by Kyla Stone
He had no idea where they were. They’d been led through cold and darkness and snow, bound and hooded, shuffling single file for probably five minutes, prodded with guns and tasers until they were forced up several sets of stairs, through a long, echoing corridor, and into this room.
Even if they knew where they were, it wouldn’t matter. There was no escape. No way out. And no one to come and rescue them.
“Let me at him!” Silas cried. “Get off me!”
He threw a punch at Micah. In his frenzied state, his arm flailed aimlessly. Micah easily ducked the blow.
“Stop this, Silas.” Amelia stood a few feet away. She was trembling, her arms wrapped around herself, her pale face streaked with tears. “Just stop!”
Micah glanced at Gabriel for help. But his brother looked ready to join in. He paced the narrow space like a caged tiger, his fists balled at his sides, his face dark with fury, his jaw muscles pulsing.
“Maybe you should just let Silas do it,” Celeste said wearily. She leaned against the wall next to the door, her wounded leg stretched out in front of her. The bandage over her thigh was stained red. Her features were pinched, her face ashen, a heavy line between her brows. “What more does he have to do to deserve death?”
“Why the hell are you protecting him?” Willow asked.
“He does deserve it.” If anyone deserved death, it was Horne. Jericho was dead because of him. They were all facing their own death because of his betrayal. He was a cringing, worthless coward. A murderer.
And yet. His gaze flickered to Benjie, who curled next to Finn, staring at them with stunned, unblinking eyes. Finn slumped against the wall, clutching his bloody shoulder, a stricken expression shadowing his face.
Benjie had witnessed enough violence today. They all had.
He bit the inside of his cheek. The sharp pain cleared his head. He forced himself to think, to calm down. He couldn’t let them do something they would regret. Be good. Be brave.
There was self-defense. And there was revenge. The difference between the two was murder. “But not here,” he said. “Not like this.”
“Fine!” Willow growled in frustration, but she grabbed Silas’s other arm and helped Micah shove him back against the wall. “Silas! That’s enough!”
Silas blinked as if coming out of a fugue. He stared at Willow, stunned to stillness.
“Listen to Micah,” she said more softly. “Please.”
The hardness in his face collapsed. “They killed him,” he whispered. Suddenly he looked much younger than he was, young and vulnerable and heart-broken. “They killed Jericho.”
“I know,” Willow said, her own face contorting. She shook her head, her hair falling away from her neck to reveal the angry red welt of the cigar burn. “I know.”
Micah’s heart wrenched. Waves of helplessness crashed over him. What could he do? He couldn’t do a thing to fix any of it. After everything they’d struggled and fought and suffered for, was it really going to end like this? With betrayal and hatred and death?
Silas jerked from their grasp. He spun with a vicious growl and punched the wall. He slammed his fists again and again, growling and grunting and hissing in pain. His knuckles split. Blood spattered everywhere.
“Silas! Stop!” Micah went to grab him again.
Willow seized his arm. “He needs to do this,” she said tightly.
“But—”
“Let him do it,” Amelia said, though she winced with every impact Silas’s fists made against the wall.
Finally, Micah nodded. He didn’t understand it, but Amelia and Willow seemed to. They both knew Silas better than he did. That was enough for him.
He backed away from Silas, who pummeled the wall like he could destroy it, like he could obliterate his grief and fear and panic if he could only punch hard enough.
In the far corner, Tyler Horne straightened. He rubbed the wetness from his face and smoothed his hair, raking it back into place. He cleared his throat. “I appreciate this, Micah. I’m sure once I get this misunderstanding straightened out, I’ll speak to Tobias on your behalf and—”
“Shut up!” Willow screamed, whirling on him. “Shut up! Shut up!”
“I didn’t do it for you.” Micah’s voice shook. “You betrayed us.”
“It wasn’t personal,” Horne whined.
“Jericho is dead because of you,” Amelia said. “We’re going to die because of you.”
Horne narrowed his eyes, suddenly indignant. “None of this would be happening if you’d banished Silas like I told you to. But none of you listened to me. You never do.”
“Enough!” Gabriel roared. He was shaking, his jaw tight, his dark eyes blazing. He strode past Micah, seized Horne, and lifted him off his feet.
Horne dangled, kicking ineffectively at Gabriel’s shins, his hands scrabbling desperately at Gabriel’s bulging arms. “Help me!”
“Gabriel—” Micah warned.
“I’ve got this.” Gabriel glanced back at him, their eyes meeting. “Trust me.”
He was angry, but his rage was restrained. He was controlled. And he was waiting for Micah’s permission. He wanted Micah’s approval. He wouldn’t kill Horne; Micah could see it in his eyes.
Micah wasn’t a killer, but he wasn’t a saint, either. His own righteous anger burned bright and hard in his chest. A little just punishment wouldn’t be the worst thing. Slowly, he nodded.
Gabriel dropped Horne. He sagged against the wall, batting ineffectively at his wrinkled jacket, the collar torn, unchastened and irate. “You savage monster, I always knew it was a mistake to free you—”
Gabriel punched him in the face, smashing in his nose with his fist. It was a single blow. But it was enough.
Horne’s head snapped back against the wall. His eyes rolled back in his head. He crumpled to the floor without a sound, unconscious. Blood streamed from his crooked nose and leaked into his lax, half-opened mouth.
Gabriel turned away in disgust, rubbing his bruised knuckles.
“Finally,” Celeste muttered.
“That asshole deserves so much worse,” Willow said.
“He does,” Micah said, his resolve coming back to him. “And he’ll get it. But not from us. We’re not murderers. And we’re not going to let scum like him turn us into something we’re not.”
“You’re right,” Gabriel said, surprising him.
Even Willow nodded. “He’s lucky we’re not like him, the slimy—”
“Lo Lo,” Benjie said, his voice quavering. “What’s wrong with Mister Finn?”
Willow rushed to Finn and Benjie. She knelt and hugged her brother. She pressed her forehead against his for a long moment. Then she turned to Finn. “How badly is he hurt?”
“He can hear you, you know,” Finn mumbled. “He is right here.”
“Finn, you big oaf,” Willow said. “How badly are you hurt?”
“Never…better.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why did I even ask?”
Micah crouched next to them with a twinge of guilt. They should have attended to Finn right away, but Silas’s attack on Horne had demanded their immediate attention. “Let’s check you out.”
Together, he and Willow carefully lifted Finn’s jacket, sweater, and T-shirt. Finn sucked in his breath. His skin was ashen. “There are easier ways to get me naked, you know.”
“Hush,” Willow muttered, her face flushing.
“Next time…” Finn said shakily, still managing to wink, “just ask me.”
“Stop moving,” Micah said.
The bullet had bitten into Finn’s upper shoulder. The wound was a small, puckered hole. Blood leaked down his arm, but less than he expected.
His own back and shoulder suddenly ached with phantom pain. The memory pulsed through him: the hoverboard park in the ritzy neighborhood, the cruel smirk of the bully who’d shoved him from the top of a concrete ramp, the agonizing pain as his right shoulder blade was shredded to the bone. He’d been twelve. Gabriel had crad
led him in his arms, carrying him the twenty-eight blocks home.
He glanced at Gabriel, who still paced, grimacing and rubbing his bruised knuckles. Gabriel had protected him back then. He was still protecting them now.
“Ow!” Finn cringed beneath his hands, bringing him back to the here and now. Micah pulled Finn gently forward and checked his back. “There’s no exit wound. The bullet’s still inside you. But maybe that’s a good thing, for now. There’s not a lot of blood. It missed major arteries.”
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 been 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.