9. The Faster the Rise the Harder the Fall #3
I climbed down from the table and grabbed the box of tile, then a box with a chandelier, fashioning them on top of each other to reach as high as I could manage.
I was going to climb as high as I could, try to shove the hatch open from beneath, hoist myself up, then use the shower curtain rod to launch myself through it … that was pretty much the entire plan.
The hatch door was heavy. I looked around Jude’s collection of junk for something to use and found some of what looked like metal tubing to force it open.
Definitely a roof hatch—it came down again after the first shove, but the bright white of the moon shone through long enough for me to be certain.
I forced it again a second time, then a third, harder, until it stayed open.
Next step: Me. I was only hot-girl fit, but at least I didn’t weigh much.
The effort of what was essentially a pull-up went badly, and I almost collapsed back onto the tile shards.
But I pulled myself through the hatch, up to my waist, scrabbling around for something to grab onto.
There was a slight lip outside and I clung to it, feeling around until I got the shower rod underfoot.
I couldn’t reach the place where Jude had left boot marks, but I pushed and pulled and eventually forced myself onto the roof, clawing forward on my stomach, like a worm. Another outfit ruined.
I looked up, dizzied by the sudden wave of heat outside, then sickened by my looming awareness of the distance to the ground.
Okay, this was the roof of the villa. Great. Now what?
I looked around for something. A ladder would have been convenient. They’d been doing renovations, so maybe the roof had recently been replaced? No such luck. A warm wind gasped around me, to the point where I wasn’t confident that I could—or should—stand up.
So I army-crawled my way over to the edge of the roof, looking down.
(Could I Survive It?)
“Stop it,” I told my subconscious firmly.
Below me were the other portions of the house, of course. A similar view to the one from Jude’s bedroom. The road leading from the carport into the house’s side entrance.
Below that—far below—was the greenhouse, beside the garage.
And a person.
A man. There was a glow on his head, a golden sort of halo.
He’d obviously snuck away from the party, tucking himself well out of sight.
He checked multiple times over his shoulder before doubling over and retching forcefully onto the ground, an expulsion of something solid emerging from his lips.
Definitely not the kind of vomit that pairs with drinking—this was something worse, more violent, like the extraction of venom from bone.
Even from afar I could see him cup a shuddering hand around something before flinging it hard to the ground, grinding it into the particulate mulch of the hillside with his heel.
Another shadow appeared then, materializing beside the greenhouse.
From that distance I couldn’t hear what was said, only that one figure seemed calm and the other less so.
The sick one, he was furious—he straightened sharply, with a certain mania to the way he moved.
Most of what I could interpret was obscured by trees and distance, except for certain recognizable motions: A jab to the chest. A hard shove.
A swallowing up of both figures by the dark, like they might have sunk deeper into the jaws of the canyons, folded up inside the hills.
Then the first man came dancing back into the light with another flash of gold.
He swiped a hand across his nose—I guessed that it was bleeding.
I crept closer, trying to see over the obstruction of a tree branch, but a scuttle beside me spooked me into crying out.
My mom always killed the bugs in our apartment—I couldn’t bear to see or touch them.
Down below, the men had disappeared by the time I recovered enough to keep watching.
I became aware, again, that there was no way down from here.
Not from this side, anyway. How long did I stay there, lost to time and reason, lingering for no other purpose than my lack of alternative, some better place to go?
I honestly don’t know how many minutes passed; something about the house made everything more fluid, like a matter of time dilation relative to the rest of the world.
Eventually I made my way higher up on the roof, as far up as I dared while still able to grab onto something if I lost my balance and came skidding down.
I worked my way with painful slowness over to the other side, toward the front of the house, facing the horseshoe drive outside.
The dozens of cars, electric Porsches and Range Rovers and idiotic convertibles.
Gradually, reality took hold; the only option was to go back down the hatch and wait for whatever demon possession had taken hold of Jude to pass, or—
The Juliet balcony was slightly below me, on the house’s back side.
If I slid carefully enough (I could also walk, but this high up I no longer trusted my knees) I could climb down the decorative trellis to land on the balcony, and …
hope the adjoining door wasn’t locked. Sure, like rich people had so few security concerns.
Or did they? I had no idea. But I’d be closer to the party, so maybe I could call for help?
I should have just stayed in Jude’s room.
There was only one risk there. Now there were multiple.
I was about to try to make my way down when I spotted someone approaching the house. It was Jude’s doctor, which was either fortunate or very bad news for me, the person who’d let him get injured again.
All right, I thought, calling it internally. Back down the hatch.
As I made my way back, though, I became aware of someone’s presence materializing, manifested from the dark. I knew immediately who it was.
He emerged easily through the hatch and stood, drawing steadily upright. He straightened with a sense of building intensity, like he was reeling in a purpose, saying yes to a thing he hadn’t been certain of before.
“Jude,” I said, painfully cognizant of the fact that I had hit my limit, aware with irrefutable certainty that, whether from frustration or panic or premenstrual syndrome, I was definitely going to cry. “Jude, please just let me go—”
He looked at me. Or … through me. Like he was wrestling with something else, something I couldn’t see. He was muttering to himself, words I couldn’t distinguish. His face looked crumpled with agony, some twisted inner pain.
“Jude,” I said.
He took a step toward the edge of the roof.
Another.
Another.
He crouched down as if to touch something I couldn’t see, his hair blown back by a slur of wind. He leaned forward, one hand outstretched, for something just out of reach.
He was precariously close to the edge, intent on something that lingered just below the other side of safety.
(Could He Survive It?)
“Jude!” I screamed, but he didn’t stop.