Burned Ones

Chapter 33

Cameron.
17 years old.

I was a murderer.

My dad clawed at his throat with one arm, like he was trying to physically remove it from his body while his other arm reached out for my ankle. He was sprawled on the ground, three steps away from the stairs. If he'd been originally standing at a different angle, he probably would have smashed his head on the concrete steps when he fell.

I pictured that, trying to decide if it would have been better or worse than his current predicament.

There was yelling. There was pushing and shoving and people barking orders at each other. The king had, quite literally, fallen. They didn't know what was wrong with him and they didn't know he was going to keep falling further and further out of their reach. They didn't prepare for this. They didn't prepare to see their leader like this.

Callum made a strangled noise. The tip of his middle finger ghosted along my pants.

I stepped back.

"You shouldn't be on the floor," I whispered.

I didn't know if he heard me. For all I knew, his hearing had stopped. But it made me feel better, just for a second, before the crushing weight of what I was doing, what I already did, came pounding back on my chest.

A few people tried to get close but others pushed them away, saying not to hurt him, saying to give him space, saying to call for help. There was a barrier of useless Casey members surrounding Callum, myself, Annabeth, and Finn. They didn't know he was already dying.

Someone was calling for the doctor. Someone else was calling Scully.

I knelt next to Callum before I set my drink and plate down. His eyes darted all around, unable to focus on a single thing.

"If you give a mouse a cookie, he's going to ask for a glass of milk," I quietly recited the only childhood story Callum let my mom read to us. It was the story he claimed would teach us to look out for ourselves first. I watched him just for a moment before I added, "If you give a child a knife, he's going to make you eat it."

There was a wheeze. A choke. And then Callum's body relaxed for possibly the first time in his terrible life.

Scully shoved through the wall of curious Caseys and bent to his knees on the other side of Callum. "Cal," he said. "Callum."

When he didn't respond, Scully started touching all over his face to try to wake him up. He tapped his cheek a few times. He shook his shoulders. He put his fingers to Callum's neck to feel for the pulse I knew would never come.

From my crouched position, I could see the ground between people's legs. Someone had dropped their plate and a piece of cake was top-down in the grass.

I didn't know there was cake.

"Did he-Did he fucking choke?" Scully opened Callum's mouth and peered into it but he wasn't eating. We had all seen him drinking. Scully's eyes flicked to the shattered glass on the ground.

No, he did not choke, Scully. I asked your daughter to poison him and you're next.

I began standing back up and my movement must have caught Scully's attention because his hand shot out and gripped my shirt, tugging me back down.

"What did he say?" Scully hissed out.

I stared at him.

"What did he say?" he asked more urgently but made sure to keep his voice down low enough so now one would overhear. "What did he fucking say?" He shook me. "Did he tell you what happened? Did someone do this? Did he give you a name?"