"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 my muscles are about as useful as broken bow strings with my exhaustion weighing me down. I try and fail again to move myself, the monitor echoing my growing frustration as I come to terms with one undeniable truth.
Ivy thought she could be rid of me so easily. All this time, Mercedes was right. Ivy had lured me in and made me weak. She made me see something in her that never existed. Something worth saving. Now I am left to stew in the starkness of clarity as I process her betrayal from a hospital bed.
A grunt of pain leaves my parched lips as I pat around my hand and yank the IV out. I’m determined to free myself from these confines, but within moments, two sets of hands are on me, forcing me back into bed as I try to fight my way out. I might as well be fighting Goliath.
There’s nothing left in me.
And despite my fit of silent fury, they've got the IV secured in a new location within seconds, pumping a sedative into my veins.
"Welcome back." The distorted voice greets me as my eyes flutter open and focus on the ceiling.
My vision has improved, and now I can make out the details of the room around me. It's dark, cold, and apocalypse-proof, judging by the thick walls. So, I know I must be at one of the IVI locations, but I’m not certain which one. Several medical facilities are located throughout the city and hundreds more around the country. Then there are the possibilities of worldwide locations, which leaves me to conclude I could be in any of them.
I spent more than my fair share of time staring at similar walls during my recovery from every excruciating operation when they tried to piece me back together and make me whole again. I swore I would never come back to a hospital. I would never again set foot in one of these rooms. Yet here I am.
I'm not certain how much time has passed since that first day when I woke to the voice beside me, informing me I was in the care of Dr. Rosseau. Since then, I have had incremental improvements in my strength, vision, and muscle control. But it has been difficult to determine to what extent since they have kept me sedated most of the time. I know because every time I attempted to move, I couldn’t, and while my thoughts were screaming loud, I could not give voice to them.
I am certain they suspect I would tear them limb from limb to get out of here, and they would be right.
Slowly, I turn my gaze to the man beside my bed. The familiar face of a friend. A man I trust implicitly.
Lawson Montgomery. Or Judge, as he is better known.
He has been here every day, to some extent. I tried several times to speak to him, but he seemed to understand what it was I needed and took it upon himself to inform me that Ivy and Mercedes are both in his care until I make a full recovery. Which means he captured my wife before she could make her great escape.
I was relieved to hear the news, but that relief swiftly turned to bitterness.
She is a traitor. There is no question in my mind. I am certain of it, and I have had little else to do but replay that moment over and over. That kiss. The kiss of death she so eagerly bestowed upon me.
Poison fucking Ivy.
For days, I have laid here, strapped to a hospital bed like a goddamned lunatic, going out of my mind with alternating rage and frustration. I asked myself how she could possibly do this to me. How I didn't see it coming. And there is only one answer.
She is a Moreno. Regardless of our marriage certificate. Regardless of my mark inked into her skin. She still carries those defective genes that will forever make her a viper. And I am more certain of it now than I have ever been.
My wife will die by my hand. As sure as the sun will rise, I will spit on her grave once I've wrung every last ounce of life from her body. She thinks she has known suffering, but she has never experienced the true depths of my depravity or what I am capable of. And there will be no peace in my soul until I taste her blood on my lips as her life slips away.
She will bear my children. And she will know nothing but misery until her last breath. That is the promise I make to myself in the quiet solitude of my thoughts. It is the only solace that gets me through each passing day, waiting for the time when I can return to her, the devil reborn.
"I know what you're thinking," Judge tells me. "It's written all over your face, Santiago. But I should tell you, we haven't yet been able to find the evidence to condemn her. We've searched the compound. Her purse. Your car. Every inch of every space she encountered that evening, including The Manor. But it's turned up nothing."
I reach out for the water on my bedside table, hand trembling as I bring it to my lips to take a drink. And for the first time in days, I try again to move my lips—to form words—and to my surprise, it actually works. My throat is dry, and it’s uncomfortable, but I forge on, insisting on having my answers.
"No sedative today?"
Judge cocks his head to the side and shrugs. "Not as long as you don't get ahead of yourself again."
"Tell me everything," I rasp. "I need to know."
He studies me for a moment, trying to determine something for himself. "I will tell you as long as you give me your word that you will stay here until you are given the all clear from Dr. Rosseau. I'm getting rather tired of sedating you."
"You have my word." I meet his gaze so there can be no misunderstanding about my intent.
There is no question I want to leave this place, but he is right, and I can see that now. It would only give Ivy more pleasure to allow her to see me in such a state. To allow her for one second to think she had truly hurt me. As if she could ever possess that power.
"What is the last thing you remember?" Judge asks.
"Ivy kissed me at the gala, and then I collapsed," I answer coldly.
He nods, folding his hands across his lap as he considers where to begin. "You were very lucky Dr. Rosseau was in attendance that evening. He heard the commotion when the paramedics were wheeling you away, and he rode to the hospital with you. When he'd heard what happened, he began decontamination right away. They stripped you down, and he cleaned your skin, examining the traces of lipstick. He said it was oily, which, amongst your other symptoms, indicated something quite unexpected."
"What was it?" I ask.
"A chemical nerve agent that has been used in several high-profile assassinations."
"A nerve agent?" I ask incredulously.
It doesn't sound right. How could Ivy possibly get her hands on a nerve agent?
"It's been banned in the US for decades, and by all accounts, the military stockpile destroyed. But like most things, it can be purchased on the black market. It's capable of being delivered as a gas or, in your case, dermally. An innocent touch can be deadly to the recipient since it is rarely tested for unless it is suspected. Fortunately, Dr. Rosseau followed his instincts within moments of your arrival at the hospital, by which time you had already been resuscitated twice. He gave you an atropine injection and an anticonvulsant, and they were able to get your breathing regulated."
Judge's voice becomes uncharacteristically quiet as he dips his head. "You barely scraped through this time, Santiago. If it wasn't for his immediate presence, I have no doubt we'd be planning your funeral. In fact, I was quite certain of it."
His words sink over me like a lead weight. I hung on by the skin of my teeth, narrowly avoiding death for a second time, and I can't help but question why. Why am I still here, trapped in this patchwork frame of flesh and bone and darkness? Because right now, considering the truth I will be forced to endure when I leave, I believe death might be a vacation from this reality.
For a few minutes, neither of us says another word. He allows me to digest the information quietly, processing my questions before I can give voice to them.
"You haven't found an antidote that Ivy may have taken?"
"No." He shakes his head. "She would have had to inject it, likely more than one dose. But there has been no indication where she might have disposed of it. By the time I had her secured at my house, most of her lipstick had been wiped away, which could be intentionally done if she was trying to decontaminate."
"And she has shown no signs of illness since then?"
"No."
I can tell by his tone that he is questioning her guilt, but I cannot. "Then someone helped her dispose of it. Someone helped her access the tools she required."
"It would be the only logical explanation if it is her."
"I need to find out where she has been and who she has had contact with."
"We are already looking into it," he assures me.
"Regardless, I would still like to speak with The Tribunal. And Mercedes."
Judge shifts uncomfortably at the mention of my sister's name, prickling my awareness. "What?"
"Nothing." He scratches over the stubble on his face. "She's at my house. Safe and secure. And pissed as hell that I haven't allowed her to visit."
"You can inform her you were just doing as I instructed," I tell him. "Or I will tell her myself."
"She's been struggling, Santiago," he says carefully. "I know she looks tough, but this week, I saw her crumble. She thought she was going to lose you, and it terrified her."
I draw in a sharp breath and close my eyes. He is right about Mercedes. As tough as she likes to pretend she is, she has made no secret of her terror that she might someday lose me too. Since our parents are both gone, I am the only family she has left. And I have been so focused on Ivy as of late that I have not taken the time to ensure that my sister was okay herself. Sometimes, it is easy to forget with her since she seems so capable. But inside, she is still a scared, broken girl who has been deeply traumatized by the loss of our family.
"I will see to her," I reply gruffly. "Thank you for taking care of her in my absence."
His dark and unwavering gaze meets mine. "I will always take care of her. Never doubt that."