Page 14 of The Last Hope

Court and Mykal don’t trust anyone easily, and their distrustof Bludrader burrows inside my heart, resurrecting caution and barriers. Adding to my own suspicions.

I take note that Bludrader never showed us identification. He justsaidwhat he planned to do. Maybe he said what he knew we wanted to hear.

It could be a trap.

“No, you won’t,” Bludrader says matter-of-factly. “The three of you aren’t going anywhere without me.”

I bristle. “We’re making the demands here. We’re the ones with the weapon.”

Court swallows a cough, doing his best to hide his sickness.

I speak more urgently. “You’re going to show us to an escape pod—”

“You’re holding it backward.” Bludrader nods to my hands. “Your weapon. It’s backward, dove. The electric end is pointed at your breast.”

I go cold. “No, it’s not,” I combat, afraid to take my eyes off him and inspect the rod.

He nearly laughs into a groan like he’s found himself in the worst situation. He’s not the one who’s been imprisoned and starved. “Lord have mercy,” he says. “Do you even know where the trigger is?”

“She does,” Mykal says with certainty.

I’m not so sure. “Sure I do,” I lie, feeling more exposed than ever. My stomach curdles. Confidence wanes with the rise of insecurities. I’m not holding the weapon right.

I’m not clothed right.

I’m not right at all.

Court bends carefully to our pile of clothes, and I feel the damp fabric of shirts, slacks, and cloaks as he digs through our belongings. Returning with Mykal’s shirt, he stands poised behind me and wraps the black baggy cloth around my flat chest and knots the fabric at my spine. Court cements a warning glare on Bludrader.

All the while, I never drop the weapon.

Bludrader studies my friend’s commanding presence.

But as Court’s fingers brush my bare shoulder, a stormy wave of uncertainty and unease crashes against me. And so I know, his self-assurance is just a well-worn costume shrouding his scars and wounds.

“Tell us your full name,” Court says with sharp intensity, “your place of origin, and who or what you’re loyal to.”

Bludrader looks him over with interest. “That’s a lot of requests for a guy in a brig.”

“An unlocked brig,” Court corrects. “You have one minute to answer.”

“Or what?” Bludrader wonders. “Your only weapon is useless in her hands.”

A bad taste drips in my throat. “I said I know how to use it,” I retort.

“Itis an electrowand—”

His words halt as I swiftly adjust my grip like I clutch a bat. And I swing the rod at the back of his head.

I strike him just as he ducks, and a grunt expels from his lips. He holds the spot, and as he checks his palm for blood, only a little dot of red on his skin, Mykal barrels forward and slams a hard fist at his jaw.

Bludrader shoves him, and Mykal seizes his wrist while he stumbles backward. They both topple to the floor. Wrestling.

Throwing punches.

Blood spews from mouths and noses.

I shake out my hand again as the sores reopen on Mykal’s knuckles. Stinging. He’s not winning easily like he usually would. I’ve heard so many grand and beautiful tales of Mykal fighting wolves and bears with nothing but his hands.