by Tracey Ward
“Cracked. Definitely.”
“What do I do about it?”
“You heal. That’s all you can do. I don’t want to wrap it because it might make it even more difficult for you to take deep breathes and you could contract pneumonia. I’ll give you something for the pain, though.”
“I’ll manage without it.”
She shakes her head, her face serious. “You say that now but when you try to get to sleep at night the pain will most likely keep you awake. You won’t be able to lie comfortably. You’ll have trouble doing daily activities. This is going to take a good seven weeks to heal, and a lot of that time is going to hurt. Take the painkillers. It doesn’t make you any less of a man.”
I snort, carefully pulling my shirt over my head. “Two minutes ago Karina called me a coward. Now you’re telling me to stop being so tough.”
“Why did she call you a coward?”
I pull the shirt down slowly, trying not to wince. I fail. “She was joking. She called me a hero in almost the same breath.”
“You don’t sound any happier about being called a hero than a coward.”
“I’m neither.”
“A lot of people will disagree with that assessment after what you did.”
“They weren’t there. They have no idea what they’re talking about.”
“The girl was there,” she reminds me. “We’ll see what she has to say about you when she wakes up.”
Chapter Six
Liv
It’s cold. Cold and wet and dark.
This has to be Hell. It’s the Twelfth hour, absolute midnight, and it’s every nightmare I’ve ever had. My mouth is dry, my stomach churning. I’m afraid to open my eyes. Afraid to find out I didn’t reach the surface. That I went in the water and I never made it out.
My lids flutter, my mind bracing for the numbing cold water to sting my eyes. It doesn’t come. Instead I find light, blurry and faint. A flickering flame in the distance that makes my heart ache with joy. It’s the sun; bigger and brighter than it has been in weeks. Closer.
The ships – they came back for me. They saved me. It’s the only way, the only reason, and the only person in the world who would have tried to save me is—
“Gav?” I call out, my throat constricting around his name. I cough coarsely before trying again. “Gav!”
“Stop yelling,” a voice rumbles to my left.
A shadow moves in front of the sun, plunging me into darkness again. I start to shiver violently, the movement sending my left shoulder into burning agony, and the sickness in my stomach leaps to the back of my throat. I try to sit up but it only makes it worse. My head swims, my vision spiraling. My stomach can’t take it anymore. I lean over the side the bed I didn’t realize I was laying on and I vomit on the floor with an audible splat.
The shadow curses as it backs away quickly. It manages to avoid the spray but there’s more. So much more. Salt water and the last meal I ate – chicken with lemon sauce – spews from my lips onto the ground. I gag as my body tries to pull in breaths and push out the contents of my stomach all at the same time. Muscle convulsions make my shoulder ache even worse. My sight bursts bright white at the edges, and when it dims it feels darker than before. My vision is clearer now that my eyes are wide open. I can see the light. It’s not the sun. It’s a candle on a desk. A desk pushed up against a smooth stone wall.
“Where am I?” I whisper roughly. My lips ache and crack with the movement. When I lick them they taste of sea salt and copper. The sticky feeling on my skin smacks of dried brine. Wherever I am, dry or not, I’m still wearing the ocean.
“Gaia,” the shadow answers dully.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a town.”
“Where?”
“Outside Porton.”
Things are coming into focus. Not the shadow, but the space by the candle. The wall behind it leads up to a ceiling that merges seamlessly, both made of the same material. The same stone as the floor I threw up on. It’s everywhere, on all sides, and there’s only one place I know where that makes sense.
The mountains.
“What am I doing here?” I croak mournfully.
The shadow takes an impatient posture along with a little more clarity. I can tell it’s a man, but how old or what he looks like I’m not sure.
“You’re throwing up all over the room,” he says irritably. “That’s what you’re doing here.”
“You’re a Mole.”
“And you’re a Posher.”
I frown. “I’m a what?”
He steps closer, carefully avoiding the puddle I’ve created. “A Posher.”
I can see his face cut in half by shadow and candlelight. He’s young, my age, with pale skin and shockingly dark hair. I can’t see the color of his eyes. As far as I can tell they’re black as night.
“You’re a princess,” he continues, his contemptuous tone making me shiver.
“I’m not a princess.”
“That’s not what your arm says.”
I pause, willing myself to breathe deep and even. “You saw my tattoo.”
“It’s hard to miss.”
I glance down at my arms holding me up on the edge of the bed. They shake with exertion and an unfamiliar weakness, a deep burn down in the joints, but the black markings are clear in the candlelight. A circle to represent the sun with three rays swirling out from its edges.
The more I look at the spinning pattern of the rays the more I feel like I’ll vomit again.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means. I’m not what you think.”
“You’re somebody important.”
“Trust me,” I mumble, closing my eyes against a rising dizziness, “I’m not.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m—it’s…” The world is swimming again. Flying. It soars too high, dives too deep, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I lean over to vomit again but nothing comes out. There’s nothing left. “What’s wrong with me? What have you done to me?!” I demand.
A black metal can appears under my face, his white hand retreating quickly from the line of fire. “I don’t know, but here’s a bucket. I’d love it if you didn’t flood the whole hospital in puke.”
His tone is biting, his words clipped and annoyed as I hover over the floor in abject misery.
If I had anything in me to throw up, I’d miss the bucket on purpose.
“Water,” I groan. “I need water.”
I hear his feet shuffle over the floor, the click of a door opening roughly. Light spills into the room.
“Since you said ‘please’,” he mutters sarcastically.
He bangs the door shut behind himself.
Hostile as he is, I’m shocked to find I’m more afraid without him here than I was with him in the room. I’m shaking scared to be alone.
I should get up. I should try to get out of here, wherever here is. I’m probably buried so deep down in the mountains I could dig a hole in the floor and hit lava. And I’d give it a shot if I thought I could walk. The world is spinning faster and faster, constantly shifting, throwing me off balance. I feel like my brain is sloshing from side to side. I can’t get used to it. I can’t get my bearings, and even if I could I’m pretty sure my shoulder would give out on me with one swing of a hammer into the floor. It burns in the muscles, in the joint, in a way I’ve never felt before. When I test it out it protests angrily but it moves. It’s not broken.
The door snaps open. I catch a glimpse of the hall outside. It’s brightly lit, almost blinding.
The guy closes the door behind him, plunging us back into darkness. He comes to the clean side of the bed to hand me the clay cup he’s carrying. He’s careful not to let our fingers touch.
“Thanks,” I whisper faintly.
He grunts in reply.
I bring the cup to my lips hesitantly. I’m relieved that it smells normal and when I take a sip it’s surprisingly cold and clean.
I risk a larger drink, then another, the cold liquid soothing the raw feel in the back of my throat.
“What happened to my shoulder?” I ask over the rim of the cup.
He looks away, giving me another profile glimpse of him. “It was dislocated. The doc popped it back in while you were passed out.”
“It was dislocated?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Probably when your ship sank, don’t you think?”
It’s an odd answer in that it’s not an answer at all. I open my mouth to press him further when the door swings open again. A shorter shadow stops short.
“What’s with the candle?” she asks, reaching for the doorframe. “Why are the lights off?”
“Because I didn’t want to blind—“
Snap.
The room bursts with light brighter than the lightning in the storm. I cringe, my eyes screaming at the intrusion. My head spins with a renewed dizziness.
“That’s why,” my new best friend answers. “I was trying not to blind her.”
The room begins to slowly take shape as my eyes adjust. The clay cup in my hand is shiny with lacquer and perfectly formed, almost identical to the cups we have onboard the Dashers. The desk on the wall and the table next to my bed are covered in a similar lacquer, black and glossy. The thick blankets draped over my legs are soft, the linens on my pillow crisp and clean. The clothes on the strangers staring at me from opposite sides of the room are well tailored. Their shoes are clean and mended. The hair on the woman in the doorway is combed smooth, glossy in the light pouring down from the ceiling.
“Do you want me to turn the lights off again?” she asks.
I stop myself before I shake my head. I don’t know if my stomach could take it. “No. Thank you.”
I’m glad I can see clearly but nothing about the scene is reassuring. I’m trapped in a room with two Moles, probably far underground, and I’m deeply injured. My shoulder isn’t the worst of it; it’s my head. I can’t get it right. The dizziness is more debilitating than a broken leg. I wonder if they’ve done something to me or if there’s something about this place. Maybe a gas leaking up from the ground that I’m not used to. One their lungs have learned to live with. Maybe I’m being poisoned to death with every breath I take.
“What’s that smell?” the woman asks, her nose scrunching up tightly. “Is that vomit?”
The guy juts his chin toward me. “It’s her. She’s thrown up a couple times.”
I look at him in the light for the first time, and he’s not what I thought he’d be. He’s not as pale as I expected. His skin isn’t translucent, not webbed with blue veins the way I’ve heard whispered by the crew on the ships. It’s actually a little ruddy. Healthy looking. His features are flatter than mine, less angular, blunter, but his eyes are totally normal. Not black the way my father told me they’d be. They’re blue, cerulean and deep. Annoyed.
“Something wrong?” he asks coldly.
I recoil from his tone, shaking my head. Immediately wishing I hadn’t. I have to close my eyes, taking several deep breathes to keep from turning back to my bucket.
“She can’t move without puking,” he tells the woman, his words warmer for her.
“That’s odd.”
“She’s an Eventide,” he replies, as though that explains everything.
The woman hums thoughtfully. “I’ll be able to give a more thorough evaluation now that she’s awake. You’ll need to step outside.”
“I need to check in with Captain Fuller.”
“Go. I have this under control.”
“Thanks.”
I open my eyes to watch him go. He looks at me one last time before stepping away. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he jerks open the door and disappears behind it with a decided click. I’m grateful that he doesn’t slam it again.
“So, you feel dizzy?” the woman asks, getting right to business.
She has an authoritative tone that can only mean one thing here; she’s a doctor. As freaked out as I am, I’m obviously also sick. If I’m going to ask for help from anyone in this hole, it’s her.
I nod to her without speaking. She lifts her hand to press the back of it to my forehead the way my mother used to do when I was little. Her face is unreadable as she lifts my wrist, finds my pulse, and stares blankly into the distance while she counts it. She goes for my throat next, leaning in close, feeling under my jaw.
She pushes too hard, making me gag. I lean over the side of the bed again but nothing comes out. Only rough coughs that make my stomach ache and my shoulder scream.
“Is that new?” she asks, her tone surprisingly gentle.
I groan miserably. “I’ve never felt like this before.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“No. Not really.”
“Good,” she mumbles, reaching out to pull me back into the bed. She raises a finger in front of my eyes. “Follow my finger, back and forth. Don’t move your head. Only use your eyes.”
I do as I’m told, obediently tracking her long, thin finger back and forth across my field of vision. She does it slowly enough that it doesn’t make the sickness in my stomach any worse, but it definitely doesn’t help either.
When she’s satisfied, she steps back to pull a small notepad and black pencil from her pocket. “You don’t have a concussion. That’s good. I was worried about how long you were sleeping, but without head trauma it’s not so bad.”
“How long was I out?”
“You were brought in a few hours ago. They pulled you out of the ocean. You were unconscious. Breathing, but unresponsive. Your shoulder had slipped from the socket.”
“It still aches. Is that normal?”
She reaches out without asking and touches my left shoulder gingerly. I stiffen immediately but she ignores me, probing the tissue with her fingers. When she leans in she brings her scent with her – lavender and something else. Something sweet. Maybe honey? It reminds me of my mother’s maid.
She squeezes my shoulder briefly. “Does it hurt here?”
I hiss in response, nodding my head.
She rubs her palm over the hurt soothingly before backing away to make another note on her pad. “I’ll get you an ice pack. It’ll help reduce the inflammation. Ibuprofen too. Do you have allergies?”
“Strawberries.”
She grins. “I’ll keep it in mind. Any allergies to medications that you know of?”
“Oh,” I mumble, blushing at my ignorance. “No.”
“Good. We’ll get the pain in your shoulder under control with the ice and aspirin, but we might have to experiment with the nausea.”
I shift nervously in the bed. “I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not what?”
“Experiment.”
“Any reason why?” she replies slowly, watching me closely. Gauging me
I could tell her I’m afraid of her. That I’m terrified of my situation and this place and the things that could happen to me here. I could explain that I’m afraid to fall back asleep. That just a few hours ago I sat on the front of a ship dreaming of finding a way to fly, anything to be free of its confines and the shackles of a life I have no idea how to lead, but now that I’ve been thrust into that freedom I’m scared out of my mind.
I could tell her a lot of things, all of them honest, but what it all boils down to is one simple truth:
“I don’t want to.”
She shrugs her shoulders, making a note on her pad. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”
My heart trembles in my chest at her reaction. At the power that roars through my veins in response to her answer. To her acquiescence. Even the staff on the ship didn’t defer to my wishes. They were told by my parents what I wanted and didn’t want, what I liked and didn’t like, and nothing I said or did could ever change that. The feeling of being heard, of being heeded, is exhilarating. Heady. Dizzying.
I clench my eyes shut tight as a new wav
e of nausea rolls through me. A moan escapes my lips. My fingers ravel in the sheets.
“It’s hitting you again?” she asks.
I don’t answer her. I don’t dare move.
It doesn’t help.
My body moves on instinct, lurching to the side as my mouth fills with saliva, then sick. I make it in the bucket, but barely. I gasp and groan, waiting for it to pass. Waiting for it to kill me because it’d be a mercy at this point.
“You grew up on the ships?” the doctor asks me suddenly.
I swipe at my lips. They leave a line of bile glistening on the back of my hand. “Yeah,” I rasp. “Born and raised.”
“Have you ever been on land? Ever gotten off the boats at a port?”
“No. Never.”
“That’s what I thought. You have motion sickness. Or the opposite of it. You’re used to being on a boat that’s always moving. Your body is accustomed to it and now that you’re on land and nothing is moving you can’t stomach it. I’d probably feel the same way if I went on your ships.”
I collapse back onto the bed. Laying down feels better but not great. The room smells acidic and pungent from my vomit on the floor. I feel like the whole world is reeling, spinning faster and faster out of control, which is funny because it hasn’t spun an inch in my lifetime. Now I can’t make it stop.
“Can you make it stop?” I whisper, my throat painfully raw.
“A lot of the women who’ve gone through pregnancies swear that ginger root helped with morning sickness. I’ll bring you some of that to chew on if you can manage to keep it down. We’ll see if that helps.”
“Ok.”
“Certain smells can help too. I can probably find some oils. Peppermint is usually good, but I’ve heard most people say that they prefer lemon.”
I close my eyes, releasing another tortured moan.
“Please, for the love of God, do not bring me lemon.”
Chapter Seven
Gray
I find Captain Fuller in the Administration building. Home to all of the executive offices on the top floor and classrooms on the bottom, it’s the farthest from the doors, the deepest set in the cave we call home. The outside is ornate, carved stone, the windows leaded glass that they taught us in school was salvaged from ancient buildings before they were devoured by the seas. It’s patterned after a church that was lost, topped with high spires that reach up toward the stalactites hanging down from the cave ceiling.
