Vanish (Firelight #2)(43)

“How long was I out?” I ask, turning my attention to our surroundings and focusing on something I can control. Assessing the situation we’re in so that I can come up with a plan.

Except there isn’t much to see. Only one small window positioned high in the van’s back door. Impossibly small. It only lets light in. Nothing out.

“I don’t know. I woke up hours ago.”

“They have to stop eventually,” I say, more to myself than her.

“Yeah, so they stop. Then what? Those doors aren’t going to open until we reach wherever it is they’re taking us. And at that point . . .” Her voice fades.

I grimace, release a slow breath against the unremitting agony of my bound wings. “I’m not giving up. I’ve got fire, and you can make yourself invisible.” If she could focus her talent and not cave in to her fear. “There’s no reason anyone should be able to take us down.”

“And yet they did.” Miram arches a fine eyebrow, as tan and nondescript as the rest of her. The ridges of her nose shiver with angry breath as she glares at me. “So, genius, how are we getting out of this?”

Will. The thought of him is there again, but I don’t say it. Don’t dare. Why would I want to plant that hope? Even in myself. I have no idea where he is, why he didn’t meet me. For now, I need to rely on me.

I shake my head. Still, I can’t stop the longing from creeping in. He has to know. By now—he has to have heard of the fire-breather his father captured.

It’s this that keeps me calm as we hurl headlong into the hazy realm of my nightmares, the wind buffeting the van and sending shudders up my body.

They don’t stop for us. Not to feed us or offer us a chance to relieve ourselves. But then why would they afford us such a simple courtesy? We’re just animals to them.

The van is hot and suffocating, an airless metal box rumbling along dispassionately.

Miram and I lie on our sides, roasting on the hot metal floor like two parched fish tossed from the sea, desperate to return to water. We’ve long since stopped speaking to each other, too miserable with our bound hands and hobbled wings.

I can’t move without spiking pain through my body. I continually lick my cracked lips, swallow against the misery of my dry mouth. Breathing fire seriously depleted me. My insides are shriveling up, desperate for water.

But I haven’t quit. I’m reserving my strength, waiting for the van doors to open so that I might burst free in a blaze of fire.

I tell myself this. Believing I can summon enough fire is harder to do.

I no longer feel my wings. I try not to think about that, about what that might mean. It can’t be good. Lying on my side, my arms pressed close to my chest, they burn, tingle with pinpricks of pain.

The van slows. I slide a bit as the vehicle turns.

We stop. I can’t even summon much excitement. We’ve already stopped before. No one opened the door to check on us. They just gassed up, did whatever they had to do for themselves, and left us roasting in the back.

It doesn’t mean the doors will open now. Still . . .

I lift my head and whisper Miram’s name, just to make sure she’s awake. The sound comes out a croak. She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. I drag myself closer and nudge one of her sleek legs with my foot. “Miram!”

She moans and cracks her eyes open. “What?”

“We’ve stopped.”

“So?” she rasps.

I cock my head, listening as the driver and passenger doors slam open and shut. Voices. The words are indecipherable.

She struggles to a sitting position, pushing up, using her bound arms for leverage. “Think we’re here?” She asks this so listlessly that I’m not sure she would even care if that were the case.

I shake my head, my every agonized muscle braced, pulled tight, thrumming in readiness. My ears strain, following the sound of their tread, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet as they circle the van. One laughs, the sound fading as they walk away, leave the van. Leave us.

After a moment I release my breath, unaware that I had been holding it. “They’re gone,” I whisper, then, realizing there’s no need, I repeat louder, “They’re gone.”

“Probably to feed their fat faces,” she mutters. “I would kill for something to eat.”

With a sigh, she settles back down on the van floor. I look at her. Really look at her. Always small, she appears emaciated, her face gaunt, her breath raspy. Her chest lifts high, laboring for each breath. Maybe my time in the desert prepared me for this. Arid heat. Discomfort. Misery. Because Miram isn’t holding up well, and she didn’t even take a harpoon to the wing.

I have to get her out of here. Soon. Or these hunters will be arriving at their destination with one dead draki.

Suddenly there’s a sharp sound at the door. I spring to a crouch, a surge of adrenaline staving off the pain. Something scrapes against the metal door. The scratch of metal raises the tiny hairs on my nape. My gaze drills into the doors. I inhale, readying myself, letting heat build and gather at my core.

Weak and parched as I am, the effort nauseates me, leaves me shaking and wasted. I’m not at full strength, but it has to be enough. I’ll get only one chance. I have to be ready for whoever opens that door.

“Miram,” I say, wishing she could get it together and make herself invisible—and hold it. “Get ready.”