“I’m a pawn,” I whispered, my voice finally returning to me. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
She lifted me higher, and I looked down. I should have been stunned or surprised to see my feet dangling almost a foot off the ground, but I just couldn’t seem to manifest any feeling. Not with Viggo’s blood staining my hands.
“You can’t even take responsibility for what you’ve done, can you?” she screamed, shaking me. “Well, I’m going to make sure you pay for this! And I’m going to make your death as painful as possible.”
The look she shot me was one of disgust, disdain, confusion, and rage. She screamed again, and then suddenly I was flying through the air.
I barely registered it, but my body drew from years of muscle memory, and braced for impact as I slammed into a cabinet. A line of pain across my back cut through the numbness that had enveloped my body.
As I lifted my head off the floor from where I had slid, I was aware of Marina’s footsteps growing closer. I started crawling away from the sound, my hands seeking a hold on the concrete floor.
I felt her hand grab my hair, yanking it hard enough to bring me to my knees, and force me backward. I grabbed at her hands, clawing at them in a desperate attempt to get her off.
Suddenly a flash of color darted past me, and I felt something impact Marina, causing her to let go of my hair. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Ms. Dale locking her good arm around Marina’s neck, hauling her back and away from me.
Shakily, I rose to my feet and turned toward the two. Marina had already peeled Ms. Dale’s arm away, and was twisting it around in her hand. Ms. Dale grunted in pain as Marina twisted her arm. She took a step into Marina’s hold, and then twisted her body and neatly flipped Marina over her back and onto the floor.
“You were never a good student, Marina,” Ms. Dale said as she placed her boot to Marina’s neck and pulled on the arm she was still holding.
I heard an audible pop, and Marina screamed as Ms. Dale neatly dislocated her shoulder. I took a step past them, spotting my gun on the floor next to Viggo’s prone form.
Then Marina grabbed Ms. Dale’s foot with her good hand and heaved, sending Ms. Dale crashing over a counter through some lab equipment and landing heavily on the other floor. I reacted, racing toward the gun on the floor.
Marina kicked out her leg, and tripped me. I caught myself as I fell, twisting to my side. I landed heavily, my back and hip protesting the impact.
I set it aside and began sliding myself toward the gun. It didn’t matter—Marina was on me in seconds. She straddled my body, and pushed me over on my back, holding me firm with a hand on my sternum.
I struggled, my legs kicking out to find leverage, my hands on her arm trying to push her off. I just needed her to move a fraction of an inch, and I could get her off me.
Except she was so strong. It was like a mouse trying to fight off a cat. She began pressing her hand deeper into my sternum, and I felt it in my lungs. She cut off their ability to expand, making it impossible for me to breathe.
I reached up, going for her eyes, but she swatted them away with her free hand, and began pressing harder. I felt the weight against the bone. I tried to suck in air, but the pressure was too tight.
I began gagging, dark spots dancing before my eyes. I reached over my head blindly, my hand seeking the cold metal of the gun. Marina’s eyes followed the line, and she smirked.
I kept trying to suck in air. The dark spots were growing, and I could feel the fight leave me as I struggled to breathe. My vision darkened, and I felt my limbs going limp.
Suddenly, Marina’s weight vanished, and I sucked in a cool breath of air, my vision clearing. There was a deep ache as my lungs expanded. I felt like I couldn’t breathe air fast enough. I was light-headed and dizzy, but I pushed past it as another burst of adrenaline hit my system.
Looking over, I saw Tim, his arms wrapped around Marina, hauling her back off me. She was screaming, struggling against him, but he held her fast.
I frowned, baffled at how he was holding his own against her. I watched Marina’s feet kicking out, scrambling for purchase, but Tim kept a firm grip on her. She planted an elbow into his ribs, and he grunted, but kept his hold.
Turning, I began crawling over to where the gun was laying at the edge of the pool of Viggo’s blood. I looked over at Viggo, his face even paler, his breathing shallow, and I felt a surge of energy propelling me.
Suddenly, Tim gave another grunt, and I whirled. Marina had her hand around his throat. His legs were dangling. I propelled myself to my feet and took a step toward them, intent on clawing her eyes out if I had to, when he planted a foot against her chest.
I gaped as he grabbed her forearm with his hands and pushed hard with his leg. Marina’s grip on his throat slipped, and she stumbled back. Tim landed lightly on his feet, his breathing heavy. The two sized each other up for a long second, taking careful steps in a semi-circle around each other.
Heart in my throat, I took a step forward intent on intervening, but Tim threw his hand up behind him, stopping me.
The tension between the two of them stretched out, like a rubber band being pulled too tightly, and then they snapped into motion, the two of them slugging it out with fists and knees.
Marina’s damaged arm dangled uselessly at her side while she fought my brother one handed. However, Tim was clearly not schooled in martial arts—his punches were poorly timed and aimed.
The sound of their fists on each other’s flesh filled the room. I stepped backward toward the gun, intent on having it ready to fire on Marina in case she got the upper hand.
Tim landed a punch on Marina’s face with a crack, and she staggered back, blood spilling from her mouth. She spat it out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“So, you’re one of Mr. Jenks’ little toys,” she smirked. She rotated her good shoulder as she stalked around Tim. He watched her warily, his face bruised. Marina paused in her march, sizing him up. “I’m one of the originals,” she announced, a sadistic glow lighting in her eyes.
With that, she launched herself at Tim, catching him by surprise and tackling him at the waist. My heart leapt in my throat as she landed on top of him, and began punching him in the face.
The gun was forgotten as a rush of rage consumed me. I leapt on her back with a shriek, wrapping my legs around her waist. I bound my arm around her neck, locking my other hand around my wrist, and began to squeeze.
She pushed up on her feet and began shifting me from side to side, like a dog shedding water from its fur, but I held on tight, applying more pressure to her windpipe. I felt a stab of satisfaction as she gasped in response to me cutting off her air.
She staggered back a few steps and I held on fast.
I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings, however, and she slammed me into a wall, hard enough that I lost my grip.
I reacted, but not fast enough, and the back of my head impacted the concrete. Blinding pain rushed in. I couldn’t catch my breath, and was instantly nauseas as wave after wave of pain surged through me.
When I could finally open my eyes, I looked around. Marina was standing over my brother, hauling him up on his knees. She grabbed his chin, studying his face.
He gave a groan, and I stretched out my hand toward them. “Don’t,” I gasped, as I tried to move toward them. Dizziness assaulted me, and I couldn’t seem to find the strength in my limbs to make them do what I wanted.
Marina looked over at me, and grinned sinisterly. “Is this your brother?” she asked, her voice laced with wonder and excitement.
I clenched my jaw. “Don’t hurt him. I killed your sister. Me. Not him. Leave him alone.”
She chuckled as she caressed the side of his face. He flinched away, but she grabbed him by the back of the neck, holding him tight. “Oh no, no, no,” she tsked. “This is just too perfect.”
I groaned, and managed to make it to my side. “Please,” I begged.
Her laughter run
g out, bitter and filled with the promise of pain. “You took my sister,” she grated out. “It’s only fitting that I take your brother.”
I cried out in protest and watched in horror as she sauntered around Tim, until she was behind him. Lazily, she placed her hands on his head, one on the back of his neck, the other snaking around under his jaw, gripping the other side. I knew the hold—it was for breaking necks, and felt a scream building up in my throat.
“Say goodbye, Violet,” she taunted, her eyes burning deeply into mine.
I looked at Tim, who was staring at me, tears in his eyes. I reached for him, trying to find the power to move, to stop her, when a gunshot rang out.
Marina’s eyes widened, and she slumped onto her knees, blood trickling out from the still smoking bullet hole in her forehead.
Looking over toward Viggo, I gaped at Ms. Dale who was braced against the counter, the still smoking gun in her good hand. Blood was trickling from a gash on the side of her head, matting her brown hair to her forehead.
She relaxed her arm and tossed the gun on the counter, leaning heavily against it.
Tim crawled over to me, and curled up against me, his body trembling. I sat there, stroking his hair, too numb to even feel relieved.
38
Violet
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed before I broke through the shock that had settled over me. It couldn’t have been long—none of us had moved since Ms. Dale had shot Marina—but it was still too long, considering.
I launched myself over to Viggo, cursing myself for not getting back to him sooner.
Blood was pooled around him, and he was pale—paler than I’d ever seen him. I dropped to my knees, blood soaking through my pants. My hands were shaking as I reached for the hole in his chest. Less blood was trickling from it than before, and I didn’t see Viggo’s chest moving.
Shuddering, I reached to his throat to see if I could feel a pulse. I pressed against the vein and waited to feel anything—a reassuring bump under my fingertips that told me there was still a chance—but there was nothing.
I was breathing in sharp gasps, hyperventilating as I checked his wrist for a pulse.
“No,” I whispered. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. His head lolled side to side, but he didn’t move.
“No,” I said more insistently, shaking him harder.
“No!” I screamed, slapping him across the face hard.
I covered my mouth with my hands, trying to contain the scream that was building in my chest, wrapping around my heart like a heavy chain, tearing it apart.
I heard Tim moving up behind me. I felt his hand press down on my shoulder.
Looking up at him, I removed my hand from my mouth. “He’s dead,” I whispered, not trusting myself to speak a decibel louder for fear of releasing that horrible scream.
Tim’s grey eyes flitted over Viggo’s body. Licking his lips, he knelt down next to me, and placed his hand on Viggo’s chest. I watched as he cocked his head, seemingly listening to something.
His eyes met mine, and he grabbed my hand, replacing his hand with my own.
“Tim,” I protested, not wanting to feel the emptiness where Viggo’s heart once beat strong and true.
Pressing one hand over my mouth, he placed another hand over mine. I looked at him, a mixture of confusion and anger rolling through me. Then I felt it. A small little thump under the palm of my hand.
Eyes wide, I looked up at Tim. He reached up and pointed to himself, and then pointed upstairs. I stared at him blankly.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“He wants to go upstairs to get medical supplies,” Ms. Dale said in a tired voice behind me.
Whipping my head around, I looked at her. She was still leaning heavily on the counter, her face weary. I opened my mouth, prepared to tear her apart for even daring to speak to me after everything, when her words hit me.
Medical supplies.
I was an idiot. I should’ve been halfway upstairs by now, and instead here I was, wasting time mourning someone who wasn’t dead yet.
I suddenly felt alive with purpose. Rising to my feet, I started barking orders.
“Tim, you press down on that wound. If you can, there’s an exit wound on his back—get something on it to help slow down the bleeding. He doesn’t have much blood left. Ms. Dale, see if there are any of those blood patch things in the first aid kit, and then apply as many as you can.”
“Violet…” Ms. Dale started to say, her voice filled with doubt.
“Don’t,” I said, cutting her off. “You will do this, right now, or I will kill you myself.”
Her brown eyes examined me closely for a second, and then she nodded. “All right.”
I watched as she moved into the office, grabbing the first aid kit from the desk. While she was gone, I knelt next to Tim.
“Tim, where’s the bag?” I whispered. He was already following my orders, his hands stained red with Viggo’s blood. He looked up at me, and then his eyes flicked back toward the opposite side of the room and then back to me. “All right. Don’t show Ms. Dale, okay?”
His head bobbed up and down. I straightened up just as Ms. Dale came out of the office. I crossed over to the counter while she knelt next to Viggo. Picking up the gun she had discarded, I turned.
“Ms. Dale—you know more about first aid than I do. What do I need from upstairs?”
Ms. Dale was applying a patch to Viggo’s neck. She paused and looked at me, her brown eyes studying me. “A lot,” she replied blithely.
I grit my teeth—this was already taking too long. “Be more specific,” I said in an icy tone that promised pain.
She sighed and rested back on her heels. “Violet, he is close to death. I’m not sure there is anything in that room that can save him.”
A huff of air escaped my lungs as I eyed her. “Melissa,” I said, using her first name. “Give me a list, and get out of my way or I will kill you. You are wasting my time.”
“He’s a Patrian,” she hissed, straightening. “You can’t ask me to help the enemy.”
I let out a sharp bitter laugh and she stepped back in surprise, her brown eyes wide. “You are so full of it, Melissa,” I hissed. “You just killed an heir to the throne of Matrus.” I let out a laugh as her gaze drifted toward Marina. “You’re one of us now, whether you like it or not. Matrus won’t take you back, and you’d die in Patrus. So either get on my team, or get the hell out.”
Ms. Dale stared at me for a long moment, her face an impassive mask. “He means that much to you?” she asked.
I met her gaze without flinching. “Yes.”
“Why?” she demanded, holding her ground.
I thought about it for a second, a thousand reasons racing through my mind at once. “Because he’s ahead in the whole saving lives department, and I can’t let him die while I’m still in his debt.”
It was a glib reply, and didn’t even begin to touch what I was feeling. I owed Viggo so much more than I could possibly give. He had saved my life, multiple times. I had betrayed him, and he had chosen to forgive me. He had given me his trust and his compassion. I might not be ready to admit it yet, but I was in love with Viggo Croft. I couldn’t let him die.
A flash of irritation danced across her face. “This isn’t a game, Violet,” she said.
“I know that, Melissa,” I replied. “We all owe him our lives, even you. He carried you for miles with red flies chasing us. So get to work.”
She hesitated for a split second, and then nodded, sinking back to her knees. “You’ll need more blood patches, a bandage, portable scanner, cauterizer…”
I listened as she listed off items, making a mental check list. As she wound down, I was already heading toward the door.
“Don’t let him die before I get back,” I called as I left.
I ran. It was five flights of stairs and four levels up and down. I was exhausted, bruised, likely had a concussion, broken ribs, and emotionally da
maged.
None of it mattered though—not with Viggo’s life on the line. I made good time up the stairs, in spite of my lungs burning and sweat pouring from me with exertion. It was pain and pain was good at the moment—it was helping to keep me on my feet, in spite of my exhaustion.
I reached the last landing and stepped through the open door, my mind intent on finding what I needed.
Rushing to the cabinets, I threw them open and began tossing item after item on to the bed. I ran through the list Ms. Dale gave me, taking extra care to make sure that I got everything she asked for, and then some.
I wiped sweat off my face with the back of my hand. Carefully, I arranged the items on the bed, listing them off to double check that they were there. After a moment’s pause, I carefully gathered the corners of the bedsheet, making a makeshift bag.
I tied the corners together tight, to ensure that they didn’t bounce around when I ran. A few of the more delicate items I held, not wanting them to break. After making sure one more time I had grabbed everything I needed, I carefully heaved the bag over my shoulder.
It was heavy, but not too heavy that I couldn’t handle it. Running wasn’t going to be a problem, hopefully.
Once again, I was feeling the clock ticking down, pressure mounting in me to do something. I stepped out into the hall and moved toward the door leading to the stairs. I stepped over the threshold, and took a deep breath.
Then I began to run. I began slowly at a light jog. My makeshift bag bounced against my back, but nothing inside it shifted out of place. I took the stairs two or three at a time, my heart already pounding in my chest.
Something was nagging me at the back of my mind—something I had overlooked—but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I raced through the living quarters and through the door to the next staircase, my mind whirling. The nagging sensation intensified, and I felt a spike of fear and anxiety.
I tried to push it away, but the hair on the back of my neck was standing on end as I entered the common greenhouse. I slowed down and came to a stop in the middle of the room.