Perigee [bxb] | Bad Moon Book II

40; {Jaylin}: blue

Jaylin found himself pressed up against the corner—the only light in the vehicle a dim yellow bulb that hardly lit much more than the ill-defined faces around him, and flickered when the van began to move.

Felix hacked out another derogatory, wrenching his arms in a fight with his binds. "Fuckers made new ones, did they?"

"Yeah," Izzy sighed, sitting on her cuffed wrists and then slipping her legs through the hoop of her arms so she could examine the metal in front of her eyes. "The old ones only cut into you if you moved too much. I'm bleeding. These are made to hurt."

If the fire of the cuffs wasn't enough to make him ill, the scent of her blood tipped Jaylin's stomach.

"Everything Ziya does is made to hurt," muttered Nicon.

It was strange, but not a face around him held a glint of fear. Jaylin wasn't so certain about his own. He'd had so many nightmares of waking up in Ziya's cell—discovering that his rescue and everything that had come after had only been a sick, twisted figment. He'd woken up too many nights with sweat on his back and thunder in his heart.

Quentin, he reminded himself. This would all be worth it if they could just save Quentin.

"How was he doing?" Jaylin asked. The van barreled over a dimple in the earth and he cringed as his head smacked against the door.

"No better than when you left," Nicon answered. A thread of his hair had fallen over his eyes. Jaylin wondered what it looked like it when it wasn't bound back or braided over his shoulder. "Imani's moving him out of the Watch. He belongs in a ward with medicks. They're the only ones who can help him right now."

A grin cut deep creases into Felix's cheeks. "Know what he'd say?" he asked. "He'd stand there with a stick up his arse, jerking around in cupcake batter and moaning on about responsibility. How he can't believe I'd allow this to happen, though he and I both know it's a load of shite. Every bit a grandmother in a young lad's body." He laid his head back against the glass of the window and Jaylin noticed how he stopped struggling with the cuffs on his wrist. "We were supposed to bring ye' back. I knew I was lying to Imani when I said I would. I don't want him to die, lad."

"But aren't you all afraid?" Jaylin asked. "Ziya could kill us. She probably will."

"I'm more afraid of leaving here empty-handed," said Izzy.

"If it is not us today," added Elizaveta, "it is us tomorrow."

Nicon seemed the most reserved of them all. He took in a deep breath and shook the hair from his face. "She's right. It isn't just about Quentin. If Ziya isn't stopped now, we'll all be exactly where he is."

The only one who hadn't said a word was Bailey, slouched at the back of the van, the ankles of his jeans caked in dirt from the ride over. The knees ripped and gaping. His blood smelled different than the others—like strong, wet dirt.

"And you?" Jaylin asked. "Why did you come?"

Bailey's dark eyes lifted from him and settled somewhere else in the van.

Felix answered the rejected question, "Because he knows what he is without Quen. Another one of Ricco's slaves."

"Fuck off," gnarled Bailey.

"I'm not wrong, aye? Without Quen, yer unclaimed again. Ye' belong to them."

"I don't belong to anyone."

"Ye'd think so, the way no one wants you."

Bailey's deep-set glare set on Felix when he said it. A sharp pin pressed in just the right stop of him.