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

Chapter Thirty-Six: More Running

Angel.

The key is multiplication tables.

It isn't a perfect solution, that I'll admit.  As Poison scowls at me, his lip curled into a snarl and his eyes narrowed, shadows slide and drip at the back of my vision the floor like oil splotches. There are voices, too. Slit his throat, they tell me, no one will know.

The voices? I don't know who they belong to, maybe me, though they don't sound like they do. So high, so sneery. 

Or maybe you shouldn't slit his throat, maybe you should wait on it. Wait and put him through half as much pain as he put you through.

No. No. No. Twelve times twelve is one-hundred-forty-four. Twelve times thirteen is one-fifty-six. Twelve times fourteen is...is...

"What do you know?" My voice is level. My heart slams against my chest, the stench of waste and throw up and decay burning in my nose. I try not to gag. The cat is back now, the big fluffy white one with the shiny blue eyes. It rubs against my leg, kneading my socks with her paws. The darkness dims what little I can see, the heat the type that cooks you from the inside. "Poison. I can stab you, many, many times. And I really want to."

It's still hard to wrap my head around me catching him, but he's here. All of him. Tall and wiry, his scratched leather jacket tight around his chest and waist, pretty boy face still healing from my fists. He glares, the snarl slipping. Thinking, probably. 

Hold him down and beat him to a bloody pulp.

My fist trembles. One-sixty-eight.

Crush his skull.

One-eighty. Twelve times fifteen is one-eighty. And twelve times sixteen is one-ninety-two. It's all an act of restraint. The voices inside screaming to get out, clawing at my bones and muscles through sharp, violent bursts of pain. They whimper between my ears like pups on a chain. Let us out, they seem to whisper. Like ghosts. Ghosts rattling around inside my body, scratching up my insides. You really should destroy him. "Get out," I mutter. "Out, out, out!"

At least slash his neck, like what Owl did to Heaven.

The scary part is I don't find that such a bad idea. Poison flinches when he hears me. I can't help staring. He looks a lot like Gats, his hair white and well kept, brushed over to the side and tapering down the back of his neck in neat, feathery layers. He's just taller is all, and a villain. His wings, small and fluffy, fold neatly behind his back. I almost feel a sting of jealousy. Mine are frumpy, preferring to crumple over folding. Snap his. Tear them out. 

My hand seizes up, the shard nearly flinging out of my fingers. Oh, mayday, limb control, mayday. The edge touches the underneath of his chin. Poison cries out and grabs for his neck, blocking the shard with his knuckles. His eyes are two wide, terrified pools, darting to the glass every so often and back at me. His free hand flies up, a surrender gesture. "Okay, okay. Syndicate got him. Ease up!"

"Tell me something I don't know."

He sneers, lip curled back in that ugly snarl, all the fear in his expression suddenly hidden. It's like he slid a mask over his face. "Like what? Like Owl having his guts on a platter? You know she killed all the old superheroes, her and Dad and Juni—"

I smack him so hard with my free hand his face smashes against the bars. The cage rattles. If he and his lackey hadn't beaten the tar out of me for twenty-thirty minutes straight, then maybe I'd feel guilty for the blood I see. As it is, not so. The barks and whines of the animals pitch to a near shriek.

 "You made a deal with Jaylin." My chest squeezes into a knot when I mention her name. "What did she say about Gats?" For good measure, I poke the side of his face with the shard. He winces, and I stop, though a sadistic urge itches inside me to tear his flesh to ribbons. And it's such a scary feeling, wanting to do awful things to people, finding it funny. Everything seems funny. Flames eat through me, tendrils of purple wisping around inside my head, making me giggly and drunk. Twelve times seventeen is two-oh-four. Even the multiplication tables slip. I can feel it all shifting inside me, the hole of clarity I opened up about to collapse in on itself.