Ch.61: The Aftermath

I stand at the gates of hell.

Behind me, the manor is a funeral pyre. The flames have reached the main structure now, leaping from the shattered windows like escaping souls. The heat is a physical weight against my back, but I don't turn around.

In front of me, the world is flashing blue and red.

Police cars form a barricade across the long driveway. Officers crouch behind doors, weapons drawn, shouting orders that are lost in the roar of the fire.

"Get on the ground! Now!"

They see a figure emerging from the smoke. They see the blood. They see the rifle slung over my shoulder—I forgot I still had it.

To them, I am a threat. A shooter. A monster.

I don't get on the ground. My knees wouldn't support me if I tried to stand up again.

I keep walking.

"Last warning!" a sergeant screams. "Drop the weapon!"

I let the rifle slide off my shoulder. It hits the gravel with a clatter.

I raise my hands. My empty, skinless hands.

The sergeant hesitates. He lowers his weapon slightly, squinting through the smoke.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers.

He sees my face.

The raw muscle. The exposed teeth. The single, unblinking eye.

He retches.

"What is that?" a rookie officer asks, his voice trembling. "Is that a mask?"

"It's not a mask," I rasp. My voice is gone, destroyed by the smoke and the screaming.

I take another step.

The line of officers ripples. They step back, repulsed by the sight of me.

"Stay back!" the sergeant orders, regaining his composure. "Medical! We need medical!"

But no one moves. They are paralyzed by horror.

Then, movement.

Thorne breaks away from the paramedic who is trying to bandage his chest. He pushes past the police line.

"Let her through!" he roars.

"Detective, stay back!" the sergeant barks. "She's armed! She's dangerous!"

"She's the victim!" Thorne shouts. He stumbles, clutching his side, but he keeps coming.

He reaches me.

He doesn't look at my face with disgust. He looks at me with something else. Something fierce and protective.

He wraps his good arm around my shoulders. He turns me away from the staring cops, shielding me with his body.

"It's over, Elena," he whispers. "It's done."

"Lily?" I ask.

"She's safe," Thorne says. "In the ambulance. She's asking for you."

I sag against him. The strength I borrowed from the adrenaline is gone. I am just a broken woman held together by pain.

"The evidence," I say, patting my pocket. "The hard drives."

Thorne nods. "We'll get them. Don't worry."

He leads me toward the ambulances.

The police part for us. They lower their guns. They stare in silence as we pass.

But it isn't just the police.

Beyond the barricade, the press has arrived.

News vans are pulling up. Cameras are being set up. Reporters are shouting questions, their microphones thrust forward like spears.

"Detective! Who is she?"

"Is it true Aris Vane is dead?"

"What happened in there?"

Thorne tries to block their view, but there are too many of them.

A cameraman zooms in. The bright light of his rig hits me.

I flinch. I try to cover my face with my hands, but my hands are just as ruined as my face.

There is nowhere to hide.

The image goes live. It is beamed to satellites, to televisions, to phones across the world.

The Surgeon's Wife. The monster. The survivor.

I lower my hands.

I look directly into the lens.

I don't hide. I don't look away.

Let them see.

Let them see what he did. Let them see the price of beauty.

I straighten my spine. I lift my chin, exposing the raw tendons of my neck.

The reporters fall silent. The shouting stops.

For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire consuming the Vane Institute.

The world finally saw me.