She’s peaceful. Almost normal. Except for the butterfly bandage peeking out from the collar of her sweater, and the faint yellow bruising on her jaw.
When I step inside, she looks up from her page. That’s when I notice the flush in her cheeks. Her chest hitches in shallow, jagged bursts, too, like she’s just finished a sprint.
Must be a hell of a book.
As I approach, her eyes scan me warily, and I notice the small mess on the shelves behind her. A few of the leather-bound volumes are slightly out of place, their spines tilted as if the storm winds outside got in... or someone shoved them back in a hurry.
My head tilts with curiosity. But before any thoughts can materialize, she speaks.
“The lights keep flickering.”
I turn my attention to her.
“The storm is hitting the grid. It’s normal.”
“It doesn’t feel normal.” She closes the book—The Count of Monte Cristo—and sets it on the side table. “It feels like the end of the world.”
“Not yet,” I say.
I stop in the center of the room.
“Get up,” I say.
She stiffens. “Why?”
“We’re going downstairs.”
“To the bunker?” The book slips from her lap. “Are they back?”
“No,” I say. “To the gym.”
She blinks. “The gym? It’s eleven o’clock at night.”
“The enemy doesn’t work nine-to-five. Get your boots.”
“I don’t want to work out,” she says, sinking deeper into the chair. “My shoulder hurts. My feet hurt.”
“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”
I cross the room to her without grabbing—I’ve learned that touching her is a catalyst I can’t always control—but I loom over the chair, blocking out the light, blocking out the room.
“At the museum,” I say quietly, “you froze.”
Her jaw tightens. “I was in shock.”
“You were a statue,” I correct her. “You stood there for ten seconds while I put two bullets in a man’s chest. If I had been sent to erase you, you’d be dead.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“You don’t know,” I say. “You think you know. You think because you survived the car crash, you’re ready. You’re not.”
I lean down, bracing my hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her.
“The Syndicate isn’t going to try to put you in a car,” I say. “They aren’t going to call you sweetheart. They’re going to kickdown the door and put a round in your center mass. And if you freeze, if you hesitate for one second, you die.”
Her breath hitches.
“I won’t freeze,” she says defiantly.
