Our W.I.C.K.E.D Fate (The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl sequel)

12

When Emily awoke, she knew something was amiss.

First of all, she was feeling like complete and utter shit. Her mouth was parched and she felt as though her head was being squeezed in a vice, temples so tense she could feel each thrum of her pulse in the veins there. When she licked her lips, Emily found them so dry they tasted of dust. 

Second of all, not only once had she been one of the first in the group to wake, often having to spend more than an hour in silence—or, if she was lucky, with the person miraculously sticking to the watch schedule—knowing that any loud sound would instantly wake the rest. However, as Emily sat up, she noticed that everyone else was awake—and ready to go.

Newt was crouched beside her, a deep crease between his brows as he took her in. "You alright?" he asked, and Emily sensed that he was struggling to keep the concern out of his voice.

"Yeah," Emily muttered, rubbing at her eyes. "How long have you guys been up for?"

Newt shrugged. "Not long," he said, and Emily knew right away that was a lie; she just couldn't tell how far-fetched. "Fancy any breakfast?"

Emily didn't try to contain the lopsided smile that crept onto her lips. "Depends. What's on the menu?"

Newt rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too, his frown forgotten. "I'm afraid my answer isn't quite as satisfactory as I'd like. Today's options are . . . "—Newt dug into his pocket, retrieving two rumpled bars—"smushed protein bar and very smushed protein bar. The choice, lovely lady, is yours."

Emily guffawed. "I think I'll stick to the usual. Smushed protein bar, kind sir, thank you very much."

Emily tore into her frugal breakfast as fast as she could, not wanting to detain the group much longer. When she was done, Newt offered her a swig from his water bottle—they were running out again—and asked her if she was sure she was alright for the second time, to which she responded affirmatively in spite of her expanding headache.

* * *

Emily hadn't expected the search to be any fun, but she couldn't have anticipated the grim silence hanging over them, either. On occasion, Chuck cracked a joke that fell on deaf ears. The only thing that kept Emily's mind off of her worsening physical state was Thomas's recollections of some of their funnier adventures from their shared past in the Glade. Emily had feared the atmosphere between them would've soured since last night's almost . . . whatever it had been, but Thomas seemed at ease, the moment dismissed from memory.

After hours of roaming around to no avail, Emily could no longer ignore the soreness of her limbs, each step more burdensome than the last, a now full-blown migraine pulsing behind her eyes. A bout of nausea had her leaning against the nearest wall, pressing her lips together in an attempt to subdue the gruesome feeling that she was about to retch. Sweat was trickling down the back of her neck, and Emily understood with no surprise whatsoever that she was running a fever.

"What's wrong?" Newt's voice had come from behind, far too close for Emily's liking. Startled, Emily turned. The motion had been too sudden; one moment she was standing, the next she was rapidly sliding down the cold wall. Before she could touch the floor, she was drawn into Newt's arms, their steadiness soothing. The back of his hand pressed against her forehead for a split second, and then Newt whispered, "Jesus, Em, you're burning up."

His head whipped around. He shouted something—the sound pierced through Emily's skull, but she couldn't make it out, as though she'd been submerged under water and he was somewhere above, near and far at the same time.

Newt turned to face her once more as distant silhouettes approached. Emily met his warm, brown eyes, and found that her whole body was thrumming in his steadfast embrace. "Do you think you can stand?" he asked, his voice soft. 

Using all the strength she could muster, Emily swallowed and shook her head. 

Newt didn't hesitate. He looped one of his arms underneath her knees and the other around her chest, then picked her up with surprising ease. Emily allowed herself to go limp in his arms. Though her skin was scorching in the places it touched his, Newt didn't shy away. Instead, he held her flush against him, and his warmth was, strangely enough, comforting. 

Though Emily's vision had gone blurry, she could register that Newt was peering down at her, his brow furrowed. "Are you cold?" he asked, and Emily realised that her teeth had been chattering. 

Emily gave a slow nod, which had Newt pulling her in even closer, her cheek resting against his solid chest. 

The voices of the group—some somber, some laced with panic—were blending together, swirling around her in a haze. She only discerned Newt say, "We can't stop. There ought to be some meds around here somewhere."

As she swayed in Newt's arms to the rhythm of his steps, Emily could hear each of Newt's heartbeats. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the sound, but a flash of pain shot up her forearm. Emily glanced at her wrist under her eyelashes—the edges of the bite were beginning to turn the sickening shade of rotting plums, the gash deep and pulsing. As subtly as she could, Emily tugged her sleeve down and over the wound.

The pain was showing no signs of alleviating. Emily winced, and although the noise had been almost inaudible, Newt picked up on it. "Hold on tight, Emily," he whispered, sounding as pained as she was by his inability to help. "I'm here. I'm right here."

Emily had no idea how much time had passed when someone gave a victorious shout. Newt's pace quickened, and then he was setting her down, calling out her name. Emily made a herculean effort to crack her eyes open. Newt was crouched beside her, and in his open palm, there was a single white pill. "Painkiller," he said, the maddening worry in his eyes streaked with something akin to hope. "Please, Emily."

She didn't hesitate. She put the pill in her mouth and took a greedy sip from Newt's nearly empty water bottle. 

Newt was watching her like a hawk, and Emily could sense he was refraining from asking her so soon if she was feeling any better.

Emily managed a quirk of her lips. "Thank you."

Newt mirrored the short smile. "Always." His observant gaze surveyed her countenance, her flushed chest. "Do you have any idea what might be causing this?"

Emily's heart stuttered with dread, ice-cold adrenaline flooding her ignited veins. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell them. 

From afar, a feminine voice called out Newt's name. His head turned in the direction of the sound, but he glanced back at Emily almost immediately. "Ella," he explained. Emily breathed out, awash with relief. "I'll be right back." He stood and made a short gesture with his head towards someone Emily couldn't see. 

A lighthearted voice followed Newt's departure without any pause. "Hey, Em," Thomas said, sitting beside her. "How're you feeling?"

Emily accomplished a snort, then summoned enough force to say, "I feel about as well as I look."

"Oh, don't worry." Thomas gave a short laugh. "You're still a stunner, albeit a kind of sallow one."

Emily rolled her head to the side and gazed up at Thomas. An easy smile was playing on his lips, but she knew its purpose was merely to conceal a concern just as poignant as Newt's. Emily blinked, and Thomas was closer now, perhaps having read something between the lines of her features that not even she was aware of. Emily ran her tongue along her bottom lip, and found that it was as feverish as the rest of her. Thomas's hand came up to cup her cheek; he slowly stroked it with his thumb, and he was even closer now, and his eyes were fluttering shut, and—

Somebody gave a very loud shout. Thomas was torn away from her, and through her weary eyes, Emily distinguished that another boy had gotten on top of him. Emily couldn't make sense of the noises that followed until Minho yelled, "Newt, stop!" and she realised that he'd been punching Thomas, on and on and on. 

And Emily was so startled that she didn't even sense the darkness take over—but not before she called his name.