I’d ridden night trains. Sometimes, there were ten people. Sometimes, there were fifty or a hundred. If I saved Finn, I would kill a train full of people.
I didn’t know them.
They didn’t know me.
If I left Finn to die, they would never know the sacrifice. They’d just continue on, completely unaware he’d died beneath the train. They might feel a bump. A jostle.
He’d already sunk to his shoulders. They might not feel anything at all.
A train of people, or Finn.
His face was pale, his expression haunted.
I held out my hand. Started to untie the first knot. I had seconds to save him.
But then I stopped.
I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
If I saved Finn, I may as well let Jagger devour everything good inside me. I may as well climb the subway tunnel stairs and destroy the city. I may as well be the monster Jagger said I was.
The train’s roar swallowed me, and its wind shoved at me.
Finn’s eyes widened when he realized I wasn’t going to save him. He looked over his shoulder. The train was only a moment away. He turned back to me, and while I expected to see anger, or rage, or fear, I only saw love.
The train slammed over him. Uncaring. Unstoppable. Not realizing it had just ended a life. I cried out, and the violent wind of the speeding train threw me against the concrete.
My head slammed against the wall. I was swallowed by the shriek of the train and an avalanche of pain.
36
I rocketed upright, drawing in a gasping breath.
Where? What?
I struggled to sit and shoved frantically at the binding sheets twisted around my legs. My heart raced as fast as a charging train, and a wave of nausea swamped me.
Blinking into the bright morning light, I patted my arms, my legs, my chest. I was boiling-hot, covered in sweat, my clothes damp from perspiration.
I’d killed him.
I’d killed him again.
No.
It had been a dream.
It was only a dream.
I was in Justice’s bedroom. On his bed. The sheets were tangled as if I’d wrestled with them all night long. There was a deep depression in the pillow. The knife was still strapped to Justice’s headboard, just where it was when I fell asleep. Finn hadn’t come and yanked me from bed, and I hadn’t let him die.
The reason he’d been himself last night, instead of the cruel, unrecognizable man he’d become, was because it was a dream.
I closed my eyes, ignoring the stinging pressure behind them and the sharp tickle in my throat. I clenched my hands, letting the dull morning light seep through my eyelids and paint them bloodred.
I took half a second to reacquaint myself with the feel of Jagger’s will. It tangled through me, a forest of roots, knotted and entwined with my being. My dream had given me a reprieve, but now, the force of Jagger’s will was back. It felt, quite horribly, just like Jagger had said: I was a glove, worn and directed by his hand. I was his.
