“Romeo,” she interrupts gently. For all her flippant remarks about death, I can see it in her face, her dark eyes, her lips as they press together. She’s afraid. “Come on.”
The silence of this cell is oppressive. It’s separated from the rest of the base enough that you can’t hear the sounds of life—it’s as though this tiny hole in the rock is all there is. This hole, the ratty mattress, and the girl looking death in the face. I know why she’s asking. Because it won’t matter if I tell her.
“Flynn.” It comes out as a croak.
She lets her head rest against the stone at her back, one corner of her mouth lifting a little in a smile.
I try again, and this time my voice is a little steadier. “My name’s Flynn.”
“Sit still, it’s your own fault you have to wear these bandages.”
“Mama, are there ghosts here in November?”
“Where did you get that idea? Did your father tell you that?”
“I saw one. Right before the firecracker.”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, love. You saw the flash from the explosion, that’s all.”
“Then why make firecrackers to scare them away?”
“Because—because our ancestors did. Because lighting the fireworks helps us remember everyone who came before us.”
“If I was a ghost, firecrackers wouldn’t scare me.”
“Why were you playing with them in the first place? You could have been very badly hurt.”
“The boys were doing it. I’m braver than them.”
“Letting yourself get hurt isn’t brave, love. Brave is protecting others from hurt. I’m disappointed in you.”
THE CELL THEY’VE GOT ME in isn’t that big. Only about two meters by three, and most of the floor space is taken up with a saggy mattress that smells like mildew. The door is steel, no doubt salvaged from commandeered military equipment. When I can make it to my feet I try forcing it, hard enough to make me gasp from the pain in my ribs, but it doesn’t budge.
I spend a while stretching, testing out my muscles. I can’t do much about my abdominals, what with the broken ribs and the gunshot wound, but my arms and neck and legs all still work. Romeo might think I’ve given up, and that’s fine. When they come for me, I’ll be ready for them. Because the last thing people will say about Lee Chase after she’s gone is that she just rolled over and died without a fight.
The bioluminescence—the wispfire—washes the cave with an eerie, soft light. Unsettling, but beautiful too. When I tilt my head back, my vision is flooded with blue-green stars, filling me with a strange, sweeping vertigo. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the stars that these seem brighter, more real. But at least I remember stars. At least I’ve seen the sky.
I jerk my eyes away. I should be trying to find a weapon. The madman McBride was sporting a military-issue Gleidel, no doubt looted from a fallen soldier; if my hands had been free, maybe I could’ve gotten it from him. With one shot, I could’ve gotten justice for the murders he’s committed over the years since the last open rebellion. But since they haven’t fed me yet, I don’t have so much as a spoon to work with. I ease down onto the mattress, too exhausted to think. It’s only then that it occurs to me: mattresses have metal springs.
I let myself have a minute to sit there, unmoving, gathering my strength. Then, muffling the sound of tearing fabric with my body, I rip open the corner of the mattress farthest from the door. Before long my hands are aching, cramping, but the sharp spring I’m trying to work loose is moving more freely. If I bend it back and forth enough, the metal will fatigue to the point where it snaps.
I’m stretching my fingers when I hear footsteps. I slide onto the mattress and put my back to the wall, facing the door. I interlace my fingers behind my head, making my ribs burn in protest.
Nothing to see here, assholes.
“You’re not going to try and kill me through the grate, are you?” Romeo. How familiar that voice is becoming. I wonder if it’ll ever not make me long to punch him—though I have to admit it’s better than isolation.
“Can’t make any promises,” I call back. A lantern abruptly casts light into my cell from the grate, and then his face is there. His eyes look so familiar—even more so with the bottom half of his face concealed by the steel of the door. I’ve seen those eyes somewhere before.
“Still alive?”
“For the most part.” I lower my arms carefully. Hurts too much to keep them up. But I don’t really want to give away how badly I’m aching from McBride’s attack. “You can come in, you know.”
“Trying to lure me in so you can hit me over the head and steal the keys?”