Page 99 of Iron Roses

My head lolls forward, then back. The world tilts sideways—corridor, ceiling, boots.

My legs trail behind me, heels dragging. Every contact sends a jolt up my spine. The flesh on my soles has dried and cracked, half-healed and raw again.

The skin feels tight, the burn stiff with clotting. Every brush against the floor is a fresh tear.

They pull me into the same room. The brazier is gone. The scorch marks remain.

Fausto is waiting again.

He stands near the same spot, arms crossed behind his back. A small stool has been added near the wall. One of the men sits on it, wiping something off a metal hook.

Fausto looks at me and smiles. The two men shift their grip.

One hoists me under the arms. The other takes my legs. Pain shoots through my lower body as they lift. The burns stretch. Something wet leaks from the broken skin.

My body twitches once—then slumps. They carry me toward the center of the ceiling.

A chain dangles there, connected to a pulley.

The hook gleams silver in the strip of light coming from the small, dirty window.

They turn me so my back faces the ceiling. My feet are raised.

They bind my ankles first—tightly, together, the coarse rope digging into half-healed flesh.

Then they lift me. The pulley creaks.

My body rises. The world flips. I am upside down.

All the blood rushes to my head. My skull pulses instantly, a deep, throbbing ache behind my eyes. My fingers curl. My neck cranes forward without permission. My hair falls over my face, damp with sweat and salt.

The ceiling sways. So does the floor. The boat rocks beneath me as I hang from the ceiling.

Each shift of the hull sends my body swinging. But enough to stir the nausea.

My arms hang useless below me, trembling.

The pressure builds behind my eyes. My head fills with heat. My temples pound. My nose begins to bleed—just a trickle at first, then more.

The blood trails up across my cheek, toward my brow. Gravity carves it wrong.

Fausto walks into view. He crouches until he’s level with my inverted gaze.

“All I need is the map,” he says.

His tone is almost gentle.

“Just tell me where it is. And we can move past this.”

I meet his eyes. Fausto sighs and stands.

He nods to the men.

“Let me know when she speaks.”

He walks away. The blood in my head thickens. My chest tightens. My hands twitch.

The blood in my head pulses like a drumbeat. Every second that passes, the pressure builds behind my eyes, pressing against the sockets until they feel too full.

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