Chapter 49
HATCH
Harry’s old skiff barely makes a sound as I coast through the marsh from Wander to Old Stone Isle, the flat hull ghosting against the tranquil waters two football fields from the dock.
I tie it off at a crumbling dock just out of sight from everyone at the Old Stone Church ruins and slip onto the weather-petrified wood, every sense tuned for violence.
I keep low, my gun ready in my grip as I skirt from tree to tree in the forest surrounding the church and graveyard.
Through the trees and a gap in the crumbling stone wall, firelight flickers.
Voices carry, rough, male, arguing about money and when their speedboat will get there and who gets what cut.
The sound of men who think they’ve already won.
Jokes on you, fuckers. I’m about to outplay you all.
I count them as I approach. Two at the fire. One big, bald, and who I recognize from Castle’s card game. Jabber. The other is brown-haired, icy eyes that flash strangely in the light, and wearing a black coat that sits a little too big on his frame.
I don’t know the second guy, but I remember him from the club.
He insisted Alice come over and dance with Dee.
He’d given off weird vibes, but my allergies had acted up and Duchess showed me to the Sugar Room.
Before I could get back out, Lucy came in, and…
well, yeah—I forgot all about creepy eyes.
Guess I should’ve listened to my gut and put a bullet through his teeth. My mistake. Won’t happen twice.
More future-corpses are posted up throughout the ruins, although “posted up” is a stretch, because is strategy even on the island with us?
Two guys are playing cards, one more is painting the church wall with piss, then there’s Dorman hunched over his phone, and I saw two others floating around.
But nine men, and I can confidently say that the graveyard beneath their feet has more awareness than any of them right now.
But naturally, all of them are decked out to the nines in weaponry, because what do we do when we have incompetent security? We give them AKs, apparently. Jesus H. F. Christ.
I scan the area for any sign of my girl.
Deeper in the ruins, tied to a stone pillar in a small alcove, is X, beat to shit from the looks of it. But he’s breathing, and from the way his arms strain against the ropes, he’s still got fight in him.
About three yards away, Duchess is anchored to a headstone, head lolling, dried blood in her hair, and a few feet from her is—
I suck in a breath. My hands go numb, and I nearly drop my gun.
There near the far wall, slumped against a child’s headstone like a sick joke, is my Lucy.
Her arms are twisted behind her around the stone at what has to be a painful angle.
Even from here I can tell her wrists are raw and she’s exhausted, her small body folded in on itself and tugging at the ropes.
She’s in what’s left of a sweaterdress that, even despite the red color, still can’t hide the blood and grime staining it.
The mere sight of it has my vision blurring, but I slam my eyes shut and breathe until I’m focused again.
After that, I catalogue everything. Every body, every weapon, every angle.
The houseboat at the far end of the pier.
Behind it, a twenty-foot center console with an oversized engine.
My brain does what my brain does, assessing patterns, positioning, the geometry of violence.
I count lines of fire, escape routes, the distance between Lucy and the nearest threat.
It’s basically all card counting, except the cards are people and the stakes are the only thing I’ve ever given a shit about.
Alarm bells go off as black coat separates from the fire and stalks toward Lucy. I don’t catch what he says in the wind, but I get the gist from his body language just fucking fine. His gait is loose, arrogant, and Dorman’s reedy voice calls out from behind him. “Ooo… two minutes!”
The guy in the black coat grins and reaches for his belt.
No.
No. No. Not a chance.
I don’t have time to get to her from here or to free X to help me. I don’t have time for a plan. What I have is a boat engine ten yards back and about ninety seconds before that man puts his hands on her.
I move fast, back through the headstones littering the forest, back through the curtains of Spanish moss, back to the skiff at the petrified dock.
My boots spray dry sand behind me, making me nearly trip, but I make it to the dock and hop into the skiff to grab the throttle on the outboard and gun it.
The engine roars across the marsh, shattering the stillness.
I hold it for three seconds, long enough to sound like a boat approaching, then kill it.
It reverberates across land, and I’m already out of the skiff, boots hitting the sand, running back toward the ruins by the time the silence soaks in the echo like a sponge.
The men are scrambling back at their base. I can hear them, the clatter of weapons being picked up accompanied by shouts.
“You hear that?”
“That the boat? It has to be.”
Hm… what boat?
The firelight shifts as they mill around, aimlessly trying to figure out if whatever boat they’re waiting for is the one they just heard. They gravitate toward the pier, nowhere near my dock or Lucy, thank fuck, flashlights cutting through the dark as they peer across the water at nothing.
“False alarm!” Dorman calls, his voice sounding like it’s coming from inside a tin can. “Boat should be in here in ten!”
Good. Ten minutes. I can kill every man here in ten minutes. I think.
Odds will be way more in my favor if X ain’t off too bad and Harry wasn’t lying about his “wartime service.”
“Must’ve been a trawler passing through,” someone mutters. “Come on, Jabber. Let’s go check it out.”
Relief sags my shoulders as the two most competent-looking ones break from the pack.
The distraction bought me the window. While the rest regroup at the fire, arguing about whether it was their pickup or not, I slide through the ruins from the east side—the opposite direction from the skiff, the direction no one’s looking.
Which means I reach Lucy’s headstone from behind, keeping the crumbling wall between me and the firelight.
She doesn’t hear me until I’m already there, and when I crouch behind her, the unmistakable berry and cotton candy scent I’ve come to hate hits me first. The Pining is mixed with bitterness, cheap liquor maybe, and one small droplet rests like a beauty mark next to Lucy’s wet lips.
They gave her Pining. Son of a bitch, the fuckers gave her more Pining.
Her head lolls sideways when I touch her hair, revealing her bruised cheek and glassy, unfocused eyes. Unsurprisingly, her pupils are blown wide, completely swallowing her hazel-blue irises. Poor girl might as well be in Wonderland, for all she’s registering.
She searches my face like she’s seeing me for the first time, and the hope, followed by immediate disappointment and defeat, is a stab to the chest.
“Lucy.” I keep my voice low, gentle. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”
“It’s Pining.” Duchess chokes on a sob, and I cut my glare to her. I have no idea what the fuck happened but she is absolutely going to answer for how I left my girl totally safe and sound with her, and now she’s like this.
My jaw tightens. “How bad?”
“She-She was drugged twice. Liquid Pining the second time.” She sniffs. “Lots of it, oh God. What if she ODs?”
“That can’t happen,” I threaten the universe more than anyone else.
“Your meds…” I hear the disembodied voice and follow where it bounced out of the alcove.
Fuck, X looks way shittier than I would’ve liked.
He grimaces at me as he sits up straighter, looking at me through one eyes since the other’s swollen shut.
His lip is split, his speech is slightly slurred, and there’s a dark purple line on one side of his neck that looks like someone took a pipe to him.
“Do you have your meds?” he asks.
My fingers go to the injector in my pocket out of reflex, and he takes it as a yes.
“She needs a counteragent, or she’ll be under for hours. Or worse.” He swallows. “Try it. It’s better than the alternative, I swear.”
Try it?
I look at the syringe, remembering in crisp, vivid detail how Frog convulsed and foamed at the mouth from just one of my dosages.
But I didn’t start out at double the max, and even he indicated the experimental meds were able to ward off Pining.
Duchy’s eyes widen, only solidifying my uncertainty until she says, “I looked that stuff up when Alice stole it from you.” She nods. “That’ll work. It won’t kill the high entirely, but it’ll start dragging her back to earth.”
Game time decision, I curse.
“Fuck, I hope this works.”
I cover her mouth as gingerly as possible as I give her the shot, depressing the plunger to only the amount I started at six months ago, administering it into her bare thigh just under the raised hem—
Do not think of that. If that bastard did something to her, I will never forgive myself, and I don’t have the luxury to wallow in self-hatred right now.
Lucy cries weakly against my palm, but otherwise she doesn’t move, and my heart fucking breaks.
“Shh, shh,” I murmur as I pull out the needle. “I know, baby, I know. I’m sorry.” I hold her to me, though I don’t think she’s fully registering I’m even here. “But X said with as much as you’ve had, it’s the only way.”
I know from experience that the rush of pain in her veins is over as soon as it starts.
She tenses first, follow by a full-body shudder, then her instincts respond to me before her brain does, leaning into my chest, followed by a soft, trusting hum that escapes her throat.
My chest cracks, and I brush the hair from her cheek, cup her jaw, wipe away the poison from her mouth.
She’s cold. Too fucking cold. And her pulse, when I find it under her jaw, is fast and thready.
“Please be real,” she breathes.
Fuck, that guts me.