Page 63 of The Mortal Trials

Carina watches me being suffocated from the mural.

I claw out at him again, and he twists from one side to the other so I can’t hurt him. And when he does, I see my ruined, destroyed room.

“Where is it?” he growls.

Even if I wanted to tell him, I can’t because he’s crushing my vocal cords. The sounds that squeak from my throat are ones I recognize from that chorus of the dying. I don’t want to sing this song. Not again.

Darkness swarms my vision. I buck and swing my legs, trying to throw him off balance, but it’s weaker.

The strength in my hands and arms starts to seep away. I still fumble, desperate to break his hold.

He’s going to kill me.

I finally croak a noise, begging him to stop. He eases his grip and my toes, then the heels of my feet find the tile.

“Tell me where it is and I’ll let you live.”

But I know he won’t. He’s a liar. And a thief. And a bully.

He almost died today. He’ll do anything he can to make sure that doesn’t happen again.

I plant my feet, pray my next actions don’t damage the prosthesis Daedalus just gave me, and throw my head back into his face with a last, wild burst of energy.

There’s a sickening crunch, followed by a sharp burst of pain in the back of my skull. His loud howl and blistering curse thunder in my ear.

I stop trying to pull on his arm and instead twist my body to the side, then bring my balled fist backward, between his legs. He grunts as his knees buckle. I tear out of his grip as he drops to the floor.

“You son of a bitch, I hope you taste your balls in the back of your throat!” I seethe.

“Callalie?” August stands in the doorway, panting and wild-eyed.

The moonlight reveals Torsten on his side, hands shielding his groin, moaning and retching as he curls forward.

My neighbor’s eyes take in my mottled face and ruined hair. The top of my dress where it buttoned at the neck is torn. I clutch the silken fabric against my heaving chest and gulp in as much air as I can, coughing because it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

One of my feathers is missing. Ripped out at some point and likely scattered among… all this. I turn, trying to find it in the moonlight. Failing at that, too.

August storms across the room and drags Torsten out of my house by his filthy, braided hair.

I hear a splash and walk to the doorway just as Torsten surfaces. He slams a hand onto the top of the water, cursing August as he tries to tread. I don’t know how he didn’t drown in the river he described. Busted balls or none, he’s a terrible swimmer.

Torsten suddenly tenses and then stills, searching the water around him. It’s as black as the night sky as he swims in a frantic circle. A shrill scream tears from his throat and he takes off, cutting as fast as he can through the narrow channel. He makes it to Niall’s island and scuttles onto the shore just as a tentacle breaches the surface, scraping his shoulder to rake him back in.

Torsten twists away, bellowing at the beast. Then he points at me. “That spear is mine.”

Tense from head to toe, his fists balled at his sides, August roars, “The fuck it is! Come near her again, and you won’t live to see the next trial!”

Torsten spits in our direction, then roughly dusts the sand off his wet clothes and body. His nose is crooked and still bleeding. He shoots a malicious glare toward us before stomping down the path to the main island.

When he’s out of sight, I sink against the doorframe.

My throat aches inside and out – the skin is already bruising – and the back of my head stings. It’s tender to the touch when I bring my shaking fingers up to it.

But I’m alive.

I lived.

My sister didn’t have to watch me die.