Page 23 of Victorious

That wasn’t why he’d done it—he’d made the difficult decision to prioritize the experiment, and the data it would give him—them. But the truth was a fine line, a matter of nuance that Paul was in no state to comprehend. “I was trying to protect you,” said Gabriel. “Until I knew more. Until I could understand and find a way to help. To make you safe.”

“But I’m not safe,” groaned Paul. “I’ll never be safe.”

Just then, he grabbed for something on the desk, and Gabriel saw that the notebook wasn’t the only thing he’d taken from the drawer. The small cloth case was out, and open, the syringe driven into the vial.

“Paul—”

“I just want to sleep.” His hands were shaking as he filled the syringe. A lethal dose.

Gabriel could have let him do it. Let the cops think a disturbed patient had broken in after murdering his sister, stolen the drugs he needed to kill himself. Paul Barnett would be filed away as a failed but ordinary case. And Gabriel’s budding research would be buried with him.

But the last two months had promised so much more.

Gabriel had opened a door he couldn’t close now, even if he’d wanted to. And he needed Paul. Alive.

Gabriel surged toward his patient, who by then had the needle halfway to his arm. He slammed Paul’s wrist against the desk, knocking the hypodermic from his hand. There was a struggle. They both went down. But on the way, Paul’s head struck the corner of the desk.

He crumpled like a doll. Out cold. A thin trail of blood seeped from his temple, but his breathing was steady.

Gabriel knelt over his patient, winded, but unhurt, adrenaline coursing through his body as his mind began to race ahead. The police would arrive any minute, and Paul would be arrested, there was no helping that. But he’d be taken to the nearest hospital, which was Merit Gen, and Gabriel would pull some strings, make sure that he was there to oversee his patient’s care. To ensure that no one else—

A tremor ran through the office floor.

The whole room shook, as a single deep crack split from the polished wood beneath Paul’s unconscious body, and splintered outward, and Gabriel realized, with a wave of fresh horror, that he was dreaming.

Gabriel shook his shoulder, trying to force him to wake up as the room around them began to shudder.

Paul’s eyes twitched behind his lids and deep cracks shot across the floor. Objects trembled to the edges of shelves, and picture frames crashed from the walls, the whole house groaning under the force of some great pressure.

The house.

Iris. Ian.

Gabriel surged to his feet as glass shattered, and boards split, and a violent crack tore up the office wall. He stumbled, righted, fighting for balance as he reached the door.

There were twenty-eight steps between Dr. Gray’s office and Gabriel’s home, but he couldn’t make them fast enough.

Five from the office to the bottom of the stairs, what should have been twelve up, but as his foot hit the fifth, the step beneath him broke. Cracks raced along the wall ahead of him, and plaster rained down like snow.

Something slammed into Gabriel, the recoil enough to throw him against the banister, the blow so hard it took him a moment to realize he was hurt. It wasn’t the pain—that didn’t even register—it was the way, when he tried to stand again, his body wouldn’t answer. It was the way his legs simply buckled. It was the steel pole, which had once been part of the wall, some internal piece of scaffolding, that had driven through his side.

It was the blood soaking through the cotton slacks he’d worn to bed.

A gift from Iris.

Iris, who was shouting now, from somewhere overhead, her voice barely audible over the roar of the collapsing house, calling out for him, for help.

Gabriel had to get to her, but he was pinned in place, his hands slick with blood as he tried, uselessly, to drag himself free of the steel.

Twenty-eight steps, he thought as his fingers slipped, and his strength failed, the stairs groaning beneath him as if about to give way.

Eleven down, and seventeen … seventeen … but that was from the door. How many more, to Ian’s room, if they were still …

“Gabe!”

There she was, at the top of the stairs, Ian cradled against her side, their faces twin masks of shock, and fear. But that was good—there were only seven steps between them now.

Iris squeezed Ian tighter as the walls of their house began to buckle like cardboard under damp.