Dust

XXIX

A large exhale escapes my mouth as I shrink back from Gael, my tentative hands still framed on his shoulders. Without the sun in them, his eyes are dark, barely green at all. Blood still trickles from the cut on his neck, turning his shirt collar red. "Oh, God," I say, the breath in my chest barely there at all. It seems as if everything that was good about my life has been removed, all at once, and I'm drowning in my own horrible fate. "Gael, let me heal you, okay? Just let me—"

"No," he argues, exhaling a shuddering breath. He staggers up to his feet, my touch dropping from him, putting his hand to his neck and pulling it back again, examining the blood staining his fingers red. For a second he looks startled, but then just shakes his head as if it's nothing. "You can't fix everything, Gemma."

His voice is mournful, gruff. "What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, rising to my feet.

He doesn't reply, just goes over to Sloane and the kids, reaching to help. "Sloane, are you okay—" He stops when she, along with the young trainees, cower away from him, his eyes wide with rejection. Sighing, he says, "Come on, Sloane..."

"I should have known," she says, shaking her head at Gael, and looking at him as if he's a stranger to her. My own heart breaks even if I'm not the object of that gaze; I know what it must be doing to Gael, who God knows only wants to be accepted. "Elliott said, the night you all caught him, that I should stay away from you. I thought he was crazy."

"Sloane, you know Gael," I plead with her, and her eyes, washing over with a blue as pure as the ocean, flicker to me, round and disbelieving. I feel Gael's scrutiny on me as well, and it isn't any better. The whole mood, in everyone, has changed, the clear skies replaced by storms and rain. It's almost as if Gael's frustration is tangible, something I can feel and grasp, a virus that's making me sick. He can't wish I'd let him die, can he? "That whole speech you gave about him at his initiation..."

Sloane just shakes her head at me, turning to the trainees. "Training's over," she mutters. "Go home, please."

The kids, jittery and afraid, begin to hurry out of the arena's doors, Oliver turning to blink at us one more time before he runs out after them. Watching them go, I turn back to Sloane, reaching to grasp her hands. "Sloane, please."

"Not right now, Gemma," she says, her voice small and guttural. She brushes her hair back behind her ear, eyes on the ground, then follows the trainees out of the arena, leaving Gael and I alone to choke on the uncertainty she leaves behind. Have I lost my job because of this? Has Gael lost his job? Is there any hope for any of us right now?

The Commission knows, and they're not happy about it. You have twenty-four hours, Leopold had said. Hours, minutes, seconds. Time, and little of it.

"Well, this is great," Gael says, turning away from me, and beginning to pace. His hand is on his chin, his head ducked and his eyes on his feet as he takes one step after the other. "If I don't leave here, I'm dead."

"I confessed because I know we can figure something out, Gael. I wasn't going to watch you die."

He glimpses me over his shoulder, frowning. "I know why you did what you did, Gem, and I don't blame you for it. But, like I said—there's just some things you can't fix."

I fold my arms across my chest, raising an eyebrow. "You expect me to give up? To let you go out in the forest and...and get yourself killed?"

"Who's to say I won't make it back home?" Gael combats, swiveling around to face me, dropping his hand from his chin. The blood has already began to dry on his fingers, a symbol of what could have happened, what still can. "Are you convinced I can't handle myself? That the only life for me is a life in Maris?"