Page 48 of The Darkest Half

Holy shit…

23

Izabel

The very second it all becomes clear to me, activity in the room picks up. Men near the door press their fingers against their ears to better hear the voice speaking to them through their planted earpieces. Lysandra’s shoe disappears from my back, and she walks briskly away from me, gun ready in her hand. Even Vonnegut—because he is definitely the infamous, elusive Vonnegut we have been hunting for so long—walks calmly back toward his chair and stands in front of it; everybody else in the room follows suit.

Even James Woodard, who I notice watches me more than he does the tall, heavy doors that every other eye in the room focuses on. He is the only one without a gun.

Gunshots. Bodies are falling outside the door. More gunshots. A few indecipherable shouts. More gunshots and more falling bodies.

I don’t move—couldn’t if I wanted to. Low against the floor is the safest place for me to be.

Silence fills the room, the only sound is heavy breathing, but it’s my own and no one else’s. Maybe James is as breathless as I am, caused by fear rather than exhaustion. But everybody else has prepared for this and shows neither fear nor concern. I know they all feel it but have been trained well not to show it.

With one heavy, rage-filled push, both sides of the large double-doors swing open into the vast room, bringing more bright light in from the hallway, and there stands Victor Faust. The real Victor Faust.

Truth and reprieve flood back into my body unlike I’ve ever known it; tears burn the back of my eyes again, but they are not tears of pain or betrayal this time; they are tears of rapture.

“Victor!”

In motion too fast for me to see or comprehend, several bodies fall in the room all around me: the guards and everyone who had been sitting in the chairs except for James Woodard, Lysandra Hollis, and Vonnegut, who can only be the identical twin brother of my beloved Victor Faust.

“DON’T!” Vonnegut shouts at Lysandra.

She drops her gun to her side that had been pointed at Victor, her face twisted with rage and contempt.

“He is not to be killed,” Vonnegut says icily. “You know the rules.”

Lysandra might know said rules, but she clearly disagrees with them, especially when it means life or death for her.

Vonnegut doesn’t want Victor dead, and I’m not sure I understand why. But it sure as hell brings mysteries of the past to light. It explains why Victor was never taken out by The Order sooner; why no one was sent to assassinate him. It’s why it took so long for them to make it to this moment; why they didn’t kill Niklas or me long ago, or when they captured us—they knew we were their only leverage. It’s why they played it perfectly, keeping us alive but too weak to pull off an escape, just long enough for Victor to reveal himself to save us. Vonnegut wanted Victor alive at all costs.

Now I just need to understand why.

“Hello, brother,” Vonnegut says; he opens his arms at his sides, gun dangling from one hand, and then casually takes a seat. He places the gun on his leg, removes his finger from the trigger and his hand from the grip.

Lysandra remains standing, gun still in her hand, and I know she’ll use it if she has to.

James Woodard is also standing, shaking, and he can’t help but look at me often while glancing between Victor and Vonnegut. The message he’s trying to convey through his eyes is the same as when I first saw him here: he’s sorry he had to betray us, but he had no other choice.

But how exactly did he betray us, I wonder. He is here with the enemy, yes, but why? I can’t find a reason to believe he had been a spy all along—implant spies would never feel the guilt he clearly feels at this moment. So, they must’ve gotten to him afterward.

Things are becoming clearer to me now: the unfamiliar look in fake Victor’s eyes that I couldn’t put my finger on before; the complete lack of concern about the well-being of his brother, Niklas; why he called me Sarai instead of Izabel. In the brief few seconds that I have to ponder this, I conclude it must’ve been James Woodard’s purpose: to teach Vonnegut about the relationship between Victor and Niklas and Victor and me so that Vonnegut could play the role accordingly. Only, he didn’t play the part accordingly, which leads me to believe—

“Izabel,” Victor says without taking his eyes or gun off Vonnegut, “how do you feel?”

I can’t even focus on what matters most right now, and I’m still unsure if any of this is real, but…

“I, uh…well, I feel like shit.”

“Where is Niklas?”

I swallow hard. “He um…they took him off somewhere; I think he stopped breathing.”

Victor takes two more determined, enraged steps forward, shoving the gun in the air toward Vonnegut in emphasis of his threat—now that is how the real Victor would act upon hearing such news of his brother, Niklas.

“He’s being cared for as we speak,” Vonnegut ensures, not an ounce of fear for the gun pointed at him or what he knows Victor Faust is capable of. “I need you, Victor, so I never intended to let either of the ones you love most die?”

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