Текст книги "Daggermouth"

Автор книги: H. M. Wolfe

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Chapter thirty-two3 AM

Callum’s fingers drummed against his desk as the blue glow of surveillance screens painted his face in a ghostly light. The Vow would be happening today.

Three in the morning, and the silence of the Heart beyond the walls of his club felt like the held breath before an execution. Each moment that passed brought them closer to dawn. Closer to chaos. Closer to either salvation or slaughter.

His tablet sat in front of him, screen dark and silent. Waiting for Jameson’s call. Waiting for the confirmation that would set everything in motion.

Callum glanced at the bar cart, contemplating then sighing and dragging his gaze away. Today was not one for dulled senses. Today required every neuron firing, every instinct sharp. His body vibrated with the strain of waiting, muscles coiled tight beneath his suit.

He rose from his chair, unable to remain still any longer, and moved to the window. The Heart slept below him, its pristine towers and streets bathed in the artificial glow of security lights.

By tonight, it could be burning.

Callum pressed his forehead against the cool glass, closing his eyes against the view. The plan they’d constructed was full of gaps, of variables they couldn’t control.

All of it had to work perfectly. All of it had to happen in precise synchronization.

If it didn’t—

His mind conjured images of slaughter. Of Boundary residents gunned down in streets they’d barely glimpsed. Of Cardinal rebels executed where they stood. Of Jaeger’s assassins falling before they could reach their targets.

But worse, infinitely worse, was the image of Lira in her father’s hands if they failed. Callum’s fist clenched at his side, knuckles white with strain. Maximus wouldn’t simply kill his daughter if he discovered her betrayal. Death would be a mercy compared to what he would do. Callum had seen enough of the President’s handiwork to know that Maximus Serel’s creativity extended far beyond governance and into the realm of torture.

He returned to his desk, dropping heavily into his chair. The screens before him showed various feeds from around the Heart—the plaza where the Vow ceremony would take place, the checkpoints between rings, the approach to Maximus’s tower. All quiet now. All normal.

It wouldn’t last.

His thoughts drifted back to Lira, to the weight of her in his arms just days ago. To the taste of her skin, the sound of her breath against his ear, the way her body had yielded to his after five long years of restraint. Five years of longing.

He hadn’t seen her since the conclusion of their meeting in the Boundary forty-eight hours ago. Something in the way she’d looked at him when he took her back to her apartment, when she told him she needed space to think, scared him. He could feel it.

He’d just gotten her back and he was already losing her.

He’d known it was a possibility when she found out that he’d known about Brooker. He’d thought about leaving her in the Heart for that very reason. But they’d said no more lies, and he wasn’t willing to break his promise to her.

If they failed today, Maximus would make her suffer in ways that would break even Lira’s iron will. He would take his time. Would extract every detail of the conspiracy before he finally allowed her to die. And he would make sure she watched everyone she loved die first.

Callum’s breathing became shallow, his chest tightening with every breath. He forced himself to inhale deeply, to regain control. Panic would not help any of them.

He needed to focus. Needed to be the calculating, ruthless man who’d built an empire in the Heart, who’d infiltrated its highest circles, who’d learned to smile while plotting the downfall of those who trusted him.

His phone vibrated against the desk, screen illuminating with Jameson’s encrypted contact ID. Callum’s hand shot out, snatching it up on the first ring.

He answered. “Ghost.”

“It’s done.” Jameson’s voice was calm, controlled, but Callum could hear the undercurrent of tension.

Relief washed through him. “All of them?”

“Every last one. We cleared the final sector twenty minutes ago. The shelters are sealed.”

Callum closed his eyes briefly. At least the Boundary would be protected from whatever came next. If Maximus deployed his bombs today, they would fall on empty streets, not innocent people.

“Any resistance?” he asked, knowing that convincing some Boundary residents to trust authority figures enough to enter underground shelters would have been nearly impossible.

A pause. “Minimal. Daggermouths handled it.”

“Good. I’ll turn on the surveillance loop for the Boundary now. You are clear to head into Cardinal.”

“I’ll call you back when we’re headed for the Heart.”

The line went dead.

Callum set the tablet down, the weight of what they were about to do settling over him and pressing down on his lungs. Nine hours. Nine hours until the Vow ceremony began. Fifteen hours until they either liberated New Found Haven or condemned it to unparalleled bloodshed.

He turned to his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as he hacked into the Heart’s security mainframe. The security protocols unfolded before him, a complex web of surveillance feeds, access points, and alarm systems. Callum had spent years learning every vulnerability, every backdoor. Now he began the delicate process of creating blind spots without triggering alerts—adding looping synthetic live feeds, reducing guard rotations in key areas, scheduling system maintenance at critical junctures, inserting subtle delays in the feeds from checkpoints.

Nothing obvious. Nothing that would immediately raise suspicion. But together, these small alterations would create windows of opportunity when the time came.

The screens before him flickered as the changes took effect, the Heart’s defenses subtly weakening under his touch. Outside his window, the first pale hint of dawn touched the eastern sky.

The day of reckoning had begun.

Chapter thirty-three5 AM

Lira stood at the window of her apartment, tea cooling between her palms as she watched New Found Haven sleep its final hours of ignorance. The darkness that clung to the city, that had always defined it, would be washed away soon—not by the coming dawn, but by fire and blood and revolution. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass, eyes hollowed by a sleepless night, dark circles like bruises beneath them. She looked like a ghost already, and perhaps that was fitting for what was to come.

Platinum towers pierced the dawn sky, their surfaces catching the first hint of light. Streets empty and clean, patrolled by the occasional Veyra vehicle, its lights cutting through the lingering dark.

She sipped her tea, grimacing at its bitterness. She’d forgotten to add honey, too consumed by the weight of the coming day. Her hands had been steady as she brewed it—they were steady now—but her mind raced with a thousand calculations, a thousand ways this could go wrong.

Seven hours until the Vow ceremony. Seven hours until Greyson and Shadera would be forced to stand before the city as symbols of a unity that had never existed.

They would go to the consummation chambers after that, while their friends worked above to make sure no other woman had to endure such horrors. Next, they would attend lunch, a formal meal with all the city leaders to welcome them into society, as if they had not just been violated.

To end the day, at six o’clock, they would be back on the platform, making a united speech about the Heart, asking the rings to conform to its laws so they too could one day enjoy its luxury. What they didn’t know, is that speech would be heard by no one outside of the Heart. Every person in the rings that was not rising to fight today would be underground, sealed away in bomb shelters.

And beneath all that spectacle, the clockwork of rebellion would be turning, gears sliding into place, blades sharpening as Brooker—

Brooker.

Her brother’s face appeared in her mind, not as she’d last seen him in Wolf’s Head, hardened by years in the rings, but as he’d been before. Before the rebellion. Before his assumed death. Before everything had changed. The memory twisted in her chest, grief and relief intertwining until she couldn’t separate them.

Alive. He had been alive all this time.

The tea trembled in her cup, betraying the emotion she refused to show on her face. Lira took another sip, forcing the hot liquid down her throat as if it could wash away the sting of betrayal.

Callum had known. All these years, he had known Brooker lived while she mourned, while she wept in his arms, while their father became more monstrous.

“They thought they were protecting you,” Callum had explained as they’d driven back from Wolf’s Head. His voice had been gentle, as if kindness could soften the impact of his words. “If you’d known, your father would have seen it in your eyes. He would have known something was wrong.”

“And you?” she’d asked, unable to look at him. “What was your excuse for lying to me?”

His silence had been answer enough.

The memory of Callum’s face, of the guilt in his eyes when she’d left him at her door with nothing more than a cold good night, made her chest ache. She should hate him for his deception. Should rage against his betrayal of her trust, just when they had promised no more secrets.

But she understood now. Understood the sacrifices made in war, the necessity of compartmentalization. The price of keeping those you love alive.

She drained her tea and set the cup on the small table beside her. On its surface lay the items she would need today—her comms device, programmed with the rebels’ secure channel. A small pistol, loaded and safety on. A datapad containing the final details of their plan.

And her mask.

Lira picked it up, the rose gold gleaming even in the dim light of her apartment. She twirled it between her fingers, feeling its familiar weight, the smooth metal warm from her touch. How many years had she hidden behind it? How many lies had it enabled? How many truths had it concealed?

Her finger traced the decorative swirls that marked her as a Serel, as daughter to the President, as royalty in a kingdom built on subjugation. The mask that had been secured to her face on her sixth birthday, rendering her faceless, nameless, except for her family’s legacy. The mask that had been both a shield and prison.

After today, she would never wear it again.

She would be Lira. Just Lira. Not a Serel, not a diplomat, not a puppet dancing on her father’s strings. She would be free—or she would be dead.

It was so simple in the end. So clear. The path forward narrow but defined.

She set the mask down and moved to her desk, pulling open the hidden drawer with a press of her fingertip against the biometric lock. Inside lay the evidence she’d spent years collecting. Hundreds and hundreds of copies. Documents detailing her father’s corruption. Recordings of his threats. Financial records showing the diversion of resources meant for Cardinal and the Boundary. Autopsy reports of those who had mysteriously died after opposing him.

And at the bottom, sealed in a protective case, the final piece—her secret. Her plan.

Lira traced the edge of the case, her mouth set in a grim line. No one knew about this—not Callum, not Brooker, not Farrow or Jaeger or Jameson. This was her personal revenge for everything Maximus had taken from her. From all of them.

She closed the drawer, the lock engaging with a soft click. She would ensure the truth was known, one way or another. Her father would fall. The system would crumble. And if her own destruction was the price, so be it.

The tablet on the table vibrated, a single pulse that sent her heart racing. She checked the time—5:40 AM. The city would be waking soon, Veyra changing shifts, workers preparing for the day, the wheels of the Heart beginning their relentless turning.

Lira crossed to the table and lifted the device, pressing it to her ear. “Yes?”

“They’re ready.” Farrow’s voice was soft. “Are you sure about this?”

Lira closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath that filled her lungs with resolve. “Yes.”

She ended the call without another word. There was nothing more to say. No dramatic declarations, no rousing speeches. Just the quiet certainty of what was to come.

Chapter thirty-four7 AM

Jameson watched the heavy metal door of the shelter seal shut with a dull thud that echoed through the underground chamber. The last group of Cardinal residents—mothers clutching children to their chests, old men leaning on makeshift canes, workers still in factory uniforms—disappeared behind four feet of reinforced steel. Their faces had been a mixture of confusion and fear, but they’d gone willingly enough when told bombs might fall today. No one in Cardinal questioned the possibility of Heart violence. They’d lived too long in its shadow.

“That’s the last of them,” said a voice at his shoulder. One of Farrow’s people, a woman with short black hair, brown eyes, and a balaclava covering the rest of her face. “All sectors report clear.”

Jameson nodded, checking the time on his comms unit. 7:02 AM. Eleven hours until the real fight began, but their work had started long before dawn. Through the night, his rebels had moved through the Boundary, guiding people to the shelters he’d been reinforcing for years. The operation had gone more smoothly than he’d dared hope.

The Cardinal had been easier to manage, less people with more of a willingness to listen to authority. Courtesy of the Heart’s labor mandates pushed on them.

“Any trouble at the eastern quadrant?” he asked, remembering the factory overseer who’d threatened to report them to the Veyra. The man hadn’t lived long enough to make good on his threat, but Jameson needed to be sure no alarm had been raised.

“None,” she replied. “We’re clear across the board.”

His mind flashed to the mother in the Boundary, cradling her dead son as she begged Jameson to make them pay. Her face, contorted with grief, had haunted his dreams for the past three nights. Today, he would keep his promise to her. Today, Maximus Serel and his golden mask would fall.

He straightened his spine, turning to the woman. “What’s your name?”

“Chandler, sir, but my friends call me Hawk.”

A corner of his lip twitched up at the name. “Well, Hawk, if I don’t get time to tell you this later, thank you. We would not have been able to secure the Cardinal on time without you.”

“Yes, of course, sir. My honor.” He could see the smile in her eyes as he turned away from her.

“Signal the teams,” he said, already moving toward the maintenance access panel at the far end of the corridor. “We move in five.”

Hawk melted back into the shadows of the tunnels, leaving Jameson alone with his thoughts. He crouched beside the panel, fingers working the encrypted lock Callum had reprogrammed days ago. The metal cover slid away with barely a whisper, revealing the dark tunnel beyond.

Shadera’s face slipped into his head, and the thought of what would happen to her today sent a surge of rage through his body so intense that his vision blurred at the edges. He’d heard enough at their last meeting of the Vow ceremony, and he could barely stomach it.

He forced the image away. Rage made men careless. Rage got men killed. And he couldn’t afford to die, not today. Not when she needed him.

His comms unit vibrated against his wrist. “Ghost,” Callum’s voice came through, low and distorted, “surveillance loop is active. Heart security is blind to the Cardinal sectors. You’re clear to proceed.”

“Copy that,” Jameson replied, adjusting the earpiece that would keep him connected to the rebel network throughout the day. “Moving to position alpha. What’s your status?”

“In place at the club. You have two hours to make it to the Heart before patrols start.”

“Understood,” Jameson answered as the line fell silent.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that had settled there. Behind him, shadows had coalesced into people—his team assembling silently, their faces grim. One hundred men and women drawn from the most skilled soldiers from the Boundary and Cardinal, each armed with Veyra weapons provided by Mikel, smuggled piece by piece through Callum’s networks.

Each ready to die for the cause if necessary.

He could see the determination in their eyes, the readiness. Some bore fresh wounds from the Veyra clash days ago. Others carried older scars—the visible marks of Heart oppression etched into flesh and bone. All of them had lost something to Maximus’s regime. All of them had reason to fight.

Hawk snaked through the crowd until she was standing in front of Jameson, her mask pulled down now. A large scar cut from ear to ear on the bottom half of her face, a permanent smile he knew could have only been gifted to her by the Veyra.

It was their signature for women who’d refused to kneel to them, that refused to smile for them. If they would not do it on their own, the Veyra would do it for them.

“Farrow’s unit is in position,” she said, slipping onto his right side. “Says they’ve secured the access points to the power grid. They’ll cut it when the signal comes.”

Jameson nodded. “And Jaeger’s teams?”

“Already inside the Heart. Moved in during the night shift change.”

A small victory, but significant. If the Daggermouths were already in place, their chances improved considerably. The assassins would target key security points with snipers, eliminating resistance before it could organize against the main rebel force.

“Let’s move,” Jameson said, gesturing toward the tunnel. “Single file until we hit the first checkpoint.”

He climbed down the ladder first, cracking a glow light and hooking it to his belt, the rebels behind him mirrored his actions and they began their final trek toward the Heart.

His thoughts turned to Shadera again, as they always did in quiet moments. He missed her in a way that made it hard to breathe. Of course he missed the intimacy of her in his arms, of the feel of her skin against his, but that was the least of it. He missed his best friend.

She was his person before he’d ever truly fallen for her.

The simplicity of it made it even more honest. She was just his person, and he missed her.

For now, he would keep his unit safe. Stay focused on making sure they all made it into the Heart alive. But tonight, his only goal was to make sure Shadera made it out with her life.

Chapter thirty-five9 AM

Greyson’s head tilted up as the sound of boots filtered through the air. Slowly, one by one, Veyra came into view and lined the wall on the other side of the cell as Mikel followed them into the room. Greyson knew it was him just by the way he stood. He hesitated at the entrance for only a second before falling in line with his men.

His father stepped through the doorway next and Greyson stared at him, refusing to lower his gaze. A fresh wave of hate threatened to choke him.

“Good morning.” Maximus’s voice was pleasant, almost cheerful. “I trust you’ve had time to reflect on our conversation.”

Greyson said nothing. His silence was all he had left—the only defiance he could muster while bound to the chair.

Maximus punched a code into the cell door and it slid open with a hiss. Goosebumps spread over Greyson’s skin at the sudden stream of warm air and relief crashed over his body. The door was open. One step closer to getting out of this fucking cell.

“Today is a joyous day.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Your ceremony begins in three hours. Captain Mikel will be escorting you and your intended back to your quarters to prepare for this magnificent union.”

Greyson’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

“Remember our agreement,” Maximus continued, stepping closer to Greyson’s chair. Close enough that he could smell the expensive cologne that clung to his suit, a scent that had haunted his nightmares since childhood. “You will participate fully. You will speak the words as written. You will smile.” He leaned down, his golden mask inches from Greyson’s face. “And you will consummate the Vow, as tradition demands.”

Bile rose in Greyson’s throat. The consummation—the final, degrading requirement of the Vow ceremony.

Still, Greyson stayed silent.

“I only came to wish my son luck on the most important day of his life,” Maximus said, turning back toward the door. “Remember, your cooperation today decides the fates of many.”

He didn’t say another word as he strode from the cell, passing Mikel. Mikel’s faceplate followed the President until he disappeared through the outer door, then his head turn back to Greyson.

“Remove his restraints,” Mikel ordered the officers. “Then bring out the Daggermouth.”

One officer stepped forward, a knife appearing in his hand. He began to slice through the cords binding Greyson to the chair, starting with those around his chest. Each severed rope eased the pressure, but as blood rushed back into his compressed muscles, pain flared like fire beneath his skin.

Greyson bit back a groan as the last cord fell away. His limbs felt foreign, leaden, refusing to respond properly as he tried to stand. The officer gripped his arm, not roughly but firmly, supporting him as his legs threatened to buckle.

“Slowly,” Mikel advised, watching him with an intensity that made Greyson uncomfortable. “You’ve been bound for nearly forty-eight hours.”

The information registered dimly through the haze of pain. Two days. Two days of thirst and hunger and Shadera’s muffled cries from the next cell.

Shadera.

His head turned toward the wall that separated their cells, straining to hear any sound from her. Nothing. The silence from her side was more terrifying than any cry could have been.

“Get her out,” he croaked, taking a stumbling step toward the door. The officer’s hand tightened on his arm, holding him back. “Now.”

Mikel nodded to the remaining officers, who disappeared from view, heading toward Shadera’s cell. Greyson heard the beep of the access code, the hiss of the door. Then silence again.

When they reappeared, two officers supporting a figure between them, Greyson’s world contracted to a single point of horror.

Shadera hung between the officers, barely conscious, her feet dragging on the concrete floor. Her face—her beautiful, defiant face—was swollen beyond recognition, one eye completely closed, the other a slit in the purple black mess of bruising. Blood had dried in her hair, matting it to her scalp in dark clumps. Her lip was split in multiple places, chin crusted with blood both fresh and old.

But it was her body that made Greyson’s knees nearly give out. Her shirt was torn, revealing glimpses of skin that was no longer skin—just a map of bruises, blacks and greens and blues and sickly yellows at the edges. She held herself as if her ribs were broken, each breath a shallow, pained affair. Her hands were a ruin, fingers swollen, knuckles split, nails torn and bloody.

Greyson’s vision blurred. The rage that exploded in his chest was unlike anything he’d felt before—hotter, sharper, more all-consuming than any fury he’d experienced in his violent life. It filled his lungs like acid, burned behind his eyes like molten metal. This was what they had done to her while he sat in his cell, nursing his anger, refusing to speak to her. This was what she’d endured while he wallowed in his own pain.

They’d barely touched him. A few bruises, the cuts from the cords, the discomfort of thirst and hunger. Nothing compared to what they had done to her.

And he had left her alone with it. Had refused her when she’d reached out to him in her suffering.

“Shadera,” he whispered, the word breaking in his throat.

Her good eye flickered at the sound of his voice, focusing on him for a brief moment before sliding away. The deliberate avoidance sent a spike of pain through his chest, sharpening by the second.

“She needs water,” Mikel said, his voice neutral but something unreadable flowing beneath the current. “Both of you do.”

He snapped his fingers, and another officer appeared with two bottles of water. Mikel took them, dismissing the officer with a nod, then handed one to Greyson. He approached Shadera carefully, as one might a wounded animal, and held the bottle to her swollen lips.

“Drink,” he said, his tone softer than before.

Shadera’s throat worked convulsively as she gulped the water, some of it spilling down her chin and onto her ruined shirt. Greyson watched, his own thirst momentarily forgotten as he witnessed her desperation. When Mikel finally pulled the bottle away, nearly empty, Shadera sagged further between the officers supporting her.

Greyson raised his own bottle to his lips, the cool water a shock to his system after so long without. He drank greedily, some distant part of his mind warning him to slow down, that too much too quickly would make him sick. But his body’s demands overrode caution and he drained the bottle in seconds.

“We need to go,” Mikel said, checking his watch. “The Vow begins soon.”

Greyson’s rage surged again at the mention of the ceremony. He wanted to lash out, to smash his fist into Mikel’s face, into the faces of every Veyra officer who’d watched Shadera be brutalized. But he couldn’t. Not when she was in this state, not when the threat of the rings’ destruction hung over them.

“Can you walk?” Mikel asked him.

Greyson nodded once, sharply. His legs were unsteady, but functioning. More than could be said for Shadera, who remained suspended between her guards, head hanging forward.

“Then let’s go.”

Greyson fixed his gaze on Shadera’s back as they left the private prison, watching for any sign that she might collapse entirely. Each step she managed, however halting, however supported by the officers, was a testament to a strength he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

They emerged into his father’s residence, the opulence of it an obscene contrast to the cells they’d left behind. Thick carpets, elegant furniture, art that cost more than most Boundary residents would see in a lifetime.

It felt like an eternity before they made it to the elevator, before they made it to his floor. Mikel slid a key card into the locks that were unfamiliar to Greyson, new, high tech. He stepped in first and held the door open for his men.

The officers deposited Shadera onto the sofa, her body folding into it like a discarded doll. Greyson stood in the center of the room, unsure where to go, what to do, how to help her.

Mikel scanned the apartment before turning to Greyson, but said nothing.

Silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and heavy.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Greyson finally asked, the words sounding strange to his own ears—formal, distant, nothing like the screaming rage inside him.

Mikel studied him for a long moment, then turned to the officers. “Wait in the hallway,” he ordered.

The officers filed out, leaving the door open at Mikel’s back. Still, he remained, standing straight, hands clasped behind his back in military precision.

Finally, Mikel cleared his throat as if snapping himself from some trance. “I’ll be outside if you need anything,” he said, his voice low. “I will step back inside at noon to collect you.”

He said nothing else as he turned to the door, closing it behind him with a finality that echoed in the quiet apartment.

Greyson stood motionless, staring at the closed door, feeling the seconds tick away toward the inevitable. Then he turned to Shadera.

Shame burned hotter than pain as Shadera forced her battered body to move. Every cell screamed in protest, every breath a fresh agony as broken ribs shifted beneath her skin. But she couldn’t stay here, couldn’t bear the weight of Greyson’s gaze on her ruined form a moment longer. She had to hide. Had to get away from those eyes that held so much pity. She would rather endure another beating than see that look on his face again.

She pushed herself up from the sofa, swallowing the cry that rose in her throat. Her vision swam, darkness encroaching at the edges as blood rushed from her head. One step. Then another. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to fold with each movement. The bedroom door seemed miles away, an impossible distance across the luxury apartment that mocked her broken state with its pristine surfaces and soft furnishings.

Don’t look at him. Don’t let him see what they’ve made of you.

Greyson took a step toward her, his arms reaching for her, preparing to help. She took a step away from him and his body froze mid-motion, his fingers curling into fists as he brought his arms back to his body.

She dragged herself forward, one arm wrapped protectively around her shattered ribs. She could feel Greyson’s eyes on her back, burning into her, but she didn’t turn. Couldn’t face the judgment, the disgust, the hatred that would be written there.

The bedroom door gave way under her touch, swinging open to reveal the only place she suddenly felt safe. Her gaze fixed on the bathroom door across the room. Just a little further. Just a few more steps and she could collapse in private, could let the tears come without an audience to witness her final humiliation.

Her foot caught on the bed’s edge, sending her stumbling. Pain exploded through her chest as her broken ribs protested the sudden movement. Still, she bit back the scream, refused to give voice to her weakness.

She made it to the bathroom, her hand closing around the doorknob as if it were a lifeline reaching out to her. She put her weight onto it as she dragged herself the last few steps into the room. The door swung closed as she let go of the knob and grabbed on the towel rack.

Only then did she allow herself to sag against the cool wall, legs finally surrendering to gravity. She slid down slowly, each inch a fresh torment, until she sat crumpled on the floor, knees drawn up as far as her battered body would allow, trying to catch her breath.

The marble tiles were cold against her skin, a small mercy in the inferno of pain that was her existence. She stared at her reflection in the glass shower door—a stranger looked back at her. A creature of bruises and blood, one eye swollen shut, the other haunted and hollow. Her face was misshapen, cheekbone possibly fractured, jaw bruised and tender. Her hair hung in matted strands, stiff with dried blood.