A high animal sound tears and bubbles from his throat, words collapsing into a raw, unclothed noise. His fingers claw at the air and find nothing.
When he slumps to the floor, clutching at his chest, part of his windpipe hangs loosely from the gaping hole in the front. His mouth opens and closes like a dying fish as he flips onto his back, holding up his hands to ward me off.
He tries to speak, but the sound comes out ragged and small, then gone. The house fills with the smell of copper. Everything is loud—the thud of his body, the rasping, the way his eyes lose focus and go polished as glass—and then, with a final, terrible wet silence, he goes still.
“Let me help you with that gangly-looking organ of yours.”
Squatting over his rotund belly, I pierce the skin again, slicing and carving until his head lolls back so far, it’s almostsevered. Surely, he’s bled out enough that he’s dead now. But his glassy eyes never leave mine. Barrel chest slowly descends one final time as I reach the spinal cord.
He really needed to sharpen these knives.
Too late now…
I make it to President Damon’s place before midnight and kick down her front door, not bothering to wait for the enforcers to let me in. Heat tingles the tips of my ears as rage settles into every artery. That errand could haveeasilybeen taken care of by an initiate. It’sbeneathme. But Asa Donovan insisted. And Damon backed him up…
Even when one of her guards draws on me, I hold up my present, climb the stairs, and fling open her bedroom door.
She sits up, flicks on her table lamp, and screams.
I must look ridiculous.
Black outfit. Mask.
Bleeding severed head of Dean Twinston hanging from his balding hair scraps in my right hand.
Glock in the left, pointed at her polished hardwood.
I aim for her cozy bed and toss the head onto the white comforter. It rolls slowly, obscenely, like a bowling ball across satin. She jumps up, and her scream cracks the room in half. I let it hang there, a punctuation.
“That task you wanted me to do? It’s done. Now…approve Ashlyn Donovan’s appointment to me. I’ve got places to be.”
forty-three
A little weepy.Sore and aching, I press the heating pad to my belly. Stupid period. It’s been years since I’ve had a real one, and now I remember exactly how awful they are.
“Want the chef to make something?” Mom asks, sweeping my hair from my forehead. I think she’s trying to make up for everything by being extra attentive. Though she’s always been soothing when I’m sick.
I’lltakeit.
“Yeah. I want grilled cheese and one of the lava cakes he makes so well.”
“With the dark cherries on top?”
I nod, and she tucks the blankets to my chin as I settle into my bed, bringing the tablet up to my chest. Headphones on, tea steaming on the bedside table, I try to relax.
But the thoughts keep circling.
Was he serious about returning for me? It’s been hours, and I haven’t heard from him. Is he done?
Is he okay?
That thought makes my chest ache the most. What if he’s hurt? Or…dead.
I can’t deal with that.
The mirror trembles with a faint clink. Probably the tray. I slip off an earcup. Silence. As I put them back on, the sound happens again. And it rattles the back door.
Is it him?