Page 70 of The Witch's Heart
All of it is almost enough to break me. Almost. But I am not alone and that counts for a lot.
The twins are my light in the dark.
I don’t want to think about what it would be like without Declan and Dean as comfort. Maybe Cutter knows that. Maybe he’s keeping me just this side of sane for a reason. But I still don’t know what that reason is. Or why he’s doing this to me. To any of us.
By day eight, I am already emotionally numb when Sir comes for me. I hug the guys goodbye and Declan murmurs something about staying strong, but Sir stops me at the door.
“You too,” he says, eyeing Dean.
I turn in surprise and see suspicion and something else flit across Dean’s face. Trepidation.
“What the bloody hell. No way. Not without me,” Declan argues.
But Sir nods, adding, “The three of you will come with me.”
Declan frowns.
We all share a look.
This is different. Something has changed.
Sir takes us through a series of halls, and I catch sight of the red-framed doors marking the research wing before we turn a corner and it disappears behind us. My senses go on alert. This is the same floor as Dr. Livingstone’s office. But I don’t get a chance to see if he’s there before Sir opens an unmarked door and shoves us inside.
Within, Schmidt is waiting for us along with another male I’ve never seen before. His scrubs are tight against large biceps and his face is marked with scars.
The twins growl at him in recognition.
“Hello, Declan. Dean.” The man’s eyes gleam with sinister intent.
“Whatever you’re doing, leave her out of it,” Declan warns, but the man grabs Dean and sticks him with a needle that instantly renders him unconscious. Then he drags Dean through an adjoining door where they both disappear.
Declan tries to protest, but Nurse Schmidt raises her hand and Declan stops, blinking in confusion and turning in circles. I have no idea what he’s seeing, but it must be an illusion that is meant to distract.
“Leave him alone,” I warn her.
She offers another quick flick of her wrist and suddenly I’m standing outside on the cliff, sea air whipping around me.
Somewhere outside this vision, Declan and Dean need me. I can’t stay. But for a fleeting moment, I drink it in, uncaring that it’s not real. The taste of it on my tongue, the sharp prickle of it against my skin—it’s real enough. And more invigorating than I could have imagined after so long without it.
Hurrying, I make my way to the graves, waiting to see if the spirits will find me here. Other than silently sobbing at my bedside, they’ve kept their distance since the night of the party. As if they too have been subdued by Cutter’s renewed cruelties.
“Hello?” I call. “I need your help now.”
Nothing.
“Please. How do I help my friends?”
No new warnings.
No instructions.
I reach the first marker and run my hands over its rough surface. Even in this illusion meant to torture, I am awed by the realness of it. The solid feel of something conjured.
Slowly, a figure emerges from the grave.
The woman in the sundress appears, floating above me. She looks down at me, her face pinched in worry. “He’s getting closer,” she says. “You must fight harder.”
“Who?” I ask even though I already know.
