Twenty-Nine Ella
TWENTY-NINE
Ella
The air is definitely disappearing much too quickly. My chest feels tight already, every inhale thinner than the last. I scan the walls, searching for vents, but I don’t see any. They’re probably hidden high up, tucked into the corners where shadows cling.
Wesley moves to the door and runs his hand along the seams, slow and deliberate, looking for a way out that we won’t find. A small panel slides open above the frame and a camera blinks to life, the red light sharp in the gloom.
“Are you ready to charge the citrine?” Sylveria’s voice slices through the speaker, tinny and smug.
Oh, now I’m pissed. “You can’t seriously be considering killing us.”
She chuckles, low and ugly. “I would actually like to work with you. But if you’re not going to help me, I’d rather you were dead.”
“If I do help you, you could still kill me,” I mutter.
“True,” she allows. “But that’s not what I want.” The sound distorts through the camera, metallic and detached.
Now I’m fighting her and my own urges. Everything inside me wants to touch that citrine. Connect to it. I turn toward Wesley. “How much do you know about how we exchange energy with crystals?”
“I know enough,” he says. His voice is steady, but his eyes flick to the ceiling like he’s counting our breaths.
“I wouldn’t be able to program Aquarius Social the way I do if I didn’t understand what Alana does.
I mean, let me rephrase that. I don’t understand, but I comprehend there’s some sort of energy exchange. ”
“Have you ever tried it?” I press. There have to be a lot of people out there who have the gift.
It just makes sense. It feels good to finally speak of this, even in a death box.
We’ve avoided the subject so far, too secretive, too dangerous, but he can’t be completely in the dark. Not with his job.
He grins despite the air thinning. “Yeah, I’ve tried it. I didn’t charge anything. Maybe it was the wrong crystal.”
“Excuse me,” Sylveria cuts in. “You’ve got about three minutes of oxygen left. Do you really want to have this conversation right now?”
My pulse spikes. Three minutes. I glance at the citrine across the room, the size of a bowling ball, its golden surface glittering under the harsh light. It has to be ten pounds at least.
Wesley catches my gaze. “Do you know most people don’t have any idea that exists?”
“I know.” My lips curve despite everything.
“The world thinks the Malaga Citrine is the largest citrine ever mined. Eight point eight pounds. Twenty thousand carats or so.” The truth is bigger.
Much bigger. “The four families have been mining and hiding gems for millennia. People wouldn’t believe some of the sizes we’ve found. ”
The sparkling yellow pulls at me. I can’t resist any longer.
I walk to it, each step heavy as my lungs ache.
My fingers close around the gem, warm and thrumming with power.
The minute I connect, energy rushes through me, flooding my hands, racing to my earlobes, surging into my brain.
The tingling builds until I gasp, the sound raw and sharp in the thinning air.
I let natural power fill me as I walk to the center of the room and place the citrine where the diamond had been.
She doesn’t feel diseased to me, although none of us really understand how this virus works. For all I know, it could’ve jumped from the diamond to the citrines or bled into any other gem nearby. Viruses don’t obey rules, not digital or physical.
I nod once. “Wesley, go ahead and hook the citrine into the servers.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “I don’t think it’s worth it. I have no idea what’s going on or how viruses are moving from rocks to people, but I’ve surmised that much.” Even so, he retakes his seat. His fingers hover over the keyboard, then curl into a fist.
“It’s too late,” I tell him, and the words scrape my throat. As if on cue, a thin whistle cuts through the silence. Fresh air hisses down through vents hidden somewhere in the ceiling. I pull a deep lungful and feel the tightness in my chest loosen. At least the bitch turned the oxygen back on.
I spread my hands across the surface of the citrine, unwilling to let go. “Come on, Wesley. It’s too late for me to stop now. I’ve already touched the stone.”
The surface thrums under my palms. Heat pools against my skin and spreads upward, quick and electric.
I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, rolling my neck until it cracks.
It’s been far too long since I exchanged energy with a rock this size, and my body is starved for it.
My fingertips prickle, my calves twitch, and even my toes curl against the floor as the current sweeps through.
Wesley grumbles, a sound buried low in his chest, but he starts typing anyway. His fingers fly now, keys clicking in sharp bursts as he types in the code that links the center console to the entire system. I catch the set of his jaw in the glow of the monitors. He doesn’t like this.
Neither do I.
Most people have no idea how much strength a gem like this holds. They think jewels are for wearing, admiring, locking away in a museum. They don’t understand a stone this size can fuel an empire, power every corner of a social media network, while keeping the world distracted and hungry for more.
I lift my chin toward the blinking camera.
“If I’m doing this, you might as well make it worthwhile.
Have Corinda and Stacia start posting on TimeGem Moments right now.
They can share good memories with other users and capture energy.
” Every time somebody clicks “capture now” or “like” or “save,” more energy transfers into the system.
If I’m going to do this, I want it all. Because this entire company is going to be mine again.
“I understand,” Sylveria replies. Her voice rattles through the speaker, distant, warped. “They’re already on it.”
“Good.” I close my eyes, steady my breath, and let the energy in. It rushes through my hands like molten gold, zipping into every nerve ending, racing along my veins until my entire body sings. The hairs on my arms rise, then flatten again under the invisible pressure.
The crystal glows, a blinding yellow, and light fractures across the room in jagged shards. My chest expands with it, my pulse hammering in my throat.
“You good?” Wesley asks.
I don’t answer. I can’t. The power is too much, too wonderful. Maybe I’m feeding a virus into my blood, maybe I’m sealing my own end. But even if I am, this is the way I want to go.
The door clicks open and Sylveria strides inside. I’m too caught up in the energy exchange to care. The hum still thrums in my bones, every nerve buzzing. I can feel her presence press against mine, sharp and invasive, and I see it in her posture.
I’ve never seen her really try to charge a diamond until earlier, and the little she pulled then was nothing compared to what’s swirling around me now.
The air pops with static, heating in jolts that make my skin prickle.
My hair lifts, floating for a moment before falling again as the energy whips through the room.
I spend a good twenty minutes with the citrine, pushing and pulling, until finally I step back, lungs burning, chest wide open. I feel full—too full—and turn to face them.
Wesley pivots in his chair. His jaw goes slack. “Holy fuck.”
“What?” I ask.
“Your eyes. They’re gold. Yellow.”
I blink hard. I’ve never looked at my reflection while charging, and I haven’t handled a crystal this size in too long. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He blinks several times, as if trying to convince himself it’s real. “Do Alana’s eyes turn aqua when she charges the aquamarines at Aquarius Social?” He stands so fast the chair tips backward. “Oh God. Don’t tell me Thorn’s or Justice’s eyes turn red when they charge their garnets.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never paid attention.” My pulse stutters. “I don’t think so. But what do I know?”
The air between us crackles. Wesley looks like he’s holding a secret he never wanted.
“So what’s your plan now?” I ask Sylveria.
Before she can answer, an explosion rocks the base. The entire room shudders like it’s alive, and a shockwave rattles my bones.
“Ah, crap.” Wesley lunges from his chair and yanks me aside, shielding me with his body. “What’s happening?”
I swallow, heat and ash already filling my lungs. “I have an idea.” I glance over at Sylveria. “You might want to let us go.”
Her face drains, pale as wet chalk. Another explosion tears through the space, the boom echoing until the walls vibrate. Ceiling panels rip loose and crash to the floor in a storm of dust. Wesley pulls me clear of the collapse, his grip bruising, his breath harsh against my ear.
A third blast roars. I hear the outside elevator doors blow apart an instant before debris shoots across the open entrance to the reception area.
Justice and Wynd walk inside, bloody and cut. They fill the space, moving like a storm that’s already decided the damage. Justice has Corinda in a headlock, her feet dragging against the floor, while Wynd presses a gun to Stacia’s neck.
“What did I tell you?” Justice asks, his voice so low it shakes the air.
I shove out of Wesley’s arms on instinct, panic clawing at me. Then I realize he’s not talking to me. His eyes burn straight into Sylveria, who oddly has a yellow tinge bleeding into her pale cheeks—same as the damaged diamond.
“I haven’t hurt her,” she says, too calm, too collected.
Justice growls. A real growl. The sound reverberates off the walls. “I told you she was under my protection, and I also told you what I’d do if you hurt her.”
I edge away from Wesley, every instinct screaming at me to get small, get out of the line of fire. “I’m not hurt,” I blurt. That’s the truth. For all that I don’t like Sylveria or her daughters, I don’t want them dead. Not really. “Would you please let go of Corinda?”
“I actually don’t mind being in his arms,” Corinda says, smiling as if she enjoys being dragged into chaos.
“He’s got you in a headlock,” her sister snarls.
Wynd slowly eases the gun away from Stacia’s neck, but his grip on her arm looks painful.
Stacia tilts her chin toward me, calm as a statue. “I’ve had worse first dates, to be honest.”
A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and inappropriate. I sneeze quickly. Now I’m panic sneezing? The whole thing is too ridiculous.
“You’re all going to be arrested,” Wesley growls, stepping in front of me. He plants himself between me and the group, body taut, ready to take on all of them. “This is not happening. All of you need to go. Now.”
Anger swells from Justice as he walks toward us, still holding Corinda. “Get out of my way.”
Wesley clenches his fists. “No. I know all about you. Ella is too good for you.”
“We agree. Now move,” Justice snarls.
“No.” Wesley winds back his arm.
Justice is faster and lands a punch, nailing Wesley in the face.
Wesley drops hard.
“Justice!” My scream tears out of me as I rush toward Wesley.
“Leave him.” Justice’s voice is brutal, final. “You touch him, he dies.”
I skid to a stop, breath heaving, my hands shaking at my sides.
Wesley forces himself to sit upright. Fury carves lines into his face. “What the hell?”
Fire burns in Justice’s eyes. “Don’t ever get between Ella and me.” The words are so dark, they crawl up my spine like ice water.
I gulp.
Justice shoves Corinda toward her mother, that deadly gaze on me. “You. Here. Now.”
My feet move before I can think, before I can stop myself, obeying him. Going to his side.
“Wait.” I turn and rush to the back of the room, my lungs still raw from smoke and dust. My hands fumble with the latch until the glass door gives way.
Inside, the crown sits bent and battered, one side caved in like it’s taken a fist from God himself.
Even so, the citrines embedded along the rim spark to sudden life, flaring bright in a way that makes my throat tighten. Good Lord, they’re glorious.
The energy I’d drawn from the larger crystal still rides me hard, and it flows through my arms into the crown as if the pieces were waiting for me all along. The glow sharpens, facets catching light that shouldn’t exist in this wreck of a room.
I grab it and turn to hustle past the center console, crown cradled against my ribs, then pause. What am I doing? Instinct takes over. I reach out and heft the citrine from the console, its weight solid and burning against my palm and forearm.
“What are you doing?” Sylveria takes a step toward me, her voice sharp, but Justice pivots. Just enough to shift his weight, just enough to remind her he’s there. She freezes.
“I’m taking this,” I say, smiling without humor. I pause near Wesley, crouched in pain but still upright. While I want to soothe him, I don’t want to see him get hurt worse.
“I pulled the punch,” Justice cuts in flatly. “He’s fine. Get up.”
Wesley pushes to his feet. His face is gray, but he doesn’t buckle.
Justice doesn’t even look at him—he turns that molten glare on Wynd. “Borrow a car and take him to a doctor. He’s bleeding and it’s not from me.” He turns back to Wesley. “Find an excuse. If you call the cops, Wynd will shred your skin from your body.”
My stomach lurches. I want to help Wesley, but I want him alive more. How badly had Sylveria hurt him? I hadn’t even asked. So I force myself to move, hurrying toward Justice, fury burning bright in my chest.
He stares at Sylveria. “You might want to run. I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.
A tropical vacation is a good idea.” He points to the exit, so I move and step over broken panels, twisted metal, and what looks like a set of old keys half-buried in dust. None of it makes sense, not here, not now, but I don’t stop.
“We are going to talk about this,” I snap at Justice. Then I notice the weapon in Wynd’s hand. My stomach flips. Recognition slams me cold. “Wait a minute. I know that gun. Where’s Aura?”
Justice herds us toward a revealed stairwell beside the mangled elevator doors. “That’s another reason you need to hurry. Your godmother is stuck in the trunk of an old Buick.”
The words knock the air out of me. Aura. My godmother. In a trunk.
I stumble into the stairwell without protest, still clutching the crown in one hand. Wynd eases the citrine away from me, his face unreadable, his grip careful but firm as he keeps a gun on Wesley, who limps along beside him.
“She’s in a trunk?” My voice cracks on the word.
“Yeah,” Justice says grimly as we start the climb. “And she’s going to be pissed.”