Page 7 of Fated

But truly, there isn’t enough time. It happens in an instant. Like the champagne glasses sliding from the silver tray and smashing against the wood floor. Once the fall has begun there’s no way to stop it.

You can’t rewind time.

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.

Max grabs my hand. “For god’s sake, someone stop?—”

It’s too late.

There’s a small woman. She’s wearing a bulky black winter coat, the hood is pulled tight. Fur lines her face and obscures her features.

The only thing recognizable is the gun.

It’s compact. Black. Aimed at me.

“It’s Christmas Eve. Remember, it’s Christmas Eve.Tell them it’s Christmas Eve.” She says this and she sounds as if she’s trying to impress the fact on me. As if she’s speaking to me, and only me.

And then the boom of the gun.

Max dives in front of me and I slam to the ground, buried beneath him.

There’s a crack. A crash.

The intense jolting pain of a thousand Christmas bulbs shattering in my chest and piercing my lungs.

I drag in a gasping breath.

Max rolls off me, his face white, eyes wild. His hands roam me, checking to see if I’m hurt.

“Fi? Are you all right?”

There’s a roaring. A strange whining noise in my ears. It drowns out the shouts and cries of the people running toward us.

I stare up at the snowflakes floating above. They really do look real. Daniel did a wonderful job. I remember the look on Mila’s face when she first saw them, and I smile.

Then I look down at myself. At Max’s hands running over my velvet crimson dress.

“You’re all right. You’re all right,” he murmurs.

But then the blood that was seeping into my dress spills to the floor. And he realizes at the same time as I do that my dress and my blood are the exact same color.

“Don’t be scared,” he says, yelling behind him for Dr. Gaertner, a surgeon—is he still here? “Don’t be scared,” Max says again, clutching my hand.

His grip is tight, as if he’s the one who’s afraid.

“I’m not scared,” I say, my mouth horribly dry. There’s an ache building in my head and a numbness racing down my limbs. It feels like it does when you slide into Lake Geneva on an early spring day. Too cold.

“I’m not scared,” I say again. I look down at my dress and frown. “It’s only, I really liked this dress. It was one of a kind.”

Max’s face clears of emotion.

And then I slide into oblivion.

I don’t dream.

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