Page 212 of Victorious

“Well,” he said, fingers flexing on the knife. “Now there’s no one to hold me back.”

“That was the idea,” said Victor grimly as, across the room, the doctor died.

He knew the moment it happened, because he felt the current spark, and sputter, and go out.

He knew, because at that same moment, Eli’s smile dropped. Followed by the rest of him. One second, he was there, knife slicing toward Victor’s throat, and the next, his body was collapsing inward on itself.

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

There, and then gone.

For good this time.

The small blood-crusted blade, all that remained of Eli Ever.

“See you on the other side,” murmured Victor as his own strength gave out. His knees buckled beneath him, the empty gun dropping from his hand.

He sank to the floor, staring past the pile of ash to the therapist’s body.

Victor had been fairly sure Gabriel would intercede, but as for the link between their lives—and deaths—he had been far less certain.

Still, Victor had always been a man of science, and science, he had learned back at Lockland, was rarely about certainty. More often, it relied on educated guesses. Eli’s unwillingness, or inability, to harm the therapist suggested there was more to their connection. That, combined with the fact that every resurrected body possessed the same current of energy. A signature that wasn’t theirs, but Gabriel’s. He’d felt it in Eli too, when he walked in. That foreign frequency.

Victor sagged back against the office wall, wincing less at the wound in his shoulder or side, than the ache inside his chest, which had sharpened suddenly. He could feel it, even through his deadened nerves, which wasn’t a good sign.

He dragged the inhaler from his pocket with his good hand and placed the disc against his lips. Drew in a breath, waiting for his heart to settle.

But it didn’t.

Victor frowned, examining the cartridge, and saw exactly what the problem was. The glass vial at the center of the cartridge had cracked and broken, somewhere in the fight. Whatever had been left had leaked out, leaving an empty chamber.

Victor almost laughed.

Instead, he pocketed the broken disc, and leaned back against the pale green wall, and closed his eyes.

XIIINOW. THEN.

THE first thing Sydney saw when they got to Dr. Gray’s office was the therapist lying dead inside the door.

The second thing she saw was Victor.

He was sitting on the floor against the far green wall. One knee up and one leg long, head bowed, and eyes closed, his pale hair flecked with blood. He was so still that, for a second, she thought he might be dead. But then, he stirred, and looked up at her, and smiled.

“Hey, Syd.”

“Victor.” Her voice broke against his name, and then she was rushing toward him, all of her anger and resentment replaced by sheer relief. She was about to hug him when she saw the blood, the dampness slicking his black shirt.

She stopped, and crouched so they were face-to-face, and said, “You’re hurt.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m okay.” His gaze dropped to a streak of ash on the floor. “You should see Eli.”

She stared at the remains, gladness welling up in her, that he was gone. Finally. Forever. But Victor didn’t look as happy as she felt.

She studied him, for the first time in three years. He looked pale, but he always looked pale, and— She frowned. “What happened to your eyes?”

“Fashion choice,” he said without missing a beat. “Do you like them?”

Sydney shook her head.