Order of the Golden Dawn (Neophyte Series 2)

6. We the Hunted

        I WASN'T SURE WHAT to expect—my mind violently thrust beyond fear—but there was no acceptance of mortality. Not now. I wasn't ready to go. Of all the times I'd considered suicide in my youth, I never imagined I'd one day cling to life so desperately, praying—not just wishing—for one more day. Perhaps, after all, there was something worth living for.

Before unconsciousness claimed me, there had been flashes of ocean hues, shattered remnants of the Royale Fortune rushing past in strobe-like bursts of glorious ruin—and then, nothing.

Part of me had expected an afterlife: light, cherubs strumming harps, maybe even fire and brimstone. Instead, there was only endless black. No thought. No sensation. Just a void beyond space and time, as though God Himself had erased me from existence. Then, from the nothingness, came a faint red glow, like sunlight pressing through closed eyelids.

I opened my eyes, bracing to fight the Irish Sea for just one more breath—but I was dry. Not only alive, but somewhere warm and peaceful. The scent of lilacs mingled with the faint crackle of a wood stove from a room unseen. Bright morning light streamed through a nearby window, filling the space with a soft, almost heavenly glow.

Panic surged as my thoughts raced to Jordan, and I bolted upright, haunted by the memory of her leaping into the depths. I couldn't accept she was gone—not until I saw her body washed ashore. Until then, there was still hope.

A second bed sat next to mine, its sheets rumpled as though recently slept in. I was in someone's home.

Sock-clad feet pressed against creaky wooden floorboards, as worn as the room itself. Faded yellow paint clung to cracked plaster, and chestnut-stained trim framed a modest seaside cottage. I wore unfamiliar clothes—baggy brown slacks and a white cotton shirt decades out of style—but they were dry. I was alive.

When I tried to stand, the room tilted; my vision blurred, and I sank back onto the bed. My head throbbed, a relentless reminder of the shipwreck, while every muscle burned from the day's labor aboard the Royale Fortune. A trembling hand brushed my forehead, finding the soft fabric of a bandage.

Shaking off the dizziness, I forced myself up, staggering to a nearby wall for balance. Each step wavered, my equilibrium apparently still adrift. But as I stumbled into the next room, a familiar outline emerged from the haze—Jordan.

She sat at a small kitchen table, surrounded by hanging houseplants and the sort of knickknacks only an elderly woman might collect. She said nothing; no words were needed.

I pulled out her chair and lifted her slender frame firmly into my arms. Relief flooded through me, my spirit suddenly alive in a way I'd never known. I breathed in the scent of her unbrushed hair, and for once, every flaw Edward or my father might have disapproved of was a perfect balm to my soul.

'You're alive!' I exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. 'I can't believe you made it!'

'Of course I'm alive, you daft bugger,' she laughed, wriggling free from my grasp. 'Not for long, mind you, if you squeeze any harder.'

I set her down gently, catching a faint blush on her cheeks. She gestured for me to sit across from her, where bowls and utensils were already laid out.

'How did we—' I began.

'I told you to let go, oh, ye of little faith,' Jordan interrupted with a teasing shake of her head. 'How's your head?'

'Still a bit woozy. You?'

'Not a scratch.' She winked, tugging a knitted quilt tighter around her shoulders. 'But I can't seem to shake the cold. Never been that frozen in my life.'