For a split second as I sail past the pedestal, I can finally see its slanted top. I’m surprised that there’s nothing on it. Only a white scorch mark and a film of gray ash, as if a small fire burned on it at some point.
Opposite me, my father’s wings shiver. He sweeps them to the front in what looks like a struggle to drive himself backward and away from me.
My fists are outstretched, one aimed at his neck, the other at his ribs.
Two strong punches.
But then his stance shifts midair. It’s the smallest movement and the slightest flex of his biceps and stomach muscles, which are visible through his torn shirt, but suddenly…
Oh, fuck, no.
I realize that his midair wobble was a ruse. He wasn’t off-balance or out of control. And now I’m right where he wants me.
My weight is forward, making my body a perfect target and allowing him to use my momentum against me.
He collapses his wings and drops to a crouch.
As my claws fly over his head, his left arm swings up, and thethumphe lands against my side sends a cracking vibration through my torso.
Burning light blasts through me. There’s a sickeningcrunchas several of my ribs break. And then the force of his punch knocks me across the air and into the wall.
I hit the cold stone, unable to scream despite the pain.
One of my broken ribs must have punctured my left lung. My clothing is scorched, and the skin across my midriff is red and raw.
I can’t… breathe…
And I can’t get my feet under me fast enough.
He shoots toward me, one of my own feathers in each of his hands, the sharp ends pointed toward me.
I’ve never plucked out one of my feathers—why the hell would I?But I’m suddenly confronted with the realization that the ends of them—the ends that were embedded in my bone—have the same metallic sheen as my claws.
Move, Veda!
I’ve made it only inches away from the wall when he rams one of the feathers into my left shoulder, knocking me back into the stone surface.
The feather impales me all the way through to the other side of my body, stopping only when his closed fist bangs into my chest.
Agony shoots down my left arm, but the pain isn’t all.
Somehow, he’s driven the feather through a spot that’s pinching the nerves, instantly immobilizing that arm.
I can’t bend my elbow. I can’t get my left claws up.
I swing my right fist instead, a desperate defensive move, but that, too, was a mistake.
He drives the other feather through my oncoming palm, using its length to avoid my claws as he rams my hand back against the wall. The feather travels through flesh and sinew and into the stone, pinning my hand between the rock and his fist.
I don’t have breath to scream.
I’m gasping, trying to get enough air, desperate for my body to heal the puncture wound in my lung before I pass out.
I can’t pass out or it will be the end of me.
His weight is on his hands, where he continues to grip the feathers and press them into me.
I want to ask him how he could possibly loathe me this much when he doesn’t even know me, but I can’t catch enough air to speak.
