Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(38)

“Fight them, Lyric!” Luna begs. The scales on her neck are fiery red.

“You have to let loose whatever power is inside you,” Thrill demands.

“But the glove doesn’t work!” I try to explain.

“You don’t need it,” Arcade says. “You have other weapons.”

I turn to find my mother. Her raven black hair cascades down her shoulders. She’s in her jean shorts and her flip-flops and she is as beautiful as I have ever seen her. She steps into the warrior pose, a staple of her class, and something she taught me to help fight my migraines. Her arms extend from either side of her torso. She looks at me and smiles.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

The buzzer shocks me awake just in time for me to see a bowl slide in from under the door. I crawl over to it and stare down into the slop. Today is the worst yet. I wonder if Spangler is cooking these meals for me personally. I’m tempted to fling it at the wall, but I’m afraid of what the punishment would be, so I leave it where it sits and crawl back onto my mattress. I lie there, looking at my light bulb, and consider the dream.

Tick—tick-tick—tick—tick-tick.

Eventually the slot opens and I hear the hum of the magnet that steals the bowl away. I watch it skid across the floor, but this time it doesn’t line up properly. It bangs against the lip of the door, then tilts upward, eager to heed the magnet’s call but unable to get through. I’m tempted to help out the idiot on the other side and move it to where it should go, but then the hum fades away and he starts cursing. The bowl falls to the floor and is still.

The voice crackles on the speaker. “Inmate 114. Stand in the circle.”

I do as I’m told, then hear another buzz, followed by the clank of a lock. The door slowly opens, and on the other side is a guard I’ve never seen before. He’s carrying a keycard about the same size as a credit card. I realize this is how he locks and unlocks the door.

“Don’t move,” he says. His eyes are wide and his gun is out. He looks like he’s twenty years old, too young to have a job like this.

“I promise.”

He leans down without taking his eyes off me, snatches the bowl away, then slowly backs out of the room.

“Give my compliments to the chef,” I manage before he slams the door again. I hear the clank of the lock and then his footsteps. I lie back down on my mattress, but face-down, because I don’t want the cameras to see the gigantic smile on my face. I just discovered a crack in the system. I think I’ve found a way out of here.





Chapter Thirteen


MY MOTHER’S VOICE IS DRIFTING THROUGH MY thoughts when I wake up the next morning.

Fight like a wild thing.

“I hear you, Mom. I hear you loud and clear.”

I stand, lean my mattress against the wall, and then sit cross-legged on the floor. Closing my eyes, I focus on my breathing, blocking out the shrieks from beyond my door and the light that never dims. It’s a lot to ignore and it takes longer than it should, but I find my place, the silent, still white place where my brain goes to meet with the Om. It’s there, waiting for me. I’m ready.

I press my hands together in prayer, nod respectfully to the big unknown, then rise to my feet. Stepping forward with my left foot, I lunge back with my right, turning it ninety degrees toward the wall. I extend my arms until they are parallel to the floor; then I stretch into it, dipping my knee and letting my toes, ankles, and quadriceps wrap around themselves to do the hard work of balancing me. I can’t stay in it for long. I’m rusty and weak, but tomorrow will be better.

For the next hour, I work through a routine my mother used to teach daily on the beach. I’m sloppy and unbalanced. I can’t really stay in downward dog very long, and when I plank, I cheat with my knees. Holding some poses sends my muscles into tremors, and my feet and abs twist into cramps. There are a lot of cranky areas in this body, which is to be expected.

That’s why they call it a practice instead of a workout.

My goal today is to get through it, reminding myself that I’m both exhausted and near starved. I am also an emotional wasteland, but I’m doing something proactive that will make me strong and ready when someone makes another mistake on the other side of my cell door.

When the routine is done, I sit myself next to the closest wall, prop my legs straight up against it, and lie back in a ninety-degree angle. I focus again on my breath, trying to ignore my pissed-off muscles, embracing their anger. It is so much better than the fear I’ve been manufacturing since they locked me in this room. I lie still for as close as I can estimate to thirty minutes, feeling my head clear, feeling more like myself than I have in a very long time.

“I am Lyric Walker, Daughter of Summer,” I whisper when I open my eyes. She taught me these lessons, and I abandoned them. I’ve been a fool.



The days pass, and I get stronger with every one. The guards try to interrupt my practice by having me stand in the circle over and over again. At first the intrusions kill my concentration, but eventually I learn to slip right back into the workout once they are satisfied.

I wake eager to get started and end each day with another hour-and-a-half session before I go to sleep. I can feel my muscles tightening in my shoulders and arms, and soon the tremors and cramping are gone. I was never good at handstands, but my mother tried to teach them to me anyway, so I know the basics. I use the walls to brace myself, falling over many times, banging the back of my head once so badly, I’m sure I’ve ripped out the staples, but I get back up and do it again and again and again, until I can do a handstand pushup. At the end of the second week, I can do five of them. At the end of the third week, I can do thirty. My posture straightens, and I’m able to tune out the noises a lot better. The panic attacks still come around, but I’m able to fight them off with some focused breathing.