Page 64 of The King of Hearts

Something really weird is going on here, and I don’t like it.

Abruptly, Dara sits up and swivels in her chair, pulling my attention back to her. Her head turns from side to side, her eyes wide and frantic as she looks at each corner of the room. I follow her movements, and as expected, see nothing out of the ordinary. No shadowy men lurking in corners. No mysterious figures hidden in inconspicuous places.

Just as quickly as Dara sat up in a panic, the anxious look on her face disappears, and she brings her gaze to me. It still amazes me how she can go from one extreme to the next in a matter of seconds.

Her expression clears, and a smile appears on her face. It’s so big that it makes the corners of her eyes wrinkle.

“Hey, Savina,” she says cheerily. “I’m so glad to see you. It feels like it’s been weeks since you were last here.”

My last visit was only a week ago, but I’m sure in a place like this, time moves slowly. “How have you been?”

She pulls her braid over her shoulder and starts playing with the end. Her hair is always in a braid. One of the nurses once told me that Dara is insistent that her hair is always put into a braid in the morning.

“I’ve been good. I beat Willy at Battleship the other day.” She grins.

I laugh. “I bet that went over great. Willy hates losing at that game.”

“He definitely wasn’t happy. He said as a punishment, he was going to refuse to flash people for several days. Of course, none of us thought that was a bad thing.”

“Maybe you should beat him more often,” I suggest with another laugh.

“Oh, I plan on it. We’re supposed to play later today, and I have every intention of sinking his battleship.”

We talk about nonsense stuff for several minutes. I tell Dara about the Sheppard’s Ball, leaving out the part that happened at the end with my devil, and she tells me the latest gossip happening around the facility. Apparently, one of the patients set a small fire in the kitchen a few days ago, and it caused all of the sprinklers to turn on.

One of the nurses, who’s walking around the room with a basket full of snacks, stops by our table. She holds the basket out to Dara, waiting for her to pick one.

Dara looks at it, then lifts her eyes to the nurse. “I’m dead. I don’t eat,” she says, her tone casual, like it’s totally normal for a dead person to talk and refuse food.

Used to this behavior, the nurse just smiles and walks away. Due to confidentiality laws, I can’t know anything medically related to Dara, but I’ve done my research on Cotard’s Syndrome. Some patients refuse to eat at all, claiming that “dead people don’t need food.” Dara’s weight appears healthy, so she either eats willingly, at least sporadically, or the doctors somehow force nutrients into her.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to check my notifications. If it were a phone call, I’d wait until I left to call the person back, but a text is easy and quick to reply to.

Bishop’s name appears on my screen, and I tap it to bring up his message.

Bishop: Braxton was just found unconscious in his house, beaten to hell and back. Bennett is taking him to the clinic right now.

A hollow feeling forms in my chest, and my hands start to shake as I read the message over and over again.

No. No, no, no. He didn’t do it. It’s been three days since the ball. When the next day came, and I didn’t receive a box with a heart, the knot in my stomach grew smaller. Then another day went by, and it got even smaller. The third day, I finally breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that my devil didn’t hurt Braxton like I feared he would.

I was wrong.

Dear God, I was wrong.

With trembling fingers, I send him a reply.

Me: How bad is he?

His response comes almost immediately.

Bishop: He’ll live, but his recovery won’t be pleasant. He has lacerations on his chest deep enough to need stitches, his face is badly busted up, one arm is broken, and it looks like someone attempted to cut off one of his fingers.

I close my eyes and take several deep breaths when nausea rolls in my stomach. Guilt nags at the pit of my stomach. This is all my fault. I let Braxton touch me by dancing with him at the ball. I should have refused him. I should have taken my devil for his word when he said he’d hurt anyone who touched me.I should have known he would have eyes on me there, that he would be there.

But Jesus, it was just a dance. An innocent fucking dance. There has never been anything other than friendship between Braxton and me. I’ve known him for ten years. He’s like a brother to me.

“Savina?”

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