They nod a greeting, which we return, but no one says anything about my sister, for which I’m glad. I haven’t given up on her, not by a longshot, but that don’t mean I want to talk about her all day and night.
“New guy,” Abe says, and both Buff and I look at him. He laughs, not in a nice way, but like he enjoys making us look foolish. “You,” he says, pointing at me. “Daisy.”
Something in me snaps. Or maybe was already snapped from the night Joles was taken from me. Whatever the case, I can’t control my fists, which start swinging at Abe like I’m taking on a whole gang of Red District rowdies. The first punch is a gut shot and bends him at the waist—the second takes his head off. He spins from the impact, torqueing around in an awkward, twisting way, and then goes down in a heap.
Brock’s on me like a beggar on a bear steak, while Hightower holds Buff away from the fray. “You didn’t just do that,” Brock says, half-laughing, like he’s been hoping I’d do something crazy. “Nice punch,” he adds, which surprises me. What’s the plan? Compliment me to death?
I grit my teeth and wait for him to pull a knife. He doesn’t.
Although I hit Abe with everything I had and my hand is stinging, he’s pulling himself to his feet, massaging his jaw, one eye closed and the other one all bugged out and angry as chill.
“I’ll leave,” I say. “I’ll find another way to pay the Hole back.” Even as I say it I wish there was another way, wish I could take back those two punches thrown only out of frustration and anger and sorrow about my sister. Not because Abe called me Daisy, a stupid lowbrow insult. That was just removing the lid covering what’s been boiling up in me for days.
Abe laughs again and it sounds slightly maniacal. Okay, a lot maniacal, which I suspect is the only way a laugh can sound when it comes right after taking a haymaker uppercut to the jaw.
“That’s not the way things work around here,” he laughs. He cracks his jaw, sighing, like it was out of place and is now as good as new. “You’ll take your punishment and then we’ll get on with the job. Other than that, your only other option is a shallow grave.”
I’ll pass, thanks. “Whatever,” I say, secretly thankful for whatever’s coming. Whatever it is, it’ll be better than losing the best—and only—job I’ve ever had.
Brock moves forward, his arms out like I might bite him. “I gotta ’old you,” he explains. I don’t want crazy-eyes holding me, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I? So I relax and let him pull my arms behind my back, clamping them tight so I can’t defend myself.
“Now wait just one minute,” Buff says, struggling against Tower’s iron grip.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I earned this one.”
Abe saunters up, cracking his knuckles, impressing me further at how well he took my best punch. He’s not a big guy, but not small either, and clearly there’s a toughness in him that’s beyond flesh and bone.
I lick my lips, waiting for the first blow to come.
When it does it’s like a wooden plank to the gut, taking every last bit of breath out of me. But that’s not the end of it. Oh nay, not by a mile. While I wheeze and try to get my breath back, Abe lays into me like an avalanche, pummeling my stomach, chest, and finally my face. No stranger to a good beating, I take every punch with dignity, never crying out, but wishing that each shot will be the last. There’s blood running down my lips and I can feel things swelling all over, but still he continues the barrage.
The only strange thing about it all: Abe seems to start taking a little bit off his punches near the end. It’s not like him—at least not like I’d expect. I’d expect him to beat on me full force from start to finish.
When he’s finally done, I’m hanging limp from Brock’s hold, all fight sapped out of me. Through watery, puffy eyes, I can see Buff’s red face, his taut muscles, the last remnants of his fight to break free from Hightower to help me. In a weird way, I’m glad he didn’t. I got what I deserved, and now I can hold my head high again.
I spit out a clump of blood. This morning I had black eyes; tomorrow I’ll have black eyes on black eyes on swollen lips.
The price of a temper.
“We’re even,” Abe says, not looking at me, as if he might be trying to convince himself. He glances at the castle guards, who are laughing and watching. “You’ll take a regular load plus the extra cargo.”
~~~
With the moonlight guiding us, we make it down the mountain in record time. Or at least most of us do. Nebo’s five or six minutes back, trying not to kill himself on one of the many dark, protruding boulders that we zigzag around.