Fine Print

Chapter Nineteen

Her head burned.

Despite the headache, it was easy enough to tell she'd been moved.

Squinting against the sharp light filtering through the treetops, Sang stared at the maroon leaves of the nearest tree. They swayed in tune with the wave of a silent gust of wind, almost like hands beckoning her forward. Orange sunlight glistened off their waxy sheen, the bright light nearly toxic in its potency.

It hurt as she stared at it, but she couldn't blink— Was she truly awake again? It was hard to tell.

The leaves rolled and she could feel a hand against her face, a callused palm cupping the soft skin of her chin, but she didn't yet have the strength to lean into it.

"Sang—" the voice drifted in and out of her consciousness like the lulling ocean tide, "Pookie, can you hear me?"

She wanted to answer, to release his doubts, but her tongue was tied. The hand ghosted over her lips, fingers probing at her mouth. There was a relieved sigh when she breathed, the fingers retreating for a moment to rest against the juncture of her neck.

The trees above her swayed, sunlight filtering through the branches and warming her uncovered skin. If she could speak, she'd sigh. It felt so nice against her abused flesh. The heat chased away the lingering cling of shadowed darkness, of the numb void that lingering beneath her thoughts.

"Her pulse is steady, a bit on the slow side," there was a tsking noise, muted worry clear in the tone, "I don't like the lag in her receptivity. Her pupils are wide, but they haven't dilated. I'm not sure she's blinked either, which may be a problem sooner rather than later."

Sang knew enough to know that wasn't normal, but her attempts to question were further halted by the bone-deep exhaustion haunting her veins and something else.

She was awake— but not quite herself.

It was odd. There was something different within her, hiding under the layers of tiredness and trying to disguise itself from her notice. But Sang could feel it, that small sliver of wrongness that skittered through her veins with just enough power to be noticed. It was cold underneath her flesh, like mercury as it slithered through her.

She tried to speak, to warn them of the slinking wrongness, but it was impossible. Her throat was tight and dry, words mangled in her chest.

It was as if she was paralyzed, trapped within a body that wouldn't move.

"What the hell happened in there?" This new voice was rough, a growling rasp that stood out against the silent air, "She was screaming—"

"We aren't sure, Mr. Taylor," smooth and crisp like winter rain, Sang recognized that tone as Owen, "After her..." his breath caught before he forced himself on, "After Miss Sorenson's death, we are just as clueless as yourself."

North leaned over her probe body to snarl, "She shouldn't have died in the fucking first place—"

"I know—"

"Where were you? You were with her!"

"North, that's enough—"

"I was too late. There was nothing I could do."

Their voices were angry, tinted in pain and wrath and rage— her insides twisted as she tried to scream. She needed them to stop. The little strand of power curled through her, crawling up her arms and toward her chest. It burned, twisting, and worming its way into her heart and nestling around the organ like a glove.

Her hand twitched— fingers curling in unnaturally soft grass.

"You could have done something! But you didn't," North's voice dipped low, wrath coating his words like venom. He peered down at her, dark eyes watching her immobile face with an expression she couldn't place, "You were too busy using your new powers to do anything to help her. Was that all you wanted?"