Page 89 of Fuse

“Darling! What a lovely surprise!” Faline attempts to croon it, but the soprano to which her voice jumps, instead of its worldly alto, is blatant. Clearly she hasn’t anticipated our arrival at all, meaning the solar flare infusion is holding steady in my bloodstream. Thank fuck, because right now, I feel completely bloodless.

“Jesus…God.” Foley’s repetition, while still a sandpaper snarl, is dunked in a deeper vat of shock this time. The impression makes me look over to where my friend’s stance is racked by tiny, violent lurches. He seems to want to step forward but is being held back by a thousand filaments of invisible wire.

“Hmmm,” Faline hums then. “Close, cariño, but not quite. I am definitely the upgrade.” As she finishes by swooping a couple of fingers toward him, missing only a wand to seal her Slytherin membership, I suddenly realize—it’s her. Whatever strange electric spider’s web has taken over the air and trapped Foley in place, it’s being controlled by her.

And “upgrade” or not, I take advantage of the seconds in which she preens for Foley to pulse myself to Emma’s side. But as her scream splits the air, I leap back with my hands in the air, heart thundering at my ribs. If I ever hear that agonized sound erupt from my Emma again, I won’t just tear my brains out of my head. I’ll rip my skull off my shoulders.

This is killing me.

But even worse, I know exactly what it’s doing to Emmalina.

Every excruciating notch of pain throughout her body. Every terrible plea for it to stop in her mind.

Matched by every tormented muscle in my body, holding back from spinning and strangling the bitch who stomps back over with furious hisses. But I can’t kill her. Not yet. The shackles on Emma are controlled by codes that are likely known and controlled by Faline alone. Ding dong, the witch has to live on.

“Attempt to touch her again, or override the codes on those restraints, and I will not hesitate to redline the voltage.”

Though I know she can already see my hands, I hitch them a little higher. The bitch means every word. I’ve never seen her redline someone on the table before, but I’ve heard the word whispered as she performed the punishment—and eventually, the horrendous death—on others. Expendable others. Which may or may not be how she perceives Emma now…

Why is she doing this to Emma?

Revenge is the first option to surface, though I rule it out just as fast. Why would she go to the trouble if she assumed I was still in the induced coma and wouldn’t know about all this? Recruitment is next on the list, but once again I have to wonder why. It would make more sense for Faline to kill Emma instead of attempt to turn her. Why draft a soldier so patently hostile to the cause?

That leaves…what?

Research?

Or simple sadism?

Which, I’m nauseated to admit, would both fit. And yes, both right here and now. Putting Emma through an accelerated transformation—which all the dials and settings in front of me indicate—would neatly check both those boxes for Faline.

Boxes I’ve got to uncheck. And then erase.

“You don’t want her anyway.” Though it’s brutal and guttural, I turn it into an undisputable order—hitting the woman, nearly literally, below the belt. Because as thoroughly as Faline Garand knows all of my triggers and motivations, I know hers. I’m sickened by even admitting the knowledge now, especially after shutting it down so many times since taking my first step away from the Source, during that moonless midnight, so long ago.

But not long enough.

Or perhaps, in some demented depth of my psyche, I’ve purposely never let go of it due to realizing all of this. Recognizing that Faline would never set it free. That she’d remember every one of those days I was chained down for her, forced to forge that link with her faceless voice. I’d needed her for survival—and, in the months to come, I came to the twisted acceptance that she needed me too. I provided some strange connection for her…some unattainable goal, maybe. Back to her humanity? Or maybe the opposite direction, toward reaching for a higher purpose? Seeking her immortality through me?

And do any of those clarifications even matter?

She has the tool to get back to them again.

Me.

Standing before her, saying exactly this.

“We both know what you want, Faline.”

But it’s not Faline’s voice that fills the awful silence that falls then. It’s the high, tearful whimper of the woman on the table. The destiny of my existence. The center of my heart. The pulse in my blood. The more in my world.

The reason Faline isn’t on the floor right now, her throat ripped open by lightning and her heart yanked from her chest and fried into the black stone it really is. I could still try it, but I really do know the bitch that well. Her death by my hand would mean more than the shackle codes dying with her. As soon as she breathed her last, there’d be a dozen hits called on Emma’s life. I know better. The shitty thing is, Faline also knows I know better.

But I still hold the ace here.

Even if she doesn’t see it for herself.

Which she clearly doesn’t, judging by the slither in her step and the gleam in her eyes, as she moves to cover the last couple of steps between us. Or even as I back up by equal steps but twice the distance, giving off the exact vibe I intend. As she follows me, tracing her bottom lip with one crimson nail, she starts gloating in her perceived triumph. But I’m the real winner of round one, having diverted her away from Emma’s bedside—though my girl, seeing only Faline making cat-in-heat moves on me, has no way of knowing that. Her heartsick mewl impacts every inch of Faline’s body like a rush of pure cocaine.