Page 33 of The Darkest Half

That’s odd…there’s a dull, throbbing pain in my abdomen, but I never felt a bullet enter there.

I look down to see my pretty mall blouse, once a pinkish rose-gold, now a darkish blood-red. The second I realize I’ve been shot much worse than in the leg or shoulder, blood rises from my throat, warm and metallic and salty; I cough, and crimson spittle sprinkles the floor.

“I am disappointed,” I hear a somewhat familiar voice say from…somewhere. “I thought you would make it farther than this.”

Finally, I manage to get a weak hold of my senses, though my hearing sounds dulled, and my sight is blurred—I’m losing too much blood and too quickly.

Dragging my good arm across the floor, I keep crawling, still to where I don’t know, but a wide doorway begins to materialize in my vision. Wait—where’s Osiris? Whoever the voice came from, he is just beyond that door; I know that now. I keep crawling, and he doesn’t try to stop me, probably because he knows that, in this state, I’m no threat to him or anyone else who might be here. And I know there are others. I can’t see them, but I can hear their movements behind and around me and even out ahead of me, positioned farther behind the one who spoke.

I lose my balance and crash to the floor, my cheek pressed against the cool tile. My eyelids open and shut, open, and shut, blinking off and on the bloodied face of Osiris lying dead just feet from me. You idiot…Yeah, well, you get what you deserve. I ignore my hypocrisy, my sudden and unexpected desire to avenge his death, despite not liking him all that much. He was fun to be around and a god in bed, but… Idiot!

“She has a gun,” a woman’s voice says from behind me; I can’t see her, but she sounds like a real bitch, someone important, who is more to The Order than an expendable operative or unwitting ally.

“Her gun is empty,” the man says; his voice sounds too muffled for me to pinpoint.

I realize, too, that I’m not even trying to make him out anymore—all I can see are the tiny spots on the tile floor.

I can’t raise my head; I try desperately, but it feels like it weighs a ton. My breathing is labored. The gun is still in my hand; I can feel the cold, hard contours of the hilt, but…yes, the gun is still in my hand!

With all the energy I can summon, I raise the gun with a wrist that feels like a noodle, point it in the direction of the man’s voice, and pull the trigger.

Click!

He was right—out of bullets.

The metal hitting the floor so close to my head as I drop the gun is like an iron bell banging around inside my skull.

I’m dead. I came here today to die. Maybe I wanted to; I can’t be sure; I can’t pretend to know the inner workings of a mind gripped by darkness. I just always thought I knew myself better than anyone. But no, I was never the one in control—the darkness controlled me. I was incapable of love; I despised and spurned it at all costs; I killed to avoid its poison, its absolute fucking destruction of the emotionless machine I longed to be.

But maybe Izabel was right:

“I know that attachments to people are a hindrance in this line of work, but I also think it’s a disadvantage not to be able to love and feel love.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I believe love makes a person stronger.”

“Stronger? No, Izabel, it’s exactly the opposite. To love someone is to take on the responsibility of keeping them safe, of worrying about them. It’s just a burden.”

“Well, I think you’re wrong. To love someone means you have something in life to fight for, something to live for—I guess you wouldn’t know; you’ve never felt love, so you can’t possibly understand.”

Maybe if I had known love, I wouldn’t be here, bleeding out and too weak to lift my head to face the one who intends to put me out of my misery. Maybe if I’d been a better friend, or opened my heart to others, then the ones I thought were my friends wouldn’t have betrayed me—Victor wouldn’t have betrayed me to save the one he loves. Maybe if I had only loved like Izabel…

Ah, seriously? I’m doing this shit now? In my final moments, I’m lying on the floor whining about love, emotions, relationships, and friendship. If death makes us that fucking weak, I want no part of it.

With strength I didn’t know I had, I lift my head to face the one who means to kill me and—

“What the?! You—”

15

Izabel

The shot is quiet. Blood from Nora’s head stains the wall behind her, and her body falls against the floor, an empty shell like she had always been in life. Lysandra steps to the side to avoid getting blood on her expensive stilettos.

I’m not shocked or very saddened by Nora’s death, but I admit it is unfortunate. I did think of her as somewhat of a friend, but she never let me or anyone else get close enough to develop stronger feelings for her—much of the time, we weren’t sure we could even trust her. I guess we could, after all.

“Did you hear what she said?” Niklas asks me.

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