Page 133 of Endless Terrors
Starting with the lies rotting between me and my best friend.
His eyes flicked between mine. “Tried what?”
“Waking up. Something is wrong. Maybe there’s no body for me to go back to.” My voice was cool. Detached. As if I couldn’t care less, one way or the other, whether I’d see my family again.
Oliver started to reply, but before he could utter a word, a sound shuddered through the entire cottage. I jumped so hard that it sent my heart into a panic, and my head jerked toward the door. Forgetting the storm, the cold, all of it, I looked up at Oliver with wide eyes. “What was that?” I breathed.
It had sounded like … knocking.
Oliver’s expression was grim. He went to the closet and took out two old semiautomatic rifles. He came back to me and held one out. I took it without thinking, and then my other instincts took over. I heard Dad’s voice in my head as I racked the charging handle back, then checked the chamber for clear. “You asked me what I’ve been doing,” Oliver said, watching me.
I knew my expression was bewildered as I looked at the gun in my hands and back at him. “You’ve been … building guns?”
“No, I’ve been building fences. The guns are just from our weapons stash.”
“Fences? Why?”
Oliver faced the door, his eyes going flat and hard again. He raised his rifle and put his finger on the trigger. “To keep them away.”
“Keep what—”
The door exploded. The wall on the opposite side of the cottage also shattered, wood, plaster, and glass flying everywhere. Luckily, Oliver and I were standing off to the side, closer to the fireplace. None of the debris hit us. Not that I would’ve noticed if it had.
All my focus was on the face peering through the gap in the door.
Ian O’Connell smiled when he saw me. He was wearing his uniform, and the buttons gleamed wetly as he stepped over the threshold. I held my gun tighter and backed away, struggling to breathe. Ian was bigger than I remembered, his head nearly touching the top of the doorway. His boots squeaked and left small pools of rainwater on the floor. I could hear my heartbeat like bombs going off in my head. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Oliver’s arm tensing. He was about to shoot.
But I beat him to it.
Stepping into Ian’s path, I tightened my grip on the gun and emptied the clip into his face.
Once the bullets stopped, silence filled the cottage from corner to corner. Even the storm had abated, as if the sky itself were holding its breath. I didn’t lower the rifle. It seemed like Ian fell in slow motion, and when he finally hit the floor, my ears started ringing. Oliver said something, his voice nearby, but he may as well have been a thousand miles away. There was blood everywhere. My face, my hands, the gun, the floor. I’d been standing closer to Ian than I realized. On feet that didn’t feel like mine, I walked over to him. Some distant, irrational part of my brain worried that it wasn’t over. That he wasn’t really dead.
No, he’s definitely dead, I thought a moment later. I stared down at Ian’s body—or what was left of it—and for a few seconds, the past and the present overlapped. The walls and floors flickered, showing glimpses of a yellow-tinted crossroads and dark trees. With slow, methodical movements, I turned and set the gun down on the table. It made a dull thud against the wood.
Something about the sound was jarring. Pain rushed through me, sharp as the lash of a whip. When I’d killed the demon I made the deal with, it had been wearing its true face. But it was Ian who’d come that night. Ian who had leered at me during the worst moments of my life. Killing this version of him, even in a dream, felt like I’d ripped something open inside of me.
Whirling, I grabbed the front of Oliver’s shirt and arched my head back. “Make me forget,” I said desperately.
His hands flew out to grasp my waist, steadying me and stopping me at the same time. “What?”
“Make me forget.” I buried my fingers in Oliver’s hair and pressed close, claiming his shocked mouth with my own. Oliver recovered instantly, and he made a sound at the back of his throat as he tasted me, deeply, his palms moving up my arms.
Then he grasped my wrists and pulled them down, separating us. He kept his fingers interlaced with mine, as if he was restraining me. “You’re grieving right now, Fortuna.”
“So?” I stared up at him, and even though I still had enough pride not to beg, I felt the pleading in my eyes. The silent imploring. Just say yes. Just kiss me.
“So I’m not going to take advantage of that.”
“If anything, I’m taking advantage of you,” I argued.
But Oliver just shook his head. “Let’s take a beat, Fortuna. I need to fix the holes in this place so we don’t freeze tonight. If you’re still awake when I’m done, we can make some popcorn and watch a movie. Okay?”
“Okay.” My voice was hollow. I didn’t feel the sting of rejection or embarrassment; I was just tired. Deeply, suddenly tired, as if the adrenaline had burned through my veins and left nothing but smoke and scorch marks.
I fought it, though. I went to the couch instead of the bed, intending to keep Oliver company while he worked. Later, I wouldn’t remember drifting off or Oliver draping a blanket over me. It felt like I’d just closed my eyes when his lips brushed my temple. He murmured against my skin, “Go to sleep, Fortuna. I may not be as strong as I once was, but I can still protect you from your bad dreams. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
I must have believed him, because the tightness left my chest and I sank deeper into the couch cushions, letting out a long, low breath. Darkness claimed me, and for once, nothing awaited on the other side of it except oblivion. Beautiful oblivion.
