Free The Feral Sentence (Book 1, Part 2) by G. C. Julien

been killed out on the Western
shoreline, and although grateful that I’d survived the attack,
there was a part of me that wished the Norther who’d fired the
arrow hadn’t missed. I couldn’t get Sunny’s swollen, lifeless face
out of my mind or the way she’d just dangled above us, poisoning
the air with the rancid smell of decay. How was anyone supposed to
live with such a memory? The image of Sunny being dragged away by a
masked Ogre still haunted me, and now, I’d have a new memory to
accompany it.
    I felt
queasy.
    “ Brone?”
    I shook my
head and forced a smile. “I’m okay.”
    “ Come
here,” she said, pulling me in close.
    I stiffened,
feeling entirely ill-prepared for affection.
    “ Relax,”
she said. “You looked like you needed a hug.”
    Although
uncomfortable, I enjoyed the sensation of her warm body against
mine. It soothed me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been
touched, with the exclusion of Rocket, Biggie, or Flander slapping
me across the shoulder or on the back.
    She slowly
pulled away and smiled, her plush pink lips curving on either side.
“Better?” I nodded.
    “ Now use
those pearls wisely,” she said.
    I opened my
hand and stared down at the silky, multicolored pearls, suddenly
remembering that only two of these actually belonged to me. I
remembered the yellow serpentine mask hovering inches away from my
face, and the last thing I wanted was to see that mask again. I’d
do as instructed and drop three pearls near the Cliff.
    Ellie reached
up and stroked my cheek. “You’ll be all right.”
    I didn’t
understand how she saw right through me, being that I’d always been
the type to hide my emotions from the outside world, but she did.
And I wished this were true—that everything would be all right. I
wished that I could rewind my sentence and steer clear of Trim and
her crew. I didn’t want to be an Archer. I wasn’t prepared to go to
war. I wasn’t prepared for any of this.
    Maybe—just
maybe—this inevitable war could be delayed just long enough for me
to finish out my sentence. Attacks were unavoidable, but it wasn’t
unrealistic of me to hope for long gaps in between each attack. I
didn’t want to be a part of the merciless bloodshed. I just wanted
to go home.
    “ Ellie?”
I asked.
    Her eyes lit
up, and she waited in silence.
    “ How
long do you have left to serve?”
    I suddenly
felt as though I’d offended her. The happy-go-lucky way about her
faded, and what remained was unease and masked depression.
    “ Why’re
you asking me that?” she asked.
    I shrugged. “I
just… I’m just wondering… How do you know when your time is up? I
mean, do you count the days? Does the government keep track of it?
Where do you get picked up? When will I know when my sentence is
up?”
    And she just
stared at me as would a child being explained the actual meaning of
death for the first time. She parted her lips to speak, but nothing
came out. I’d been about to ask her to answer me, but something
told me I already knew the answer.
    I felt a
sickening nausea overwhelm me. No one was coming back for me—not in
three years, not ever.