Pulse

Chapter 43

Cian

My blood felt as if lead was running in it, weighing each inch of me down, sinking me to the floor. I could hear my breath and my heartbeat in my ears, and I shivered, though I felt nothing close to cold. My eyes were shut, shrouding me in self-made darkness; I felt my nails claw up something soft underneath me.

My eyes opened.

At first I saw nothing but ambiguous blurs, bright figures dancing across my corneas, but when I blinked, my vision cleared. Eden's glass coffee table was beside me, and I was sprawled on her floor, my lemonade glass tipped over near my twitching fingers. I gritted my teeth, admonishing myself for being so stupid. She'd drugged me, and now Lucie—

The name hit me like a bus.

Lucie.

No.

Where was she? Had Vinny saved her? No. Lucie was smart. She'd likely fought off Eden herself. She was fine. She was fine.

She had to be fine.

Where was Vinny?

My head hurt. Too many unanswered questions. Or maybe it was the fact I'd been heavily sedated. Both, possibly.

Get up, Cian.

I sat up, slowly, pressing my palms into the ground to lift my weight from the floor. My bones and muscles ached with each tentative movement, but I fought through the haze, pulling myself to my knees.

The room around me was a mess. Various magazines were tossed about the floor, pages still fluttering in the breeze off the ceiling fan, some open and others shut. The bookshelf had been tossed to the floor, its wood cracked and thick encyclopedias spilling from underneath it. Chairs were tossed over on their sides, plants destroyed, lightbulbs shattered. The window was merely a hole looking back towards the beach. The sun had set; in the distant night, seagulls cawed and waves crashed.

I was alone; neither Lucie nor Vinny was here. I felt their absence like a bullet in my chest.

That was the thing about being alone. If it wasn't intentional, it was a wound that refused to stop bleeding.

I managed to pull myself up on the settee, running a hand through my hair and flipping my hood back up. There was no telling how long I had been asleep. I produced my phone from my pocket; the clock let me know it was well into the night. I had no missed calls.

I called Lucie.

It went straight to voicemail.

I chucked the phone across the room.

I felt bad about it immediately after, because the fragile thing shattered against the wall, and that had been a gift from Lucie. Now it was gone. Now she was gone.

I whimpered into my hands. I didn't know what to do, or where to go. I was alone and I was vulnerable and I was lost. My shoulders shook, burned, and I sighed shakily, dragging my sleeve across my eyes. I had to do something. I had to find Lucie, do something. I tried to tell myself to stop weeping, that it would get me nowhere. I was seventeen again, and Mom knelt before me, bare-faced, her hair surprisingly undone. Stop crying, she said. Stop crying.

There were tears in her eyes.

It was the only time I'd ever seen her cry.

Just as another tear fell, its salty taste in my mouth, the room grew marginally colder. It was not the breeze off the sea, nor the ceiling fan. It was a less than natural cold. I looked up, but saw nothing. "Vinny?" I called. "Are you here?"