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

8

Emily's breath hitched in her throat. 

Thomas was swearing profusely, and Isabelle's hands were braced on her knees, having just finished heaving. Ella was checking Newt for any injuries, and Chuck was still clutching his bat, ready for a second attack.

"Is everyone okay?" asked Minho.

The group nodded in unison. 

Emily grabbed the hem of her sleeve and pulled it down to cover the wound on her wrist. 

Isabelle wiped her mouth, studied each member of the group. "Thomas," she said, "where's your backpack?" 

Thomas ran a hand over his face. "Shit. I must've left it behind."

Isabelle exhaled through her nose. "Does that mean we have no food?" 

"Should we go back there?" Ella inquired.

Emily huffed. "What for? If you wanna go another round, then yeah, sure."

Minho stepped in between the two and sighed. "For what we know, there could be more left in there," he said. "Don't worry, Ella. We'll manage. We always do."

"Let's bloody move it," Newt's grim voice interrupted. "We can't stay here all night."

The full moon washed the dunes in silver light, casting seven shadows on the ground. After what seemed to be an infinity, their very bones weary, the group came across the ruins of a solitary house, the tips of its low fence peeking through the heaps of sand. Silently, they went inside, weapons tightly grasped, to make sure the ruins were not inhabited, Crank or not. After a thorough investigation, the group made themselves comfortable—Minho claimed the couch in the living room for himself, Ella the rocking chair in the corner; Chuck laid out his sleeping bag beside the soot-black fireplace; Thomas was later found fast asleep in the bathtub, his head propped on his rolled jacket, and Emily and Isabelle took to the creaking mattress lying on the only bedroom's floor. As soon as Emily's head came to rest against the hard surface, she spiralled into a shallow sleep, all pains forgotten. 

* * *

When Emily woke, she didn't expect to be greeted by darkness. She sat up, careful not to disturb still-sleeping Isabelle, and pressed her palms against her drowsy eyes. 

Just as she started wondering what had awoken her, she heard it—the whimper, so faint she almost didn't catch it. But the sound was all too familiar. 

Emily stood and stepped out into the hall, her footsteps quiet. 

There, just outside the bedroom, a sleeping Newt was writhing on the floor, a pained frown marring his features. Emily knew of nightmares, knew how it felt to be haunted. She knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. "Newt, wake up," she whispered. 

The boy didn't stir, and another whimper escaped him. Emily grabbed hold of his arm and faintly shook him. She said his name again. When that didn't work, she cupped his face within her hands and leaned in close. "Wake up," she whispered firmly in his ear. "Wake up, Newt."

Newt came to his senses with a jolt and scrambled backwards, away from her. For a split second, before he realised who she was and where he was, he looked . . . terrified. The kind of terror Emily was too well-acquainted with, especially at night. 

"Emily?" he whispered, squinting through the darkness. 

"Yeah," she replied, just as softly. "It's me. You were having a nightmare." 

Newt ran his hands through his hair, let out a trembling breath. "Thank you," he said, tipping his head back against the wall. "For waking me."

Emily offered him a small smile. "No worries. I know what it's like," she said, and stepped towards the bedroom.

"Emily," Newt said.

"Yeah?"

"Stay. Please."

Before she could draw in another breath, Emily found herself sitting down next to him, their legs touching. She regarded him for a moment—his eyes were downcast and he was absent-mindedly chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Are you alright?" she inquired tenderly.

Newt nodded, exhaled. "I am now." He met her eyes. The hazy moonlight was tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbone, his jawline. "Thanks to you."

Emily couldn't bear the intensity of his gaze any longer, so she glanced down, cheeks burning. "What are they about?" she asked. "Your nightmares." She took the silence that followed her question as a sign Newt wasn't willing to answer. "You don't have to tell me if—"

"Losing," he said slowly. "The people I love. My life. My sanity. Myself." He paused. "You." 

Emily blinked, and, after a moment, she said, "I know you've lost me once." Impulsively, she reached out and grabbed Newt's hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. "But you're not going to lose me again."

And the look on Newt's face told her he wouldn't have let that happen, anyway.