The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  A bridge. Ten feet ahead. It was the closest thing. The only thing. She dropped on all fours and crept toward it, hoping the storm and the ambient noise would hide her movements.

  She shoved through several manicured bushes she didn't know the names of. Thorns and sharp twigs poked her face, scratching her arms.

  She broke through and slid down the pebbled bank into the water, careful to keep from splashing. The water was cold and three feet deep. She crouched low, the waterline at her neck, and swam beneath the bridge.

  The bridge arched above her, about six feet wide. Beneath it, the shadows lurked dark and heavy. As long as she wasn’t spotted slipping into the water, she should be—

  She bumped into something. Something bumped back.

  She stifled a screamed.

  Something wet and warm gripped her arm. “Shhh!”

  She blinked, her heart thumping, every nerve and cell in her body on high alert. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows.

  A girl her age stared back at her, the whites of her eyes glimmering.

  Willow recognized her as one of the richies who sauntered around the ship like she owned it—a tall, African-American girl with a cloud of coppery coils forming a halo around her face. Her features were perfect, with her full lips and sculpted cheekbones. Even in her fear, she looked like a creature from another planet.

  She blew out a breath.

  The girl dug her long, manicured fingernails into Willow’s forearm. She raised one finger to her lips.

  Willow nodded. Both girls lifted their heads toward the bridge above them and listened.

  Heavy footsteps clomped over the bridge. The voices came from both sides. “Status report.”

  “Found about ten hiding out in the ice rink. They had a few fire axes and one had a gun. We lost Cruz and Sampson. Took 'em all out, though.”

  “Keep going. I want every corner of this ship cleared. No more surprises.”

  “Got it.”

  Willow’s heart thundered louder, banging against her ribs. Surely, they would hear it. They would find them and then—

  “Get to it, then, you stinkin’ rat.”

  Two sets of boots stomped off the bridge toward the aft of the ship.

  “It's almost over,” a second voice said in a soothing tone. Female. An accent Willow couldn’t place. “We've got two more. Then the whole thing's ready to blow.”

  “I'm shootin' that little maggot myself.”

  “I’m sure you will. We've got a deadline to meet, first.”

  The second group strode off in the opposite direction, toward the stern.

  Willow counted the seconds in her head. They waited a full minute before either of them dared to move or breathe.

  The girl started to cry, tears leaking down her cheeks. “I was with my girlfriend, Kendyll, in the casino. We heard the stupid muster call, but we were on a lucky slot machine and she was up six thousand bucks. And now—now she's dead.”

  She took a gasping breath. “They just stormed in, like this solid black wall . . . they killed so many people. Just—just shot them, as if they were nothing.”

  “I know.” A chill spiked up Willow’s spine. Her brain couldn't focus. It kept dragging her back to the conversation they'd overheard. She repeated the sentences over and over in her head.

  “I ran—I just . . . What was I supposed to do?”

  “I know. It's okay. I’m Willow. What’s your name?”

  “Celeste Kingsley-Yates. What do we do now?”

  She lifted her wrist out of the water, exposing her wristband. “My first thought was to head to the crew quarters to hide out in a cabin until the Navy or whoever comes to rescue us. But I need to—”

  “You can open the staterooms?”

  “It's my mom's. She has access. But I’m not going—”

  But Celeste moved away from her. They swam out from beneath the bridge, checked their surroundings, and climbed out.

  Water dripped down Willow’s arms and legs. Her dress stuck to her wet skin, drenched. She pulled at the fabric, rolled it into a ball, and squeezed.

  Celeste stumbled on the path, twisting her ankle.

  “Take off your shoes,” Willow said. “It's a miracle you haven't broken something.”

  Celeste straightened with a scowl, but she obeyed. She tossed her heels into the stream, stiffening at the sound of the splash. But no one else was near enough to hear. Even drenched from head to foot, Celeste oozed sophistication and class. She’d been born with it. “What are you waiting for? Let's go.”

  But Willow couldn't move. Her muscles refused to work. “Something's wrong.”

  Celeste fisted her hands on her hips. “Hello? That’s the understatement of the century.”

  “Those pirates or terrorists or whatever they are. What they said—”

  “Who cares? Let's just go!”

  Dread scrabbled up her spine. “They were talking about bombs.”

  Celeste's eyes widened. “What?”

  “They're wiring the ship with explosives.”

  “No . . .”

  “Yes. They're gonna blow up the ship.”

  “Then what do we do?” Celeste cried, her voice tinged with hysteria.

  “Be quiet!” Willow's gaze flicked up and down the mosaic path. Still nothing. “Maybe the lifeboats. But those are probably guarded to keep anyone from escaping. But that’s not where I’m going.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t hide or go for the lifeboats. I have to get my brother first.”

  “The only thing to do is to save yourself. Everything else is stupidity. You'll just get yourself killed!”

  Every word Celeste spoke was truth. Willow longed to flee with her, to get the hell out while she still could. Every second she delayed risked her own life. But she had to find Benjie. She couldn't leave him, even with the ship about to go down in flames.

  Her mom was an adult. She would take care of herself. But Benjie needed her more than ever.

  She had to save him. She had to at least try. It was the least she could do after—but she refused to let her mind go there. “I'm sorry. I can't.”

  Celeste pursed her lips. “You’re being utterly ridiculous.”

  It would be so easy. Just one step. Take one step toward Celeste and the decision would be made. Think of yourself. Save yourself.

  Instead, images of Zia's broken body flooded her mind. She couldn't. What good would her life be if she couldn't bear to look at herself in the mirror?

  She had to do this. She had no choice. “Look, you can come with me. But I’m not hiding. And I’m not going to the lifeboats without my brother.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “I have to do this.”

  “Just give me the wristband!” Celeste's eyes burned bright and feverish. “I'll find a stateroom to hide in. I’ll wait for you.”

  Willow looked at her. She took a step back. “That doesn’t make sense. And I can't give you the key. I’m sorry, but I might need it.”

  “I'll wait for you. I just said that, didn't I?”

  “Look, it's nothing personal.”

  Something passed over Celeste's face in the dim magenta lighting. The light changed to yellow, flickering in the shadows beneath Celeste's eyes like a ghoulish flashlight. The skin around her eyes and mouth tightened, masklike.

  Her gaze flicked to Willow's wrist.

  She lunged for Willow at the same time Willow jumped backward. Celeste pushed her, and they both stumbled.

  Celeste grabbed her ankle. She kicked hard, connecting with soft tissue.

  Celeste squealed, but it was low, stifled.

  Willow clambered to her feet on the path, the mosaic tiles undulating, shifting from palest pink to sherbet orange to pulsing violet. She was out in the open, exposed. Any terrorist might see them from one of the balconies above. She moved back toward the coral-shaped bushes.

  “Look what you did!” Celeste rubbed her nose and wiped her hand on her dre
ss, leaving a swath of red. Blood dribbled down her lip.

  “You started it.” The words barely left her mouth before Celeste attacked again.

  Celeste ran at her but stumbled. Her soaking wet dress clung to her thighs, restricting her movement. Willow danced out of her reach.

  The ship rocked. Celeste tripped on a jutting tile. She dropped to her hands and knees, breathing hard.

  “I'm faster than you are,” Willow said.

  Celeste’s shoulders slumped, her face crumpling. She stared at Willow, her eyes huge with terror. “I’m sorry, okay? Don't leave me. Please.”

  Pity sprouted in her heart. Underneath her posh clothes and her bluster, Celeste was as scared as everybody else. They were all just humans now, made equal by fear and a desperate desire to survive.

  “Then come with me. But I told you, I’m not hiding. I’m going to Deck Fourteen to rescue my brother.”

  “That’s suicide.”

  “Maybe. But I’m going. Are you coming?”

  Celeste went rigid. “No way. I can’t.”

  “Then I can’t help you.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Willow sighed. “Try to reach the lifeboats, or hide nearby. Be careful.”

  Celeste just stared at her, confusion and terror warring across her face. “You’re really going up there?”

  She took a breath. “I am.”

  She left Celeste kneeling in the pathway. She didn’t like the thought of being alone any more than Celeste did. But she had no choice. Benjie was her priority.

  She slipped through the bushes, advancing as quickly as she could without moving the foliage too much. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickled. Was someone on one of the balconies above her, watching her through their scope, about to pull the trigger?

  Her legs trembled. Weakness overtook her, her muscles about to give out. She forced herself to move one foot in front of the other. She couldn't give up. She wouldn't.

  The rain hammered the transparent roof. Thunder boomed. The ship tilted and rolled. She stumbled, her ankle groaning in agony.

  She only knew one thing for certain.

  She had to save her brother.

  33

  Amelia

  “I should kill you.” Amelia pressed the blade against Gabriel’s throat.

  He knelt in front of her, his dark eyes furious.

  She won. For once in her life, she’d won. She’d manipulated him into falling for her, into dropping his guard. Now it was her turn. She was supposed to strike without mercy. To save herself.

  But still, she hesitated.

  Behind the rage and betrayal in Gabriel’s eyes, she saw the pain. The confusion, hurt, and helplessness wrapped in cords of rage.

  Part of her mind screamed at her to stab the knife into his neck. She had every right. He was a terrorist. A kidnapper. A murderer.

  And yet.

  “I’m supposed to kill you before you kill me. That's all we do, isn't it? Both sides—every side—we hate each other and fight each other, and when we get the chance, we go for the jugular. And all our talk is just jockeying for position, hunting for weakness. It's not really listening to each other. It's not trying to understand or make things better.”

  Blood trickled down his neck. They were so close. Dark stubble smudged his jawline like charcoal. His breath warmed her cheek. The glow of the holographic creatures tinged his skin blue.

  “Just do it.”

  “I'm not done.” She was about to unravel, thin threads of herself rippling off and floating away. “I—I don’t want to kill you. I don't want to. Your brother said you were good. He said there was goodness in you. He told me to find it. I think I did.”

  Gabriel wasn’t evil. She didn’t believe that. She couldn’t. She’d read people her entire life, her father especially.

  Gabriel was nothing like her father. Compassion existed inside him. Empathy, mercy, kindness. She’d seen it.

  Gabriel was flawed. His actions were wrong, but his cause wasn’t. His willingness to sacrifice and die for something larger than himself, to take charge of his own future and fight to change it for the better—she respected that, envied it, wanted it for her own.

  She couldn’t live in the tiny box her father had built for her, thinking his thoughts, believing his beliefs, doing only what he wanted, playing the part perfectly but never really living, never making her own choices.

  Choice required risk. And sacrifice.

  She held the words carefully on her tongue, like they might break apart in her mouth. “Everything I said before, I meant. Every word of it. I'm asking you to take a huge risk. I'm asking you to change. But I can't ask that of you if I'm not willing to do the same, can I?”

  He stared at her dully.

  She took the knife away from his neck. She folded the blade into the handle and held it out to him on her open palm. “This is me, taking that risk. This is me finding the good in you.”

  Amelia leaned against the viewing window, facing away from the black water lashing the glass. Gabriel sat beside her, his head back, his eyes closed. For this moment, at least, the strain in his face had relaxed.

  His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, his lips parted. He looked beautiful in the dim light—both strong and fragile at the same time.

  She rubbed her red, swollen fingers and breathed deeply, storing up each second of quiet calm. It wasn’t safety—they certainly weren’t safe, not yet.

  What still faced them was too terrifying to think about. But for this moment, at least, they had peace.

  Her thoughts turned toward her family. Where was her mother? Her father? Her brother? Were they safe? Were they in pain, terrified and suffering?

  Fear and dread curdled her stomach. What was Silas doing now? Was he still alive, or—

  She refused to let herself think those thoughts. The last words they’d spoken to each other were spiteful and angry. She couldn’t bear the idea that she’d never get a chance to make it right.

  Her mind drifted back to the last conversation she’d had with her brother. Two days ago, the day before the Prosperity Summit, she and Silas had lounged on beach chairs beneath a cabana, sipping margaritas and gazing at the white sand and glittering turquoise waters of the private beach in Ocho Rios.

  Sweat had trickled down the base of her neck. All around her, people chatted, dozed, or enjoyed massages in their cabanas. Service bots hovered between the lounge chairs, offering guests chilled fruit kabobs and frozen drinks. Little kids frolicked at the shoreline, splashing in the gentle waves. But she couldn’t focus on the paradise in front of her.

  “Can we talk?” she asked. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

  He slouched deeper in his chair. “That’s because I have been avoiding you all week.”

  She hated this separation, like a wall stood between them instead of less than a foot of empty space. “Don’t be like that. Silas, please.”

  “What do you want?”

  I want my brother back. Silas's harsh words from earlier in the week echoed in her head. They used to be so close. They barely had to exchange words to know what the other was thinking.

  Amelia grabbed the waterproof case her mother put her meds in and wrapped the strap around her wrist. She stood and held out her hand. “Will you go on a walk with me?”

  “Whatever.” Silas hauled himself to his feet. “Hurry it up. That lounge chair is calling my name.”

  She followed him to the shoreline. “Can I ask you something?”

  He raised his eyebrows in that sarcastic, flippant way of his. “You’re already asking.”

  The soft white sand squished between her toes. A mile of pristine beach stretched before them, palm trees and jungle undergrowth on one side, a gentle turquoise sea on the other.

  She could live the rest of her life in a place like this. So peaceful, with no expectations or demands, free of the stress and anxiety always twisting her stomach. “Why did you
quit hover-hockey?”

  “Because I wanted to. You should try it sometime.”

  “But what about Father?”

  Silas scowled. “What about him?”

  “He’s upset.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “How can you say that?” Her chest tightened. The way her father looked at Silas, with such scorn and contempt in his gaze, if he bothered to look at him at all. “He’s treating you like you don’t exist.”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  He quieted for a moment. The sounds of laughing children and screeching seagulls filled the air. “I’m done, Amelia. And you should be, too.”

  “With what?”

  He made an irritated sound in his throat. “Don’t be obtuse. It’s unbecoming.”

  “Please don’t be like that.”

  “Just stop. Stop being weak and subservient, just like Mother. It’s pathetic. Stop hanging your happiness on his every word.”

  The waves lapped her feet. The clear water glimmered like glass. She should be angry at him, but instead of anger, fear washed over her, sucking at her like an undertow. “That’s not fair.”

  He stopped walking and turned to face her, one fist shoved into his shorts’ pocket, the other swinging his wine bottle. “He's not a god, like everyone thinks he is. One of these days, he's going to topple and fall down his own mountain.”

  “Why do you hate him so much?”

  “Why don't you hate him enough?” Silas shot back.

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Because how could she explain it? How do you hate the man who saved your life? How do you hate the person you've spent so much of your life desperately trying to please? To make yourself worthy of his sacrifice? Of his love?

  He had never hit her. Never raised his voice or yelled at her. How could she hate him?

  Her feelings for her father were a dark, complicated knot. She couldn't separate the tangled strands of love, resentment, respect, and fear. “You don’t understand.”

  Silas reared back as if she’d slapped him, his face contorting. “I don’t understand? Are you serious? Oh, that’s right. How could I forget? You think you’re special, the only broken one.”