Page 99 of Fuse

So damn bright.

Fuck. Fuck.

Has it really happened, then? Did Faline really do it? Have I already given her what she wanted and she’s killed me so quickly that I didn’t even feel it? Or maybe getting murdered was a walk in the metaphysical park compared to being tortured Consortium style, and fate decided to give me a bye on all the pain parts.

But it sure as hell feels like I’m still breathing—hard and heavily. My chest still pumps like the ocean in a tide pool, and my heart hammers like huge waves against those rocks. Is this just the way of things? How one passes from one dimension to the next? If so, it’s a shit ton easier than everyone says it is.

But if that’s really the case, am I in heaven or hell?

Because while Emmalina is truly here, so is Faline. Dear fuck, so is Faline. She’s not moaning or sighing anymore. She’s screaming—or at least trying to. I really don’t care. I don’t notice anything beyond Emma’s splendor. Her light is like a living creature come to life inside her, refusing to be contained in the confines of her lush, perfect curves. And holy God, what curves. I’d swear on my balls—still intact, thank fuck—that her breasts have gotten fuller, her hips have gotten lusher, and even her hair has grown longer, fanning from her head with the glowing glory of white-gold wings.

Wings.

Yes.

Jesus God, maybe she really is an angel. But from which side? And do I care, when she’s this magnificent a sight? Will I even notice if I’m floating on clouds or walking through fire, especially if that fire is hers?

Holy shit. That fire. It’s as if the cosmos peeled off a strip of the sun and then poured it inside her, turning her gaze into a pair of endless skies and her exultant smile into star-bright resplendence. If she walked in here naked, I’m damn sure I’d be blind and burned to a skeleton by now…but I can’t imagine any better experience for my final memories. As it is, I’m positive this view will be embedded in my soul forever. My badass Bunny in head-to-toe leather, undaunted purpose in her steps and unfettered vengeance in her eyes, all but exploding the air itself just by entering the room.

“Fuck. Me.”

Croaking the words this close to Faline, even in her seething state of distraction, probably isn’t the wisest choice of my limited lung power, but I’m not being given much of a choice. I need the words, from my own lips, as a barometer of reality. If this is still reality. And if it isn’t, then what the hell has just happened? Is still happening?

“Fuck. Me.” Still sounds real. A good thing, yes? No? “What…the hell…have you done, Emmalina?”

Though the vibrations of the words are agony in my throat, the pain sparks my brain back to life. Synapses I’d ordered into dormancy zap back online, plugging what I’m seeing—and now sensing and smelling, as her presence jolts my pores and her sea-and-sunshine scent floods my nostrils—into what I know.

That she’s real.

That she’s here.

And that she’s—

“Holy. Shit!”

Like a rhino on Ritalin, the comprehension finally, fully, slams me. She’s back. And different.

Really. Fucking. Different.

After a visit back to the ridge. Where she’s had access to all that equipment in the lab…

The power that the guys rigged from the solar panels, to zap me again…

“Holy fuck, Emmalina Paisley. What the hell did you—”

“Shut. Up.” Faline underlines it with a punch to my ribs, making speaking impossible—though only sharpening my curiosity. Why is the harpy trying to hide next to me? If I weren’t still fighting for air, thanks to my pummeled ribs, I’d laugh. Faline Garand is taking cover next to the prisoner she’s got in at least twenty locked shackles?

“Ding dong!”

The shout, a mix of confidence and radiance, does induce me to laugh. Though I pay the price for it with a stab of pain through my middle, she’s well worth it.

She sounds like the sun itself.

“Well, hello there, ma’am. I’m in the neighborhood, collecting charitable donations for hell. They’re especially in need of skank bitches in bad latex. So happy to see I’ve found exactly what those poor souls need.”

The sun who’s arrived with a hell of a lot more attitude than when she left.

After a gritted growl, Faline straightens to her full height. With the new angle to my view, I can see every bony cord in her neck, leading up to the combative jut of her jaw. If the woman were wearing anything but her shiny black body condom, I’d mistake her for a cross-dresser about to get the fail-whale medal for attempting to channel Morticia Addams.