The fever took her in the night.
She was burning up, but her teeth chattered with cold. She curled into a ball on the floor, unable to make it back to the bed. The darkness of the room swirled, pulling her down into the deepest, darkest memory of all.
The night. The rain. The club.
Elenora was in the back of her father's limousine. The leather seats were warm. She had a glass of champagne in her hand. The bubbles fizzed against her nose.
Outside, the world was drowning.
A figure ran up to the car. He banged on the window.
It was Fitzgerald. He was soaked to the bone. His hair was plastered to his skull. His eyes were wild.
Elenora rolled the window down two inches.
"I need five thousand," Fitzgerald begged. He didn't even say hello. "The surgery... the deposit... they won't operate. Please."
Elenora took a sip of her drink. She looked at him. She saw the desperation. And she remembered the nurse. She remembered how he looked at Britni.
She felt that ugly twisting thing in her gut again.
"Begging requires humility, Woodard," she said. Her voice was ice.
Fitzgerald froze. "What do you want?"
Elenora pointed a manicured finger at the puddle of oil and rainwater on the asphalt.
"Kneel. Beg me."
The people waiting in line for the club turned to look. Someone laughed. A phone came out, the camera flash going off.
Fitzgerald looked toward the hospital, miles away. He looked at the ground.
He dropped.
His knees hit the pavement with a crack that Elenora felt in her own bones. The water splashed up, soaking his cheap trousers.
"Please," he said. His head hung low. "Save my mother."
Elenora felt a rush of power. But underneath it, panic. She didn't want him to kneel. She wanted him to... look at her. To see her.
She checked her nails. She took another sip. She made him wait.
"Louder," she said. "I can't hear you over the rain."
Fitzgerald opened his mouth to scream his plea.
But his phone rang.
The sound cut through the rain. He fumbled for it with wet hands. He answered it.
Elenora watched his back. She saw his spine stiffen. She saw the phone slip from his fingers. It hit the puddle. The screen shattered.
He didn't move. He stayed on his knees. Then, a sound tore out of him. A roar. A howl. It wasn't human. It was the sound of a soul ripping in half.
"She's gone," he whispered to the asphalt.
Elenora dropped her glass. It shattered on the floor of the car.
"No," she whispered. "I was just... I was just playing."
Fitzgerald turned his head. His eyes were red. Capillaries had burst. He looked like a demon.
"Elenora Vang," he said. The voice wasn't his. "I curse you. One day, you will kneel. You will beg for death, and I won't give it to you."
Elenora screamed.
She woke up screaming.
The room was pitch black. Her throat was on fire. Her body felt like it was being crushed by a vice.
She tried to stand, to get water. Her legs gave way. She collapsed onto the floor.
She lay there, her cheek pressed against the cold wood. The fever raged.
She hadn't held a gun, but she had held the clock. She had been the gatekeeper to the minutes that mattered most. The thought was a poison, seeping into her, making her complicit in a death she never intended.
And now, the curse was here.
