Me and the Devil

49.

The storm builds slow and cruel. The air feels alive, humming against my skin, a pulse beneath the sky. The whole island is gathered at the docks, faces turned toward the dark horizon where the sea is already beginning to swallow the light. Red and blue flashes ripple across the water, the whine of sirens blending with the wind, nobody’s shouting. Nobody’s moving.

Rafe and I stand at the edge of it all, just far enough from the crowd to stay unseen. He’s quiet, his body coiled tight beside mine, fingers twitching against his thigh. The rain clings to his lashes, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just watches like if he stares long enough, he can force the world to make sense again.

After the garage, there hadn’t been words. I cleaned him up in silence, washing the blood from his knuckles, dabbing the gash on his cheek. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and I didn’t ask him to. We just sat there, two people too far gone to climb back out.

Then the news came. The Phantom had taken to open water. John B and Sarah, gone into the storm. And somehow, without speaking, Rafe and I both knew we had to come here. To the docks. To the end.

Now, the rain needles down in sheets, cold and relentless. My clothes cling to my skin, my hair plastered to my face, but I can’t move. Out in the crowd, I can see them. What’s left of the Pogues. Kiara under a tent, Pope holding her tight as she trembles against his chest. I can almost hear her sobs, even through the rain. And JJ. He’s pacing the edge, running his hands through his hair, muttering under his breath like maybe if he keeps talking, they’ll answer him. He looks like a shadow of himself. Smaller. Broken. The sight of him hurts more than the cold.

The radio hisses on the folding table, bursts of static cutting through the wind. Agents lean in, soaked to the bone, eyes fixed on the black water. Every face turned the same way, waiting for a voice, a miracle, anything that could make this not the end.

Lightning cracks the sky wide open. The power flickers, hums, and then the lights flare back to life, flooding the dock in harsh white. And far out there, there she is. The Phantom. A pale silhouette against the storm, glowing in the flash of lightning. Still fighting. Still trying.

The crowd stirs. Police boat engines roar to life. Radios crackle with orders. Ward Cameron steps forward, his face slick with rain, and grabs the radio from Shoupe’s hand. His voice booms through the storm, cracking under the weight of something raw and desperate.

“John B,” he calls out. “I know you’re out there, son. I know you can hear me. And if you love my daughter like I think you love my daughter, then you’ll turn that boat around and come back. You’re going into a storm you cannot survive. John B, please-” His breath catches. “I’ll make it right. I swear it. Just come back.”
Rafe’s head jerks toward him. The look on his face makes my stomach twist. His jaw clenches, rain running down the side of his face like tears he won’t let fall. Then he lets out a low, broken laugh, the sound hollow and sharp as glass.

“There it is,” he says under his breath. “If they turn back, he’ll give me up without a thought. Trade one child for the other.” His voice wavers, rough and bitter. “His monster for his miracle.” He drags a trembling hand over his mouth, a sound catching in his throat that isn’t quite a sob, isn’t quite a laugh.
“Rafe—”

He doesn’t let me finish. He turns fully to me now, eyes blazing under the floodlights, his voice splintering open. “He never loved me,” he spits, but it breaks halfway out, the words fraying at the edges. “Not once. I bled for him. I killed for him. And still-” His breath hitches, his chest rising hard. “Still he wishes I wasn’t here.”

I step closer before I can stop myself. My hand finds the back of his neck, my thumb brushing the spot just below his hairline. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away. The rain runs between us, cold and alive, and I can feel him trembling.