Tremble (Denazen #3)(80)
“Dez,” it breathed. Warmth pressed against my lips, followed by a burst of air. A second later, a foul rush of fluid surged up my throat, choking off my newly found source of air. Strong hands rolled me onto my side, allowing me to breathe easier.
“You weren’t breathing. Dez, I thought you—”
I tried to sit up, but nothing happened. “Kiernan—”
“Stay as still as you can.” He pulled the hoodie over his head, the edge of his shirt catching and riding up to reveal well-toned muscle. Normally I wouldn’t have an issue with the view, but I got the distinct feeling something was wrong.
He wadded the hoodie into a ball and slammed it against my shoulder. I tried to wriggle free—the pressure didn’t hurt, though it felt weird—but he was too strong.
“Dammit,” he cursed, and I tried not to laugh. It sounded so strange coming from his lips.
I tried again to pick up my head, but it felt as though someone were holding it down. I did manage to turn it sideways—and was sorry I had. “Oh my God.” The words spilled from my lips as my heart skipped a beat. I’d forgotten all about getting shot.
“Shh!” he whispered in my ear, arms slipping beneath my legs and behind my head.
The world tilted sideways, and then up. “I don’t feel anything. Did I—” I squinted into the tank below. There was a dark, unmoving figure at the bottom. “Is she—”
“It’s not bad,” he said, taking the steps faster than I would have dared. They were metal, and everything was soaked from me dripping everywhere. “It’s not bad.”
I wanted to tell him that when people repeated themselves—him in particular—that was the very definition of bad, but I didn’t. Or couldn’t. My lips, like my head, were too heavy to move.
Kale’s expression was fierce. Oddly familiar. As everything faded to black I figured out why the painting in the holding room looked so damn familiar.
I just hoped I lived long enough to tell someone.
33
“Am I dead?”
Brandt-as-Henley rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Would I be the first person you saw right before entering the Pearly Gates?”
“Fiery pits of hell maybe,” I mumbled, sitting up. I was curled around a large, soft pillow, scrunched in a comfy armchair. “Did we make it? Is everyone okay?”
“More or less.”
More or less? I didn’t love that answer.
“So I missed it all? The big escape?”
He shrugged. “You didn’t miss much. Actually, consider yourself lucky. Ginger has been on a rampage over Kale’s little stunt at the airport.”
“Kale’s—” Then I remembered. He’d used his ability in front of a huge crowd. “Oh, crap.”
“Yeah. She’s been playing damage control all day.” Brandt winked and waggled his brows. “Cabin’s a bit more crowded now, too. That goth guy came back with us. A hot chick named Carley, too.”
I was right. We were totally going to have to expand. “Kale?”
“He’s okay,” Brandt confirmed, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“So, let’s not beat around the bush. I was shot, right?”
He frowned. “Yeah. You were.”
“And I almost drowned.”
“The way Kale tells it, you did drown. He said you stopped breathing. Poor guy looked physically ill just telling Sue about it.”
“So the gunshot thing, am—am I okay? You said ‘more or less’ when I asked if everyone was all right.” I took another look around the room. The ceiling was papered with Powerman 5000 posters and the air smelled like coffee. “I’m in some freaky coma, aren’t I?”
“Nah. It’s not that bad. You’re dreaming. I wanted to pop in and see you. You were pretty lucky. It shattered bone. You’ll be rocking a cast for a while, since, oddly, we don’t have a healer, but you’re gonna be okay.”
I let out a relieved breath.
“Kale told us what happened to the blood, Dez, and that the Domination we have is no good.”
“I failed,” I said miserably, letting my head fall into my hands. “I blew my life and all the other Supremacy kids’ lives.”
“Not necessarily. Wentz is working on it. He’s got an idea. If this works, then you saved them, Dez.”
I wanted to ask him what he meant, but he was gone. And so was I.
…
If there was one sound I hated worse than whistling, it was humming. Everyone knew this. I’d once given Alex a fat lip for humming after repeatedly begging him to stop. It wasn’t him—the pitch was wrong—but someone was in the room with me.
Humming.
“Oh my God, dude. That is the most grating sound in the world.”
The whistler laughed. An amused chuckle, followed by something warm tugging up around my shoulders. When I opened my eyes, I gasped. “You!”
Vince leaned back in his chair and sighed. Brown eyes peeking out from under a mop of black-as-night hair. “I suppose that answers my question.”
“And I suppose that answers mine,” I replied, hefting myself into a sitting position. My arm was in a sling and my fingers felt numb—the beauty of painkillers if I had to guess—and both my legs were asleep. But I knew what I was looking at. I was looking at the guy from the painting.