“Dakota.” His mouth moves, but his voice sounds older. “Wake up.”
The contradiction tears at the fabric of the memory, light bleeding through like sun through ripped curtains.
“Come on, princess.” Little Julien dissolves, replaced by darkness that pulses with each throb of pain in my skull. “Naptime’s over.”
Everything hurts. My head. My arms.
Why does everything hurt?
“Dakota.” Julien’s voice is clearer now. “Please.”
Where did he go?
“Julien?” My eyelids flutter, fighting against what feels like weights. “Wait.”
“You promised not to do anything stupid, remember? This definitely qualifies.”
I blink, trying to piece together the blurry, tilting mess of shapes and colors.
“There you are.” Julien’s face hovers above mine, blood streaking his temple, eyes wild. His hands cradle my face, warm against my skin. “Stay with me, okay?”
Stone ceiling arching overhead. Flickering candlelight.
“What—” The reverend. The knife. “Did he?—”
“Dead.” Julien’s voice is flat. Final. His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “Can’t hurt you now.”
I turn my head, catching sight of a crumpled form on the floor nearby, the cross protruding from its middle, dark liquid pooling underneath.
Oh.
“You killed him,” I whisper.
“Yes.” No regret in that single syllable.
I should feel something about that, horror maybe, or relief, but all I can manage is a dull acknowledgment. One less monster in a world suddenly full of them.
Julien’s eyes scan my face, my arms. “How bad is the pain? Scale of one to ten.”
“Hundred.” My voice cracks. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Gone. Had to leave before we got overrun.” He slides an arm behind my shoulders. “Which is exactly what we need to do. Right now. I hear them at the front doors.”
A distant thudding echoes through the church. Glass shattering somewhere.
I try to sit up, pain shooting through my skull, making me gasp. “Amelia?”
“Alive and safe.” He tightens his grip around me. “Unlike you.”
“Always getting into trouble. I’m sorry.”
“Save the self-deprecation for later.” He slides his other arm under my knees. “First, we need to get the hell out of here.”
Before I can protest, he lifts me off the altar, cradling me to his chest. The sudden movement makes the room spin, and I nestle my face into his shoulder, fighting a wave of nausea.
“You’re bleeding,” I mumble against his shirt.
“We’ll compare wounds later.” He carries me swiftly down the altar steps, every step jostling my aching head before pausing at the doorway to peer down the corridor. “Can you walk? It’ll be faster if I have both hands free.”
