The Never King, page 23
part #1 of Lost Lands Series
“Do you want me to turn the lights off again?” she asks.
I stop myself before I shake my head. I don’t know if my stomach could take it. “No. Thank you.”
I’m glad I can see clearly but nothing about the scene is reassuring. I’m trapped in a room with two Moles, probably far underground, and I’m deeply injured. My shoulder isn’t the worst of it; it’s my head. I can’t get it right. The dizziness is more debilitating than a broken leg. I wonder if they’ve done something to me or if there’s something about this place. Maybe a gas leaking up from the ground that I’m not used to. One their lungs have learned to live with. Maybe I’m being poisoned to death with every breath I take.
“What’s that smell?” the woman asks, her nose scrunching up tightly. “Is that vomit?”
The guy juts his chin toward me. “It’s her. She’s thrown up a couple times.”
I look at him in the light for the first time, and he’s not what I thought he’d be. He’s not as pale as I expected. His skin isn’t translucent, not webbed with blue veins the way I’ve heard whispered by the crew on the ships. It’s actually a little ruddy. Healthy looking. His features are flatter than mine, less angular, blunter, but his eyes are totally normal. Not black the way my father told me they’d be. They’re blue, cerulean and deep. Annoyed.
“Something wrong?” he asks coldly.
I recoil from his tone, shaking my head. Immediately wishing I hadn’t. I have to close my eyes, taking several deep breathes to keep from turning back to my bucket.
“She can’t move without puking,” he tells the woman, his words warmer for her.
“That’s odd.”
“She’s an Eventide,” he replies, as though that explains everything.
The woman hums thoughtfully. “I’ll be able to give a more thorough evaluation now that she’s awake. You’ll need to step outside.”
“I need to check in with Captain Fuller.”
“Go. I have this under control.”
“Thanks.”
I open my eyes to watch him go. He looks at me one last time before stepping away. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he jerks open the door and disappears behind it with a decided click. I’m grateful that he doesn’t slam it again.
“So, you feel dizzy?” the woman asks, getting right to business.
She has an authoritative tone that can only mean one thing here; she’s a doctor. As freaked out as I am, I’m obviously also sick. If I’m going to ask for help from anyone in this hole, it’s her.
I nod to her without speaking. She lifts her hand to press the back of it to my forehead the way my mother used to do when I was little. Her face is unreadable as she lifts my wrist, finds my pulse, and stares blankly into the distance while she counts it. She goes for my throat next, leaning in close, feeling under my jaw.
She pushes too hard, making me gag. I lean over the side of the bed again but nothing comes out. Only rough coughs that make my stomach ache and my shoulder scream.
“Is that new?” she asks, her tone surprisingly gentle.
I groan miserably. “I’ve never felt like this before.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“No. Not really.”
“Good,” she mumbles, reaching out to pull me back into the bed. She raises a finger in front of my eyes. “Follow my finger, back and forth. Don’t move your head. Only use your eyes.”
I do as I’m told, obediently tracking her long, thin finger back and forth across my field of vision. She does it slowly enough that it doesn’t make the sickness in my stomach any worse, but it definitely doesn’t help either.
When she’s satisfied, she steps back to pull a small notepad and black pencil from her pocket. “You don’t have a concussion. That’s good. I was worried about how long you were sleeping, but without head trauma it’s not so bad.”
“How long was I out?”
“You were brought in a few hours ago. They pulled you out of the ocean. You were unconscious. Breathing, but unresponsive. Your shoulder had slipped from the socket.”
“It still aches. Is that normal?”
She reaches out without asking and touches my left shoulder gingerly. I stiffen immediately but she ignores me, probing the tissue with her fingers. When she leans in she brings her scent with her – lavender and something else. Something sweet. Maybe honey? It reminds me of my mother’s maid.
She squeezes my shoulder briefly. “Does it hurt here?”
I hiss in response, nodding my head.
She rubs her palm over the hurt soothingly before backing away to make another note on her pad. “I’ll get you an ice pack. It’ll help reduce the inflammation. Ibuprofen too. Do you have allergies?”
“Strawberries.”
She grins. “I’ll keep it in mind. Any allergies to medications that you know of?”
“Oh,” I mumble, blushing at my ignorance. “No.”
“Good. We’ll get the pain in your shoulder under control with the ice and aspirin, but we might have to experiment with the nausea.”
I shift nervously in the bed. “I’d rather not.”
“You’d rather not what?”
“Experiment.”
“Any reason why?” she replies slowly, watching me closely. Gauging me
I could tell her I’m afraid of her. That I’m terrified of my situation and this place and the things that could happen to me here. I could explain that I’m afraid to fall back asleep. That just a few hours ago I sat on the front of a ship dreaming of finding a way to fly, anything to be free of its confines and the shackles of a life I have no idea how to lead, but now that I’ve been thrust into that freedom I’m scared out of my mind.
I could tell her a lot of things, all of them honest, but what it all boils down to is one simple truth:
“I don’t want to.”
She shrugs her shoulders, making a note on her pad. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”
My heart trembles in my chest at her reaction. At the power that roars through my veins in response to her answer. To her acquiescence. Even the staff on the ship didn’t defer to my wishes. They were told by my parents what I wanted and didn’t want, what I liked and didn’t like, and nothing I said or did could ever change that. The feeling of being heard, of being heeded, is exhilarating. Heady. Dizzying.
I clench my eyes shut tight as a new wave of nausea rolls through me. A moan escapes my lips. My fingers ravel in the sheets.
“It’s hitting you again?” she asks.
I don’t answer her. I don’t dare move.
It doesn’t help.
My body moves on instinct, lurching to the side as my mouth fills with saliva, then sick. I make it in the bucket, but barely. I gasp and groan, waiting for it to pass. Waiting for it to kill me because it’d be a mercy at this point.
“You grew up on the ships?” the doctor asks me suddenly.
I swipe at my lips. They leave a line of bile glistening on the back of my hand. “Yeah,” I rasp. “Born and raised.”
“Have you ever been on land? Ever gotten off the boats at a port?”
“No. Never.”
“That’s what I thought. You have motion sickness. Or the opposite of it. You’re used to being on a boat that’s always moving. Your body is accustomed to it and now that you’re on land and nothing is moving you can’t stomach it. I’d probably feel the same way if I went on your ships.”
I collapse back onto the bed. Laying down feels better but not great. The room smells acidic and pungent from my vomit on the floor. I feel like the whole world is reeling, spinning faster and faster out of control, which is funny because it hasn’t spun an inch in my lifetime. Now I can’t make it stop.
“Can you make it stop?” I whisper, my throat painfully raw.
“A lot of the women who’ve gone through pregnancies swear that ginger root helped with morning sickness. I’ll bring you some of that to chew on if you can manage to keep it down. We’ll see if that helps.”
“Ok.”
“Certain smells can help too. I can probably find some oils. Peppermint is usually good, but I’ve heard most people say that they prefer lemon.”
I close my eyes, releasing another tortured moan.
“Please, for the love of God, do not bring me lemon.”
End of sample.
You can get The Seventh Hour here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I was born in Eugene, Oregon and studied English Literature at the University of Oregon (Go Ducks!) I love writing all kinds of genres from YA Dystopian to New Adult Romance, the common themes between them all being strong character development and a good dose of humor.
My husband, son, and snuggly pitbull are my world.
Visit my website for more information on upcoming releases, Tracey Ward
* * *
[1] /ahr-may/
[2] /or-el-EE-ah
[3] princes
[4] /br-OO-l/
[5] /fon-ten-blow/
[6] /pwaa-tee-ay/
[7] /on-gee/
Tracey Ward, The Never King
