Page 9 of A Sky of Storms
“Speak up,” the leader commanded. “What did you say?”
I mumbled under my breath and Beanpole took the bait, stepping closer, his ear hovering near my lips.
“I said I’m going to enjoy making you bleed,” I drawled, then slammed my head into his.
The guy tumbled to the floor, crying out in pain. Blood dripped from my temple down the centre of my face, but I ignored it. The leader seethed, helping his lackey to his feet before punching me in the head.
“You’re pathetic.” I laughed, but the sound died in my throat when I spotted my favourite possession.
“Need a hand?” the guy on the right taunted, holding up my bionic limb. His long fingers curled around the metal like the talons of a bird.
Blocking my power was one thing, but stealing my hand was too far. They’d just signed their fucking death warrants.
“Did you really think we’d leave you with a weapon like that?” the leader asked.
Judging by their actions so far, I didn’t need access to my power to know that they didn’t have enough of a spark between them to power a phone, let alone the interrogation of a member of The Drakes. They had my hand, so whatever was currently stuck to the end of my right wrist had no value to me. I’d done this move before but knowing that I wouldn’t damage my bionic hand was a bonus. In one well-practised movement, I tugged my wrist, pulling whatever was at the end into the rope loop, then twisted. It didn’t budge on the first go, but on the second, it clicked, which I covered up with a shout.
“Give me back my fucking hand!”
“Answer my question, and it’s all yours. Where is he?” the leader asked again, his patience dwindling. When I didn’t reply, he sighed deeply. “You need to give us something.”
Wrong. They weren’t getting shit out of me. I stared down the trio of thugs. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Very well then.”
Fuckwit on the left lifted the metal bar once more and strode towards me, a sadistic glint in his grey eyes. He hefted the weight of the bar in his hands, clearly anticipating the infliction of pain on me. The joke’s on that fucker, because I was really going to have fun using that bar to paint the walls red in a minute. I jiggled my wrist and couldn’t help my own shit-eating grin as whatever they’d swapped my bionic hand for fell to the floor with an audible thump. The rope loosened immediately, freeing both my arms.
The guard in my face frowned, but his eyes widened when I launched myself forward. I grabbed the bar with my left hand and slammed my right elbow into his ribs. Because nothing in my life came easy, my legs were still tied to the chair, and the thing fell on top of me as I collided with the guard. It wasn’t ideal, but I was creative when I wanted to be and was going to make fucking do. I pulled the bar from the guard’s grip and slammed it down repeatedly, rearranging his features.
“Enough!” the leader shouted as he kicked the chair I was still attached to and dragged me away. I didn’t acknowledge him as I slammed the metal bar into the other guard a few more times before he was out of reach. “That’s enough!”
I swung the bar in the leader’s direction, a snarl ripping from my throat. You didn’t get to my position in The Drakes without losing part of yourself to your inner beast. The man backed up; his hands raised in surrender as fear flashed through his eyes. My favourite kind of expression.
“You passed the initiation to the trials,” he said hastily. “Drop the bar and I’ll untie you. The Overseer will address you shortly.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked, panting, the bar still firm in my grip. A billion questions filled my head, like why the hell Cormac hadn’t known about this initiation bullshit when he was gathering intel? What was the point of it, and what information had they wanted from me?
“It’s not my place to say more,” he said, his voice shaking as he spoke. He glanced to where the blond guard lay motionless on the floor, blood pooling around his body. He was still breathing … barely, but he’d live. “Put down the weapon, and you’ll see for yourself. The Overseer will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Give me back my hand and then I’ll drop it,” I replied, because there was no way I was trusting him that easily.
“Yes, fine.” He gestured for the remaining guard to hand it over.
The other grunt stood in the far corner of the room, his face pale and beaded with sweat. He dropped to his knees and slid my hand over to me cautiously. I scowled at the sound of metal scraping against the concrete. That tech was expensive, and the fucker was scratching it up while he refrained from pissing his pants. As much as I wanted to reattach it, I didn’t trust the guards while I did. Fuck knows what they’d do in the few precious seconds it took for my brain’s nerve endings to connect with the signals in my hand. I dropped the metal bar, quickly untying the ropes around my legs one-handed. I didn’t want or need their help with that. I rose to my feet without a sound. My body ached, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of my pain.
“Open the door,” the leader commanded, and the other guard punched a couple of buttons before the door slid open with a woosh. “Follow the hallway to the left.”
I nodded, not giving them a second glance. They didn’t deserve shit from me.
Stepping over the injured guard, I strode through and found myself in a hallway lined with doors. I leant back onto the wall and looked both ways before twisting my hand back on. My vision blurred as my brain reconnected to the metallic prosthetic. I hated this part; I was still there but lost control of my body and all awareness of my surroundings.
My vision cleared just as I was shouldered by a broad guy walking past me.
“Fucking asshole,” I growled, my ribs smarting. The red-headed tool threw me a cocky smirk. He looked like someone had taken a bat to his face. Red and purple splotches covered his tanned skin and his right eye swelled to the point that it had closed entirely.
“They got you good,” he said, giving me a shit-eating grin before turning and stomping away. “Beat you up and scribbled dicks all over your skin, that’s rough.”
“What?” I held my pale arms out before me and inspected my tattooed skin. Both were covered down to my wrists; my left inked with imagery that made my arm look bionic like my hand. My right was a contrast with swirls weaving through art or quotes that spoke to me .
