Excerpt: Jóna

“Curse you!” she cried, kicking at the door the best she could, hobbled as she was. The grungy man holding a key to the lock grinned at her anger, but the smile was suddenly wiped from his face as she spat on him.

The man jerked the door open faster than Jóna would have thought possible, and before she knew what was happening, the man, who was probably in his thirties, had grabbed a fistful of Jóna’s hair and yanked her out of the wagon. Jóna cried out at the pain at her scalp, but the cry was cut off as she landed hard on the ground on her left side and all the wind was knocked out of her. She had barely touched the dirt before he grabbed her shoulders and hauled her back to her feet, only to backhand her across the face. She staggered at the blow, but somehow didn’t fall; a second blow to her face, from the other side, gave the man the desired effect. Head reeling, she sank to her knees, spitting blood out onto the grass.

“Do not speak to me, vermin,” said the man as he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. Jóna hung limp in his grip, thankful for her long hair. It fell over her face, covering the tears streaming down her cheeks. Yet through the scraggly locks Jóna could see Marik and Erwan on their feet, trying to keep Eirik from launching himself at the man holding Jóna up like a rag doll. His lips were pulled back in a rictus snarl, baring his teeth; vaguely, Jóna thought she had never seen her brother so angry. But in the next moment, the man threw her back into the wagon, and as she lay sprawled across the floor, stunned, she felt more than heard the cage door slam behind her.

She didn’t move for a moment, trembling with exhaustion. Someone—she knew it was Eirik—laid a hand on her back, but he didn’t try to move her. Eyes closed, listening to the jingle of horse harnesses and the creak of the wagon as it began to move, the laughing voices of their captors, she wrestled with her despair as someone else loosened and finally removed the shackles around her ankles. Jóna glanced up through puffy eyes as whoever it was took her shaking hands in his and began to gently pick through the knot of the ropes binding her wrists.

It was Deniel.

She didn’t have the energy to thank him; blood was trickling from her nose, and she sniffed as he unwound the rope from her wrists and let it fall away. As she cradled her bloody wrists to her chest, Eirik helped her to sit up. No one spoke, but they were all staring at her. Hal looked like he thought she was crazy, as did Erwan. But respect shone in Marik’s eyes, and Deniel weighed her consideringly, as though looking at her in a new light. He sat cross-legged opposite her, leaning back leisurely with his elbows crooked into the square spaces between the cage bars. He still had blood and dirt on his face, and absently touched his tongue to his split lip, but he in no way looked defeated; he looked like he was simply biding his time. His simmering confidence suddenly seemed like a blaze of hope for Jóna.

For once she didn’t look away from his gaze, and so caught up was she in her new found view of him that she didn’t notice Eirik trying to get her attention until he nudged her shoulder. Blushing, she tore her eyes from Deniel and turned to look at her brother.

Eirik’s eyebrows were knotted together in concern; that and the set of his jaw clearly indicated that he was worried for her. He reached out to touch the places she had been struck, and she flinched away from his fingers, already feeling the dark bruises swelling on her cheekbones.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m fine,” she repeated, and this time her voice was strong. “I just…” she trailed off, not wanting to explain her thought process. Eirik nodded, understanding the desire not to speak, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side so he could press a quick kiss onto her hair. He sighed before letting his head fall back against the cage, and the breath was shaky with anger.

I wonder what he’ll do if he can ever lay hands on that man, Jóna thought idly to herself, leaning back against the bars. She smiled grimly to herself. Surely nothing that man doesn’t deserve. And then, alarmed, What are we turning into?

She reached out, grabbing a husk of rope from the wagon floor and twisting it between her fingers, trying to distract herself from the knowledge of what had happened back in Tarrick. She gripped the rope in her fist, squeezing it as hard as she could. Abruptly, she felt heat within her grasp, and opened her hand to find that the center part of the rope had burned to ash in a flash. Mouth dropping open in horror, she quickly wiped her hand on the wagon floor, trying to scrub away the ash.

Jóna glanced up, hoping against hope she wouldn’t find Deniel watching her. But he stared at her openly, not even trying to pretend that he hadn’t seen the ash. His face was calm, emotionless, an unreadable mask. She opened her mouth to speak, but he moved his head, an almost imperceptible shake to either side. Relief flooded through her, and she knew that he would keep silent. At least, for now.