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It’s like screaming into a void, trying to get my muscles to listen to me. I feel like I’m trying to run underwater, with weights tied to my limbs. Like I’m trapped in a pool of something viscous and sluggish, like syrup.
But when my eyes lock and slowly manage to focus on Eilish—looking so pale and broken and so fuckingbloodynext to me, the very last of my reserves kick in.
GET. THE. FUCK.
UP!
I lurch, my limbs like four logs as I slide off the couch. I roll, my nostrils flaring as I dig deep for even a shred of energy. Whatever was in that needle Svet stuck me with, it’s making everything go in slow motion. I can feel my heart beating, but it’s sluggish and slow.
Not just slow.
Slowing.
My pulse is literally slowing down as the seconds tick by.
Fuck. I’m running out of time. And when my eyes drop to the horror show of Eilish’s gashed wrist, the full truth hits me.
So is she.
My phone’s not in my pocket. I vaguely remember Svetlana tossing it across the floor downstairs before she dragged me up here. And I don’t see Eilish’s bag anywhere.
I have to move. I fuckinghave to. My teeth grit, my hand sliding across the floor and grabbing hold of some fabric—Svet’s shirt, I’m pretty sure. I drag it over, making my arms work somehow as I slump against the couch to wrap the fabric around Eilish’s wrist, tying it as tightly as my muscles will allow.
It’s not much. It’s not going to save her life. But it’ll buy her some time.
It’ll buymesome time.
I wince when my face hits the floor after I fall from the couch. One arm shoves forward, my fingers curling against the floor and my feet kick dully as my body inches across the room.
I groan, digging even deeper, trying to find any possible drop ofanythingI have left in me. I shove forward, my nails splintering, my feet scuffing on the floor as I drag myself out the door.
I inch down the hall. My vision goes black for a second when I reach up for the doorknob to the guest room. I fall flat on my face, and feel my lip split open. But I ignore the pain. I ignore every fucking thing and other thought in the world except the fact that I need this if I’m going to have a single shot of saving Eilish.
The contents of the drawer in the ensuite guest bathroom tumble over my chest when I yank it right out. My eyes lock on the one thing I came for. And with a strength I almost no longer possess, I reach across the bathroom floor and curl my numb fingers around it.
If Luna’s heart were to ever stop while she was at my place, a shot of this adrenaline would restart it enough to get infant CPR going and save her.
My heart hasn’t stopped yet.
But it’s going to, in a matter of minutes.
I thumb the cap off the pen. My vision goes dark again at the edges as my blood starts to feel like maple syrup in my veins.
This isn’t going to be pleasant.
My fist slams against my neck with theverylast ounce of my strength. The needle jams into my artery as I shove down the plunger.
Holy fuck.
If your heart has stopped, adrenaline will get it pumping again.
If ithasn’tstopped yet, a shot of adrenaline is like mainlining thirty-thousand volts. And when that shit hits my bloodstream and surges into my heart—
Holy. Fucking. FUCK.
I lurch upright like something out of a horror movie: my eyes are bulging and wild, and a demon roar is screaming from my throat. It feels like my skin is on fire—like my heart is pounding a million miles an hour.
But I’m fucking ALIVE.
