Chapter 4 Stand In The Flames
STAND IN THE FLAMES
American Horror Show - Snow Wife
Honeymonster
There’s blood everywhere. Thick and sticky on the tiles, sharp copper stinging my nostrils, the kind of smell that seeps into your tongue until you swear you can taste it. Normally I’d appreciate it – take my time, admire the colour, the way it slicks across skin like war paint. But not today.
Today, it’s just another fucking problem.
“Can you assholes stop trying to kill each other for one minute?” My voice cuts through the room like a hammer. “We’ve got bigger problems to deal with.”
Donnelly barely glances at me, eyes half-lidded, mean little slits that gleam when Silas makes that pathetic whimpering sound again. Donnelly’s mouth curls into a smirk that makes my fists itch.
“So? We’re here because we are a fucking problem.” He tilts his head, knife glinting. “And besides, he’s pretty when he screams.”
Before I can even step closer, Donnelly slams the blade into his thigh – deep, too close to the main artery for comfort. Blood spurts, painting the floor in fresh streaks. Silas’s jaw clenches, another whimper slipping out.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
Donnelly sighs like he’s just taken a drag of something sweet, that elusive first high from an addict’s drug of choice, expression softening in perverse satisfaction.
“Get a hold of him!” I bark.
Silas’s voice cracks, thin as paper. “C-can’t…” His eyes roll back. I can almost hear the shutters clanging down in his head. Donnelly crows in delight. “Try again next time, loser.”
That’s it. I lunge, aiming to wrench the knife from his hand, but Donnelly dances away – nimble bastard – barely acknowledging me as he turns his sadism inward. The blade slices across his forearm and he hisses through his teeth, pleasure lacing the sound.
Silas’s breath catches. The smell of iron floods the room again. My molars grind so hard I think I might crack one.
“Fine,” I mutter, voice low. “We’ll do it my way.”
I spin back to Silas – no, Ghost – and grip his shoulders hard, shaking him like I’m rattling loose screws from a jar. “Snap out of it. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let him win.”
But his eyes are fogged glass, body trembling, slipping away fast. Donnelly circles like a coyote, knife flashing, voice smooth as venom.
“That’s it. Good boy. Pain’s the only language you weak fucks understand.”
Something in me snaps. “Enough.”
My fist slams into Ghost’s chest, shoving him back into the wall with a meaty thud. His eyes widen – shock breaking through the haze – and before he can fade again, I drive my boot into his ribs. Once. Twice. Controlled, precise. The kind of hurt that grounds a man instead of killing him.
Ghost curses, sharp and real. Donnelly and Silas vanish like smoke. The tremors don’t stop, but the shutters creak open just enough for him to claw his way back.
My stomach twists with guilt. Hurting him never sits right, but it’s the only thing that works.
I crouch, hold my hand out. “It’s alright. You’re back. Let’s get out of here. Forget those two ever happened.”
Ghost blinks at me, lips twitching into the barest ghost of a smile. “Thanks. Needed that. They teamed up on me – then Donnelly turned on Silas. Thought he’d finish us off this time.”
“Nah. Mostly cosmetic damage,” I lie, eyes flicking to the blood soaking his leg, his shirt, the floor. Cosmetic my ass. “We’ll get you patched up.”
I hook his arm over my shoulder, bracing his weight.
That’s when Nightshade storms into view, filling the corridor like a thundercloud. His gaze rakes over the blood, the wrecked equipment, Ghost sagging between us. Every muscle in him hums with violence barely contained.
“What the hell happened here?” His voice is pure venom.
“Donnelly and Silas,” Ghost croaks, grimacing. “Things got heated.”
Nightshade exhales hard, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s all we fucking need.”
“We’re getting him to the med room,” I say. He doesn’t argue – just moves beside me, sharp and silent, but eyes darting constantly, alert for god-knows-what. I’m too distracted to ask.
The med room looks like hell. Broken glass, overturned tables, the smell of metal and bleach thick in the air. Nightshade doesn’t hesitate. He works fast, precise, cleaning and stitching with surgical efficiency.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” I ask, scanning the halls. “No guards, no staff, no Seytan. And what the hell happened in here?”
“The doc’s gone,” Nightshade says flatly.
Ghost frowns. “Gone? Why would—”
“You know Kayla’s missing. So is the doctor. We don’t yet know whether they were taken…or whether Calloway facilitated it.”
The words hit me like a live wire. My body goes cold, then hot. “Say that again.”
“You heard,” he bites out. “Chopper’s missing and everyone’s on high alert. Asylum’s going into full lockdown.”
Ghost’s voice breaks. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I was.” Nightshade’s hands don’t stop moving as he ties off a suture.
My chest caves in. For a second, I can’t breathe. Then rage floods in, bright and clean. “Who took her?”
“If I knew,” Nightshade snarls, “they’d already be dead.”
I slam my fist into the table, making the instruments jump. “She was right here! She was safe!”
“Safe?” Nightshade spits the word like it offends him. “No one’s safe in this fucking place. They called her property, Honey. Said the child she’s carrying belongs to the asylum.” The words drop like ice water. “They’ll hide her, run experiments, control it. I’m not letting that happen.”
For a heartbeat no one speaks. Then Ghost makes a broken noise. “Property— Wait, child? She’s fucking pregnant?”
“She’s carrying my blood,” Nightshade growls.
“She’s not their experiment,” I manage to force out, sickened.
Sure, we’re used to things going a certain way here, and I know that Kayla’s been subjected to a little of what goes on within the walls of the asylum, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
Hatchet’s been here the longest. He knows the most. And he won’t say a word about it.
But to do those things to a pregnant woman…to a child…
“Fuck.” I feel sick.
Nightshade finally looks at me, eyes wild and bright. “Then stop standing there and help me get her back.”
My jaw locks. There’s no hesitation anymore. “Tell me what you need.”
He finishes the last stitch, bandage tight and neat, then stands. “Valentine’s prepping another helicopter. We’re gone in thirty minutes.”
Ghost’s head jerks up. “You hacked the chip?”
Night shakes his head.
“So what, your plan is to waltz out, chip frying your brain, and take on whoever took her?” I demand. This is crazy. I’m all for rescuing Kayla, but we can’t do that if we’re all dead. And we will be the second we try to leave this island.
“I’ll deal with the fallout later. There has to be a way.” His voice is razor steel. “We find her, we get her back, and we end anyone who thinks she’s theirs. I have a plan but I need Bones. He has the connections we need.”
I swallow hard. My pulse is still thundering, but now it’s purpose, not panic. Ghost and I trade a look – half fear, half resolve. I sigh, teeth gritted. “Fine. But if you fry your brain, don’t expect me to scrape up the mess.”
Nightshade’s laugh is low, humourless. “I’m already dead. With Kayla gone, there’s nothing left.”
Ghost exhales shakily. “We’re all thinking it.”
He’s right. Kayla isn’t just gone. Someone took her, and every one of us feels it like a missing limb.
She may not have been here long, but she sure as hell made an impact on us all.
We finish patching Ghost up, then haul him upright, his leg trembling but stubborn.
Nightshade shoulders the door and we move, boots slapping the tiles in rhythm.
The asylum’s empty sound presses in – no guards, no nurses – only the steady flicker of lights and a metallic buzz that makes my teeth ache.
“Think he’s going to hold it together?” I ask Ghost quietly, nodding towards Night. But it’s not pity in my voice. It’s hunger.
“Nightshade?” Ghost shrugs, pale. “No.”
Good.
Let him be broken. Let him be dangerous.
Let him be the kind of monster who rips this place open if it means bringing her back.
We’ll stand in the flames with him.