by Kyla Stone
Finn groaned. “Are you a doctor, then?”
“Yes, he is,” Willow said. “Now shut up.”
Amelia hovered over his shoulder. Her face was pale as the pristine white walls surrounding them. “Should we try to get the bullet out?”
“We’d only do more damage.” Micah tore strips from the cleanest sections of Finn’s discarded shirt and handed them to Willow. “We need to keep pressure on it. We’re going to try to wrap it, okay? We need to keep pressure on it. This might hurt.”
“Please not Willow,” Finn mumbled. “She’s not gentle like a…teddy bear…or a cuddly blanket.”
Micah rocked back on his heels, frowning in concern. “He’s going into shock.”
“Nah, he always talks like that.” Willow wound the cloth around Finn’s shoulder. “Stop acting like a baby, you big overgrown troll.”
“Thank you.”
Willow grunted as she gently pulled down Finn’s shirt. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Would it offend you…if I take it as one?”
“You should save your energy and rest,” Micah cut in. “You’ll need it later.” He took off his own jacket and draped it over Finn’s chest. They needed to keep him warm. What Finn really needed was antibiotics, a hospital, and a robotic surgeon, but there was nothing Micah could do about that.
Silas stopped punching the wall. He turned and faced them, his hands hanging limply at his sides. Blood dripped from his fingertips and splattered on the white floor. “He’s going to die anyway. We’re all going to die, anyway.”
Willow glared at him. “Not helpful!”
Benjie started to cry. “Is that true, Mister Micah?”
“No,” Micah lied. “Finn’s going to be fine.”
“It’s the darkest…before dawn, right, Sir Benjie?” Finn managed to smile at Benjie, even as he gritted his teeth against the pain. “We’re knights…trapped in the dungeon of the dragon’s lair. It looks hopeless…but we’ll find a way out…if we’re clever and brave.”
“Okay,” Benjie said, his face brightening a little.
Wincing, Finn leaned gingerly against the wall. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, his face going slack. “Besides…we’ve been in worse situations.”
“Really? When?” Willow muttered.
“I’ll have to…get back to you on that.”
Some part of Micah wanted to laugh, crazily, defiantly, madly. Another part of him longed to break down and sob. He thought of Virginia Woolf’s words: The beauty of the world…has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder. It was true. He felt like he was split down the center of himself. This life was harsh and tragic, but it was also beautiful, and he loved it. In spite of everything, he loved it.
He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want any of them to die. But even if they did, even if these dark, painful hours were the last he spent on this earth, it would be worth it. They made it worth it—his friends, these people he cared about, loved.
Gabriel placed his hand on Micah’s shoulder. It was the first time they’d touched since before the Grand Voyager.
Micah didn’t flinch or push him away. He didn’t know how he should or shouldn’t feel. His whole body was a tornado of fear and grief, panic and dread. But this was his brother. This was Gabriel.
“I’m right here,” Gabriel said simply.
Tears stung his eyes. “I know.”
“Don’t give up on us yet, brother.”
He felt hollowed out. Was this it? Was this the end for all of them?
But it wasn’t in him to give up. It wasn’t in him not to believe, not to love, not to hope. “I won’t.”
24
Amelia
Hours passed. It felt like days. Amelia did not sleep. She couldn’t. She couldn’t stop shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm, to keep still, to keep her brain from shattering into a thousand pieces.
The fluorescent bulbs integrated into the ceiling never turned off. The glaring light burned into her eyes. Hour by hour, the others finally fell into exhausted, restless sleep. All except for Amelia, Gabriel, and Silas.
She tugged her charm bracelet out of her shirt and closed her fingers around its familiar shape. “Hey,” she said softly. “Are you awake?”
Silas grunted. He had finally stopped punching the wall, settling down enough to collapse beside Amelia. His tense body radiated grief, pain, and rage. His hands were bruised and bloodied, the flesh over his knuckles raw and shredded. Blood smeared his cheek.
He stared blankly at nothing, his hands lying limp on his lap. She didn’t know how to reach him. He felt like a stranger.
“Can you talk?”
“You’re talking now.”
“I’m sorry, Silas. I’m sorry for Jericho. I know how much he meant to you.” Jericho was dead. There was no turning back time to do something differently, to somehow alter fate. He’d been a fixture in her life for six years. She’d always felt safe with him.
But it was Silas who grieved for him most deeply. She knew that. Jericho had never been rude or dismissive; he’d always been respectful, had always protected her. But he’d never taken an interest in her like he did with Silas, taking her brother under his wing and teaching him everything he knew about guns and combat and war. Jericho had loved Silas in a way that their real father never had.
“What are you sorry for? You didn’t kill him.”
“It’s what people say, Silas. I’m trying…I’m trying to help you.”
“Well, you can stop trying. I don’t need your help.”
She loved him dearly, but he was so hard, always bristling with contempt and rage. Most of the time, she just let him be. But now the gulf between them stretched vast as a canyon. “Why are you fighting me so hard?”
“Don’t you get it?” His voice was raw and gritty, like it was being dragged from somewhere deep inside him. “I’m the reason he’s dead. I may as well have pulled the trigger myself.”
She felt like a hand had reached inside her chest and ripped her heart out. “Oh, Silas—”
“I know what I did,” he snarled. “I know this is all because of me, that we’re going to die—that you’re going to die—because of me.”
She longed to touch his face, to pull him into her arms and comfort him, to take his pain and grief and self-loathing away. But he would never let her. “I don’t blame you for this, Silas. You made a decision in the heat of the moment. I didn’t agree with it, but you didn’t intend to shoot an unarmed kid.”
Silas made a sound like a wounded animal.
“You didn’t kill in cold blood. These people did. These people are to blame for this.”
He didn’t answer. She didn’t expect him to. He flexed and unflexed his fists in his lap. His hands were trembling.
She pressed the violin into her palm until it indented the skin. She couldn’t leave him like this, suffering like this. “You aren’t alone. There are people who care about you, who love you. I love you.”
He said nothing.
“Jericho loved you, too.”
Her words were met with silence.
She tried to think of something to say, to keep him talking. He couldn’t keep everything bottled up inside. It would destroy him. She had to find a way to reach him. “I’m glad you had Jericho. I know Father wasn’t exactly loving. Especially to you.”
Silas scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, leaving a fresh streak of blood across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. “He was a world-class asshole.”
That old, familiar pain burrowed inside her. If she had to lose memories, why couldn’t she lose those? All those years of never measuring up, always striving for perfection and failing. The deep, soul-wrenching shame she’d felt every time Declan Black stared through her with disdain in his eyes.
Their father had trapped them both in a gilded cage of shame, anger, and fear. It didn’t matter how hard they tried or how perfect they were, it had never b
een enough. “I’m not sure if he ever loved us.”
Silas’s voice was filled with bitterness. “To hell with him.”
Across the room, Finn groaned as he shifted position, his face sharp from pain. Willow and Finn slumped against the wall, Finn half-sideways, his head on Willow’s shoulder, Benjie curled into a fetal ball on their laps, Finn’s coat draped over him.
Horne cowered in the corner, facing the wall, unconscious or asleep. Micah and Celeste had spread their jackets beneath their heads and stretched out next to Gabriel, who sat facing the door, his hands balled into fists on his knees. His face was drawn, the muscle over his jaw twitching. His eyes smoldered with fury, but when he met her gaze, they softened.
Her stomach lurched. She looked away.
She stared down at the permanent indentations on the pads of her fingers. She couldn’t think about him right now, what she did or didn’t feel. None of it mattered anyway if they all died tomorrow. “We’re not going to die here. We’re going to get out. Somehow, we’re going to rescue Mother. We’ll get her back and then—”
Silas snorted. “And then what? Even if we survive, even if she’s somehow still alive, you think everything will be rainbows and unicorns? It won’t make a bit of difference. Not for me.”
She glanced at him, confused. “What?”
His lips twisted in a sneer. “You were always the favorite.”
The realization came slowly, like a stone sinking in cold, dark water. “You’re not talking about Father.”
His silence said everything.
Even as she spoke, she knew. A cold, dull dread stole over her. “You mean Mother.”
Her mind scrolled back through the years, through hundreds—thousands—of memories, some still foggy and unclear. But she knew.
All the times they were both in the room, but her mother spoke only to her. The way her mother’s gaze would sort of slide over him, like he was an ornamental piece of furniture or a service bot. All the times her mother would brush back her hair or press her shoulder gently, but never touching Silas. She couldn’t recall a single hug or handshake or…anything.
The words were razors in her throat. She forced them out. “You think…she doesn’t love you.”
He clenched his fists. Blood oozed from the cuts in his knuckles. “She never did.”
It was true. She knew it was. What made them so different? Why did her mother love her and not Silas? It made no sense—
And then she understood. Amelia was not Declan Black’s biological child. Silas was. Amelia was pale and blonde and reserved. She had none of her father’s dark, bristling energy, none of his disdain or contempt or innate cruelty.
But Silas did. Silas was so like his father. He shared the same lean, wolfish face and sharp gray eyes as Declan Black. He was cold, proud, contemptuous, and petty.
Her mother did not love her son. She did not love Silas because Silas belonged to Declan Black. The man she’d chosen to marry solely to save Amelia. The man who humiliated and debased her with his cruelty, his tyrannical control, his verbal and emotional abuse.
Her mother hated him. And because she hated the father, she also hated the son. “Oh, Silas.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Silas hissed between clenched teeth. “Love is a weakness.”
“No, it isn’t.” She was his sister. She should have been there for him. Instead, she’d let him protect her. Sacrifice for her. Shoulder their father’s wrath for her. And she’d given him so little in return.
She should have forced through his defenses, loved him wholly and completely and watched out for him the way he’d protected her. She’d thought she had, but she could see now that she hadn’t. Not enough. Not like she should have. “Love is everything that matters. The only thing that matters.”
He grunted, his expression stony.
But she still saw the pain reflecting in his eyes. She knew him better than anyone. “Please, talk to me.”
“I just did.” He turned his face, retreating into hostile, bristling silence.
Amelia grabbed her brother’s hand.
He flinched as if she’d branded him. He tried to jerk away.
She’d always let go before. He’d spent his life pushing others away. She, of all people, should have pushed back. Should have seen what was right in front of her. That she at least had a mother who loved her.
She had a mother who would do anything for her. And Amelia would do anything for her mother. Silas only had Jericho, but it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Now Jericho was dead, and Silas had no one.
Not no one. He had Amelia. He had his sister.
“I love you,” she said softly. “No matter what.” Maybe it was too little too late. She could never make up for the years they’d lost or the pain and loneliness he’d suffered.
They were facing death. Facing the end. As the last hours ticked down, she would do what she should have done all those years ago.
She gripped his hand, slick and bloody and pulling away as hard as he could. She didn’t let go.
She held on.
25
Gabriel
Gabriel’s red and gritty eyes burned. His muscles ached from the hours of tension and panic. He had no idea how long it had been since they’d been thrown in this room without food or water. Several hours, at least.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, but the others needed it more than he did. So he stayed awake, watching and thinking. The seconds, minutes, and hours ticked by, leading inexorably toward morning, toward their execution by fire.
He did not fear his own death. After the Grand Voyager, he’d longed for release from his overwhelming shame and self-loathing—from the haunting nightmares of the girl in the bright yellow bathrobe, her tiny body crumpled in death, her vacant eyes eternally accusing him of his own culpability.
Nadira had given him a reason to live, a purpose. He’d done what he could to earn his redemption, to pay penance for the things he’d done. But it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing could ever be enough.
He didn’t fear death. Not his. The terror that choked his throat was for the others in this room, the people he cared about more than anything. The people he loved.
Micah and Amelia first and always, but he cared for Benjie and Finn and Willow, too. Even Celeste had grown on him.
And Jericho, too. But now Jericho was gone. If someone was going to save them, it would have to be Gabriel.
Even now, when things seemed so hopeless, he refused to give up. Micah hadn’t. Nadira wouldn’t, if she were here. He slipped his hand inside his pocket and fingered the blue cloth, soft as velvet now from his constant touch.
Micah had faith. He believed there was a purpose for everything, just like their mother had, always rubbing her Catholic beads. If there was a purpose in Nadira’s sacrifice, maybe it was so Gabriel could save them now.
If only he could figure out how.
There was a sound outside the door. Several new cracks appeared in the smooth white door. Two vertical black lines and two longer, horizontal ones. There was an electronic hiss and part of the door retracted, revealing an open rectangle approximately one foot long by two feet wide.
Cleo, the vicious Indian girl with the shaved head and purple braids, stood on the other side of the door. One of the other Pyros, the guard Cleo had called Li Jun, waited just behind her.
Cleo pointed a rifle through the opening in the door. Her white teeth flashed threateningly. “Good morning, bitches.”
Gabriel leapt to his feet. Amelia and Micah clambered to their feet more slowly, wiping the grogginess from their weary, grief-stricken faces. The others remained on the floor.
She hammered back the slide and aimed her gun at Gabriel’s chest. “Hector was a good kid. Nothing like his father. Such a shame you had to go and murder him.”
Gabriel didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. He stood closest to the door. He could keep her attention and take the brunt of her wrath. If she was going to shoot s
omeone, he’d make sure it was him.
Maybe it would be a blessing to die quickly by bullet rather than slowly, tortuously, burning in agony for who knows how long. But he couldn’t bring himself to stand by and watch someone else he cared about die. “What do you want?”
“Maybe I won’t wait until tomorrow. Maybe I’ll just shoot you all now.”
“It’ll be faster,” Silas muttered from where he sprawled on the floor.
She cocked her eyebrows at him. “What happened to your hands? Did the wall attack you?”
He glowered at her. “First chance I get, I’m going to carve your heart out with a rusted spoon.”
Cleo sneered. “And I’m gonna cut off your balls and hang them from your ears.”
Silas gazed up at her, nonplussed. “Sounds unpleasant. I dare you to try.”
Cleo only rolled her eyes. “Now that introductions are out of the way…” The gun muzzle tracked around the room, coming to a stop on Willow. “Maybe I’ll be generous and just kill one of you. You spit on me.”
Willow surged to her feet. “You burned me!”
“You deserved it.”
Willow tried to shove past Gabriel. “Choke on a cactus, you stupid—”
“Play nice,” he hissed. He pushed her back, keeping her behind him. “Leave her alone. Kill me instead.”
He balled his hands into fists, ready to spring into action. The second her attention strayed, or the guards were distracted. Maybe he could fit his arm through that opening and reach the lock on the other side. He could wrestle the gun from her and turn this all around …
Cleo studied him. Her sharp gaze traveled slowly around the room. She swiveled the gun and pointed it at Amelia. “Or maybe…I’ll kill her.”
Amelia sucked in a startled breath.
Gabriel’s heart surged in his chest. No one was hurting Amelia on his watch. He’d give his own life for hers in a heartbeat. He stepped in front of the gun, blocking Cleo’s view. “I said take me instead.”
