Our W.I.C.K.E.D Fate (The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl sequel)

15

It began with a rumble.

It began with a murmur.

The dread began with Newt opening his eyes. 

One glance at Minho's terrified mien and Newt was scrambling to his feet, panic swelling inside him, brutal poison injected into his veins. He stepped out into the hallway, unaware of his legs moving. The rest of the group was nowhere to be seen, but their voices echoed throughout the pristine halls, chorusing a single, horrifying word.

Her name.

Newt's head whipped towards Minho, but he already knew, already loathed it. The unspoken words clung to his skin like an unshakable frost, only to seep into his entire being when Minho said, "She's gone."

"Emily, Emily, Emily," continued the calls.

He'd been shot—someone had shot him, or perhaps stabbed him, and they were twisting the blade through his ribs, lodging it deeper, making the hole wider, carving his heart out. Newt couldn't breathe, wouldn't breathe again until Minho's features eased up and he let out a laugh and told him that his words had been just a terrible, cruel jape.

Newt's eyes frantically took in his surroundings. Her downcast eyes, shrouded in darkness, flashed through his mind—like the ripples of a pebble skipping across a lake of memory, the warmth of her body, her hair threaded through his fingers, her want staining his mouth and then being wrenched away followed. 

Newt's heart was surely no longer in his chest.

Isabelle and Thomas were now standing in front of them—Newt hadn't heard them arrive—their features rumpled with worry. Isabelle took notice of the savage flame in Newt's gaze and slowly said, "No sign of her."

Beside her, Thomas shook his head, as though still in disbelief. "If she'd been taken, she would have screamed, right? Or there'd at least be signs of a struggle?" 

He was talking about her as if she were dead. 

Newt was going to throw up.

As though trapped in a haze, Newt packed his bags. Once everyone had regrouped, they abandoned their newly-found shelter without a second thought, determined in their search. Meanwhile, Newt's mind had begun relentlessly chanting of blame, guilt weaving throughout the fresh memories of her mouth on his, spoiling it all. But it was the thought that she'd left of her own volition—that he'd been the one to drive her away—had him doubling over and heaving.

Soon, it became dreadfully obvious there was no trace of Emily left, no thread they could snag on. It was as though she had only existed in their minds, a mere figment of their imagination, and Newt was certain this was going to be his ruination. 

* * *

At noon, the group was forced to take a break, not even the strongest desire to find the missing girl able to fill their empty bellies. Newt felt like there was a void spawning where his heart had been, swallowing every particle of hope that dared appear. Everything was dull and meaningless without her—she, who'd cared about him when he needed it the most, she, who had rescued him from the hardest of times and she, who'd kept him out of harm's way with all her might. She, who'd once offered him that kind of love whose loss would leave one crippled for the rest of their lives. Since the moment he'd watched her die in his arms, Newt hadn't been whole.

Minho's inquiring voice snapped Newt from his thoughts. "Ella, what's wrong?"

He glanced over at Ella. She was trying hard to conceal the tremble of her hands by clasping them together, but the look on her face was impossible to miss—Newt had only seen it on animals trapped in snares who were aware the only way out was gnawing their own flesh and bones.