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

Chapter Twenty-Three: Threats

Gats.

You know that Taylor Swift song, the one about Band-Aids not fixing bullet holes? Now that I have some experience with both Band-Aids and bullet holes, I can now say without a doubt that yeah, they don't. At least, Owl's bandages never fixed my broken face. Sure, my healing factor must've kicked in, because around hour three the bleeding stopped, but it didn't help me much. I was still stuck there, so woozy I didn't even think about finding an escape route, let alone try to make a break for it. So I slept instead, hung up on the Velcro straps, my back bent and chunks of mattress torn up in my claws.

But now, Owl has me slung over her shoulder like a rolled up rug, her black-cloaked guards flanking her on either side. The whole healing process took a lot out of energy from me and still does, even now. My stomach rumbles, striking me with something I've deliriously contemplated before. What if she doesn't feed me? I swallow hard. Even if I am special, maybe she'll just let me starve to death. She said she could make use without me and she tried to kill me before, so I don't see why she wouldn't do it again.

And you know what? I didn't reflect on anything, if that's what the villain wanted. A frustrated purr wells up in the back of my throat. I only remember how the new flesh crawled up the wound to seal it shut, and if I weren't so sleepy I think I would've cried. But I didn't. I just laid there, feeling the blood clot up and scab over. And eventually, I faded.

I look up to see Owl chew the side of her dagger. A thin film of sweat builds on the back of my neck. I try to tense and still my trembling, but my mind is racing. I don't know if I can take a stabbing; I'm already pretty scuffed up as it is.

Owl and her guards are as silent as a funeral procession. I don't want to speak. Nothing I say will make this easier for me; I know that now. As I contemplate a mode of action, my face throbbing and my body as flimsy as unshaped clay against her, Owl's phone rings in her pocket. She stops sharply, jerking me to a shor stop while cursing bitterly in another language. Multiple languages, telling from the flow and ebb of the sharp and soft phonetic sounds in her dialect. The guards stiffen like corpses, but my fingers hang limp and cold over her shoulder, my breathing labored and sickly. A word enters my mind that I focus on it for a  flash of a second.

Death.

I'd be a liar if I said I hadn't thought about it. A lot. But it always felt too abstract to be real. 

How can I die now, when everything was so perfect only a couple days ago? When Angel insisted on playing Monopoly. When Heaven kissed me in the hall. My breath wavers. Why can't that ever last for us?

Owl answers her phone. "You have three minutes to explain why you're speaking to me on my personal cell, Poison. I'd like to know where you got the number—what? Well, yes." A pause that makes me squirm. "Yes. I can do that."

Owl fits her phone into her jeans pocket, and then she rolls me off her shoulder and I fall into the crook of her arm.

It's a sudden move. I kick with resistance, but it isn't much of a fight. I'm as limp and fragile as a paper doll, a feverish ache spread all over my body. It burns, eats me up on the inside. I bite hard on the inside of my cheek, tearing a ragged seam into the soft flesh that singes my tongue with the taste of blood and salt. Owl grabs me under the arms and hefts me into the air like she's picking up an overstuffed toy. She smiles. And I see her perfect white teeth, her dimples, the way her black patch shines in the glow of the domed hall fixtures. Everything around us is white: the walls, the floors, the lights. My cold fingers clench into fists. Owl and her guards are the only things of color in the papery halls.

I'm about to work up enough blood and saliva to spit at Owl when she redirects her attention to the guards. At her cool gaze, the two figures bow, cloaks fluttering like sails out around them.  The hairs prickle up on my arms. I mean, if some psychopath came up to me and was like, "hey, you wanna serve my every whim and bow to me every time I look at you?" I would politely decline. What did she say to these people? What things did she do to make them fear her like this?