Damsel[ed]: No Rescue Required

Chapter 33: Deals with Villains are Always the Worst

Heaven.

When Owl leaves, Poison sighs, wiping the sweat off his face. My gut twists, and I lift my arm, the movement igniting a burst of pain in the limb. Stupid obsidian. At best, my healing factor sucks, at worst, it's a glorified dose of Novocaine.

Poison stares at me, soaking in every detail. It's as if he thinks I'll pull a James Bond and Goldfinger my way to freedom. If only. I watch him from the corner of my eye, shoving Angel's flames and Gats' coldness from my mind. 

"So..." he says, eyes a wander. I take note to avoid them. With each minute, the flutter of panic in my stomach grows. How am I supposed to escape now? Kick the guy? Useless. I need another tactic.

"What?"

He lifts his head and stretches his wings. "I, uh, I'm sorry."

My chest aches. That woman will hurt Gatsby, and I, the heroic super, can't do anything to help him. And Angelos...

I shake my head. "Hope you're happy."

Poison fiddles with his fingers, his hair hanging in front of his eyes like sheepdog bangs. "If it makes you feel any better, I, uh, agree this sucks for you."

"No, that doesn't make me feel better," I say, blinking back the pressure in my skull, "and that doesn't help knowing my friends will die."

He stares at his feet, shielding his expression with the back of his hand. "Uh, that..." He turns his head away. "Never mind."

I shake my caught arm, but the cuff stays sturdy. If I could do anything to help Gats, I would. I'd die for him and Angel, but all the good intentions in the world won't help them now.

Poison steps beside me, folding his wings against his back. "Do you need help?"

"If by that you mean you'll cut me free, then yes, I do." I squeeze my eyes shut, images of Angel's wings haunting my thoughts. The more I think, the more my head hurts.

He sighs and I blink, unable to do any wallowing with him nearby. "The snarkiness doesn't suit you. I sort of pegged you as the mature, intelligent type, like most sirens."

I frown. Siren? What the hell is he talking about? "Not following."

H shrugs, leaning over me. "You know sirens, they're are all too wise for their years and stuff. That's why I thought your temper was a legend to make you sound cooler."

I glare at my screwed arm. It's a mess; pieces of armor lodged between jutting bone. Were I uncomfortable seeing my limbs broken like this, I'd freak. "Siren? As in the mermaid?"

He leans in even closer, and I tear my attention back towards him. "You don't have to play dumb, you know. We're not all seductors, sometimes my power sort of turns on. Yours seems pretty strong. Does it have an off switch, or is it just...there?"

I blink. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He raises an eyebrow, a curious expression passing over his face. "You don't know?"

"No." I shake my trapped wrist, hoping for the pressure to ebb away. It stays nice and tight. "I don't have to talk to you, you know."

He laughs, reminding me who he is and what I am. I should be spitting facts about good triumphing over evil and stuff. "Siren is the villain-term for a person with, uh, love-powers."

I think my head'll explode. At the word 'siren', I can only imagine singing mermaids. Maybe this is why he's such a jerk. I mean, if someone called me a 'siren' all my life—a synonym for seductress and the likes—I'd be pretty bitter too. "So, you're not talking about the singing man-izing Odyssey creatures."