything, but had left her only child to run away with her lover.
Within a few days, Jecis had found her and dragged her back. Then, the next morning, he had summoned all the performers in one place and announced that his wife had died of a black, rotting heart. And that was true. Jecis had a black, rotting heart, and he’d killed her.
Vika had no idea what had happened to the lover.
Anyway, she wasn’t going to ponder the
Each of the otherworlders peered over at him with differing shades of emotion. Some with terror, some with glee. But no one castigated him, and Dr. E—laughing and suddenly alive with color—and X—sighing with regret and suddenly pallid—once again vanished.
Solo wrapped his fingers around the bars and shook, shook, shook . Of course, they held steady, causing frustration to rise and eat at what little remained of his control.
“Uh, I wouldn’t do that, either,” Criss said. “You’ll regret it.”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. I’m strong enough for anything, even this. Another shake. But again, the barsheld steady. Anger blazed into rage, and the frustration formed jagged edges that sliced through him, making him bleed.
Now, now, now. Another shake, a harder shake. Shake, shake, shake.
Rage . . . melding with a sudden burst of weakness . . .
Frustration . . . blending with a sudden spring of icy water . . .
The drugs, he realized as his mind hazed. The drugs must activate with stronger emotions, because with every moment that passed, the weakness grew and the icy water flooded another part of him, until he no longer had the strength to grip the bars.
His arms fell heavily to his sides, and his head lolled forward, his chin hitting his sternum. He lost track of his surroundings and just sort of tipped over. Right before landing, he thought he heard Criss say, “I told you so.”
Nine
Break up your fallow ground, and do not sow among thorns.
—JEREMIAH 4:3
V IKA PACED INSIDE HER trailer, the second biggest vehicle in the lot. (Her father’s was number one, of course.) The walls were covered with pink lace and draped with several jewel-toned tapestries. Every piece of furniture was plush, white, and expensive. The coffee table was Victorian and the legs carved to resemble dragons. The side tables were topped with crystal vases and ornate bowls.
A fairy-tale home fit for a fairy-tale princess, her father often said.
Fine fabrics were strewn about. Velvets, satins, silks, and even the highly expensive cotton. She knew how to sew, and was supposed to design herself “a wardrobe fit for the daughter of a king.” She hadn’t. And she wouldn’t.
To go along with her clothing, she had jade necklaces, ruby bracelets, and sapphire pendants, plus a set of diamond fingernails with rings of gold that wound all the way to her knuckles, and a brooch in the shape of a lion head, its fur made of amber, its eyes of ebony.Each piece sparkled as the overhead light cast out soft, golden rays. So pretty. So useless. They were items she was currently unable to sell, because her father would miss them.
“Why don’t you wear the things I give you?” Jecis demanded at least once a week.
“They’re not my style,” she would say. And so he would try again, giving her something else, something bigger, not understanding she had no desire to wear his guilt offerings—which was exactly what they were.
But last night at dinner, all that had changed. She had worn one of the necklaces, as planned, and he’d ruffled her hair, quite pleased with her, never noticing the slight bulge of the bandage under her shirt.
Oh, what a life I lead.
Her mother would have loved the trailer and the clothes and the jewels. She would have sewn as many gowns as possible, and danced across the entire home, laughing and twirling, and making Vika giggle.
A sudden lance of sadness pierced her. Her beautiful mother, who had claimed to love her more than anything, but had left her only child to run away with her lover.
Within a few days, Jecis had found her and dragged her back. Then, the next morning, he had summoned all the performers in one place and announced that his wife had died of a black, rotting heart. And that was true. Jecis had a black, rotting heart, and he’d killed her.
Vika had no idea what had happened to the lover.
Anyway, she wasn’t going to ponder the
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