Page 25 of Wings of Lies
The trees didn’t blur. My hair didn’t fly back from my face or look like a hot mess like Oliver’s did. Nope. My feet thumped against the ground like any ordinary human.
Oliver blurred to my side. “Can I ask what you were thinking?”
I glared at the laughter in his voice. “I don’t know. Run?” Breathless, I flung the backpack off my shoulders. I should’ve taken it off before running.
“Did you feel the need to go?” he asked.
“I wanted to go.”
Oliver hung his head as ifIwas the impossible one to deal with. “That’s not good enough, Luce,” he said, shortening my name further. “Wanting something doesn’t do shit. Focus your mind on the need to move, on the need to go faster. Almost like if you don’t, you’ll die. You need to hunger for it.”
I huffed.Fine.
What I needed was for my skin to stop itching. My jacket covered my arms, so I knew I hadn’t encountered any plants that caused irritation. No bumps or scrapes peppered my skin.
Ignoring my inner complaining, I eyed the rotten stump I just left. “Need it,” I whispered. “Need, need, need. What did I need?” To stop itching.Shut up, brain!
What was my need?
My mom.
I had no idea where she was or what was happening to her. If I didn’t move, I’d never get to Elora. I’d never find Magda. I’d never find my mom.
I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t deal with the consequences if I didn’t find my mom.
Like this morning, when I thought Oliver would leave me, something squeezed my chest, making me wild. It kicked the hidden beast awake, shoving at my skin, causing a stabbing throb and an itch.
A live wire sparked beneath the surface. I ran, and my hands burst with colorful flames.
Shit.
Oliver frowned. “You pulled too hard at your power.”
The sensations faded, leaking out of me like someone had pulled the plug. Dizziness replaced the itching and the stabbing pressure as my flames sank back into my hands.
“I felt it.” I sighed, taking a seat.
“You felt too much. Did you want to try again?”
I rested my head in my hands, needing a moment. “Not unless you want me to pass out.”
He walked over to me, boots crunching in the leaves. “Your body is still healing you, on top of keeping you upright with the little muscle you have. Which means we’ll stick with the good ole human pace that brings me so much joy,” he said dryly.
The annoyance in his emerald eyes rekindled a slight itch on my skin. At this rate, I wanted to claw it all off.
“Try to keep up, and if you can’t, I may need to carry you again.” He turned away from me and started toward the steep hill.
Could he carry me and two backpacks?
I followed. Despite the energy drain and dizziness from the run, I kept up with Oliver fairly well. Or more likely, he finally slowed down for me. The backpack thumped against my sweat-soaked back.
A friend accompanied the pout that had yet to leave my face. Oliver’s sour expression and silent treatment were back. Whatever happened at the café still bothered him.
I let him stew. If he wanted to talk about it, he would. Or not.
Hours passed, and my legs held. The terrain grew steeper, and Oliver’s mood grew worse. He bulldozed through bushes, acting like he weighed three hundred pounds, swatting and kicking branches and sounding like a herd of angry bison. Not that I’d ever seen a herd ofangry bison—or, at least, I had no memory of it. When a branch almost smacked me in the face, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I rushed in front of him, surprising myself as the trees blurred for half a second, covering the few yards between us. I luscelered. But I couldn’t even be happy about it because of Oliver’s tantrum.
