Page 142 of Fated

Besides, I’m still not certain if this dream is a shadow of reality or reality itself.

Maybe if I shoot I’m merely replaying something that already happened.

But then again, maybe not.

I can’t know.

I can only know that if I don’t shoot, I might never meet Aaron.

So.

With my limbs heavy, heart pounding, and the blood in my veins throbbing with an urgent rhythm, I pull the gun from the pocket of the parka.

A woman screams. High-pitched and terrified.

The waiter drops the silver tray and all the champagne flutes slide through the air. The golden liquid sprays free, and then the flutes hit the floor and explode in a glass shower.

The orchestra fumbles, cellos slide to silence, and violins screech to a halt. A cymbal ricochets and quiets.

Across the room Max turns toward me. Sees the gun. He clutches the other me, trying to push her behind his back, shield me from myself.

I blink as Mellisande and Arne dive to the side.

My skin runs cold as Phillipe stumbles and slams to the floor.

I falter and feel a thick, halting heartbeat knock against my ribs as Jean’s glass of champagne slips from his fingers and shatters.

I stand there in front of myself. My dress is vibrant and blood-red.

My hand shakes and then steadies.

I’ve always wondered why I was shot.

I’ve always wondered why the woman seemed to know me.

Why she seemed to want me to understand.

Now I know.

The nightmares that haunted me for months? It was me, warning myself.

There’s a sharp screaming, and then I say urgently, desperately, trying to make myself understand, “It’s Christmas Eve. Remember, it’s Christmas Eve.”

Perhaps this time I’ll understand. In the months I’m with Aaron, on the island, I’ll remember this moment and I’ll look up the news. I’ll look up Aaron, I’ll realize he’s real, and I’ll tell them what happens on Christmas Eve.

“Tell them it’s Christmas Eve,” I beg myself.

And then I aim.

And I pull the trigger of the gun.

I sprint through the maze of hallways in the chateau. My breath comes in frantic, panicked bursts. Screams and shouts chase me and a sharp, black panic tugs at the edges of my vision.

My footsteps echo over the stone as I run down a dark back hall. The battery acid of fear coats my mouth and the gun bangs against my thigh with every jarring step.

The darkness of the hall tightens around me as I run deeper into the old stone hall. It leads to the cellars, down, down, deep into the centuries-old storage rooms. I hit the thick wooden door at the end of the hall, not bothering with a light. Instead I grasp the iron handle and yank the door open.

The musty wooden cask and dusty air whooshes out with a heaving sigh. I dive into the dark, tugging the door shut behind me. When it closes, all the sounds of the gala, the shouts and the cries, are cut off like the quick slice of a knife.

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