Roar (Stormheart #1)(52)
“RANSOM! JINX! SLY! It’s on you. Spread out. I don’t know what’s coming, but be ready! Be quick! Be smart!”
Then he hauled her, hissing like a wildcat, toward the Rock. She clawed and punched and kicked, and when her foot connected hard with his knee, he went down. She broke free, and for a moment her mind was filled only with thoughts of destruction—of crushing and dismantling Locke and everything that surrounded her. This rage … it was bottomless. A vast, empty nothing that would suck up every shred of happiness in her, bleed her dry until nothing was left but hurt and the desire to hurt in return. Punish, it whispered. Punish them all.
Locke stood to challenge her once more, and over his shoulder Roar saw the sky yawn night into the day, black pouring from blue like blood from a wound. A slim, spinning funnel reached for the ground, and she swore the dust from the earth leaped up to meet it. It punched downward, fast and fierce, and touched down less than two hundred paces in the direction Locke and she had come from. It landed near the tree line, ripping up roots that had probably spent centuries burrowing into the earth, as if they were little better than the weak, worn stitching on her clothes.
Roar’s heart was beating so fast, and between the rage and fear, she felt like she might split in two. Her body jerked and twisted with a desperation that she didn’t understand.
Locke cursed. “Everyone—anchors now!”
One by one, the storm hunters lifted what looked like small crossbows attached to their hips, shooting iron arrows into the earth with long ropes uncoiling from a leather pouch on their harnesses. Something thunked next to her, and she saw similar arrows being shot from each corner of the Rock, securing it to the earth.
Distracted, she didn’t notice Locke coming until he picked her up and hurled her over his shoulder. The fury pushed back to the forefront of her mind, swallowing up her panic, and she beat at his back as he climbed the ladder on the side of the Rock. He pitched her none too gently inside. Jumping in after her, he slammed the hatch at the top shut. For a moment, Roar was disoriented by the chaos inside the vehicle. Dials spun and something else rang with a shrill squeal. There were maps piled precariously on a small table in the center, and Duke sat in a chair bolted to the floor near the front, where most of the tools and apparatuses appeared to be. Another seat was placed near the back by a huge metal basin like the cauldron of some fairytale witch. Beneath her was a glass floor that revealed metal pipes and gears that sat motionless. The space felt too small, and she readied herself to fight harder, scream louder; but before she managed, a hard body slammed into hers, forcing her down on the floor. That set her screaming again, and the sound echoed painfully in her ears.
Roar fought, but Locke’s body lay fully atop hers, taller and broader and heavier. Her teeth found the round, muscled mass of Locke’s shoulder, and she bit down, screaming into the thick leather vest he wore. He grunted at the attack, but made no other sound.
“Calm your mind,” Locke growled.
Over Locke’s shoulder, her eyes fixed on the twister through the domed glass at the front of the Rock. She thought it had been terrifying before, but now it was as dark as she imagined death to be, filled to the brim with debris, like a gaping maw, shoveling itself full enough to burst. And the more that thing ate, the blacker her anger became, until she snapped her teeth at Locke like she was an animal instead of the Princess of Pavan.
This was … not right. This was not her. And even though she told herself to stop, even though she could feel tears tracking down her face and shame filling her belly, nothing changed.
She was a monster. And monsters had to be contained.
Roar took one last look at the looming twister, saw Ransom’s bulky body and bald head moving toward it, and she knew that she was endangering everyone by distracting Locke.
“Knock me out,” she said through gritted teeth.
“What?” Locke panted, winded by the sheer force it took to keep her in check.
“They need you,” she growled. “Knock. Me. Out.”
He stared at her, brown eyes wide and intense. His long hair had escaped its tie and hung in chunks between them. He hesitated, and without any conscious thought, Roar reared upward, trying to head butt him. He was quick, but she still caught him in the chin. Pain reverberated from her forehead, and his chin split, dripping blood between them. She cried out, even as she took advantage of his momentary distraction to work one hand free. She reached for his hair, the long waves that she’d admired more often than she cared to admit. She gripped it without care and yanked hard. He hissed, but his only retaliation was to try and capture her hand once more. Then after another particularly hard pull on his hair, Duke came into sight over them.
Roar had a brief moment to sigh in relief before he swung a long, skinny glass bottle down and smashed it against her head.
Then she surrendered to the black. Where there was no rage. No fear. No twister.
There was nothing at all, but peace.
*
Blood ran from a cut near Roar’s hairline, and her fierce expression went blank with unconsciousness. Locke swung around, gripping the front of Duke’s shirt and dragging the old man up onto his toes.
“Why did you do that?” he growled.
“Because someone had to. I’ve never seen someone react to a storm like that, but I know she would have only hurt herself trying to hurt you.” Even in the face of Locke’s wrath, the old man was stoic and calm. “And you’re the torque specialist. They need you out there.”