Blood and Wine - Margot Scott Page 0,40

her pants to better reach the artery at her thigh. He looks wilder than an animal, like something pulled straight out of Hell.

Lilliana has stopped crying. If she’s not dead already, she’s teetering on the edge.

And if I can’t get the cage door open, I’ll be next.

I crawl on heavy limbs toward the spot where Christopher dropped the keychain. My knees catch on my dress twice, so I bunch the skirt portion up. Reaching through the bars, I stretch my arm as far out as I can.

“Come on,” I mutter through clenched teeth, brushing the keys with my fingertips.

A hand grasps my ankle.

I scream. Having mustered her final ounce of strength, Lilliana has grabbed onto me. I meet her pleading gaze with a look of indifference and shake her off. Just minutes ago, she’d been all too eager to watch the same thing happen to me.

It’s too late to save her, and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t lift a finger.

Again, I narrow my focus on the ring of keys, calling them into my palm. My heartbeat hammers in my head. Tears stain my cheeks as I work to channel all my effort into drawing them toward me.

An invisible string forms between my hand and the keys.

They slide the extra few inches I need, and then I have them.

I pull myself up and stagger toward the door. The first key I try doesn’t work.

A deep, menacing growl makes my skin prickle. Will rises to his feet. I think his color looks better already, but it’s hard to tell with the blood smeared all over his face.

“Shit.” I try another key, and it turns in the lock. “Thank God...” The door swings inward and I move with it, creating a small cage for myself between the door and the bars behind it.

Will surges, grasping the silver-coated bars in front of me, then draws back, hissing. His hands blister, though I can see his wrists are already healing.

“Will, it’s me,” I tell him. “It’s Mariah. You’re free now.”

He brings his face close to the bars. I can smell Lilliana’s blood all over his mouth.

“Go,” I say. “Feed. Make them pay for what they’ve done to you.”

His nostrils flare. He cocks his head, his expression feral, his fangs long and sharp. He’s clearly not himself, but a piece of him must still be in there somewhere.

“Please,” I whisper, sending waves of calm toward him. “I love you, and I know you love me. Don’t do this.”

A glimmer of recognition shines in his gaze. Small and fleeting, but strong enough to divert his attention. He turns from me like an ocean liner changing course, stepping out of the cage he’s been trapped in for who knows how long.

He sniffs the air. I hold my breath, praying he won’t be lured back in my direction by the cut on my wrist. He kicks at the exterior door until it flies off its hinges into the corridor.

As he races off into the darkness, I release my breath and let myself sink onto the concrete.

I count my breaths and wait for the fear to dissipate. But when I close my eyes, all I see is blood. Dripping down walls. Pooling around Lilliana’s lifeless body. A vision of Edward loading a silver-tipped bolt into a crossbow.

Of course, I think. The crossbow from Edward’s office. He wouldn’t keep a vampire in his house without anticipating worst-case scenarios.

I have to warn Will.

Adrenaline pumping, I make my way around Lilliana’s corpse. Will warned me not to follow him, but I can’t just sit here and allow Edward to kill him. I scan the shelves of medical equipment until I find a roll of gauze and some adhesive. My cut has already begun to coagulate but sneaking up on Will with blood dripping down my arm sounds like a recipe for suicide.

I find a jug of peroxide and pour some over my cut, wincing at the sting. I clean my arm off, then wrap a strip of gauze around my wrist and secure it with tape.

Will’s bloody footprints are easy to follow up the stairs. I move quickly and quietly, skittish as a mouse in a house full of cats. The footprints cross each other, but I note a distinct trail leading to the kitchen.

The trail eventually thickens into a smear.

Propping the back door open is Christopher’s body—or most of it, at least. I don’t notice how unnaturally far his right leg is from the rest of him until I’m standing directly