Page 51 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Louise
S o many movies, books, and songs have spoken of the phenomenon of one witnessing their entire life passing before their eyes just before the moment of death.
I had been prepared for the eventuality somewhere in my mind—even as a child watching as a beloved cartoon character viewed his entire life in clips, from cradle to looming grave—that eventually I would see my own reel.
Maybe that's why I assumed that everything was over, that I was getting my last look at my life before I left it behind forever.
It all began with my earliest memories of being by the ocean at the cottage, followed by the pink sparkling paint job and pale blue streamers on the handlebars of my first bicycle—my father whooping and cheering as he let go of the plastic banana seat for my first ride without training wheels.
It's as if I'm standing alongside my parents, watching my younger self ride triumphantly down the drive.
Suddenly I’m getting my first period in junior high. One of the older girls in the dorm bathroom smoking a cigarette with her cracking black lipstick, and offering me a pad from her purse covered in pyramid studs.
In the blink of an eye, I’m at my senior prom. The three girls who used to be my best friends dance in a circle with me—all of us holding hands. Three women who now have their own babies and husbands and lives I know nothing about.
There is no time for tears of regret—I’m already on my first date with my college boyfriend at the Beinecke Library. I loved the books more than I would ever love him.
No time to think, it’s undergraduate graduation—my parents and I pose for the photo that will later be used as the background for the infamous, storage-unit laptop.
Each event continues on, time—relentless in its passage.
My graduation from Harvard, my parents' bodies and so much blood crowding our dining room—Uncle Martin, who had killed them hours before, rushing to my aid as if it hadn't just been him who played his brother’s reaper.
Susan, holding me in her arms as I cry in her office—my first day on the job.
Susan, raising her glass of champagne to me at her retirement party.
Susan, her lips pressed into a tiny ‘O’ of surprise, a ruby rivulet of blood running down the bridge of her nose from the hole Frank put between her eyes as she free-falls toward the floor.
The sands of time become more fluid and malleable.
The Saints capturing me from the Diamond Center, runs together with Caz and I the bath, Quentin and I on the couch, those magical few days at Goosewing Lake, and the bonding on the yacht, they all overflow into the horrors that follow at the Windmill.
Before my reunion with my Saints and Dennis, before we broke Frank's shell open to allow the light to shine on all the fractured pieces of his inner reflections.
Everything hurdles by faster and faster until the moment the syringe Compton plunges into my neck rattles empty, discarded on the floor.
It is as if I am seeing the world again for the very first time.
Everything surges with color, light, and sound.
The scents of my fated mates radiate from the back of my tongue as I become aware of them in the space—every cell in my body feeling as if it were somehow charged, vibrating on a new, higher frequency.
Compton eyes me with horrified confusion, his gun pointed directly at my face.
For the barest of seconds, fear rises in me—my eyes flit to his finger on the trigger.
Then something deep within, at my very core, hums back—warm and sure.
As naturally as breathing, I lift my hand into the air and close my fingers into a fist.
Compton lets out a strangled, gurgling noise as the handgun crumples like a sheet of paper into a wrinkled ball, his fingers narrowly escaping the crushing metal as he allows the twisted hunk of scrap to fall to the ground.
Without missing a beat, he pulls a black remote from the pocket of his slacks, preparing to set the drones into motion.
I close my eyes, the resonant humming in my body and mind spreading like ripples in a pond.
As each ripple expands and laps against the laser turrets positioned high and out of reach, my mind begins to map the location of each device—the inner workings of their circuitry, motors, and wires painted in lurid color across my closed eyelids.
Without opening my eyes, I reach my fingers up into the air, twirling them gently as if encircling the skeins of their inner workings in my clutches; snapping their circuit boards and ripping out their wires as I close my hands into tight fists, twisting my wrists downward—somewhere between pantomimed fighting and conducting a silent symphony of destruction.
When I open my eyes, plastic, metal, and glass rain from above as every laser unit in the room crumbles as if crushed from within.
As soon as the green laser pinpoints disappear, my Saints are in motion—though they are still careful to give me a wide berth—disbelief still written plainly on everyone's faces .
Dennis rushes forward, barreling through the flabbergasted Compton to free Frank.
Quentin gets as close to me as he dares, but stops just short of reaching for my arm.
When I look down, I see my own hands—actually glowing from within.
While it hurts me to see my loved one's look at me in fear, I will do what I must to get us out of here safely.
Compton takes a step backward, but as I raise my hands, he falls still.
“The Omicron—it’s real,” he weeps, incredulous.
As my eyes fall on him, it's as if I can see all the complex systems that make Walt Compton a living, breathing man.
His eyes, bringing the sight of me—illuminated by power and strength—to his brain, awash in the chemicals of panic, while his muscles clench his hands into fists at his side and force his jaw to lock tight.
He holds his scream at bay, his lungs holding a captive breath as his heart pounds—circulating blood through his body.
“Goodbye, Walt. If there's a Hell, say hi to Susan for me. I'll see you there soon enough.”
I sweep my left hand through the air like a conductor calling the string section into a full, vibrant crescendo before I clench my fingers closed and drop my fist like a stone toward the floor.
Compton grabs his chest as his heart suddenly stops beating—his eyes widen, wet choking sounds issuing from his slowly working lips.
The other Saints watch in breathless horror and admiration as Compton sinks to his knees before falling face first on the floor—his body still.
All around us, alarms sound—sirens screaming and emergency lights flashing.
I do my best to follow the source of all the commotion back to the brain—the central security system, but it appears my new powers have limits. There's too much noise, too many pieces to control all at once .
No matter. I will make us a way out. I will carve our path to freedom with my own two hands.
I open my eyes, my vision filled with the sight of my fated mates.
In this new heightened state, I can see each of them with fresh eyes. Dennis and Frank with their brilliant red alpha auras, Sébastien with his cloud of emerald gamma energy, Caz with his nimbus of smoky purple, and of course, Quentin with his golden halo of omega light.
I look down at my own hands—splintering prisms of rainbow flaring from my fingertips. All the Saints connected to me with a single, unbroken thread.
Dully, I understand that this new power comes in waves—cresting then falling away with high and low tides.
Right now I am riding at the very top of the wave, soon to come crashing down.
While I don't quite understand the finer details, I know my ability to get us all out safely won't last forever.
“All of you, get behind me,” I command, my voice strange and alien to my own ears, like a chorus of many people speaking at once—both beautiful and terrible.
I can tell by the look on Sébastien's face that despite my demonstration, he is still reluctant to allow me to lead the way out.
It isn't until I catch my reflection in a nearby shard of glass that I realize my body armor and a good portion of my clothing has simply been incinerated or melted away—the glowing prismatic light encasing me as I lead the others back through the hallways and toward the front door.
“I'd say now's a good time to get old party Marty to call in the cavalry!” Frank shouts to Quentin and Dennis as we make our way down the hall.
Almost as if they are knocking on the very walls of my consciousness, I can hear the others kept in captivity as we pass down the hall .
I run my fingers along the cool, blood-spattered walls of the corridor, whispering to every tumbler in each and every lock—telling their secrets, twisting my fingers as if I were spinning silk into thread; Ariadne stringing a path out of the labyrinth.
As the Saints and I emerge into the empty lobby strewn with bodies, a cacophony of alarms sound into the hollow space once I allow the locks on the cell doors to spring open.
“The Windmill will have plenty to keep them busy until the authorities arrive, but we should get a move on,” I explain calmly, eager to depart before we might make our introductions to Frank’s erstwhile roommates.
Caz lets out a strangled scream as a pack of Windmill goons in body armor with automatic weapons explode from the front entrance, fanning out before us.
They seem slow and sluggish as they begin to shower us in a hail of gunfire.
With a languid flourish, I spread my hands—watching the bullets make lazy ripples in the air as they buzz toward us like sleepy bumblebees.
As if caught in nets of golden amber, they become frozen in the air before my raised palms, then drop to the ground with a gentle tinkling sound.
Before the minions can let out another salvo, I reach my hands into the air—feeling the flimsy outlines of their assault rifles with my mind before I bring both palms together in a single loud clap—all of their weapons fly from their hands and smash together in a jagged pancake of slag in the air above their heads.
I allow the faceless men in body armor and night vision goggles to watch the crag of metal hit the ground and decide if they want to stay or if they want to run for their lives.
All of them scramble away, out into the night.
I look at the wall of heavy metal and glass doors; freedom and the cool night air waiting just on the other side.
I reach out with my mind, the fragile metal and glass just like the delicate white fluffy seeds of a dandelion waiting to be scattered by the wind.
I lift a hand to my mouth, the heel of my palm pressed to my pursed lips, and gently blow a puff of air, making a wish as if I were scattering seeds on the playground as a child. The doors cave in before exploding outward in a loud groaning of metal, and the high sharp sounds of breaking glass.
I step forward the moment I realize my combat boots are one of the items that did not survive my transformation.
I feel a hot burning sensation as razor-sharp glass punctures the soles of my feet.
I watch, nauseated but also bewildered, as my foot rejects the pieces of glass, the wounds quickly closing.
Morbidly curious—I step on the glass again, but this time I can tell that my healing factor is less complete; the shards push themselves out of my flesh without being able to fully close the wounds again.
Soon, the wave will recede—and I will be left without this power… for I don’t know how long. Possibly forever.
Before I can take another step, Frank is at my side.
Wordlessly, he sweeps me into his arms—and carries me out over the broken glass, into the night, beneath the cloud-muted stars.