“Is she still alive, Victor?” Morrison asked.
I glanced unsteadily down at Izabel; I moved one arm from around her and brought my fingers to her nose, feeling for air coming from her nostrils. At least I thought that was what I was doing…I did not know; I felt like I was in another place, very far from there, but could still hear and see and feel everything. My other hand remained tight on the side of Izabel’s neck, trying to control the flow of blood; somewhere in the depths of my muddled mind I was still trying to save her, even though in my heart I knew she is dead.
“I should have done it myself,” I said absently, looking at no one. “I should have done it a long time ago…spared her all of this.”
“Snap out of it, man,” Morrison told me again. “If she’s still alive, there’s still time to help her.”
I looked right at him now, and for the first time since he entered the building, I was fully aware of his presence. But I did not care an iota that he was here, or who he was, or what he planned to do with me.
“I want her dead,” I said aloud to myself about Artemis, my teeth crushed together in my parched mouth. “Both of them—I will kill them both!”
“Calm down,” Morrison said; he pointed at Izabel. “Victor, keep pressure on the wound.”
I realized my error quickly and threw my hand back on her neck; her blood covered me, slippery and warm and final.
Finally, the strangely familiar woman picked the lock on the cage and pushed the door open; she dashed inside the cell; I did not even notice until afterwards that she checked Izabel’s wrist for a pulse. “She’s alive—Brant, we have to get her to the nearest hospital; she won’t make it to the Safe House.” She gestured for him with one hand. “Hurry!”
Morrison ran into the cell and crouched in front of me; he reached out to take Izabel; instantly my grip tightened around her, and I pulled her closer—they were not taking her anywhere.
“If you want her to live,” Morrison said, encouragingly, “you’re gonna have to snap the fuck out of it and let us take her.”
“Keep your hands off her!” I roared, wrenching Izabel closer. “I know you want me, to take me back to The Order—I know! But leave Izabel out of this! I will let her die before I let you take her!”
Morrison shook his head, and then set his gun on the floor; he held his palms up, facing me. “Listen to me, Victor,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt her. I just want to get her help.”
“Bullshit!”
“There’s no time for this,” the woman said.
Morrison reached out for Izabel again. “Hate me all you want, Victor,” he said, “but right now we have to get her to a hospital or she’s going to die. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Think about it—if I wanted her dead I’d let her lay there and bleed out. If I wanted you dead, I’d have shot you already.”
The woman crouched next to Morrison in front of me, peering intensely at me. I did not understand what that look was in her eyes, but for some reason, I felt like I should trust her; she wanted me to trust her.
“Victor,” she said, carefully, intent on holding my gaze. “I swear to you that the only thing I want to do is save her. I know I can’t make you believe me, but you have no other options. She goes with me, or she dies.” She leaned in closer—what is that look? Trust me, Victor, it felt like she was conveying. I’m here to help you. Covertly, without moving her head, she averted her eyes in Morrison’s direction, then quickly back at me. He may not be, but I am. Please trust me…
I looked down at Izabel in my arms, then reluctantly back up at the woman. Desperate, and knowing that she was right at least about having no other options, I gave in. “Take her—but only you. He does not touch her! Hurry,” I said, and let go of Izabel.
Morrison nodded at the woman, giving her the go-ahead, and then she took Izabel’s limp body into her arms swiftly but carefully, keeping pressure on the wound with one hand, and she dashed away on flat-heeled boots, weaving through a maze of dead bodies. I watched the doors out ahead long after she had disappeared behind them.
The clicking sound of handcuffs locking into place pulled me back into the imminent threat: Brant Morrison, high-ranking veteran operative for The Order, who I knew was there to apprehend me. Squeezing my fist, I pulled back my hand in anger, the handcuff locked around my wrist jangled and scraped against the bar.
“Why save her?” I asked Morrison about Izabel. “Is she worth more alive?” I felt the warmth of Izabel’s blood all over me, soaking into my pants, into my bones; I swallowed hard and tried not to think about it, about her, and if that woman could get her to a hospital in time. If she would even try.