GIDEON WASpretty sure he was still alive, but he was also pretty sure that wasn’t a good thing.
His head felt like a splatter on a windshield, and his wrist… oh dear God.Why was his hand still attached?It should not feel like his hand was still attached!
How will I human without you?
Goddammit, Joey.Goddammit.It would be so easy to just close his eyes and drift into the ether, let his body quietly fail, the lights in his brain flicker out.But Joey fuckin’ Carlyle had climbed intoGideon’sbed of his own goddamned free will, and Gideon wasn’t going to die now.Not when he finallygotthat thing about being human that was so great.
He’d had some inklings before.The team had been pretty awesome, he couldn’t lie.His father, and his painful, awkward attempts at connection—that had given him some faith.His stepmom hadreallygiven him something to root for.But Joey?Joey was a whole new level of human.Joey, who had been locked in this very fuckin’ basement, had not only emerged with most of his soul intact, he’d saved the goddamned cat.
Gideon hadn’t missed that part.That scared, angry little kid had saved the goddamned cat.
By sneaking through a secret passageway.
In this very goddamned basement.
Okay, then.
Gideon closed his eyes and breathed out the pain.Breathed it out.Concentrated on other things.His wrist was an explosion—but it was… oh shit.It was afreeexplosion.The chair had splintered when it had hit the ground, and Gideon’s arms, both the real one and the one that felt like a bucket full of nails, were mobile.
With a groan, Gideon repositioned himself, stretching his bruised legs—still zip-tied to the chair—in front of him, and he took stock.His stomach muscles were bruised, and his ribs were broken.But his legs?His legs were bruised but sound.
Rolling to his back, he levered his legs up, the chair still attached, but it was no worse than leg presses in the gym, and he could do those for days.
One, two, three!On three, he lowered his legs and worked to yank them open, trying to break either the chair or the zip ties.
The chair crunched some more, but the zip ties held.
This time.
One, two, three!Ouch!Oh fuck, his ribs.His fucking ribs.Fuck!He breathed carefully, making sure he still could.Yeah, okay.Hadn’t punctured his lungs yet, but he had maybe one more of those in him.
Had to make it count.
One, two, three!
By the time he could breathe again and the pain stars had cleared enough for him to see his feet, the chair had disintegrated, save for a jagged splintered piece of wood he clutched in his one good hand.
Okay, then.Time to stand.
First he scooched on the rancid dirt floor to the rough wooden wall.Then, pressing his back against the wall, he walked his way up, ignoring the splinters they’d probably be pulling out of his ass for a month.
Ouch, fuck, ouch, fuck, ouch, fuck—oh my God.Oh holy crapblossom.He wasstanding.And armed.Or, well, one armed.
Okay, then.
Carefully, oh so carefully, following the wall so he could stand at all, he made his way around the edges to the darkness untouched by the swinging lightbulb.
Somewhere there was a door.Somewhere, there was a Joey.He’d just faded into the darkest shadow when he heard two noises.One was from deeper in the basement, in the darkest part, the part Stevie Carlyle probably never explored.
The other noise was from above, from the top of the rickety staircase, to the door above that led to the kitchen.
When that door swung open, Gideon could hear chaos erupting.Gunfire, Harding’s voice through a megaphone, grunts of men getting hit, screams of men who were wounded.
Iwo-fucking-Jima in a mansion, Gideon thought with a suppressed cackle.
He wondered if his boy was up there, slitting throats and taking names.
That’s my boy,he thought.Kill a fucker for me.
