Page 75 of Fuse

Saving me.

Literally.

Giving me the will to go on, even as the ice invaded my blood. Even as the chill took over my system, blowing in with its inexorable control. Numbing me to the point that the only choice for survival was surrender.

And so I had.

Or so I’d thought.

Until her voice followed me right into the dark. Her soul invaded the shadows of Faline’s grip and wouldn’t let go. Her will made it possible for me to go beyond that blackness, into a deeper night where I was safe…

And that takes care of the why. But crashes my consciousness with all the other “pertinent” issues here.

“Progress.” I repeat Fershan’s word in a dazed mutter. Seems a damn good place to start. “And how, exactly, have we gotten to that hashtag?” I address it to all three of them in a sweep of my gaze before pinching the bridge of my nose in an effort to cut the thundering pain behind my eyes.

Foley clears his throat, and I’m relieved to hear the confidence beneath it. “It’s still Saturday. Time is twenty-fifteen, give or take a few seconds,” he starts in. “We induced you into the coma about four and a half hours ago, with Emma’s permission. Do you remember any of that?”

“Emma.” I repeat the part of that worth the effort, though after a few long seconds, attempt to expand on the answer. “I—no. Nothing, really. I only get…pieces.”

Begging Em to push the Pentobarbital in my IV. Doing that after I’d literally nearly fucked her to death. Doing that after being hauled back to consciousness as Faline’s horrified puppet, my every move guided by the witch’s bioelectric strings on my limbs. And her haughty purr in my head…

“Well, that’s probably a good thing.” Foley breaks me free from the downward spiral of the memories. “Though even pieces of shit are still shit.”

“I’d say you could say that again, but don’t you fucking dare.” I’m glad for the excuse of getting to trade some smartass with him. The guy looks like someone dragged him to Faline’s mental ice castle and back.

“Got it, man. Loud and clear.” He rubs the back of his neck while darting a quick glance at me—“quick” being subjective. What’s the proper velocity for a look filled with three novels’ worth of hidden meanings but not leaving a sole lasting impression? “We’ve got to move on to other subjects anyway,” he states. “Right away.”

I tap the button that raises the table beneath my head and shoulders. “Sounds like I need to be upright.” Even if my ass is stuck to a steel slab, the guy who treats flying bullets and pursuing goons with the same ease as a choppy onshore flow is now grimacing like he got handed a full-on hurricane watch.

“Yeah.” Foley rocks his head back over his massaging hand. “Maybe. Sure.”

I narrow my stare. Ping it between him, Alex, and Fersh, unable to ignore how Foley’s unease has seeped into their demeanors too.

“For the love of fuck.” I throw up a hand in exasperation. “You assholes actually going to draw straws about who gets to give the update to the sap in the bed here? Because it’s a huge damn relief I haven’t woken up as Faline’s dick-on-demand, but I don’t have the strength or patience to even thumb wrestle anyone for that intel right now.”

When their stares continue to be the finest combination of hesitation and observation I’ve ever seen, I plunge on without any mercy. “You still just going to play the coy game? Going to make me guess at how long I have left? Does this all at least get better as I get closer? Will I start seeing psychedelic candy corn in synchronized swimming routines? The Rock singing ‘Let it Go’ in drag while keeping time with himself on a ten-pound pickle tub?”

Alex finally tosses me a bone. “We’re sorry, man.” He spreads his hands like a diplomat. “You were tossed into a psychological wormhole for half a day, and now we’re giving you our fucking triumvirate of tension.”

“Because we have good reason to be tense?” Fershan mumbles.

“Shut. Up,” Foley spits.

“What the hell?” I laser him with a glare.

“One step at a time.” Foley includes everyone in the reproof, even me, before nodding back at Alex. “Go ahead, Trestle.” When Alex replies with a questioning brow, he states, “Tag team. You’re part one.”

“There are parts?” I don’t hold back on the new flare of my eyes. “And now that we’re talking the team, where’s Wade?”

Foley dips his head, working way too hard to maintain the neutrality across his face. “Like I said, man, one step at a time.”

“But how many steps are we talking?” I snap. “You did say I was only out for four hours, yeah?” How much of a shit show could’ve gone down in that time?

My apprehension is nudged as Foley whisks back by a step, deferring to Alex while cocking a sardonic brow. “After you, boy wonder.”

Alex gives back as good as he gets with the sardonic expression. Trestle, our king of disguises on the outside and prince of tech expertise on the inside, has chosen to channel George Patton’s grit with Edward Cullen’s pathos—which is either pure weirdness or complete genius. I’m too exhausted to attempt a final call on the matter now.

Without further ado, he starts in. “In a nutshell, there’s good news and weird news.”