Sherry Ficklin - Extracted

She nods and motions for me to follow her.

The groom’s floor is completely trashed. Tables and chairs are overturned in the hallway, room service trays all over the floor. Toilet paper hangs from every possible surface like garland. She leads me to a door and opens her tiny clutch purse, pulling out a key card. I can’t help raising my eyebrow at her.

“What?” she says defensively. “It’s a wedding. Besides, he just needed someone to talk to. He just lost his offer from FSU and he doesn’t think anyone else is going to pick him up after blowing the playoff game like he did.”

I look her over. “How old are you? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“And he’s what now, eighteen?”

“So what?”

I look at her but say nothing. Two years doesn’t seem like that big a difference, but something inside me feels almost protective of her. Silly, really. She isn’t that much younger than me. Maybe it’s because she looks so frail and wispy. I really want to give this chick a sandwich.

I shrug. “Whatever.”

She unlocks the door and we go in. This room makes the hallway look downright spotless. What is it about rich kids destroying hotel rooms?

“He completely rock-starred this room. What’s your name, anyway?” I ask, feeling stupid as she wades through the mess behind me.

“Isabelle Dumont. Izzy for short.”

“So, where do you think this thing is hidden?” I ask, rummaging through the closet.

She jerks her head toward the bathroom. “Tub, I think.”

I step forward and the door to the room bursts open. Doug, all six-foot-three, two hundred twenty pounds of him, is suddenly face to face with me.

“What are you doing in my room?” he demands. Then, seeing my partner in crime, his expression softens just a little. “Izzy? What the hell?”

I snap my fingers in his face. “The exploding gift, where is it?”

His face hardens. “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

I cut him off with a knee to the groin. He doubles over in pain. “Don’t make me ask again, Doug. The gift. Give it to me, now.”

I should expect what happens next, but I don’t. His head still down, Doug runs at me, knocking me off my feet and taking me to the ground. Behind me, I hear Izzy scream.

I manage to get my leg up and between us and I kick him off me into the wall. The framed painting on the wall falls and crashes into his head.

“Doug, how do I disarm the device?” I grab his face in my hand. There’s a cut on his forehead; it’s small but bleeding like a river. “Doug, tell me.”

He cusses and smacks my hand away. Behind me, Izzy is holding the box, her eyes full of tears. “Please,” she begs.

He mumbles something rude. I grab his face harder, until he’s looking me right in the eye. “Doug Cartwright, you think your career is over now, but I’m here to tell you that, in six weeks, you are going to get picked up by UCLA and in four years you are going to go as the number-one draft pick to one of the greatest football franchises of all time.” How many times did I have to listen to Ethan go on and on about this kid either botching or single-handedly saving a game? Too many to count. But now, I’m glad I’d half-paid attention. “You will be one of the greatest quarterbacks in the history of the game. Do not screw that up by being a tool today, do you hear me? I’m opening this box right now and you can either help me do it without hurting anyone, or I swear to you, I will blow us all sky high, get it?”

He closes one eye, smiles, and flips me off. Sighing, I drop him and he passes out. Taking the box from Izzy, I head for the bathroom. Setting it in the tub, I carefully pull off the bow and slowly lift the lid.

The lid blows off the box and a flash of light blinds me. My ears are ringing. For a second I can’t breathe. Then my vision slowly returns. There’s still a ringing in my ears, but I can hear Izzy behind me.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. It was just a flash bang. Not fun, but not lethal either.

I shake my head, using the sink to get to my feet. “That wasn’t it. They are still in trouble.”

I race down the hall and into the elevator with Izzy at my heels. The world is still muffled, the spots barely clearing my vision when the doors slide open.

The reception is outside. We make it to the hallway just before the final pink ballerina walks through the doors into the garden area, where grey clouds have all but blotted out the sunshine.

“Izzy! There you are. I was so worried! Where were you?” the bride demands, her relief quickly replaced by irritation as Izzy scoots out from behind me and takes her place in the lineup. And where is Doug? That useless idiot…”

I lean in close. “Izzy, something is still going to happen here. They aren’t safe. I didn’t stop anything.”

She ignores me and marches forward on cue. I reach out, but she’s gone. A large security guard grabs me from behind, holding me back as the music changes and the bride steps out. As soon as she’s gone, Diane pulls the headset out of her ear and turns her bitter glare at me.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” she demands.

What can I say? I struggle, but it’s no use. A flash of light and a clap of thunder split the air. The guard drops me and I fall to my feet for only a second before rushing out the door. The bride is lying on the ground, her white dress singed black and smoking. The groom has fallen next to her. His eyes are open, lifeless. His short hair has burned to his scalp; his face is red and blistering. Some of the guests are cowering, others are screaming and running. Many are groping blindly and crying. On the ground, a few feet from the bride, Izzy has been blown back against the wall. Her dress is scorched, her eyes closed. I move over to her and reach down, feeling for a pulse. Then I catch it, slow and uneven under my fingers.

The maid of honor goes missing, Flynn had said.

Scooping her up, I back through the doors into the main lobby, where people are panicking. No one tries to stop me as I walk her across the street to the park where Flynn waits.

He carefully takes her from me and sets her in the grass at my feet, checking her vitals.

“Is she okay?” I manage, still coughing out the words.

“She’ll be fine. You did it, Ember. Well done.”

I want to be happy, but all I feel is guilty. Dirty. “You didn’t tell me they were struck by lightning! How exactly was I supposed to prevent that?”

He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “You weren’t.”

“But you told me to—”

“I told you to save who you could. And you did. You saved her.”

“But the others…” I want to cry. It isn’t fair. A wedding is supposed to be the best day of people’s lives, not the last.

Flynn looks up and takes my hand. Pushing up my sleeve, he exposes my scars. “We can’t save everyone, Ember. Even when we want to. Even when we try to. You understand this?”

“What about her?”

Flynn looks down. “She’s coming with me. She’s going to be one of us.”

“But I thought she…” I stop myself before the words are even fully formed in my mouth. Of course she goes missing. She’s one of us.

He must see the realization worm its way into my brain because he drops my arm.

“She’ll have scars, too. Like mine,” I say quietly, looking at the angry red burns up her bare arm. “Will I know her, back at the Institute?”

He shakes his head. “She won’t remember you, Ember. Or any of this. Her life as it was ends here, and her new life will begin on the other side. You can’t ever tell her the truth about what happened here today.”

That doesn’t really answer my question. I wrack my brain, but I can’t remember ever seeing her in the Institute.