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It's his and it’s clear as day.
I didn’t kill Temperance Deveraux... so who the fuck did?
* * *
My mind is a fucking mess, a million thoughts I can’t make out swarming me all at once, to the point I feel dizzy. My vision keeps blurring, but I blink through it, trying to focus on the warmth of the sun as it beams against my back. I’ll admit, I’ve missed it while in Rathe. Growing up in the human world might sound like a nightmare to most Gifted, but there were a lot of parts I can appreciate now that my mind is mine again.
Like the sun and the ocean. I look toward the edge of the island, the sharp rocky cliffs that look like they lead into nothing but clouds. My senses are on fire, a hundred times what they were.I hear the crash of waves below. I smell the salt in the air.
Exhale Island isn’t in Rathe.
It’s hidden on Earth.
I try to focus on the fact that I’m on familiar ground again, seeking a sense of peace but there is none. Now more than ever I feel like I don’t belong, but as I look to the gorgeous girl leading me down the black stone path, a small pain forms in my chest for her.
Because really, she must feel it too. Everyone here must, and I imagine that’s the point, forcing them out of their homes and into a world they don’t even belong to.
It's a punishment crueler than death.
The girl adjusts the dagger at her hip, tossing her long, wavy black hair over her shoulder as she looks up toward the sky. I follow her line of sight, my eyes widening as not one, but three dragons shoot up from behind the cliff, wings stuck to their side as they race high into the sky and the sound of their bodies shooting overhead. As fast as they appear, they’re gone, nothing but a trail of smoke in their wake.
“Holy shit.”
The girl chuckles. “Yeah. They’re more competitive than the lycans,” she says, facing forward and I take her in better.
Her leather boots are a deep brown and heelless, reaching just above her knee. Her pants look like leggings, but the material isn’t one I recognize, and a black tank top tucked into the waste. She wears some sort of holster over her shoulders. It’s the same color as her boots, the thick bands curving around her shoulders and meeting at her spine where the straps become one. It lies flat against her back, looping around her ribs and clips like overalls without flaps. She has a dagger slipped in the sheaths on both the right and left side and a holster belt clipped loosely around her waist, two small pouches on each side, but I couldn’t guess as to what’s inside them. She even has a small headpiece—again, a perfect match for the gear and boots—that lies across her forehead, the straps hidden beneath her thick black hair.
A small jewel is pressed into the center of it and when she glances at me over her shoulder, I spot matching ones pressed into her skin at her temples. Her eyes are as dark as her hair and her lips a thick mauve color. She looks like some kind of warrior princess who just stepped off a mythical battlefield.
She smiles and I realize I've been checking her out for the last five minutes.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says in that raspy tone of hers, her gaze traveling over me. “You’re not so bad yourself, little one.”
Right. She must be an easy five-nine. Maybe taller.
Fuck, I probably look like some wallowing, weak excuse of a woman to her.
I'm all five feet, eyes puffy red from tears, and I probably have dried vomit on my knees. My arms are wrapped around my middle to try and dull the ache.
Little L.
Little London.
Little Doll.
I wince as the Deveraux boys’ voices assault me all at once, shaking off the strange vibration that throbs deep inside my mind.
Thankfully, the girl begins talking, so I work extra hard to focus on her.
“So, like I said, this is Exile Island. Considering the way you looked at the dragons, I'm going to assume you’re not completely familiar, so let me break it down like you’re a newbie. This place is for the unwanted, untamed, and uncontrollable. Most people assume it’s all about the bad guys being kicked to the curb for bad shit, but that’s not exactly true. Nearly a hundred percent of the Gifted here are Stygian. They did do bad shit, but bad by the Ministry's terms. Some are here for as little as refusing to go to Rathe for university, others killed in cold blood according to the people who sentenced them.”
“So, no one is really all that threatening?” I ask, hoping for the right answer.
“Oh, no.” She laughs. “They’re all threatening at this point and, girl, don’t get me wrong. I was only getting started. We do have murderers, feral shifters, and downright psychopaths. We have people who lost faith in the Dark Crown, others who hate the Ministry, and those who rebel against it all. Those who weren’t so dangerous when they arrived, are now, because this place exists to drive you mad.”
She pauses, the black stone path ending a half an inch before her boots. She opens the pouch at her left side, pulling out a small fistful of glittery black dust. She blows it in a straight line before her.
