Page 90 of Breaking Isolde
Bam hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s dump her in the cemetery. No one checks the old graves anymore.”
We drag her down, through the tunnels, her limbs knocking off the walls, head bouncing, pearl necklace leaving a trail behind us. Bam whistles as we walk, some old tune, maybe a hymn, maybe a pop song. I don’t ask. The path to the cemetery is cold, wet, and full of secrets, but it’ll do.
“Leave her, I’ll do the rest. I got a spot.”
We leave her there, propped up in a stone alcove, her smile still terrifying and twisted, even in death.
When we emerge into the night, Isolde grabs my hand. She’s bloody, bruised, and smiling.
“What now?” she asks.
I look at the moon, at the empty world in front of us. “Now, we run.”
Bam nods, already two steps ahead. “I’ll cover for you. They won’t catch up. And Rhett… call me when she’s safe.”
I nod, clapping his outstretched hand tightly before letting go and turning.
We sprint through the shadows, out of the cemetery, across the frost-scarred quad, never looking back. The past is gone. The future is uncertain.
I grip Isolde’s hand, tight enough to hurt.
I don’t let go.
Neither does she.
Chapter 19: Isolde
Theairoutsideisfucking freezing. I run, Rhett’s hand crushing mine as if letting go would drop me through the earth.
The quad is empty. Not a single window burns yellow. Even the statues look like they’re ducking for cover. We cut past the ruined benches, the ice-rimmed fountain, towards the chapel.
We hit the path by the greenhouse and swerve left, not toward the streetlights but into the woods. Rhett never looks back, never hesitates, not once. I’m surprised he doesn’t snap my wrist with how tight he holds me, but I won’t complain.
We did something bad and if Bam doesn’t get rid of the evidence...
A shiver crawls up my spine.
Branches claw my face and arms. I taste salt and dirt and cold. By the time we reach the old chapel, my feet are numb. I stumble, go down to one knee, but Rhett yanks me up. His jaw is set, his breathing hard and heavy.
He says nothing. The only sounds are our shoes slapping the wet ground, my occasional grunt, and the impending doom sitting in my chest.
We clear the woods and the path opens to the Night Hunt site. The field is half snow, half muck, a wasteland of rituals. On the far side, the woods slope down toward the river. There’s a trail I haven’t been down before, barely wide enough for a golf cart, lined with the trash of generations: broken bottles, condoms, cigarette butts, the shed skin of a thousand bad decisions.
We take it, moving fast. The canopy closes above us, turning the sky into a choking mass of shadow. My lungs are burning. My hands are numb, but I don’t dare let go.
Somewhere behind us, I hear the faint snap of a twig. Or maybe it’s in my head. Maybe I’m already dead and this is the final run of my life, a speedrun to hell.
We burst out onto an old access road. We don’t stop, don’t even slow, but skirt the edge of the water until the dark hulk of the turbine plant rises in front of us, broken glass and rusted metal, a monument to the last time anyone tried to modernize this shithole town.
“Hurry, Issy, if we miss them, our chance to leave evaporates.” His voice is strained, ragged from running.
There, under the jagged awning, is the SUV: matte black, windows tinted, engine already running.
It’s 12:50 p.m. on the dot. Before one, just like we were told.
I almost collapse, but Rhett shoves me forward. He gives the signal—three quick raps on the trunk—and the back door opens.
Caius opens it, one foot out, arm braced on the door. He looks exactly like his photo: slick hair, black suit, face hard. He gives us the once-over, then grunts.
