Page 51 of The Darkest Half

“If it is all you ever wanted,” I say to Vonnegut, “for me to be involved, cooperate, and be on your side rather than against you, then why are we here now? Why did it come to this?”

I want to know these things, but I only ask to keep him distracted.

“You were three weeks away from advancement,” Vonnegut begins, “when you left with that runaway girl from the compound in Mexico and refused to take her back where she belonged. That day, that mission, changed everything.”

25

Victor

Vonnegut repositions himself again, struggling to move his leg with difficulty. He is losing a lot of blood; more has seeped through his pants and onto the floor, and if he does not get medical attention or at least tie off that wound, he will bleed out.

“You became rogue,” he continues. “But you were far too valuable to The Order to just give up on you and take you out. And so, I waited to see how it all would play out.”

His expression hardens with discomfort as he presses his hand over the leg wound. He is beginning to look pale.

“At least fucking let me take care of his leg,” Lysandra says. “He’s going to bleed to death.”

I think on it for a moment and then nod my approval.

Lysandra moves quickly to tend his wound, ripping off her blouse to bind it. Her breasts, cradled in a lacy black bra, are exposed, and her cell phone falls onto the floor in her rush.

Vonnegut allows her to work while he proceeds to explain.

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “We may be monsters, but we’re all only human at the end of the day, and every single one of us capable of falling in love or murdering our mothers. Why do you think it took so long for us to act this way? I have had eyes and ears on Niklas Fleischer and Sarai Cohen—”

“Izabel Faust,” I correct him.

He manages a smirk beneath his discomfort.

“Izabel Faust,” he echoes. “I’ve had operatives on them for much of the time since you went rogue, Victor. Even when they went to Italy. Now that was the perfect time to capture them both, but the soap opera between the three of you seemed to gather a bit of steam while they were playing their roles in Italy, so I chose to pull back, to wait and see.”

“You thought that if Niklas and Izabel became…more acquainted with each other,” I put in, “I would finally understand the consequences of emotions such as love. And then I would go back to The Order.”

“Oh, dear God, please say it like it should be said,” Vonnegut moans his frustration. “I thought that if Niklas and Izabel fucked each other and betrayed you, you’d finally realize the consequences of love and a life in the outside world with the rest of the sheep. I was even more convinced you’d come back when I realized you put them in that situation on purpose.” He shakes his head and laughs, shoulders bouncing gently.

His words bite because they are true.

“I thought you wanted me to remain…inhuman,” I remind him and ignore the biting comment altogether. “But you criticize my manner of speech?”

Vonnegut sighs.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says; he grimaces as Lysandra tightens the fabric around his leg. “But I won’t lie and say the one thing that has always bothered the shit out of me about you is the way you talk.”

I look at him quizzically.

He shakes his head and explains, “You’re so proper all the time; you rarely even use contractions or curse words—you’re like a goddamn cyborg. It’s annoying. I wonder how that woman could’ve put up with it all this time.”

There is movement at the doors; an older medic in his sixties, wearing typical blue scrubs, enters, wheeling an IV stand alongside him and carrying a caddy with various medical supplies in his other hand. Another younger medic enters after him, wheeling into the room a machine sitting atop a gurney, and yet another medic behind that one with a large metal tray bearing two shelves chock-full of supplies and smaller equipment.

The three move quickly and go straight for Vonnegut, as he is the leader of the organization in which they are a part and is clearly in need of medical attention.

For a brief moment, when Vonnegut and Lysandra notice that they are not heading in Izabel’s direction, it appears they might say something, correct them and instruct them to help Izabel instead. But when they see that I seem to have no objections, though confused by it, they remain silent.

Lysandra moves out of the way, and one medic crouches on the floor with supplies and begins to tend to the wound. I watch to ensure no guns or ammunition clips are secretly passed to Vonnegut, but the man I am watching more carefully is the older one with the IV bag. He sets up the bag while the third medic cleans the area with an alcohol swab and runs a latex-gloved finger along the compressed vein, preparing him to receive the fluids.

Then, a second before the IV is attached to the extension tube:

“No,” I tell them and point with my free hand at Izabel. “She gets the fluids and anything else she needs.” Anything is everything, I know, as she is so close to death, but I cannot think about that right now. I cannot look at her, focus on her, or tend to her myself—all things I want to do more than anything.

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