They think I poisoned Santiago. Has he died? Is that why I’m here now?
The question of what they’ll do to me is second to the echoing of has he died circling round and round in my head.
A sound like a gavel comes from inside, and my heart jumps as I face the doors when they are opened. My mouth goes dry as the large circular room comes into view. Raised high in the center is the dais upon which three men—The Councilors, my judges—sit behind a large desk made of the same wood and decorated with carvings as intricate as the doors.
On either side and set at a lower level is a large banister, stone like the walls and ground, with empty chairs behind it. And in the center, I’m walked to a wooden stand where a man opens the small gate, and I step up into it before he closes it again.
Ceremony. The Society loves it.
My stomach turns, and I try to swallow the dryness in my mouth. Just as the doors close, I hear a sound from behind and above me. I shift my gaze back and up to the gallery, where I see a single witness. Because that is what she is. A witness to my trial.
Mercedes.
And even from this distance, I see how red her eyes are and how pale her face is. I feel a tear slide down my cheek, and I think it’s true. He’s gone. Santiago is gone.
The gavel strikes, and I startle, turning to face The Councilors.
6 Santiago
"Take a slow sip."
The voice resonating above me is familiar, but he is little more than a blurry shape. A rhythmic, steady drone of beeping is a pattern I am intimately acquainted with, and the smell is one I'll never forget. Disinfectant. Cold metal. Dying flowers undoubtedly perched on the ledge of a sill somewhere in the distance.
I'm in a hospital room. That much, I understand.
Someone adjusts my bed, forcing me further into an upright position as I try to speak. A straw bumps against my lips, and that familiar voice offers encouragement.
"It will take some time to get your senses back. For now, you can relax and try to take a drink. We've already moved you to the most secure wing of the hospital. Armed guards are stationed outside, and you've been under the care of Dr. Rousseau. You're in excellent hands, Santiago."
The name Dr. Rousseau confirms there is some truth to the dissembled thoughts running rampant inside my brain. I had thought it was all a dream. The masked gala. My wife, dressed in shades of gold and black, floating across the floor like an apparition. Her half-butterfly mask shining beneath the soft glow of the overhead lights. She looked like a seductress with that blood-red lipstick. And she took that role to heart when she kissed me. A kiss that would lead to my collapse, and then inevitably, what I was certain would be my death.
If Dr. Rosseau is my attending physician, there can be no other explanation. IVI does not call him in for garden variety cases. He is the poison specialist. A master of toxicology with laser-sharp eyes and a gift for discerning even the most subtle of biological threats. He is at the top of his field, and he would not be here to treat anything else that might ail me. His presence is confirmation I was poisoned, and it does not require a stretch of the imagination to know without a doubt it was by my own wife’s hand. Or more accurately, her lips.
I reach for the hem of the blankets weighing me down, trying to fling them off. But I only manage to drag them about an inch before my arm falls limp to my side. It is difficult to comprehend the weakness I feel. It’s a weakness more indicative of being hit by a train and dragged for days, slamming against every object in my path. I have felt the limitations of my body before in such excruciatingly dark times, but I can no longer stew in silence while the Moreno family continues to destroy what is left of mine.
I need to see my wife. I need her to look me in the eyes and confess her sins and beg for mercy like she has never begged before. Quiet rage fuels my resolve as I imagine her falling to her knees, my fingers wrapped around her throat as she spews her lies from those pretty, poisonous lips. It’s a thirst that can’t be tamed. And logic isn’t part of the equation when I make another attempt to free myself from the confines of my bed.
"You need to relax," the voice beside my bed instructs me. "There will be time for vengeance later. For now, you need to work on one thing at a time. Let's start with a sip of water."
I don't want a fucking sip of water. I need to see my wife. I want blood and vengeance. Nothing can mend this cavernous fissure in my chest. Nothing but the certain horror on Ivy’s face when she sees me resurrected from the dead, proof that she will never escape me. In life or death, I will haunt her to the ends of the earth. And there is no time like the present—when the wound is still fresh—to seek her out and exact the punishment she so rightly deserves.
But in the face of my determination is the hindrance of my blurred vision and limp body. I may be alive, but I don't know the extent of the damage she inflicted. Try as I might, my voice won’t cooperate to allow me to speak. And
