This is a scene featuring Blythe and Ghosteye. All the usual stuff remains true: content is subject to change, there may be typos and grammar mistakes, as well as continuity errors.
For those who have already read the first book: the Decemviri has been changed to a corporation called Kirkwood (after feedback from other readers, I decided to make this change).
With all that in mind, read on! Oh, and if you’re interested in reading along as I do my first draft, please leave a comment below. I plan to get that up and running soon.
Ghosteye laughed. “Listen, I don’t really think Beth’s going to be able to turn these, well, refugees, really, into soldiers before something needs to be done. To save Ramone, I mean. You’re still planning to launch a rescue, aren’t you?” He hobbled along beside her, occasionally wincing when his foot bumped against the inside edge of his crutch.
“Look, no offense, but I’m not sure I want anyone getting in my way. With that injured foot, you’d be in my way,” she said, glancing down at the thing. An oversized sock covered it and a mess of leaves and brambles stuck to the fabric.
“Of course not. But you need me. And you could use Marci. We’ve been a team before. We can work together again,” Ghosteye said in a level voice. “Look, I’m the last one in the veritable universe who wants to ‘work together.’ Why do you think I became an Editor? Because I work best alone. I hate groups. This is all different, though. A life depends on this. Ramone’s life.”
He stopped, having whispered that last part, and Blythe turned. His face had gone more pale than what it normally was.
“What’s wrong?” Blythe asked, cocking her head to one side.
“This is Ramone, Blythe. He’s special, somehow. You know it. We all know it. That’s why we’ve given up our normal lives for him. You, me, Marci. We’re not the only ones who get it. All these people are here for him, not Beth. Not for some idealized rebellion. For Ramone. Don’t let your pride, or whatever it is, crush Ramone’s chance for surviving whatever they’re doing to him. He needs us.”
Briefly, Blythe considered smacking Ghosteye in that pertinent, British-looking face for calling her out on her pride. Who did he think he was? She could just see his spiky hair—floppy this morning—responding in a satisfying jolt from the tiny assault. Instead she narrowed her eyes into a begrudging glare. “Nice one. You’re lucky I don’t believe in responding to verbal abuse with physical abuse. Otherwise you’d have my handprint on your pasty white cheek.”