Vinny

"He didn't even try the Sleeping Beauty thing."

I was still in Lucie's hospital room, keeping a watchful eye on her unmoving face as I slumped in the chair at the bedside. Cian had been gone for a full five minutes, and of course a part of me wondered where he was and what he was up to, but I couldn't leave Lucie. At least, not yet.

"You know," I told her. "I thought—maybe he'd kiss you, and then you'd wake up."

My eyes traced her expression, but it remained still, only the rise and falls of her chest, the shuddering of the oxygen machine, to prove she was alive at all. It was haunting—this stillness, this silence. I wondered fleetingly if my body had looked this distant, this frightening, when I had been dead. I'd only caught a glimpse of my funeral, as I'd been a little busy bartering with the death angels to let me stay. It was the look on Cian's face that had done it all, really: the roundness of his eyes, his mouth half-open as if gasping for breath only the life of his brother could give him. No one who was that shattered could possibly make it alone.

"I don't know if you can hear me at all," I said to Lucie, "but I'd like to think you can."

Silence was my reply. I shuddered, swiping underneath my cheeks. "It's not fair to put this on you, but we really need you over here, Lucie. Cian probably needs you the most—there's something wrong with him. Really, really wrong with him. Possibly worse than anything; yes, even the time he lost his wings."

Lucie's face didn't change. I didn't know why I'd expected it to. "Caprice and I are trying to figure something out, to save him, but...it's just hard."

I dropped my gaze, drawing circles in the armchair's velvety surface with my bitten nails. The sun was sinking beneath the treetops, throwing color all about the room bathing it all in the purest shades of pink and indigo. There was saltwater beneath the heavy scent of bleach.

Suddenly, the silence hurt.

"I'm afraid to be alone," I said. I didn't have the slightest idea why I said it, just knew that I had to, that the words had been a tangled knot within my chest, pressing against my lungs. "I'll be anything as long as I'm not alone. And if Cian doesn't make it, and if you don't...then...God. I'll still be here, and then I won't have anyone."

My voice betrayed me, cracking at my last words. I staggered to my feet, casting one last lingering gaze at my best friend before I made for the door. It was stupid. The whole thing was stupid. She was comatose, and completely unaware, so she couldn't hear me anyway. Besides, even if she could, what was my childish begging going to do? It wasn't going to coax her out of this state; that just wasn't how the world worked.

I understood how Cian had felt. Being in that room was like being inside of an Iron Maiden, all the guilt, the grief, poking at me, drawing out the last of my hope. It was like watching the bullet strike her, over and over again, hearing Cian scream, over and over again. I started to wonder why I'd wanted to visit at all.

I knew it in my heart.

I didn't want to see Lucie unless she was awake, healthy. Seeing her anyway else was the worst form of torture.

I reached the parking lot. Cian was a hunched silhouette in the Escalade's driver's seat. A jolt of concern went through me—was it another one of his migraines?

He side-glanced me as I pulled open the door and slid into the seat next to him. "Hey? Are you okay—"

"Yeah," he said, but it was more of an incomprehensible grunt. "Fine."

I tugged the door shut, and it thudded, sheltering us against the cacophony of the city. It was just Cian and I, the squeaky leather seats of the Cadillac, the smudges of fingerprints upon the windows.

I drew my legs up in the seat, folding them. I glanced at Cian, then at the glove compartment, then back at Cian again. "Do you wanna talk—"

"No."

I rolled my eyes. "Cian."

"Vincent," he grumbled. "I don't want to talk. I just want to go home."

I was still wary, but enough of the feeling was replicated within me that I was willing to back off of him for a while. When I looked closely at him, however, I noticed the sheen of sweat upon his pale forehead, the way his fingers trembled when he grappled them around the steering wheel. Lately, he'd never looked well, but he had never looked this sick.

"Can you drive?" I asked, my tone cautious, like a tiptoe late at night. "Are you sure you're fine?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Then stop looking!"

Before I could think of a reply to that, Cian had already started the engine and pounded the gas. The car surged off, leaving me scrambling to get my seatbelt on. He pulled out of the parking lot and into the street, and as the tires thundered upon the pavement, I watched his every move.

A knot of fear began to furl itself within me. I could see them, the veins, thick and black and the threatening. They had climbed past his wrist, surging up towards his trembling knuckles. When I looked at his face again, his mouth was set, though he kept swallowing, his neck undulating every few moments.

"Cian," I said, and he let out an exasperated sigh, but let me talk. "I know it was hell in there, but it's so much worse if we don't, you know, talk about it."

"You never shut up, do you?"

That drew my eyes to his, rather sharply. "What?"

"You heard me. I said you never shut up. You always wanna talk things out—well, tell you what, Vince. Doesn't matter how much we talk. Talking isn't gonna bring muffin back."

I bit down on my lip. "She's not dead. You're the one who keeps reminding me of that."

"She's got a machine breathing for her. You call that living?"

His words were bitter, his tone acidic. What was worse was that he had a point, even if I hated to admit it. He wasn't wrong. To live, you had to be aware, to move about on your own, none of which Lucie could do anymore. "Maybe it isn't," I said, shrinking back in my seat, wishing I could just disappear from it all. "But I know it's sure as hell better than just nothing. Lucie still has a chance. When I died, that was it. I was gone."

"Ha," scoffed my brother. "That's a lie. You're sitting right here, yapping at me like you always do. Why can't you just accept it? Why can't you just accept that there's no damn bright side to this?"

Cian's tongue was sizzling, but he didn't seem to care. He kept it that way, letting out a string of curses until his mouth was burning. He struck his hands upon the steering wheel, revving the gas. The car was beginning to lurch, and I gripped the arms of the seat, trying to steady myself.

"Cian!" I screeched. "Cian, calm down!"

The other cars on the road were skidding out of the way, and Cian kept going, speeding and speeding until the hiss of the tires was like a scream in my ears. I called for him again, and when he looked at me, it felt as though my heart splintered into a million pieces.

Cian had torn his eyepatch free, and both his eyes were dark, obscure, not an inch of blue or white, only pure obsidian. An ink-like substance, the same as the one I'd found on his floor and on that person's body, dripped like syrup from his lips.

"Cian," I breathed, but even I knew then that what looked back at me was not my brother at all.

He cowered, pressing a hand to his forehead, letting out a wail.

Then, there was silence. His eyes met mine again, and there was an odd smile on his face, almost half a frown.

I thought I heard him say, "Sorry," or maybe he said nothing at all.

He jerked the steering wheel, and the car hurtled off the road, flipping and crushing, glass shattering, metal bending.

I clawed for Cian's sleeve, but all I felt was air.

Darkness crushed me, taking my consciousness before I could even think to yell.