Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 887 - 889

Chapter 887: Chapter 889

Later, when the others returned from their tasks, he told them everything. He didn’t soften it. He told them what he saw, what he heard. The voice using Emma’s body. The way the smoke looked out through her eyes.

"No more secrets," he said. "We face this together."

And so they did. That night, they lit extra torches. Wrote down every second of their evening routines. Susan took the first watch. Jude stayed with her, knife on his belt, eyes fixed on the woods.

At midnight, a scream echoed from the other treehouse. Natalie’s.

They rushed there, blades drawn, adrenaline pumping.

She was alone, shaking, her hands covered in dirt. She didn’t remember why.

Outside, the wind changed direction again.

By morning, three more wives had reported blackouts. Not long. Minutes. But enough.

Enough to know the smoke was no longer hiding.

It was choosing.

One by one.

And it had started with Emma.

Jude knew what he had to do.

He had to find the source.

Even if it meant crossing the border.

Even if it meant climbing the volcano.

Even if it meant facing the truth of what the island truly was.

Because this thing, whatever it was, was not trying to steal his wives.

It was trying to awaken him.

The morning sun lit the camp in pale gold as the first birds began their calls, but the warmth didn’t seep into Jude’s bones. He woke on the ground near the treehouses, rather than in his own nest, because he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were dry, his heart pounding like he’d been running. He sat up and found Lucy beside him, her hair loose across her face. She woke to his movement and blinked at him blearily.

"He’s awake," she said softly, settling back.

davIn the first light, Jude noticed something odd, Lucy looked rested, perhaps too well-rested for a night spent in vigil. He didn’t comment. Maybe he was wrong.

They walked together toward the river to collect water, but Lucy dropped the bucket once she heard the stillness of his breathing.

"Jude, you look as if someone died," she said quietly.

He kept his eyes forward. "It’s not death I’m afraid of."

She tilted her head. "What is it?"

He stopped and knelt beside the water’s edge. His reflection, dark eyes, worn features, and a line of calloused skin where years of grip had weathered the muscle, stared back. He stared longer. "The smoke. It’s learning, Lucy. I think it’s learning all of us. I saw it again last night."

She knelt beside him. "In one of us?"

He shook his head slightly. "No. Not directly. This time, it... it was in the wind."

Lucy’s eyes widened. "You mean you felt it?"

He pointed. "Over there, by the ferns. It moved like air, but... denser. I wanted to chase it down, capture it before it got wind of us, but I knew I’d only lose sight."

"Maybe," Lucy said quietly, "it’s trying to show you where to look. Instead of chasing it, maybe you should follow it."

He nodded slowly. Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t hiding anymore. Maybe it was guiding them, using them as stepping-stones.

They both stood and returned to the camp, where the others had gathered around the fire pit. A pot of fish stew steamed quietly on coals, but no one spoke. The guilt stung him again, how many of them had blacked out or felt that presence? Was he even safe? Not when it could shift between them.

He spoke first. "Reported blackouts last night?"

Lucy shook her head. "Nothing for me."

"None for me," Grace said, but her voice trembled.

Emma swallowed. "I... think I lost an hour."

Stella frowned. "Knowing how quickly I react to things, I almost ran toward the vines. I... don’t remember much."

Silence fell. No more confessions.

Jude exhaled slowly. "Then something’s happening. It’s rising again. We need to decide, do we follow its path, or do we strike at its source?"

Sophie spoke then. Her voice steady. "We follow it. We find it. We look in the dark. Because it’s been guiding us, even in these blackouts."

They agreed with solemn nods.

A plan formed: split into teams, each following a trace of the presence that had emerged in means strange to each, Lucy near the river, Stella near vines, Emma toward the old grove. Jude volunteered to track the wind-shape he’d seen, along the eastern ridge.

It took hours to prepare, ropes, flares of dried fungus for light, sharpened spears, pressed clay flasks of water. Each wife carried a small knife, just in case. Jude kissed them all, Lucy first, a sad smile; Grace after, her eyes discarding the denial; Emma, her hand lingering on his chest, swallowed; Serena clutched the flare in her palm tighter than she squeezed her spear.

Their prayers trailed after them: be safe, come back, don’t out-run your soul.

Jude stepped beyond the camp alone, toward the ridge where the sky opened between two cliff faces. He moved swift and silent, catching stray ripples in the air as he passed. Now that he was alone, the noise of his own breath frightened him. He paused again near a cluster of heartbeat fungi, pulsing soft blue, lighting the underbrush like distant embers.

He took one, pressed it in his palm, warm, alive.

And felt it shift with intention.

He stank in place, breath caught, and carefully replaced it in the soil. Then he resumed moving, north along the ridge, where the wind ran deeper. The channel between cliffs carried wind through the island’s body like blood through veins. As he traced it, his jaw clenched until his teeth cut the flesh inside his cheek. Memories flickered: he’d tasted a warning; he’d screamed on a beach far from here; he’d performed rituals to burn or bury the terrible cravings. He reflected on the moonlight fires that birthed torches, the candles snuffed by storms, the smoke vanishing when all around was still.