Chapter 41 James #2
boxes of shoes to the ground. I stumble into a mountain of children’s toys, robotic animal voices jangling to life on an ominous
tune. My lungs are burning. My legs are burning. My body is working harder than I’ve ever—
I come to a sudden, disorienting halt.
Rosabelle.
The sight of her rocks me like a shock wave; I’m so relieved to see her alive that my relief nearly blinds me to the details.
She’s running from yet another masked figure, so drenched in blood she’s almost unrecognizable. I watch, horrified, as she
yanks a knife out of her own arm and flings it, badly, at the figure chasing her. Her hands are shaking. She’s losing speed.
I bolt toward them both, giving myself a running start before I launch myself at the figure, tackling the assailant to the
ground. I tuck my head as we hit the floor, then roll badly into a stand of baked goods.
I hear Rosabelle’s sudden, choked cry.
Boxes of muffins come crashing down all around us, the scents of sugar and cinnamon infusing the air. I hear a volley of gunfire
in the distance, shots ringing out, and I leverage the moment of distraction to pin the asshole to the ground, punching them
in the face so hard the impact nearly breaks my hand. The assailant cries out, lifting an arm, too late, as if to stop me.
I can’t let this one die.
Pain shatters through my fist, but I can hardly feel it. I’m breathing like my lungs are failing. My head is pounding, my
hearing muted. My fingers shake as I rip the mask off the guy, revealing a pale, bloodied face. Freshly broken nose. Dark
eyes. Dark hair. Roughly my age. I experience a tepid moment of relief.
I’ve never seen him before in my life.
And then I flip open my bloody knife and drive the blade into his shoulder, twisting it as he screams.
“Rosabelle,” I call out, my chest heaving. I’m afraid to look away from this guy. I can’t let him kill himself. I need to
take one of these monsters in for questioning. “Rosabelle, where are you?”
“I’m here,” she says, her voice faint.
“Are you shot?” I ask.
She takes too long to answer.
“Fuck,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “Can you come over here so I can help you? I’m sorry—I’m so sorry to make you walk, but
I can’t leave him alone—”
The guy groans, the guttural sound coming from his throat, and I twist the knife a little deeper. An agonized sound rips from
his chest.
“Where’s the vial, asshole?” I ask. I don’t even recognize the sound of my voice. I pat down his pockets with my free hand,
searching him blindly. “Where are the rest of your friends, you piece of shit?”
He makes a sound—a choked gasp—and I realize he’s trying to speak.
I ease my knee off his chest, releasing some of the pressure, and look into his eyes.
“Where’s the vial?” I bark at him.
“You,” he gasps.
“Excuse me?”
He struggles to swallow. His voice is hoarse. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
My shoulders tighten. A feeling of unease moves up my spine. “Who the hell are you?”
Kenji charges into view at that exact moment, then skids to a stop in front of us, looking more like himself. “Warner’s on
his way—”
“Where is he? Is he okay?”
“James.”
I turn at the desperate sound of Rosabelle’s voice. She’s managed to drag herself over, but she’s trembling; unable to straighten
one leg. Only now do I see the extent of the blood running down her body. It’s in her hair. Dripping down her face. Splattered
across her hands.
She’s clutching the vial in one fist.
And she’s staring, immobilized, at the man I’ve got pinned to the ground with my knife. The recognition in her eyes is unmistakable.
But it’s the complete and shattering horror on her face that sends serrated blades of fear through my body.
“What is it?” I say, looking between them. “Rosabelle, who is this guy?”
“Sebastian,” she whispers.
I go rigid with disbelief, assaulted by a flash of memory: his name on a wedding invitation.
This was the guy she was going to marry? The guy responsible for the blood painted down her body? The guy she’s staring at with
a look of pure, abject terror?
What the fuck did they do to her on that island?
I’m remembering the hundreds of identical bruises we found all over her when she first got here.
I’m remembering Rosabelle on her knees in front of that shitty cottage on the Ark, a man with dark hair looming over her.
I’m remembering the way she spit in his face.
The way he cracked a rifle into her eye.
I’m suddenly shaking with rage.
Kenji looks at me, then at Rosabelle, then the piece of shit lying on the ground.
I suddenly wish I’d killed him.
“Who the fuck is Sebastian?” says Kenji.
Rosabelle tries to speak. She seems almost paralyzed by fear. “He’s— He—”
I actually consider it then. I really think about driving the blade straight through his heart. I lock eyes with the monster,
my hand still clenched around the hilt of the knife. His dark irises almost seem to glint blue for a second.
I stiffen.
“Is anyone going to answer me?” Kenji demands. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“I’m Rosabelle’s fiancé,” Sebastian whispers roughly, blood seeping at the edges of his mouth. He keeps his sinister gaze
on me, his expression darkening. “I’ve come to take her home.”