James 31
James
The door nearly blows off its hinges.
Warner absorbs the impact of our collision as gravity throws me forward, bracing himself in the doorway as I struggle to find my footing. I manage to grab hold of the frame, both of us hanging on as shock waves rock the world, shingles wrenching off the roof like pulled teeth.
My head is spinning.
Glass shatters into the house on a discordant blast of sound.
Wood slams against wood, hinges screaming, fixtures rattling.
Streetlamps flicker. Several car alarms are blaring.
I hear a distant clangor, the unintelligible groan of metal fading out in the distance.
Right away, I can feel that something is off.
I sense no fire. I feel no heat.
I blink slowly, my ears still ringing. The night air smells the same as it did five minutes ago. There appears to be no extensive damage to the buildings around us, nothing beyond a few blown-out windows.
This was no ordinary explosion.
I manage to get a look at Warner in the low light, and the expression on his face confirms my suspicions. He’s not looking back at me; he’s staring up at the night sky, where the moon is warping like swiftly moving water, as if the shield is working to sustain a blow.
The din around us reduces to white noise.
The house is still shaking when Warner meets my eyes. It’s the only warning I get before he pushes past me out the door. He bolts down the street like a blur of light, narrowly avoiding a bicycle skidding across the street. There’s no doubt in my mind where he’s going.
As he disappears in the distance, I step into the empty house, pulling the door shut behind me.
It latches with a rough clatter.
The tremors are beginning to settle, the ground steadying beneath me, but my head is pounding, pain pressing behind my eyes. I push forward into the empty hall; I can just make out the milky outline of the kitchen cabinets, doors swung open like gaping mouths.
Nervous energy prickles along my skin.
I don’t know for certain that Rosabelle is in here.
I only figured Warner might be here because after he and Kenji ignored all my calls and messages, I finally contacted Nazeera, who sounded a little freaked out when she said, “No, I have no idea where he is. Actually, I’ve been trying to contact him for a couple of hours.
I think his pager isn’t working, and Gabriel says he’s not in the office.
Everything is fine,” she added in a rush, sounding only a little frantic.
“Juliette is fine. I just—I can’t leave right now and everyone else has been out looking for him.
Are you on campus? Because, okay, I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s a small chance Warner is still at my house with Rosabelle and if you find him there can you bring him home?
I just talked to Noah and he said he’d dropped them off in The Waffle like half an hour ago—”
I might’ve hung up on her.
The rage running through my veins cooled only a little in the aftermath of the explosion. I’m still far from okay. In fact, I feel a little out of my mind. I draw an unsteady hand up along the walls, searching for light switches. I find a few. Hit a few.
Nothing works.
“Rosabelle?” I call out.
My heart beats harder.
If she was ever here, she might’ve bolted the moment she heard my voice. That thought alone pierces something inside of me, stealing my breath. I hate that I can’t keep her safe. I hate that I have no idea where she might’ve gone. I hate that I don’t know whether she’s been injured in this blast.
The house is too quiet.
I take a deeper step into the living room. “Rosabelle,” I try again. “Are you—”
A scene resolves in front of me like something out of my nightmares.
My heart seizes violently.
Her body is limp like a rag doll, slumped against the far wall. Moonlight slants across her small figure, illuminating her face, her hair like sheets of silver. Her eyes are closed.
Her lips are slick and red, slightly parted.
Blood is painted down her neck, streaked down her sweater, spattered across her listless, open palms. A glass pane the size of my hand has cleanly severed her throat.
A choked, broken sound cracks open my chest.
Rosabelle looks dead.
Truly dead.
I’ve known grief; I’ve buried bodies; but this feeling is somehow unlike anything I’ve felt before. It’s so colossal it seems to bury me with dirt from my own grave. I’m so heavy with it that for a moment I can’t move.
And then: denial.
This can’t be real.
I cross the room in a blind panic, falling to my knees in a sea of glass. She’s decorated in it. Jagged pieces large and small cling to her like grim jewelry, glittering in her hair, caught in the folds of her sweater—
hang in there
it gets worse
“Fuck,” I say desperately. I take her face in my hands. “Rosabelle, can you hear me?”
She doesn’t move.
Her face is cold and heavy. I think I’ve imagined the slight flutter of her eyelashes.
Her cheeks and nose are scratched all over, lightly bleeding.
I check her wrist for a pulse but it’s so slow I’m not even sure I’m sensing it.
I can’t do a proper assessment of her injuries in this light, but the cut at her throat looks so deep it’s hard to believe it didn’t sever her carotid artery or jugular vein.
I don’t know if she’s still alive. It’s possible she’s fainted from the blood loss.
My adrenaline spikes.
I anchor her head against my palm, loose shards releasing from her hair, catching between my fingers; then I adjust my position, kneeling more deeply in crushed glass. With my free hand I get a firm grip on the piece wedged in her throat, jagged edges biting into my flesh, drawing blood.
“I’m sorry, okay?” I say breathlessly. “I’m really sorry, this is going to hurt—”
My hands are miraculously steady as I tug, drawing the shard from her neck in gradual, agonizing movements that must be excruciating—but she doesn’t react. There’s no tension in her body. Even if she were feeling this, she couldn’t make a sound, because she’s almost definitely cut her trachea.
I nearly lose hope.
When I get the piece free, the profusion of blood is instant. Terrifying.
Rosabelle still doesn’t animate.
I toss the broken glass to the floor, where it clatters with other debris, and I hardly register the minor gash across my palm before flattening my hand against her cut.
Her skin is cold.
Panic and power surge in my body, coursing through my veins with uncharacteristic force, making me a little lightheaded. I can feel the tide of energy pushing out against my shaking palm, and I know I have to be careful. I know if I do too much I could hurt myself in the process.
But she’s showing no response to my efforts.
I’m transferring powerful energy into her body—much more than is strictly necessary—and I’m starting to worry it won’t be enough. I’m worried it’s too late. My strength is waning, my head growing lighter as the minutes pass. This is taking too long.
I can’t accept that she’s really dead.
I won’t.
The ground seems to sway beneath me. I’m feeling dizzy. I think I might’ve imagined the slight tremble of her hand.
I really need to draw back.
My heart is hammering, pain seizing my muscles. I’ve done this enough times to know the rules; once sufficient power has been transferred, it should be enough to finish the job required. I’m not supposed to bleed myself dry.
I just need her to open her eyes.
I just need her to look at me.
“Rosabelle,” I say desperately. “Please.”
I hear the slow, shimmering sound of loose glass before I feel her hand on my torso.
I stiffen, my breath catching.
Her eyes still don’t open.
Her fingers curl into my shirt like petals closing, the whisper of her touch sending electric feeling through my body.
The shock of relief is like a small heart attack.
I finally remove my shaking hand from her neck, blinking back a head rush as I look her over, trying to assess the remaining damage. The cut at her throat has healed. The scrapes on her face are gone. Her skin is flushed with color, warm to the touch. I watch her as she tries to swallow.
“Rosabelle,” I say again, my voice rough. “Baby, please, open your eyes.”
The effort seems to be more than she can manage.
Her eyelids tremble but remain closed; her lips part instead. I watch, transfixed, as she draws breath, her chest lifting, displacing shards of glass as she moves. My body is racked with tension.
My heart is out of control.
I take her face in my hands, her hair catching against my fingers, and gently draw my knuckles down her cheek.
All of her is like silk.
Moonlight catches the gentle curves of her face, her porcelain skin gleaming. Nothing about her feels real. She’s part star, something impossible, like she stepped out of my dreams. Like I might be dreaming right now.
“Please,” I whisper. “I know you’re tired, baby, but I really need you to open your eyes.”
Her head tilts back on a soft sigh, her hair shifting like quicksilver over my hands. Her eyelashes flutter. Her fists tighten in my shirt, drawing me closer.
I swallow, hard.
She shifts a little, and the words embroidered on her bloodied sweater catch the faint light again, the white thread glinting. The words kill me.
hang in there
it gets worse
Winston made that sweater as a joke for Nazeera years ago, right after she and Kenji broke up. I can’t believe Rosabelle is wearing it. Of all the things she might’ve found in this house—
“James.”
Her voice is threadbare. It drives sharp pain through my body.
She still hasn’t opened her eyes.
I carefully release her cheeks, catching her head as it falls back. She’s loose all through her limbs, her skin flushed, her body warm like a small engine.
“Rosabelle, can you hear me?”
Again, her eyelashes flutter. They don’t open.
She turns her face, pressing her cheek into the palm of my hand, and she sighs. I’m a fucking wreck.
And I realize, too late, that this is my own fault.
I did too much. I gave her too much.
Rosabelle already struggles to get enough sleep, and I basically gave her an intense sedative. It’s a standard part of the healing process—pretty much everyone falls asleep after being treated—but I held on for too long.
She should’ve been able to open her eyes.
She should’ve been more responsive by now.
A soft breeze pushes into the room through the broken windows, a tide of glass glimmering with sound, a reminder of so much chaos.
The entire night feels surreal.
The day’s events seem like a fading nightmare, like something I can hardly remember. But despite every horrific moment, I’m so relieved to be near her right now I don’t even know how to process this feeling.
I exhale shakily.
I stare at her face: her ethereal features; her starlit skin. I feel like I’m not really here, inside my body.
Gently, I wipe a bit of blood from her mouth, but she sighs against my thumb, her lips softly parting.
I draw her closer, sliding my free hand down her shoulder, trying to calm the violent pace of my heart.
Then, slowly, I scoop her up, shards of glass loosening from her clothes before raining to the floor.
I gather her in my arms like I’m fitting a key to a lock, and when Rosabelle presses her cheek to my chest she turns the key into place.
I sink down against the wall, exhaustion and relief draining what’s left of me.
For the first time in five days, I feel like I can breathe.