Once Upon a Nightmare

his darkest story

xvii: his darkest story

 

I cry out, taking his face in my hands. “Armand?” I manage. “Oh god—Armand—please don’t be you.” My gut was right—it was him all along. And instead, I listened to Alexander. I swear softly. I’m going to kill him for lying, for abandoning his brother like this. To do it to me is one thing, but to someone as undeserving as Armand, it’s unforgivable.

Armand tries to shake his head. “No.” Which is of course what he would say.

“We have to get him my tent. Now.” Lana’s voice is hoarse. “Listen.” She drops to a knee, her expression bleak. “Donovan trusts me. I think we can get him out of here. At least . . . buy some time.”

I stiffen. Why would she . . .? She glances once at Armand, her expression conflicted. Her fingers drift absently to his arm, but she draws back with a snap before they make contact. She was with him all that time in the tent.  Did they talk? Does she have feelings for him? It makes me want to punch her, sort of, but I swallow the feeling. “Okay. Anything. Please.”

“Help me move him,” Lana instructs. “All right, Armand—I knew you weren’t Alexander, you self-righteous bastard. You’ve got to stand. The human and I can’t lift you off the ground.”

“My name’s Violet,” I snap, but I still help on Armand’s other side, getting him to his feet. With some serious maneuvering, we manage to walk him into Lana’s tent. She leaves as I try to make him comfortable on her cot.

Once he’s situated, I kneel at his side. His eyes are closed, but by the tension in his mouth, I think he’s conscious. I feel so helpless. I’m covered in blood—both his and Gloom’s. It disappeared off the ground, but for some reason stuck on me. “Why did you do this?”

Lana comes through the tent flap, bandages in her arms. She goes to Armand and I back up to let her work. Her face is like stone as she takes a small dagger and rips enough of his shirt off to give her easy access. When she carefully peels back the fabric stuck to his wound, he hisses.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

Armand exhales. “Sure you are.”

At the sight of the jagged, oozing hole, I cover my mouth and turn. It’s worse than I thought. Lana applies a bandage and the fabric is soaked in seconds. After she finishes tying the dressing in place, her fingers pause over her work. Then she sighs and sits on the other side of the tent.

“That’s all I can do,” she says. I almost don’t hear her.

“Is he . . .?”

She just shakes her head. His white face and neck glisten with sweat.

“Don’t die, please don’t die.” I kneel beside him, brushing soaked strands of hair off his forehead. His breathing sounds like his lungs are sucking air through a coffee straw.

If he dies, too, I’m going to lose it. I’ll throw myself at Donovan’s feet, begging for the bullet. Or go somewhere by myself and wait for my father to pull the plug on my comatose body.

A warm pulsing in my pocket pulls me from my thoughts. Frowning, I dig out the small ball of Gloom’s power. One of the last times he spoke to me was to tell me what the love of gothic literature allowed him to do.

I can see anyone’s darkest story.

The purple smoke swirls nearly out of control, thumping like a miniature heartbeat between my fingers. I catch my breath and a vision enters my head, tinted in lilac hues.