SICK HEART Read online

  Fuck. I sit up out of instinct and immediately the pain in my ribs feels like it might shear me in half. I hiss and wince.

  “Fucking hell, Cort!” Maart objects. “Lie back down. I’m still sewing you up. Ten more minutes, OK? That’s all I need.”

  But I tune him out as I find Anya’s paint-streaked face across the room. She’s sitting on a wheeled stool in the corner wearing a hospital gown. Frowning at me. Silent.

  That’s right. I almost forgot. She’s silent.

  I like that about her.

  But why? Why is she silent? I really need to know that, so I sign to Rainer because Maart is still trying to stitch up my neck and isn’t watching my hands. Why is she silent?

  Rainer hesitates. “Uhhh, well… I dunno.” Then he turns to Anya. “He wants to know why you don’t talk.”

  She doesn’t look at Rainer. Her eyes are locked on mine.

  I sign to Rainer again. He grunts, walks over to her, grabs her face, forces her mouth open, and looks inside. She slaps at him, but Rainer is a huge dude and she’s got no chance of resisting.

  “Nope,” Rainer says. “Her tongue is still there.” He looks over at Maart. “She might need a stitch on it. It’s still bleeding.”

  “I’m a little busy right now,” Maart says. “So…” He looks up at Anya. “Probably not.”

  Anya grunts as Rainer releases her, pushing him away now that he’s already retreating.

  So. She’s not silent because her tongue is missing.

  They do that every now and then. If the girls object too much or they get caught trying to escape. Sometimes a slave will just see too much and that’s the most efficient way to silence them. If they’re not interested in simply killing them, that is.

  But Anya isn’t just any slave. She is Lazar’s slave. And that means she’s been with him since she was very young. She would’ve been taught to read and write to make her worth more at the auctions, so cutting out her tongue wouldn’t silence her anyway. If Lazar had any concerns about Anya’s loyalties, she would already be dead.

  So why doesn’t she talk?

  I narrow my eyes at her and ask the question that way since she obviously doesn’t know how to sign. Why, Anya? Why don’t you talk?

  She only frowns at me, but it’s enough.

  I nod and lie back down. Closing my eyes again as Maart complains about all the ways I’m fucking up his stitching.

  “Here.” Something cold presses against my flaming ribcage and I wince. “Evard brought you this. Figured you’d need it.”

  Oh, hell yeah. I almost forgot about the Lectra. I feel around without opening my eyes until my fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle.

  “Don’t spill it,” Rainer cautions me. “There’s no cork.”

  “Don’t sit up to drink it, either,” Maart objects. “I’ve got two more internal stitches, then I’ll close, and you’ll be done. Two fucking minutes, Cort. Just be good for two more minutes.”

  “OK, question.” Rainer taps my shoulder. “You wanna drink the Lectra for the pain? Or you want me to give you this?”

  I open my eyes and find him holding a syringe.

  Maart scoffs. “No, Rainer. Don’t give him that. He’s gonna drink the fucking Lectra.”

  “Well, I know he’s going to drink it. But he still has to walk all the way over to the fucking reception room. And those ribs are gonna hurt. The Lectra won’t kick in for at least thirty minutes. One shot of this—”

  “No.” Maart is insistent. He’s all practical like that when it comes to medical shit. It’s a bad idea to mix opiates with Lectra. “We can hang in here for thirty minutes. It’s no big deal.”

  But I point at Rainer and give him permission anyway.

  Maart sighs. “Why am I even here? You never listen to me.”

  He knows that’s not true. I always listen to him about the important shit. But this isn’t about important shit. This is about getting fucked up.

  My last fight. And I won.

  I’m still here.

  This night is going to be epic.

  And tomorrow… tomorrow is a whole new beginning.

  I don’t know what that looks like, exactly. But it’s been a long, long time since I had a new beginning, so I don’t even care.

  I relax a little as Rainer ties off my arm, pats my vein with his fingertips, and then slides that needle in and pushes those drugs.

  I love that feeling. Not the drugs. I give no fucks about drugs. I take them because… well, this happens at least once a year and I need a way to get through it. And back when I was a kid, this happened six or seven times a year. Most of those fights were even deeper underground than this one.

  No. I just like the way I can trace the drug in my body as it enters my bloodstream.

  It burns as it travels up my arm. I like that feeling when it enters my heart. Then it exits and then suddenly that drug is everywhere all at once.

  It’s a weird, almost spiritual, experience.

  Or I’m just fucked up and all this is just the delusions of a man on Demerol after killing someone.

  I float for a few minutes as Maart finishes up. Then they help me sit up and I take my first sip of Lectra in over a year.

  It even tastes blue. Something between too sweet and too cold. And I can feel that too. Going down my throat. Entering my stomach. Heating me up from the inside out.

  I open my eyes and everything is blurry. But I can still make out Anya in the corner wearing her hospital gown. I sign a command to whoever is paying attention to find her some clothes.

  But then I tell them not to let her wash the paint off. Not yet.

  We’re still playing our parts.

  Reality comes much, much later.

  Time passes—I don’t know how much—but eventually Anya is wearing a loose white dress and I’m wearing a pair of olive-green cargo shorts and no shirt or shoes.

  “You ready?”

  Maart’s words are blurry like his face. And I just smile.

  Born ready, that smile says.

  And the next thing I know we’re in the reception room and people are clapping.

  Liars. They are all liars.

  They are not clapping for me. They clap to save themselves. Everything they do is done to save themselves. We all know that. And yet we still lie about it.

  It’s all lies to save ourselves.

  But there’s no saving us.

  We are the evil everyone warns you about.

  CHAPTER FIVE - ANYA

  ONE HOUR EARLIER

  I’m stuck in the world of black night and glowing bodies long after the lights come back on.

  Nothing really makes sense and I feel like I’m a little bit drunk on Lectra, even though I’m not. I think it’s because something is bleeding in my mouth—my tongue and maybe my cheek. The blood is making me nauseous and the altercation between Cort and my father only adds to the sick feeling in my gut.

  Did I win the fight for Cort?

  Will I have to go with him? Or can my father keep me? Is there some rule that might save me from becoming another Sick Heart concubine?

  I don’t love my father. I don’t care about him. But I do love Bexxie and if I leave… if I leave—

  “Hey, you.” A mercenary dressed in black body armor pokes me. “Let’s go.”

  I look around and realize Cort is being helped off the platform. My father is on the far side screaming at Cort’s father, Udulf.

  I concentrate on this interaction for a moment. Focusing on Udulf van Hauten.

  This is the first time I’ve seen him since we arrived and it’s… disconcerting.

  I know him.

  I remember him.

  And then I shudder with revulsion.

  “Anya doesn’t belong to Cort!” This is what Lazar is screaming. “He didn’t win. It was cheating!”

  I look around at the crowd, no one else seems to share his concern. And that means it’s over. The bets are already being paid out and no one put money on
me, so I am definitely not the winner.

  The mercenary grabs me by the arm with a commanding grip that leaves no room for objection. I don’t resist. I just try to keep up as I’m led down the stairs, across the upper deck, and then through a door and down more stairs.

  I thought we’d be going up to the reception room for the party, but we’re not. We’re going deep into the belly of the massive ship.

  I’m still naked and even though we pass dozens of men as we walk through the halls, not a single one of them lifts their eyes up from the floor.

  Are they afraid to look at me? Because of my father?

  Maybe they’ve just seen enough sacrificial girls to know I’m not worth leering at.

  Or maybe they find me, and everything I represent, disgusting.

  One—a dark, middle-aged man wearing an apron—crosses himself and mutters a prayer as we pass each other. Like I am the Devil’s daughter.

  The merc stops suddenly outside a door and knocks. “The girl,” he calls.

  The door opens and Rainer appears. He nods at my escort. “I’ll take her from here. Thanks.” The door swings wide open to reveal a small clinic—one bed hosting Cort, a small desk built into the side of the wall, and two of those rolling stools doctors use.

  Maart is sitting on a stool, frowning as he holds a thick wad of gauze against Cort’s bleeding neck with his elbow while he uses his hands to insert an IV. Cort’s eyes are closed and I’m not sure he’s even conscious.

  “Are you waiting for an invitation?” I look up and find Rainer’s scowling face. “Get the fuck in here. We’re busy.”

  I walk forward and Rainer grabs a hospital gown off a counter, shoves it up to my chest, and then pushes me out of the way. The space is tiny and it’s a tight fit with four people in it, even if one of them is on the bed.

  “Put that gown on and sit over there,” Maart commands me with a nod of his head.

  I slip my arms into the gown and put it tight across my front as I walk over to the corner and take a seat on a second rolling stool.

  Then there’s another knock at the door.

  “Get rid of them,” Maart mutters.

  Rainer opens the door and I try to peek around his muscular body, but he’s massive and I can’t see anything until he bends down.

  It’s the boy. He’s holding a bottle of Lectra and trying to get a look at Cort. “Is he OK?” His voice is small and scared. “I brought him this.”

  “He’s gonna be fine, Evard,” Rainer tells him. “Just a nick. That’s all.”

  “He’s all bloody.” Evard is not convinced. And when I look at Cort, I’m not either. Maybe he’ll die of blood loss? Maybe I’ll get to stay here on this ship instead of being sent to the harem? Maybe I can go home with Bexxie? Maybe—

  “It looks a lot worse than it is,” Maart says. He’s not paying attention to Rainer or the kid. He’s pulling a bag of blood out of a cooler on the floor and hooking it into the IV. “We got this, Evard. Go to bed now.”

  “Bed?” Evard’s single word comes out both surprised and cynical. “I’m not going to bed! He’s dying!”

  Rainer is still crouched down. And now I realize he did that so he could look the boy in the eyes. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not dying, Evard. He needs some blood, and some stitches, and his ribs will be fucked for a few weeks. But he’ll be fine the next time you see him, I promise.”

  “No. I don’t want to go back without him. Why does he do this? Why can’t he just come home?”

  Hmm. I wonder what this is about?

  “Evard?” Maart has had enough of this. I can hear it in his tone. “Go back to the room and stay there. If you say anything else, you’re gonna get three months on the Rock.” Evard scoffs, but Maart adds, “Alone.”

  “That’s fucking stupid,” Evard yells. “He would never—”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Maart interrupts. And then he looks up from his work on Cort’s body and his gaze slowly migrates over to the kid.

  Evard has the good sense to slink back.

  Hell, even I slink back and he’s not even looking at me.

  “Go,” Rainer says, his voice still soft and calm. “He won’t be happy if he wakes up and Maart tells him about this. You’ve already crossed lines here.”

  A long, tired sigh from the boy. Then he thrusts the bottle at Rainer. “Tell him I brought him this.” Rainer takes the bottle and then Evard turns and walks away.

  Well, that interaction was very interesting. Lots of little information nuggets to decode later. But not now. Because Maart begins to stitch up Cort’s neck and this rouses Cort just enough to moan.

  Rainer closes the door, sets the bottle on the small counter, and then turns to Cort. “You here with us, buddy?” He slaps his cheek a few times. “Cort? Can you hear me?”

  Cort moans again, and his head turns, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

  Maart growls. “Stay still, asshole. I’m fucking stitching here.”

  Another bit of information gleaned. Maart is his… what? Medic? He certainly seems to know what he’s doing.

  Another knock at the door.

  “Fucking hell,” Maart says.

  But Rainer is already opening it up. He whispers something, then opens the door wider. “This guy brought a brace for Cort’s ribs.”

  Maart looks up from his stitching. “No. We don’t need a brace.”

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse at the door says. “Udulf commanded me to make him wear it.”

  Maart glances up from his work and shoots the delivery guy a death look, making him shrink back. Then he looks over at Rainer and sighs. “Put it on him then.”

  “Me?” Rainer laughs. It’s a nice laugh. In fact, he’s got a nice face. It’s friendly-looking when he laughs. “Not my area of expertise.”

  Maart is really annoyed now. He looks at the nurse. “Put it on him!”

  “Yes, sir,” the man says. He squeezes past Rainer, but there’s not just one nurse, there are two, and they both come in. And now this room is way too small. They shuffle around each other, one on each side of Cort’s body, reaching under him to try to slide the brace underneath his muscular back as Rainer messes with the line feeding Cort a bag of blood.

  But suddenly Cort wakes, his fist swinging at the strangers.

  “Out!” Maart barks. “Now!”

  Cort reaches over to Maart with both hands, grabs his hair, and pulls his face downward. I hold my breath and wonder what he will do next. Hit him? Headbutt him?

  But no. Cort kisses him. Right on the lips.

  Maart laughs it off with a joke about getting him all bloody and then Rainer is bending down to whisper in Cort’s ear.

  Suddenly Cort bolts upright, looking straight at me as Maart hisses objections. But Cort’s steel-gray eyes are locked on mine and suddenly, I feel like I’m under a spell.

  I can’t look away. His hands are moving. Fast. And I realize that he is signing.

  Pavo lied.

  Sick Heart does so talk.

  He just doesn’t talk out loud, that fucking cheater.

  I don’t know why this surprises me so much, because people who talk are normal and people who don’t aren’t, but I am shocked. And disappointed.

  I mean, it’s only been like an hour since I realized he and I might be alike. But if he communicates, then he is not silent. And that means he’s not like me at all.

  “He wants to know why you don’t talk,” Rainer says.

  I don’t say anything to Cort van Breda. Not with my hands. Not with my eyes. Never with my voice. Because he’s not getting that answer from me.

  I do not communicate with anyone. Ever.

  He’s a dirty silent cheater, that’s what he is.

  He will never get a single secret out of me.

  Never.

  I watch as Rainer shoots Cort up with a syringe of painkillers over Maart’s objections, and try to follow the silent conversation Cort’s hands are having. It’s not hard since both Maart and Rai
ner give clues with their voices, but Rainer actually signs and talks out loud, so that’s super helpful with my limited understanding of sign language. Cort’s signs are deliberate and defined, but Rainer’s are slow and sloppy. Like he’s skipping words.

  Soon enough, Maart is done with the stitching and they start in on the Lectra. Even serious Maart gets in on the drinking goal. Cort sits up, flashing his talkative hands, and someone delivers a white dress for me.

  Right. My dress.

  This isn’t over, Anya. Your nightmare is just getting started.

  Cort is helped into a pair of cargo shorts, one arm around each of his friends as he steps into them. Is that what they are? Friends? I’m not sure. They might be lovers, actually. And if that’s the case, maybe Cort does nothing with his concubines? Maybe he’s not interested in them that way?

  Not them, Anya. Us.

  Because I’m one of them now. I belong to this man. I belong to this killer.

  He dragged that knife across Pavo’s neck like it was nothing. He gutted him like a dead animal. No thought at all went into his decision to kill tonight. And why should he think twice about it? According to the rumors—and the skulls on his body—he has killed dozens of men on nights like this.

  “You ready?” Maart is holding Cort’s head with both hands, staring straight into his eyes.

  Cort sucks in a breath and nods the affirmative. “Then let’s do it.”

  All three of them are in a much better mood now. Cort has been smiling non-stop since Rainer shot him up with those painkillers. And they have all taken at least half a dozen sips of the Lectra. I stare at the blue liquid in the bottle and notice that it is more than half empty.

  “Hello?”

  I look up and realize Maart is talking to me.

  “Are you ready?”

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be ready for, but since when did it matter if I was ready for anything that’s happened to me in my life? I, of course, say nothing. But I don’t change my expression, either. I’m actually thinking back to my laugh earlier in the day.