Page 55 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

“For what it’s worth, I’m not usually like this. Breaking into crime scenes, tying up police officers.” I pause, considering my life choices. “Actually, I guess I am like this now.”

My earpiece crackles. “Oakley.” Calloway’s voice cuts through, sounding strained. “Update?”

I press the transmitter. “Thorne’s working on the vault. How’s it going downstairs?”

“I’m running out of symptoms.” Calloway sounds genuinely distressed.

“I’ve done the shaking, the vomiting, the convulsions.

I’m crawling around the lobby floor making unholy noises, but people are asking questions.

There’s only so many ways to interpret ‘mysterious illness’ before it becomes derivative. ”

“Can you buy us more time? ”

A sigh hisses through the earpiece. “I suppose I could do seizures next, but it’s so last season. Everyone expects seizures.”

“Your artistic integrity will recover,” I assure him. “Just keep it going a little longer.”

“Fine,” he huffs. “But I want it noted that I’m compromising my vision. This is the equivalent of selling out and doing commercials.”

I return to the panic room where Thorne continues working, his expression unchanged but a fine sheen of sweat now visible on his brow—the first sign of effort I’ve ever seen from him.

“Officer’s secure,” I report, peering at his progress. The electronic device now has more wires connected to it, and a small screen displays scrolling numbers. “How’s it coming?”

“It’s a Gertman Series Nine,” Thorne says, as if that explains everything. When I don’t respond, he adds, “State-of-the-art. Designed to withstand everything short of military-grade explosives.”

“But you can open it?”

“Nothing created by humans is foolproof,” Thorne says, turning back to his work.

“How much longer?” I ask, unable to keep the desperation from my voice.

“Rushing precision work rarely ends well,” Thorne replies, though his movements seem faster now. “Twenty minutes, perhaps less.”

“Does he even have twenty minutes?” I pace again, counting steps to keep myself from screaming. Five steps one way, five steps back. The panic room feels small.

Fifteen agonizing minutes pass as Thorne works, and I wear a path on the floor. Finally, his device emits a series of beeps, and a satisfied expression crosses his face.

“Stand back,” he says, disconnecting the wires and returning his tools to the briefcase.

I move beside him as he places his hand on the vault handle. There’s a mechanical click, followed by a hiss of pressurized air.

The door swings open.

“Xander!” I push past Thorne, rushing into the dark space.

The vault is smaller than I imagined, with metal shelving lining three walls. And there on the floor, slumped against the back wall, is Xander. His skin has a bluish tinge, his eyes closed, his chest barely moving with shallow breaths.

“Xander!” I drop to my knees beside him, cupping his face. His skin feels cold and clammy beneath my fingers. “Xander, can you hear me?”

His eyelids flutter but don’t open.

I press my fingers to his neck, finding his pulse weak and rapid. “He’s alive, but barely breathing.”

Thorne steps into the vault, kneeling on Xander’s other side. He checks Xander’s pupils with a small penlight, then places two fingers against his wrist.

“Hypoxia,” Thorne pronounces. “We need to get him to fresh air immediately.”

Together, we hook our arms under Xander’s shoulders and drag him from the vault. His head rolls, and a soft moan escapes his lips—the first sound I’ve heard from him, sending relief coursing through me.

Thorne pulls a small black bag from inside his briefcase and unzips it. His hands move, extracting a compact oxygen tank no larger than a water bottle and a clear mask attached to thin tubing.

“Step back,” he commands, not even looking at me as he fits the mask over Xander’s face.

I hover anxiously, my hands shaking as I watch him turn a small valve on the tank. The soft hiss of oxygen fills the silence.

“Will he be okay?” My voice cracks on the last word.

“The human brain suffers permanent damage after four to six minutes without adequate oxygen,” Thorne replies, checking Xander’s pulse again. “The vault wasn’t completely airtight. So I think he’ll be okay.”

He adjusts something on the tank. “His oxygen saturation is low, but not critical. He should recover without lasting effects.”

The word “should” lodges in my chest like a splinter.

Xander lies motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His skin still holds that terrifying bluish tint, his lips nearly purple. I’ve never seen him look so vulnerable—this man who moves through darkness with such confidence, who taught me to hold a knife, who killed for me.

I reach out, my fingers hovering just above his cheek, afraid to touch him.

Minutes pass in tense silence. I count Xander’s breaths, each one a small victory. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...

Then his eyelids flutter.

“Xander?” I lean closer. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes open, unfocused at first, then gradually clearing as they find my face. He blinks several times, confusion evident in his expression .

“Oakley?” His voice comes out muffled beneath the oxygen mask, raspy and weak.

Something inside me breaks open. Tears flood my eyes, spilling over before I can stop them. Relief crashes through me with such force I feel light-headed.

“You idiot,” I sob, reaching for him. “You absolute fucking idiot.”

I pepper his face with frantic kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, his temples—anywhere I can reach around the oxygen mask. My tears fall onto his skin as I press my lips to his eyebrows, his closed eyelids, the bridge of his nose.

“I thought I lost you,” I mumble against his skin between kisses. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t you dare. I can’t— I can’t?—”

My words dissolve into incoherent sounds as I continue kissing his face, his jaw, his neck. I can’t stop touching him, reassuring myself he’s here, alive.

“The vault?—”

“You almost died in there.” His cheekbone. “You could have—” His jaw. “I can’t believe you—” The hollow beneath his ear.

His hand comes up to remove the mask, but Thorne intercepts it.

“Leave it,” Thorne says. “Two more minutes minimum.”

Xander’s eyes find mine again, and despite everything, I see the ghost of a smile in them. His hand reaches for mine, fingers intertwining.

“You came back for me,” he says, voice muffled but clear enough.

Fresh tears spill down my cheeks. “Of course I came back for you, you stupid stalker nerd. I love you.”