Yep. Still nothing. Finnley is about to fightabsolutely nothing.
At this point, I’m doubting my bright idea of handing over a dagger to him. I’m not sure he’s stable enough to be handling weapons at the moment.
He bends his knees slightly like he’s about to throw his entire body into the attack. “Stay back,” he orders.
I reach for his shirt to try to anchor him to reality, but he’s already pushing forward. His steps are cautious but urgent. No longer watching the ground or sidestepping dead foliage, he walks forward with resolve. His steps are deliberate, and his body rigid. He doesn’t even look back to see if I’m following his orders like a good little soldier.
I am, though.
I haven’t moved a step.
I’m not sure if I should be more worried about this maze or the man who’s currently in it with me. The only sound surrounding us is his footfall across the decrepit stones. The combination of eerie silence and Finnley’s figure stalking across the bridge,ready to confront an illusory threat, paints an absurd image of insanity.
What is even happening right now?
Just when I think it can’t get any more bizarre, his tall form bends down to pick up a particularly sharp-looking rock. It looks sizable and lethal even from this far back in his large hands. He abruptly stops and rolls his shoulders back, preparing for combat. His large frame relaxes as a fighter’s does right before raising both fists again, the one holding the jagged rock toward the front.
I shuffle my feet forward, then stop. Uncertainty weighs me down. I falter slightly too long, as in the next moment Finnley quickly ducks before rising and swinging out with the hand holding the rock. He sidesteps to the right, leaning back to avoid what I can only imagine he sees as someone trying to punch him in the jaw. Both of his feet move forward again, and his arm swings upward to deliver what would be a mean uppercut to his opponent.
A splashing sound echoes throughout the cavern as pebbles and stone fragments are kicked into the chasm below. The shadowy water ripples, and I swear I see movement below the rings. I look up, quickly refocusing on Finnley. I can’t even concentrate on anything else right now when my partner is mentally fighting for his life. Technically, in his mind, he’s fighting for both of our lives.
An experienced soldier would have difficulty defeating a wraith on his own, let alone a prospect who hasn’t even started his first year. He’s fighting an impossible fight. I flinch when his head is thrown backward, his body following suit, pushing him toward the edge of the crossing.
What the fuck.
He brings the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping what I imagine he sees as blood.
His lips pull into a snarl before he darts up and forward, throwing his elbow out, followed by a swift punch from his other hand. “FUCK YOU!!!” he screams, his face scrunched in defiance. Spinning around, he sidesteps something but immediately falls to his knees, clutching at his chest. He grabs a fistful of his shirt, pulling at it, gasping for breath.
I’ve seen a boy punched in the diaphragm before, and he looked a lot like Finnley looks right now. The boy later told us it felt like his lungs had seized up and he would never breathe again. He described the pain as if his chest was on fire, but with the blue kind, not the red. The kind that burns so intensely there isn’t any warmth, only unbearable pain.
Without thinking twice, I run toward him. My feet jump over broken pieces of the bridge and loose rocks, but I have to get to him. We’re in this together, even if I know he’ll be okay, and the only threat he’s facing right now is himself.
Pain ripples across his face as he clutches at his chest with one hand and leans on the other for support. Slowly, his head raises, brows drawn as if even doing this small gesture is excruciating.
His eyes clash with mine.
They’re filled with sorrow and defeat.
“I’M COMING!” I yell.
I’m so close I can see the different browns and greens immersed within his irises.
Gravel digs into my knees as I slide across the stone, grabbing onto his face and forcing him to look at me. “You’re okay,” I assure him, gripping the sides of his jaw, forcing his broken stare to meet mine.
I move one hand to his back, rubbing in small circles. Willing him to take a full breath. He hasn’t taken his eyes off mine. They’re filled with apologies and despair. I never want to see this defeated version of Finnley ever again. Give me the goofy,arrogant, flirty version back. The one he wears like a second skin.
I drop my hand from his face and let it settle into his clammy hand, grasping onto it tightly, offering reassurances the only way I know how. The moment our palms connect, it’s as if a curtain is lifted.
And it’s absolutely horrifying.
Standing directly behind him is the object of nightmares. Evil in a living, breathing form.
My blood runs cold, and the fight momentarily leaves my body.
Long fingers, covered with ash-colored rotting flesh, hold each of Finnley’s cheeks within their grasp. The smell hits my nostrils almost immediately, and a gag works its way up my throat.
Vomiting would be so easy.
