Damsel[ed]: Some Rescue Required (#2 of the Damsel[ed] series)

Chapter Twenty-Two: Small Victories

Angelos.

When Poison hangs up with Jaylin, I'm exhausted and unprepared for a fight. Sweat slicks strands of black hair to my face, my muscles bunched-up and heavy in my skin bag with fatigue. Biting back a groan,  I feel, if I have to use a metaphor here, like goop. Like a glob of beat-up goop being dragged around by an oversized once-hero and a grumpy supposed brother struggling to keep from tearing me to flesh-flavored sugar cubes.

I suck in a sharp, bitter breath and stick my heels into the gravel to give myself some friction. Doesn't help, but I have to put up some sort of fight and show I'm not just a resistance-less sack of flour who will do as he's told without throwing a fuss. No matter what they think, I'm not just a pawn Ceres and Poison can push around on their game board. If all my struggling accomplishes is making life a little harder for them, then at least it did that.

"Jeez, kid," Ceres says. He loops his arms tighter around my middle and pushes me up to the mini-mall. "Calm down."

And yeah, okay, maybe I have to. I don't know what will happen if my aura comes out, but if it does, Poison and Ceres probably have obsidian on them. Since that would turn me into pudding strength-wise, it would be wiser to limp-en and play along, just for a little while.

And maybe I should do nothing and scout my surroundings. Maybe I should wait for an opening. A boxer doesn't swing wildly and pray he hits; he searches for the right moment to strike, and I just, well, I don't know. Gats is the one who Wikied this stuff, not me.

Thinking of him, my throat tightens and my eyes sting, but I shove back how I feel for the moment. I definitely don't know what to do, and it's almost funny. It's funny because the main thing on my mind beside Gats and Heaven and escape, is that I've probably been fired from my job and boy, that's going to leave a big hole in my needed volunteer hours. Maybe I can volunteer with the local animal shelter. I like puppies.

Poison kicks the door open, and voices sound around me. Ceres carries me in, and I can't gauge much, though I'm getting better acquainted with the one eye. I jerk my head this way and that, the cool slap of AC bring on shivers. This was once a mall, and it shows. The food-court smells of rot and chemicals. Yellow and green fungi live in the tile crevices, the ceiling boards smashed and broken in at places. Oily squares of plywood are the only slats that keep the ceiling from caving in on itself. Tee-shaped green air fresheners spin above my head, hung from crooked nails in the plywood. They don't help much, I decide, crinkling my nose. The whole place smells of urine and vomit. And all the perfumes the patrons wear, sweet as the scents may be, can't mask the reek.

People fill every inch of free space; they're everywhere, unlike what the deserted parking lot would have you believe. They sit at tables and talk to each other over harsh coffee, big gaudy booths set up with shiny red veils and flashy discount signs. People shout at each other to buy their wares. It's like a twisted underworld I've never seen before, and it's kind of amazing.

But as for people aiding me when I'm handcuffed with my wings tied and a cloth jammed over the lower half of my face, not a cinch. Instead, waves of patrons come up and warmly greet Ceres and Poison. They don't mistake the white-winged guy for me here. Instead, they slap him on the back and talk about the greatness of him and his father. "Attaboy," they say, all a buzz. I'm still trying to work the gag free when people start to ask about me. Poison lifts his head and smiles. Ceres smiles back, too, and I remember his 'this-is-for-the-best' speech. No, person who beat me to a pulp, I want to scream. It's not.

"He's special," Poison says simply, and it's bullspit. There are millions of kids out there just like me. Millions of kids who just want to eat popcorn and finish AP homework curled up in front of The Force Awakens. I'm no more special than really, really, unlucky. Finally, with another jerk of the head, I yank the gag down clean.