Chapter 15 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
I go painfully solid.
The unchecked scream of his voice inspires in me a fear so great I can hardly move. In fact I have to summon the courage to
turn around, my heart hammering, as I brace for the sight of him.
When I do, the last of my strength nearly leaves my body.
James is charging toward the plane, dragging a rolling safety ladder behind him. It takes me a moment to fully comprehend
what I’m witnessing: he’s shirtless and bloodied, illuminated in the ghostly red and green nav lights of the aircraft. A makeshift
sling is wrapped around his right arm. Rain is pelting him, streaking through dried blood, rivers of red snaking down his
torso. I see the shape of his plan immediately, and my throat constricts as I assess the risk, the improbability—
There’s no way he’s going to make it.
He shoves the ladder in the direction of the aircraft, then sprints to catch it, jumping onto its bottom step, grabbing the
safety rail and hauling himself up the stairs as it careens toward the moving plane, crashing against the far side of the
body with a destabilizing tremor.
I hit the brakes on instinct.
James jolts.
The chocolate bar skitters.
I hold my breath.
He has less than seconds to move, and he launches himself onto the wing badly, nearly slipping, the reverberations rocking
the aircraft. I watch in horror as he loses his balance, then his grip, trying to climb up with only one arm onto the slick,
rain-soaked surface.
I’m now dizzy with fear.
I look down, feel the weight of my foot on the wheel brake; then stare at my hand on the throttle.
I could take off now.
I could push the throttle to its maximum position, then generate lift at a steep incline, which would all but guarantee flinging
him off the wing; I’d risk airflow disruption, but at least I’d be airborne, with a chance to correct the maneuver in flight.
James, on the other hand, would not survive.
I swallow. Maybe he would.
No, he would not.
Taking into account the storm, the winds, his injury, and the height from which he’d fall, the force of collision would almost
certainly break his neck.
He’d die on impact.
Maybe.
Probably.
Panic grips me with both hands, my indecision costing me precious seconds.
I hear shouts carrying on the wind, soldiers running toward my stalled jet.
The truth finds me here, in my weakest moment, in my trembling heart: I want to destroy Klaus to save Clara, to demand retribution; but there’s another part of me, a quieter part of me, that wants to spare this pathetic world and its simple dreams. I want to kill The Reestablishment so that these soft, loud people might continue to live.
So that James might continue to live.
My hand shakes on the throttle, heat searing my eyes. I’m staring at the ruined chocolate bar, its paper exterior separating
from the foil. Its spine is broken, segments shattered like bones.
I can still feel that frail shoot pushing up through the ashes of my soul, a green tendril of new growth.
The promise of change.
I thought you might want to give this to your sister.
The costs of death are catching up to me, revealing the cracks in my skin, my spirit. Maybe it’s too late to die a better
person than I lived. Maybe it’s selfish to ache for a ray of light after a lifetime of darkness.
Clara.
Clara.
I’d have to kill James to get to my sister. One more body on my conscience. Another strike upon my soul. I could do it. I
could do it right now.
Maybe this is all I am, all I’ll ever be.
My hand is gripping the throttle so hard tremors begin to shake my entire body. The sound of the idling engine roars in my ears. Movement outside the aircraft screams at my instincts to make a move, now, before it’s too late.
I’m paralyzed.
I refocus my eyes on the runway, trying to calm the frenzy of my heart in order to make the right decision.
The right decision.
I look back at the destroyed chocolate bar.
I can’t solve this equation fast enough.
I hear the thrum of rolling wheels before I see the ladder, then the soldiers. The body of the plane vibrates as metal slams
against metal; boots thudding across the wing. Handrails suddenly appear in the side window. I can just make out the shadow
of him charging up the steps and still, I do nothing.
My body has betrayed me.
Heat pricks dangerously at my eyes; my head fogs with steam, clouding my mind. When he comes into view, chest heaving, rain
lashing the blood off his body, I see his face as if through panes of time, when he and I lived out an inverse of this day.
James had stolen an aircraft; I’d climbed into the passenger seat.
That was the day he drove an ice pick into my heart, delivering the first of a series of cracks that would lead me here, to
this moment of devastation, his voice haunting me forever—
Where’d they take your sister?
The asylum, right?
But, like, how do we get there?
“Rosabelle,” he cries. “Turn off the engines!”
But, like, how do we get there?
He yanks open the door with his left arm, the action counterintuitive, and nearly loses his footing before catching himself
against the handrails, then clambering up into the cabin. He moves without hesitation, reaching across me to shut off the
throttle, and the chocolate bar flies across the interface before hitting the floor with a dull thud. The engines begin to
slow, the roar diminishing.
It occurs to me to do something.
My body hasn’t stopped trembling, but I can’t seem to lift a finger. I’ve gone numb.
When the engines stop he hits the master switch, shutting down all electrical systems, and the quiet is suddenly excruciating.
My ears ring so badly I want to scream.
I feel like I’ve been struck with a tuning fork, the sounds beyond my head suddenly incomprehensible. A strange paralysis
has overtaken my limbs; shock and pain and fever inhaling me.
James is here.
He’s here and now my heart is beating harder, my head is pounding, my pain devouring. His mere presence is tearing away the
veils that keep me apart from sensation, and suddenly I feel everything all at once, and the deluge is more than I can bear—
A desperate, gasping sound leaves my body.
My ankle is broken. My ribs are cracked. My head is bleeding. My bones are shaking. I think, at some point, I might’ve been shot.
I can’t breathe. I’m hyperventilating.
“Hey,” he says, reaching for me, taking my bleeding face in his left hand. He’s soaking wet. His palm is rough. The sound of his
voice travels lightyears to reach me. “You’re okay,” he says. “You’re okay. Look at me—”
Clara.
Clara.
I’ve failed my sister—
“Rosabelle,” he says gently, tilting up my chin. “Look at me. Please—”
I look at him like I’m seeing stars. The sound of his voice is an anchor in the tempest of my mind but my chest feels as if
it’s been trampled. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t feel my hands. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe—
“Hey, you’re okay,” he says again. “I’m here. I’m with you. You’re safe.”
I realize only as I taste the salt of my own tears that I’m crying. I’ve lost all control. I don’t recognize these horrible
sounds—these desperate sobs coming from somewhere inside of me.
It can’t be me.
I don’t cry. I never cry. Before I met James I hadn’t cried in ten years.
“Breathe for me, okay?” he says. “I’m here. I’m with you, Rosabelle. Are you with me?”
I look up into his eyes, my heart wrenching.
I seem to tilt over and over inside myself, a reminder that I have a concussion.
I blink, disoriented. A convulsive gasp escapes me as a violent shudder racks my body.
I’m badly nauseous. I might be suspended in space, slowly suffocating in this nightmare.
“Rosabelle,” he says again. “Are you with me?”
I exhale unevenly before I feel the slow rise of a soft heat circling my throat, fingers of light moving up my face like a
caress. The feeling soon intensifies, first silencing the agony in my ears, then soothing the pain in my head.
I cry out, my eyes closing.
“Rosabelle?”
I fight to draw a full, shaky breath. My racing heart begins to slow. My lungs begin to release.
“I can’t heal you here,” he says, his voice rough, his thumb moving across my skin. “Not like this, not in this state. My
own body is too weak, your damage is too deep, and everyone is waiting outside. But I wanted to relieve some of the pain.”
A wave of crushing exhaustion closes over my head and the tide takes me apart, my bones coming loose from my flesh. I let
my cheek fall heavily against his hand, allowing him to catch me.
I hear the intake of his breath.
I force my eyes open to find him searching my face, his own eyes tight with something like pain.
“Is it helping?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, breathless. “Thank you.”
“Stay with me, okay? Don’t pass out. We still have to get off the plane.”
Sounds carry from the world beyond; the thump of boots on metal as someone stomps up the ladder. Then—
“Hey, man, you all right up there?”
The stranger’s voice sharpens something inside of me, piercing the moment like a knife.
I stiffen.
I sit up, suddenly fully seated inside myself, shields rebuilding, exhaustion retreating, ice closing over my head. Survival
instincts come back online, my vision clearing, my bones hardening.
I set aside the pain again, letting it simmer.
James doesn’t meet my eyes as he pulls back, his body shaking slightly. He pushes wet hair off his forehead, turning only
a little when he says, without shouting, “Give me a minute.”
I wipe my tear-streaked cheeks with unsteady, bloodstained fingers, struggling to piece myself back together. In a shock of
clarity James comes into focus: shirtless in the moonlight, the bare expanse of his chest and torso gleaming, rivulets of
rainwater still snaking down the hard planes of his body. Shadows catch every curve and ridge of muscle, rendering him into
something breathtaking.
The voice, again: “You sure you don’t need backup?”
“I’m sure.”
“Really? Because—”
“Just give me a fucking second, Zain,” James says, his voice rising, his body tensing. “She’s really badly injured.”
A pause.
I can practically hear the smile in Zain’s voice when he says, “No shit? Is that why she didn’t kill you? We all thought she
was going to take off while you were climbing the plane. No way you would’ve survived that.”
James swallows, hard, and I watch the movement in his throat, my heart racing again.
Very slowly he looks up at me, searching my eyes.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s probably why she didn’t kill me.”
“Insane move, man. Lucky it worked out.”
“Lucky,” James echoes, staring at me. A drop of rainwater releases from his hair, breaking on his cheek.
I hold my breath; I’d suddenly rather die than speak.
His eyes sweep across my face again, his jaw tightening. Gently, he says, “Can you stand up?”
“Yes,” I lie.
James has to stoop in the cabin, ducking as he offers me his good arm, and I take it, shifting my weight onto my only working
leg as I use borrowed strength to rise from my seat. I make a choked sound as I accidentally tweak my broken foot, and James
pales as he scans my body, his eyes widening in fear.
I follow his gaze to my bad leg, where the polyester of my costume is torn open and blood-soaked at the thigh, poorly clotted
at the wound.
“You’ve been shot,” he says, stunned.
I hold steady, closing my eyes as the pain crescendos. That explains the fever. “How many times?”
“What? Rosabelle—”
“Hey, man— Um, I’m supposed to tell you that if you don’t get down here soon”—Zain laughs nervously—“uh, Warner said he’s
going to shoot you through the window?”
“Great,” James says angrily. “Thanks.”
“I mean I’m sure he wasn’t serious, but—”
“I’m sure he was serious.” James cuts him off. “We’re coming down the ladder now.”
I feel, for a dizzying moment, like I’m going to faint. My hand tightens around James’s arm as I fight the compulsion, and
I sense him turning to me, his voice strained with anguish. “Can you even walk?”
“Yes,” I lie, forcing my eyes open.
Zain tries again. “Hey, so, uh, quick update? He seems really, really mad—”
James glares through the open door, suddenly furious: “Tell him to wait a single fucking minute—”
A warning shot shatters what’s left of the windshield.