Page 88 of Fuse

“Okay…shit…there are more than a few lizards stirring inside there,” Alex rushes on. “They—they must’ve had steel blocker walls across the front of the house. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I snap. “Just be on the game now. Damn it, Trestle,” I dictate when his end of the line is too silent for too many seconds. “If you don’t talk to me, I’m just going in.” And am even more driven, along with savagely grateful, when Foley quickens his stride to match my stalk across the pool deck.

“Uh…yeah,” Alex finally stammers. “That’s a damn good idea.”

“What is?” Foley retorts.

“Going in,” Alex returns. “Like, now.”

I break into a jog. Okay, maybe a full run. “What the hell does that—”

“Just do it.” The brutal punch of Trestle’s ordinance makes me instantly wish for the stammering again. “Once you’re in, cut a hard right through the sun room. Then down the hall after that.”

We’re not running hard, but Foley’s breaths are heavy huffs on the line. “Then what?”

“Just keep going.” Another harsh breath, but definitely Alex’s this time. “Just…fucking…please keep going.”

Before he’s even done choking it out, we’re using the Bolt battering ram to enter the sun room—aka, me whomping the window with a directed pulse, sending the whole pane of glass to the ground—before continuing to head right. A few seconds later, our sprint begins down a long, tiled corridor with ornate sconces along the walls out of some damn vampire movie.

As we run down the passage, members of the Faline happy squad seem to materialize out of the walls. They’re really only bursting out from doorways, though the fuck-all with my imagination is the same, sending my mind into surreal gamer mode. The eerie light from the sconces adds to the effect, the dimness accenting the unblinking gold glow in all their eyes, making me feel like Van Helsing without his cool weaponry—or any of the adversaries sprouting fangs. Like that matters.

I take each of them out with the same ruthless instinct, either spearing their chests or slicing their throats with the lightning firing through my senses and shooting out my fingers. I barely think about the actions, adapting each for optimal destruction. And yes, goddamnit, that’s all this is right now. Later, I’ll need to confront the fact that they’re humans—or that maybe they once were—but right now, with Alex’s hoarse pleas echoing in my head, all I can think about is getting down this fucking hall.

Getting to Emmalina.

Because she is here. I know it now. Every lash of my breath, pierce of my pulse, and agony of my muscles confirms it. Stabs it. Torments me with it.

Until they don’t.

Until I reach the massive steel door at the end of the hall and tear it off its hinges with a massive roar.

Until I yell even louder, as her misery hits me like a full gale.

Until I struggle to comprehend the scene before me.

Standing stock still, stupefied and ashamed. Thinking if I stay this way, the horror will vanish. My gut will give my imagination back to my mind and clarify what I’m really supposed to be seeing. That I’m not really supposed to be digging a hand at my head, singeing my scalp as I drive my fingers through my hair, yearning to burn them through my skull. I want to gouge out my brains and hurl them against the wall.

Because I’m not supposed to be seeing this.

Because this isn’t real.

Because this is just another nightmare, only worse.

Because unlike the thousand other times I’ve relived it, when memory has attacked me in the midst of exhaustion or sleep, I’m not the one on that steel table, naked and shackled and terrified.

No.

“Jesus God.” Foley spews it on behalf of us both. My holocaust of a throat has turned my voice to ash. My spirit is a thunderstorm of horror, raining lava through every tendon, bone, muscle, and nerve in my body.

I want to fucking die.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

If I die, there’s no hope for Emma. There’s no way out for her. And yes, she still has a way out. Somehow, I’m able to take a mental triage on her, even from here. Her skin is still the color of pale cream. There’s no discernible energy sparking from her extremities. While the machines Faline has her wired to are advanced versions of the torture devices they used on me, I recognize the humanity in her bit-gagged whimpers. The bitch hasn’t stripped everything from her yet.

Yet.