Page 44 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
“Don’t,” he says.
“You’re losing blood,” I say, my voice high with panic.
“Don’t go—” He coughs again.
I glance back, surprised to see Penny staring at us, wide-eyed and terrified. For someone who was so competent on the bus, she looks like she’s about to bolt. “He’s not here.”
“Gabriel?”
She shakes her head, skin deathly pale. As pale as when she first arrived at the Den.
Anders takes my hand, squeezing hard enough to grind the bones. I yelp, trying to pull away. But even despite his injury, he yanks me close. I’m an inch away from him. I can see the faint lines of his face, the slight silvery scruff of his hair. The striations of pain in his blue eyes.
“Don’t go to him. That’s what he wants.”
Not Gabriel, I realize. Jonathan Scott. The same thing Gabriel has been warning me against the entire time. The same thing my mother did that ended her life. Except I don’t know that there’s any other choice. He’s closing every other path, forcing me to the one he wants.
“Gabriel,” I whisper. “He’s alive?”
“Forget him.”
That means yes. If he were dead, Anders would tell me in a misguided attempt to send me away. If there’s a chance that I can save Gabriel, then I’ll do it. I may be the princess locked in the tower, but I’m going to save the prince.
I go to the phone on a side table and call the emergency line. An ambulance will come for Anders. Whether I’ll need one at the end of this remains to be seen.
And then I turn to Penny. “He sent you to me, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, her voice thready.
“You’re going to take me to him.”
Her head shakes, violent. “No.”
“Yes, Penny. I need you to do this for me. I need you to do it for Gabriel.” And I think she has to do it for herself, to break her out of this spell. She’s lived in a cocoon of Jonathan Scott’s making ever since the attack. The only way to survive is to break free, to become someone else—something else.
“I don’t want to die.”
That’s when it hits me, the realization that this is the end. Not for Penny and not for Gabriel. Not if I can help it. It’s the end for me, the same way it was for my mother. And maybe that’s the best end I can hope for. Not a love story. A tragedy, one I faced with bravery, my chin raised high to the end.
My mother was an adventurer. I know that much from her diaries. I may look like her, but we never shared that trait. I never sneaked onto the lake in a stolen canoe, never fooled around with my female classmate while men vied for my hand at the party inside. A rule breaker, while I minded every wish of my mother, every requirement of society. We were, each of us, born in the wrong time.
There’s one thing we share, besides the blood that runs through our veins.
We both love a man that leads us to our deaths.Chapter Twenty-FiveI thought the streets near the Den were dark, but they’re nothing compared to the west side. The deeper we walk, the more shadows surround us. I can see how Jonathan Scott manages to maneuver here, especially if he’s familiar with these alleys.
Penny seems familiar enough, leading me with a steady gait, if a worried expression. She tugs me to the side to avoid a particularly deep pothole in front of a diner. Light spills out of frosted windows, revealing cracked leather booths, mostly empty. A waitress fills a coffee cup at one of the tables. Her uniform is a drab blue, like the one that Penny wore when Damon carried her. I can still remember his hands tearing the fabric from her cold body.
“You worked here?”
She gives me a small smile. “Since I turned thirteen.”
My eyebrows rise. I didn’t even know you could go to work that early, but that shows how much I know about child labor. And then again, the west side isn’t exactly known for strict law enforcement.
“Did you like it there?”
Her smile fades. “No one likes it there.”
“The food isn’t good?”
“It’s tolerable. Most things are tolerable, if you don’t have any other choice.”
I put my hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”
She looks back, her blue eyes imploring. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t want that. I just want you to understand this. To understand me. Because what you’re going to see next…”
“What?”
“The west side isn’t like what you’re used to. It’s not even like the Den.”
Unease runs through me. “Sometimes the way people talk about Jonathan Scott… it’s like he’s a ghost or something. Not even human.”
Her eyes flash with remembered pain. “He’s not human. He’s an animal.”
“You don’t have to come with. Give me directions.”
