35. Epilogue
Laurel
Someone is crying, their voice bordering on hysteria as they repeat, “No. No. No. Not again. I can’t do this again.”
Sunlight stabs me in the eye. My lashes flutter open.
The sky above is a bright, cheery blue. There’s birdsong, the shuffling of leaves, the grit of dirt and stones under my body.
I’m lying on my back outside. I let my eyes drift shut while my mind works through the details, but it takes effort.
My thoughts are sluggish, almost drugged.
Why am I outside? Where’s Carrson?
There was a fire. I can smell the smoke clinging to my hair. I told him to go, released his hand. Flames at his end of the tunnel. Alarm surges through me, but when I try to lift my head, my body refuses the command.
“Laurel.” Sam’s voice comes from nearby. “Wake up. Please, Laurel.”
“I’m here,” I answer, forcing myself to open my eyes and slowly sit up.
I’m in a clearing, in woods that look more like a tropical jungle than the ones that surround Ashford House. Palm fronds overlap high above us. Vines twist around massive trunks, and red hibiscus flowers spread their petals wider than my hand. The air is warm and wet enough to cling to my skin.
Women lie around me. About thirty of them. Some are sitting up, blinking and dazed. Others hold their heads as if they are experiencing the worst hangovers of their lives. Several remain on their backs or sides, so motionless I can’t tell whether they’re alive.
“No. No. No. Not again.”
I turn toward the crying.
Cicley rocks several yards away with her hands clamped over her ears. Someone has removed her clothes and dressed her in a thin, sleeveless shift the color of unbleached cloth.
I look down.
My robe is gone.
I’m wearing the same thing as Cicley.
We all are.
What happened?
I remember dragging an unconscious Abbie through the tunnel, but it went on longer than it should have, curving to the right instead of going in a straight line.
A bad smell, chemical and sharp, that stung my nose.
My legs folding under me and the surety I was going to crack my head open on the stone floor, but hands caught me, more than one.
A pang from my hand. I hold it up in front of my face. Dirt has worked beneath my nails, and dried blood darkens the bandage wrapped around my palm.
I reach for my throat. The necklace is still there, the small word MINE resting against my skin. A promise from Carrson to me.
There’s pressure around my ankle.
A thick band of plastic encircles my right leg just above the ankle bone. There’s no clasp, no hinge, no visible way to remove it. A single red light blinks on its surface.
I wedge my fingers under the edge and try to pry it off, but it doesn’t give.
“Sam.” I look over to find her crouched beside Abbie, trying to wake her. “What’s happening?”
Across the clearing, another familiar face appears. Gillian. She rises to her feet, swaying, and looks around. Her eyes widen with recognition. Then she sees me, and her gaze narrows.
“Shit.” Sam surges to her feet. “Laurel, get up.”
She kicks lightly at the foot of the woman nearest her. “Everyone, wake up. We have to move.”
Abbie groans but doesn’t open her eyes.
“Hurry.” Sam’s voice breaks. I have never heard her sound this frightened, not even when she stood before The Order and begged them to stop the sealing. “We have to run.”
“Run from what?”
Gillian bends and picks up a rock nearly as large as her fist. She tests its weight in her hand.
“Sam, what is this?”
Gillian turns toward me.
Cicley’s rocking grows faster. “Not again. Please, not again.”
“We’re back,” Sam says.
The despair in her voice frightens me more than the weapon in Gillian’s hand.
Gillian takes a step toward me, hefting the rock.
“Back where?”
“The Death Trials.”
THE END