Page 101 of Wings of Lies
Footsteps faded, and the pressure on my ear resumed. I winced, daring to peek through my lids.
Aspen knelt over me, focused on the side of my face and ear. I stared at him, refusing to shift against the lumpy ground, while he was oblivious to my awareness.
He pressed a cloth against my tender skin and used his other hand to wipe away dried blood.
“If I ask you a serious question, will you answer me with the truth or lie to me?” he asked, continuing to tend to my ear.
So much for being oblivious.
I stayed silent.
He shook his head. “The Drune didn’t do this to your ear.”
“That’s not a question.”
He slowly met my gaze, intense and drilling. “This is a clean cut. Done by a knife.”
“Those aren’t questions either.”
“Brock did this to you.”
Well, he may be deadly, arrogant, and ruthlessly loyal to a terrible queen, but he wasn’t dumb.
“Lucille did Brock do this to you?” he demanded.
“Does it matter?” I sat up, making him push back.
Soon, I’d be rotting in a body pit. That was if I didn’t escape.
I stared into his face and let him hear the bluntness of my thoughts. “I don’t know who you were before or what other confusing, contradictory memories I’ve forgotten. But I’m glad they’re gone. I’ve had enough of your flavor ofcaring.”
He lapsed into silence, gazing at me with a pissy expression. His chin strobed with a red light until it held firm to a soft, menacing glow.
Standing, I swayed, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Aspen's tense stance hinted at an internal struggle as he battled conflicting emotions. Eventually, the red glow subsided, and he stepped forward to steady me. I recoiled, pushing him away.
“I don’t need or want your help.”
His chiseled jaw tightened like a vise, each muscle visibly straining under the weight of his mounting irritation. “We’re leaving. Brock!” he called out. “I’m driving, and our prisoner is sitting next to me.”
Wonderful.
I sighed, plopping myself down up front, emotionally and physically drained. Aspen took his place. The carriage wobbled, the back doors shut, and the horses moved.
He ignored me. I ignored him to concentrate on my power.
When I was angry, the energy coiled at the surface, making itself known through the itches. But now, I had to concentrate and dive deep to find the coiling power. It hummed faintly. I tried to pull at it, but my eyes drooped with the effort. I released it. Whatever I did earlier had taken a lot out of me. Those black flames were something else entirely, and the music—the addictive, vengeful melody—consumed every thought and action. If not for the drain, Aspen and I would’ve fought to the death. I wouldn’t have stopped. I wanted to kill him. Guilt, anger, joy—none of it sparked at that thought. Only numbness remained until the lingering effects of this drain faded.
We drove through the Drune Forest into a field of long golden grass. Its metallic strands reflected in the beating sunshine, brushing away the moist, cool air of the lightless forest. I just reached my hand out, slightly curious if they’d feel metallic. But nope, the softness tickled my palm.
I leaned my head back against the wooden planks of the carriage, peering up into the clear blue sky. Two black specs flew high above.
“Why don’t we eat birds for a change?” I pointed, curiosity loosening my lips.
Aspen yanked on the horse’s reins, jerking them to a stop, about knocking me out of my seat. “Those aren’t birds.”
“Then what?—”
“Brock! We got company,” Aspen called out.
