Page 20 of You Were Warned: Part One

“I guess you had plans for me?”

He nods.

“What kind of plans?”

He scoffs. “Ones that have changed significantly in the last six hours.”

As I glance toward him, he smirks at me.

“Are you one of the people who’ve been following me?”

He nods. “For nineteen days.”

“Why so long?”

Let’s face it, any of them could have killed me at any point, yet they dragged it out. I have what they want, though surely finding it would have been easier if they had tortured out the location first.

“That, my friend, is a longer conversation than I care to have right now.” He nods at the bed. “Lie down and drink the water when you can keep it down.”

He rolls the bottle of water toward me.

“Why bother locking me in a cell? That seems counterproductive.”

“Probably,” he says. “Lie down, Jensen.”

He uses my actual name, not Lucky. Why does that feel like a sucker punch to the gut? There is no way Stockholm syndrome has kicked in already. I snort at myself as I grab the bottle of water, pry my body from the ground, and get onto the bed.

“Why bother saving me?” I ask, and he remains quiet.

“Go to sleep,” he says after a minute.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.”

I close my eyes, unsure of what will happen next. I should be more frightened of what is ahead, but I’m tired of running, of looking over my shoulder. Whatever happens from here is for the best. Maybe it’s my reckoning for all the terrible things I have done.

Vesper

Nixie has some new hires, and I am less than pleased. These men carry a confidence that has not been earned, standing in the stunt area judging their new space, hands on their hips, wearing backward-facing caps and channeling matching energy. Their jawlines speak of pedigree breeding, and the complete absence of anything resembling a personality.

They wear normal clothes, not costumes or character gear—no attempt or any effort to fit in. This island has an aesthetic, and they have not even tried to meet it halfway. One of them is in a hoodie that says something across the chest, another has his sunglasses pushed up on his cap, and the third is scrolling on his phone.

“Great,” I mutter to myself. “Just what we need—cookie-cutter models. Next thing they’ll be parading around in their underwear, wanting to become the new faces of Fear Island. We don’t do pretty here.”

“Excuse me?” The Jester materializes out of fucking nowhere, and he genuinely looks offended by my statement. “I’m very pretty.”

“In your dreams,” I snap, rolling my eyes.

“Frequently.” He looks back at the three men near the stunt area. “Are those the new guys?”

“Apparently.”

He makes an excited noise, and I sneer. Fuck, he does my head in. “What?”

“Nothing,” he throws back with a smirk, but I can see his brain working hard to not spill his guts.

“Just tell me, for fuck’s sake. Some of us don’t have all day.”