Page 44 of The Darkest Half

“I-I’m s-sorry, Izabel,” he says.

“Shut your mouth,” Lysandra tells him, and his stuttering lips snap closed instantly.

He’s sorry? Sorry for betraying our trust? Sorry for…oh shit…he’s told them everything he knows about us. He’s told them all they ever needed to know to capture us. Is James Woodard the reason Niklas and I are in this situation?

But his words, although so few, truly seemed genuine to me. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in his apology—it was heartfelt.

And as I look at him, still unable to see his face, I can at least see that the only thing in it is remorse.

They threatened his family. In my heart, it’s what I believe. He would have worked with The Order against us only if his wife and daughters were in danger.

I look at Niklas, and although he’s as weak as I am, he manages a look of murderous rage in his skeletal features. I know that if he could move, James Woodard would already be dead.

Vonnegut. I panic a little inside when I realize I’ve been distracted by James Woodard. My gaze moves past the other figures again; thankfully, each of them is unfamiliar to me. When I get to Lysandra, I feel the same murderous rage I know Niklas is feeling, but I don’t allow myself to linger on her more than I already have.

Vonnegut. He is the Man of the Hour. He is the source of all the death, chaos, and running that I and the rest of our closely-knit, albeit psychotic, family have faced and endured these past few years.

Vonnegut. He’s the reason for so much strife and darkness in our lives. The reason we’ve lived in hiding for so long.

Vonnegut.

Vonnegut.

Vonnegut.

Somehow, I find the strength to lift myself from the floor, and I hold my body upright on my hands, attached to noodle-like arms with wobbly elbows that can collapse at any moment, and I fixate on the man in the center chair.

When my vision finally comes into focus, when the blur is washed away by my determination, I see that the man sitting there…is Victor Faust.

21

Izabel

Frozen and stunned, I can’t fucking move or breathe or think straight; I swear to God my heart actually stopped and still hasn’t started back up again. I can’t feel my heart beating! In any other situation, I might panic, but I’m too…everything to panic.

Then, in a rush of adrenaline fueled by betrayal, it all comes back in a destructive flood of emotion. My heart beats madly like hummingbird wings; my breathing is rapid and desperate; I can see and move again!

I scramble to my feet, and like a fawn walking for the first time, I stumble forward on shaky legs.

“Victor! What—why are you here?!”

What? Why? How? I have all the questions, but I don’t know which one comes first or if any of them will matter in the end. Nothing he can ever tell me, no excuses, no I-did-this-because-I-had-to reasons, will ever let me forgive him or believe any word that comes out of his mouth.

But something tells me that he will not provide any excuses; he won’t try to explain why he had to betray me—something tells me he doesn’t feel he owes me any explanations.

No one moves to stop me as I hurl myself across the floor, but I hear Niklas behind me, calling out my name: “Izzy! Just stop!” But he doesn’t try to come after me either. For a moment, I wonder why, but I’m too hellbent to care.

Before I get ten feet, my legs buckle beneath me, and I fall hard against the floor. And I can’t get back up. I try to raise my head, but even that requires more strength than I have, so I lie here, cheek smashed against the marble again, and I look only at Victor. The man I loved more than the world. The man I thought loved me more than the world.

Victor…no…

Tears burn the back of my eyes and threaten to rush to the surface for everyone to see—for Victor to see—but I swallow them down. I’ll die before I let that bastard see me cry for him.

“So…it’s been you…all along,” I hear Niklas speak up; the hurt, betrayal, and anger in his voice are deep beneath the surface because he’s too weak to show it the way I know he wants to.

“Are you two that surprised?” Lysandra speaks up.

She stands from her chair and walks closer to me, her hands clasped on her backside.

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