I spin smoothly, letting the momentum carry through my shoulders, down my arm, and into the sling. The release is clean. Effortless.
The marble punches through his forehead dead center.
His skull bursts out the back in a wet, violent spray, the sound sharp and final. The marble clatters to the floor a heartbeat before his body does, eyes already rolled back, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and understanding.
Finally, the garden settles into silence once more.
And this time, it stays that way.
I’ve looked better.
I’ve definitely felt better.
The sun is starting to crawl up over the horizon, soft and golden and deeply inappropriate considering I just killed my way through the night. My body is running on adrenaline fumes. I’ve got a limp in my left leg, one hand pressed to my side to keep everything where it belongs, and my lip is swollen enough that I’m going to sound charmingly concussed for the rest of the day. One eye is already threatening to swell shut. My arm needs stitches. A lot of them.
That’s a future-me problem.
Right now, I’ve got one more body to reckon with.
I limp down the garden path toward Alejandro, who’s still face-down where he fell, sprawled like a man who dramatically committed to the bit and maybe committed a little too hard. I let myself smirk for half a second?—
Then I notice he hasn’t moved.
The smirk drops.
“Alejandro?” I call, and this close to sunrise, after everything, it comes out softer than I expect.
I kneel beside him with a hiss, ignoring the way my knee protests, and check his pulse. Strong. Steady. Of course it is. I didn’t shoot him anywhere that would actually kill him. Just his arm. Enough blood to sell it. Enough for Kenji to see the pavement stained and assume the rest.
Still.
I grab his shoulder and heave, trying to roll him over. It’s harder than it should be because he’s a big fucking bitch and I amexhausted. After a moment of undignified effort, he finally flops onto his back, head lolling to the side.
There’s a nasty cut on his forehead. A knot already swelling beneath it.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
A foot away, a shallow stream winds through the garden, water glinting in the early light. I reach over, scoop up a palmful, and fling it into his face.
The cold does the trick.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
He groans, brow furrowing, blinking slowly like the world is taking its sweet time loading. Confusion gives way to recognition.
“Saint,” he murmurs, my name the first thing out of his mouth.
“Hey,” I say, and it comes out a whisper whether I want it to or not.
He pushes himself up with a wince that suggests he’s going to complain later once the shock wears off. He blinks around, takes in the destruction, then glances down at his arm.
Clarity settles in piece by piece.
I cross my arms carefully. “What the fuck did you do?”
He exhales. “I was being dramatic,” he admits. “Wanted to make sure I really sold theyou shot mething.”
He glances at the stone bench beside him and scowls.
