Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
“This is bullshit,” I say, after the priest has left.
I’m pacing in Barnes’s office, adrenaline buzzing through my veins, fists clenched to stop my hands from shaking.
I haven’t been able to calm down since the disastrous attempt at an exorcism.
“Sixteen isn’t a demon. That’s fucking ridiculous.
He’s a person. He’s human, and he’s not— He’s not evil. ”
“Nobody’s saying that, Willow,” Barnes says, his eyes tracking me even as he remains still in his chair. “Sit down. Take a breath.”
“How?” I ask. “How am I supposed to relax? I tried to help, and all I did was make this worse. Now Sixteen is hurt, and the MRF—” My voice catches.
“You’ll never let him out of here if you think he’s a demon.
He’ll never get to live a normal life. And that’s…
that’s bullshit! None of this is his fault! ”
Barnes is silent through my tirade. Then he sighs, unlocks a drawer in the bottom of his desk, and pulls out an unopened bottle of scotch. He sets it on the desk.
“Sit,” he says again.
I sit. My head comes to rest in my hands as he brings out two glasses and pours each of us a generous finger of whiskey. I accept one glass at his urging, and we both take a long sip. It’s sweet on my tongue and helps burn away some of my anxiety as it settles in my stomach.
“This is why I was hesitant to stick a label on X-16 when you first asked,” he says.
“Our subjects are all different. This is all guesswork. We don’t understand what the fuck we’re dealing with most of the time, and Sixteen is an especially unique case.
The priest calling him a demon means nothing.
” I finish my glass, and he adds another generous glug of whiskey before pouring for himself.
“Even if he is a demon, we still wouldn’t know exactly what that means. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I guess.” I tap my fingers on my glass, forcing myself to savor the whiskey this time around. It really is good, sweet and smoky. “This tastes expensive.”
“I was saving it for a special occasion, and a failed exorcism seems pretty special to me.”
I manage a laugh. We both drink again, and I lean back in my chair.
“I just want to help him,” I say. “But I made things worse.”
“I know you want to help,” he says, and there’s such genuine sorrow in his eyes as he looks at me that makes me feel almost worse.
“Sixteen knows that, too. We all know you would never do anything to hurt him on purpose. Don’t beat yourself up.
” He reaches over and pats my hand. The gesture is awkward, like he’s not used to doing it, but it’s surprisingly reassuring. “This wasn’t your fault.”
“It feels like it is,” I mumble. I shake my head, finish my glass, and lean back in my chair. “So what do we do next?”
Barnes sighs. “I don’t know, Willow. I know you want me to have a better answer, but I don’t.
” His brow furrows, and he tilts his glass, watching the remnants of his whiskey gleam in the light.
“I’m not gonna lie, I’ve seen a lot of shit in this place, but nothing that’s felt so…
” He pauses, searching for the right word.
“Biblical,” I suggest, with an uncomfortable swell of guilt as I think of all the things I haven’t told him. About my past, and my suspicions about Sixteen’s nature.
He nods grimly. “That’s a good word for it. I don’t know how much more the MRF can do for him,” he says. “I’m not certain we’re equipped to contain him, if he keeps getting worse.”
My throat tightens, fingers clenching in my lap. Any desire to tell him the truth disappears. If I tell him that I think Cain could cause the apocalypse, he’ll give up on him for certain. “If not here, then where?”
“There’s a place,” he says haltingly. “In the mountains…” But then he stops, grimacing, and throws back his drink in one hard gulp.
“Fuck, I can’t talk about that. There’s an option, though.
A last resort. It’s not one I want to use—Sixteen doesn’t deserve to be locked up with the things we send there—but… ”
The resignation in his expression makes it hard to breathe for a second. I lean forward, reach out to grab his hand. My desperation takes us both off guard, but I force myself to cling on, heart pounding.
“Don’t give up on him,” I say. “Don’t send him away. Please. Not yet, Barnes.”
He gives me a long, searching look, and with a sigh, pulls his hand away from mine. “I’ll do what I can,” he says. “But I’m scared that we’re running out of time, Willow.”
He doesn’t even know the half of it. But I nod, forcing confidence into my tone. “I’ll find a way to stop this.”
I’ll find a way to save him. I have to.
Guilt is heavy on my shoulders the next time I enter the MRF.
It certainly doesn’t help that the entire Facility seems to be gossiping about the exorcism.
Whispers follow me through the hallways, though nobody is bold enough to approach me but Ellis, who begs for details until I snap at him to leave me alone.
In the break room, I hear one of the guards refer to Cain as “X-666,” and slam my lunch container on the counter so hard that they all jump guiltily.
I retreat to Observation Room 16 to eat my lunch.
The weight I’ve been carrying lightens as the metal shutters slide open to reveal him sitting on the edge of his bed in his medical robe.
He’s looking especially pale today, the red burns on his face a stark contrast to his pallor, but he doesn’t look as though he’s in pain.
He’s reading one of his cozy mysteries, the cover already worn.
“Hey,” I say softly. “How are you feeling?”
He looks up, carefully saving his place on the page and setting the book aside. “I’m all right, Willow. Thank you for asking.”
But I frown, looking at him. I can already tell that the black veins have spread further up his arms, a slow crawl covering his limbs. His wings seem bigger, too. But more than that… Something is different. “I’m going to come in and take a look at you, just to make sure.”
“In my room?” He blinks, startled. “I— Yes, sure.”
I set my lunch aside and head to the door to his cell, glancing up and down the hallway as I swipe my key card. I have a strange sense that I’m doing something wrong, but I’m only doing my due diligence in checking on X-16; it’s not as though anyone else is able to.
When I step into the room, Cain is tucking in his covers, neatly making his bed, as if that’s something I’m going to care about. I bite back a laugh, studying his back and the embarrassed flush creeping up his neck. It’s…cute.
It occurs to me, with a flip of my stomach, that I’m alone with him. No one else can enter this room. No one can watch the camera feed here. No one would know if—
When he straightens up again and turns to face me, that guilty thought is cut short. It was hard to tell when he was sitting with his usual terrible posture, but now he towers above me.
“You’re taller,” I say, my suspicions confirmed.
He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair. I think that’s grown overnight, too, dark waves touching the curves of his collarbones now. His shoulders slump, curling inward, as if unconsciously trying to make himself smaller. “Am I?”
“Definitely. Stop slouching.” I grab his shoulders and straighten them, while he blinks down at me, a flush rising in his cheeks.
I ignore it and stretch out a hand, trying to measure the difference between the top of my head and his. I have to rise up on my tiptoes to reach.
“Yeah,” I say. “Wow. By a few inches, I’d say.
Though maybe it’s been happening slowly, and it just wasn’t noticeable until now.
” I settle back on my heels and study him.
I have an uncomfortable image of him tossing and turning in the middle of the night, spine shifting beneath his skin, bones crunching as they stretch unnaturally. “Have you been in pain?”
He avoids eye contact. “I was a little uncomfortable last night.”
“Did you call for the doctor?”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t that bad. I’ve had worse.” One corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “Nothing’s as bad as the wings were.”
I sigh. “It doesn’t have to be unbearable before you ask for relief.”
He mumbles something unintelligible.
“Cain.” I sharpen my voice, and his eyes widen, either at the name or my tone. “If you’re in pain, call for help.”
Color floods his face before he ducks his head, letting his hair fall to conceal his expression. “I understand.”
“Good.” There’s the strangest flutter of warmth in my chest at his reaction.
His obedience. But I clear my throat and push it down; that’s not appropriate.
“I’m going to call Dr. Sullivan for another physical examination, just to make sure the growth didn’t do any other damage.
I’m not sure what kind of internal repercussions there could be. ”
He nods, his cheeks still a little pink. Does he like being commanded just as much as I like commanding him?
I take a deep breath, brushing away the thought. “I wanted to apologize.”
His brow furrows. “For what?”
“The exorcism,” I say. “You ended up hurt because—”
“No, Willow.” He shakes his head, eyes dropping. “I’m the one who should apologize. I suspected it would go that way from the start.”
I pause, startled into silence.
“I grew up religious,” he says. His main eyes remain on the floor, though the third keeps darting up to my face.
“Or at least, I tried to be religious, like my mother was. But…I couldn’t read from the Bible without the words twisting in my mouth.
I couldn’t hold a cross without burning myself.
” He touches his arm, where the image of one is burnt into his skin from the failed exorcism.
And I remember that scar on his palm. I imagine his fingers clenched hard around a cross, even as it hurt him, and my stomach twists.