Our W.I.C.K.E.D Fate (The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl sequel)

18

Loss.

Newt knew everything of it, had been scarred by it with marks no one else could see. It marred his soul, seeped into his very existence, a monster always on his trail, haunting his every waking moment, waiting for Newt's lowest and highest moments to strike.

He'd wondered when it would become too much.

Newt was supposed to lead them, to keep them safe, but he'd failed miserably. Ella was gone. As the others stared at him, Newt felt tired—and his fatigue had nothing to do with the fact that he'd not slept more than a few short hours since Emily's disappearance. He was tired of fighting, tired of trying. Every desperate attempt, every search he'd urged his friends into, had failed, bringing more and more misery with it. There was no escape. Now that both Emily and Ella were missing, Newt had no idea what to do next.

"Are you alright?" Minho asked him, worry lacing his words.

Newt almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. The voices of his friends swirled in his ears, making him nauseous.

"Who the hell killed the Cranks?"

"Do you think Ella was taken?"

"Are they still here?"

"You guys heard James the looney, too, right?"

The group looked to Newt for guidance, but he had nothing to tell them. His mind was blank. He shook his head, then slowly nodded towards Minho, who understood even in the absence of words. The black-haired boy stepped up, immediately assuming the role of leader, and began putting together a plan with the help of the others. Newt stepped aside, not caring much if the armed people who'd dealt with the Cranks were still around. He buried his face in his hands and let out a long, deep breath. Poisonous thoughts jumbled together in his weary mind, cohering into something solid, something feasible, something dangerous.

This time, Emily wouldn't be here to save him.

Newt tucked the machete back into the waistband of his pants.

"I've got to go to the bathroom," he announced, stepping away.

"Wait," came Chuck's voice, "you can't go alone. What if there are any Cranks left? What if we're next?"

"I'll be just around the corner," Newt assured. "I'll shout if I see anything. Promise I won't take long."

With quiet steps, Newt left before anyone else could intervene. As soon as he was certain nobody was following him, he allowed his legs to carry him farther and farther away. He didn't want the group stumbling upon him anytime soon, and he found himself wishing he ran into what was left of the horde of Cranks or the ones who had taken them out. At least, that way, they would be spared the horrible truth.

Newt stopped. Silence surrounded him. With trembling hands, he pulled out the weapon.

Newt had never believed in any gods, and yet he hoped that somewhere, a perfect place awaited, a place where he and Emily would be reunited again and forever.

"Forgive me," he mouthed, for Emily, for everyone that had ever cared.

The blade came up, but no blood started to trickle down his neck. He wouldn't hesitate. There was nothing left for him, no light at the end of the tunnel. He steadied his hand and pressed the blade in harder.

A small, red light bloomed on the wall in front of him.

Newt halted. What were the odds? He considered it, then lowered the machete. Another light appeared, then another, a trail of rose blossoms unfurling. They trailed away from Newt's sight, a path he somehow knew he had to follow. Newt shoved the machete back into the waistband of his pants and began running.

Once back to where the others were, he said, out of breath, "Follow me. I might be onto something."

As he led the way, Newt wondered what the lights meant. He just hoped they led somewhere, though he wasn't sure where—or even why they'd appeared. The timing had been more than fortunate. The group sprinted along the path of red lights. Newt was impatient to find out if maybe, just maybe, they'd come across Emily at the end.

After a sharp turn, they were standing in front of two metal doors. Someone breathed in disbelief. The grey gates were closed shut, no visible way of opening them in sight.

"What—"

Noiselessly, the doors opened. The group looked at each other. Newt was aware that his friends knew this could easily be a trap, their demise, even, without having to hear them say it out loud. But it was a lead, the first they'd had in days. They couldn't risk it actually meaning something.

Newt reluctantly stepped forward and into the room.

It was completely empty. A gut feeling took over Newt, his every nerve screaming that danger was near. He fought it down as he glanced back at the other teenagers, who were inching closer in his footsteps. Chuck was the first one to join Newt in the small room, followed by Minho, Thomas, and finally, Isabelle, who looked the wariest of them all.

Minho took a single look around and said, "We should leave."

Newt frowned. "Why would anyone lock an empty room?"

"I don't know, shank, and I'm not that eager to stick around and find out. Let's go."

All at once, Newt realised what the horrible feeling in his bones had been.

Déjà-vu.

As silently as they'd opened, the doors shut closed.

And Newt knew they were standing in the room where Emily had died.