Think of the Devil

Eighteen

There were murmurs around Jane. A man and a woman were talking. There was a sense of confusion and panic. God, she was tired of feeling panic.

She could sense someone near her. Could hear a man's voice just beside her now. It was still muffled, as if she were buried alive. It sort of felt that way. Her chest felt tight, restricting her breathing to shallow gasps. Her vision was still dark. She didn't feel like she could move.

Someone was saying her name. The man was. Her head still hurt and it seemed to worsen with his presence, a slow, searing pain passing through it. It still couldn't compare to the feeling of total emptiness she was currently facing. Nothing could compare to this. Nothing.

Her hand was moving, being pulled off of Jasper Evans' hand. She didn't want it to be removed, knowing he'd grabbed her to seek some comfort before his demise. But she still couldn't move on her own, so someone else grabbed onto her hand and squeezed it. Just a second later, she felt something warm brush against her cheek. Like a distant memory, she felt herself leaning into it just slightly. That jolt of mental connection barely felt like a raindrop as she faced a hurricane. But the idea of water seemed to comfort her, almost recalling a conversation she'd had about watercolors.

(Jane, please come back to me. I need you. God, I need you.)

The voice was so soft, and that didn't seem right at all. His voice was supposed to be loud. As quiet as it was, though, it was still the only thing that had been able to breach the storm. And it was familiar, oh so familiar...

He was praying. His words were fervent, almost second nature to him because of his memorization of the stanzas. His voice was desperate, even if she wasn't sure he was speaking out loud. Distantly, she felt as if she could remember some of the words to Memorare herself.

As he continued the words seemed to get louder, more impassioned. He was repeating the prayer now, more for himself than for her. The longer he went on the louder he got. It was disrupting that God-awful silence that had wrapped itself around her. As his hand squeezed hers so tightly, she became aware of some of the shapes in the room, splotches of color revealing their placements. That watercolor vision was beginning to light up the dark.

(Please, Jane. I don't know if I can do this without you, angel. Please.)

Angel...

All of the pieces started to align. Her heart felt like it dropped into her stomach as her hope began to disintegrate. But that desolate feeling didn't really belong to her. No, that feeling was coming from—

"Matt."

Her dry eyes blinked shut a few times, her body suddenly back in her control. One of his hands was still on her cheek and she grabbed it, clasping onto it like a lifeline. Around her, the room was still dark, but not like it had been. In front of her Matt was kneeling, his eyes still covered by his makeshift mask, his nose bleeding down his chin. Her head spun as she took everything in.

At the sound of her voice, he released a shuddered sigh. He pulled their hands away from her face and drew her into him, clutching her around her waist in a vice-like grip. Her arms wound around his neck, her exhausted mind and body immediately giving way to tearful sobs. This only caused his grip to tighten, almost painfully squeezing her. She didn't mind in the slightest.

"Where did you go?" he asked, his voice nearly breaking. One of his hands twisted up, splaying across her back as he held her to him. "What happened, Jane?" (Why weren't you wearing your glove? What happened to you? Where did you go?)

She sniffled as she tried to keep her head straight. Now that she wasn't stuck in her own mind, the minds around her were infiltrating her thoughts again. Matt's worry was immense, his relief almost as potent. Across the room, Karen was watching in shock and confusion. Somewhere downstairs, she could distantly hear the FBI starting to congregate. Her attention was piqued as she recognized one of the agents downstairs.