Aiden is staring to our left. Voice strained, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Alyss.”
I follow his pointing finger.
The twins stay close to me as I shove my way through the clocks, dropping down to kneel next to him.
“Hatter?”
His golden skin is ashen and waxy as he rocks back and forth, his hands wrapped around his knees and drawn up against his chest. He doesn’t respond when I gently touch his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
“I don’t think he can,” Aiden keeps his voice low. Hatter’s eyes flicker wildly, bouncing around as if he’s watching a television show. He’s mumbling something under his breath, over and over again.
I lean in to listen, my heart twisting inside my chest.
I’m late. I’m late. I’m late.
He repeats it, over and over again, his eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. I glance back at the twins. “The clocks are for him.”
Something personal. Targeted.
I say his name again. Repeat it, softly, carefully. Touch his cheek, feeling the icy cold beneath my fingers.
But Hatter doesn’t respond to me at all.
Wherever he is… it’s nowhere good.
And in the distance, I hear something that makes my body go cold.
Gunshots.
31 – Chess
Iroar Buck’s name as he falls. There’s a shocked expression on his face as he tumbles down a good six feet, landing heavily on his back.
I climb down as fast as I can. No further bullets fly past us, now that we’re no longer on top of the maze. “Buck.”
Nothing. I drop down beside him, taking in the scarlet spreading out beneath the white shirt. “Shit.”
He stirs as I rip the sleeve open. I find the entry point easily, and he groans as I prod at it before lifting his arm. “Went straight through. Keep your arm elevated.”
“Fuckers.” He hisses, his arm wavering but staying up as I rip off a strip from the bottom of my shirt, undoing my tie.
I press the tie down over the wound, ignoring his bellow as I apply pressure. “Keep still, you idiot.”
“I’ve been fuckingshot,” he snaps. “Take a bullet and see how still you can stay.”
“You’ll survive. It’s not spurting. Didn’t hit an artery.”
“Fucking fantastic,” he mutters. But I pick up the edge of something that might be relief. “Funny how you can find the will to live just at the wrong moment.”
I give him an askance look as I tie the makeshift tourniquet around his upper arm. “Keep that on for a few minutes. You didn’t want to live before?”
He grunts as I pull the edges of the material together, looping it until I can create a tighter knot. “Not particularly. When every day is an alcohol-soaked haze, you start wondering what the fucking point is. Wonder is like Groundhog Day on steroids. Every day is just more of the same shit.”
“And now?” I press down again on the wound, ignoring the cursing under his breath. “Changed your mind?”
His head tips back. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I stare at him. “Because of all this?”
