Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

I COME BACK INTO THIS WORLD SWINGING. I am gnashing teeth and claws on throats. My body’s lust for damage burns like a dangerous fever. It takes several long moments of flailing before I realize that I am completely alone. Spangler, Doyle, and all their people are gone. I’m not even outside anymore. They’ve put me in a circular room with towering walls that soar high over my head. A steel door is built into a wall, but there are no windows on it and no windows in the room, either. The effect is not unlike being at the bottom of a well. Panic seeps into my thoughts. I’ve never been afraid of small spaces—I’m not claustrophobic in the least—but right now I want to scream and scratch and beg for help. My breath grows shallow. I start to wheeze. Everything is about to crush me into paste.

“Calm down, Lyric, calm down, Lyric, calm down, Lyric,” I say between short, staccato gasps. “You need to think clearly. It’s the only way to get out of here.”

Though I’m not sure there actually is a way out of here.

I’m lying on my back on a paper-thin mattress tossed onto a cold concrete floor. It’s the only furniture in the room—no sink, no toilet, nothing. Only a hole in the floor. There’s a single light bulb dangling high above me that is so bright, it’s hostile. I suspect it can shine right through my body to the other side. It sings to me: Tick—tick-tick—tick—tick-tick.

Suddenly, there’s a clang at the door.

“Inmate 114. Stand in the circle,” a voice barks, but, as outside, I can’t find the speaker.

“Where am I?”

“Stand in the circle,” the voice repeats with growing impatience.

I try to sit up, but my whole body revolts. I feel broken, and my limbs are uncooperative. My head is a soft avocado. On top of that, one of my shoes is missing and there’s blood on the big toe of my sock.

“I’m hurt,” I say.

“Last warning, inmate! Stand in the circle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whimper, falling back to the mattress.

There’s a loud clank, followed by an electronic buzz, and all at once my body becomes a herky-jerky marionette, thrashing in agony. My teeth grind together, holding back shrieks until the buzzing and the pain stop.

“Stand in the circle painted on the floor of your cell,” the voice demands.

I hear him, but my brain and body are too busy rebooting to obey. My eyes, the only part of me that’s not in full shutdown, find a circle on the floor painted in bright yellow. It’s wide enough to stand inside, but getting into it feels like an impossible request.

“Stand in the circle, or I will shock you again!”

“Please, I’m trying,” I beg, then weakly crawl in its direction. Every movement is a Herculean effort, but I somehow manage to get into the circle. It feels like hours before I can actually stand.

“Confirmed,” the voice says, followed by a soft click, and then nothing.

“I need a doctor!” I shout.

There’s no response.

“Let me out of here!” I shriek.

I cry. I can’t help myself. The tears come out in violent convulsions, igniting a shaking fit that I can’t stop. Everything inside me rattles, bones crash against bones, organs shake like jelly, and my knees buckle. I tumble face-first, hard. Unable to brace myself, I hit the floor with a hard smack.



Now I’m on my side, half on the mattress and half on the concrete, and I’m still alone. I sit up and feel a sticky pull on my face and arms. The mattress is damp and has a big red stain with a brown border. It’s blood—my blood—and there’s lots of it.

I search my body, looking under my shirt, wondering if I really was shot, but there are only three tiny burns forming the corners of a pyramid. I gingerly remove my sock and see the nail on my big toe has been torn away. It wiggles when I touch it and delivers a shocking pain into my back. Still, there’s not enough blood to have caused what I’m seeing. I reach up to my scalp and slowly probe my hair until I find a lump as big as a hard-boiled egg on the back of my head where my skull meets my spine. There’s a lot of crusty stuff too, which I guess is dried blood. Running along the top of the lump is a wound. It’s angry, and even a soft graze from my fingertip sends daggers into my skull. I cry out, and when I look at my fingers, there’s fresh blood on the tips.

“I need a doctor!” I shout to silence. My stomach threatens an eviction of Henry’s breakfast. No. Calm down. Someone will come. Spangler will send a doctor. I’m important. Doyle said so. He won’t let me die. They’ll stitch up my head and clean me and bring me a new mattress and a pillow and a sheet. They will do these things because they are human beings.

“Hello?” I shout.

The only answer comes from the light bulb hanging over my head.

Tick—tick-tick—tick—tick-tick.



There’s a commotion at my door. I hear a rattle and the sound of keys. The slot at the bottom opens wide, and a silver bowl of food slides into the room.