“Shithead’s not here.” I could tell by his voice he was half-gone to the bottle. “Ran away to lick his wounds.” He raised a brow. “Surprised he’s not having you lick them for him.”
He moved to close the door in my face, but I caught it with both hands. “Wait.”
Mr. Duncan swayed, eyeing me curiously.
“Can I stay until he comes back?”
He studied me with his otherworldly eyes. After long enough that my hands turned clammy, he turned inside. “Wait for him in his room if you want. But only ’cause it’ll piss off your daddy to know you were here.” Mr. Duncan chuckled, then settled in his plaid armchair, unmuted the TV, and picked up his glass. Half-empty liters of Coke and Popov vodka rested on the table.
I shut the door quietly behind me, but it didn’t matter—he had the volume up, lost to his football game. I walked behind him into the hallway, opened Ever’s bedroom door…and then shut it, loud enough so he would hear. I crept back down the hall, peered around the corner, and watched.
It’s one thing to kill a person in self-defense. One thing for your adrenaline to surge, flooding your body with chemicals, terror so potent it’s an intoxicant, forcing you to act. It’s another thing to wait and plot. To feel the icy burn of logic, the calm cool knitting of a plan. The patience ittakes. The choice you’re making. You don’t just make it once. You make it again and again every minute you don’t go home, don’t give up, don’t talk yourself out of it. Over and over, you’re choosing. Which is the true nature of evil, fire or ice? The answer is ice. The cold, pragmatic calculation it takes to turn yourself into a predator.
I watched Mr. Duncan’s every move. It was him or Ever, that much was obvious. But how to do it? I thought of the stone we’d used to kill Renard. A heavy object would be good, but messy. Same as a kitchen knife. Mr. Duncan was large and could overpower me. Anything that leaned on strength was a risk.
The minutes ticked by, the only sounds the game announcers and Mr. Duncan’s occasional belching, the only movement the glass traveling to his lips and the sweat slipping down my back.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour of crouching, I closed my eyes.Dear God, I prayed,He who smites his enemies and will return in a blaze of glory to take all heathens to Hell. Please help me bring this sinner to his knees.
I opened my eyes and searched the room, waiting for an idea to jump out, a flash of inspiration. But I had nothing.
“Fucking Alabama,” Mr. Duncan mumbled, and nearly tumbled out of his chair. He staggered in the direction of the bathroom.
This was my chance. Every nerve in my body sparked, begging for action. I thought of Everett lying broken in my bed. His dead mother’s likeness carved into the tree. And that’s when I realized: God hadn’t helped either of them, and he wouldn’t help me now.
I took a deep breath. There was only one choice.
Satan, I prayed.Lord of Darkness. Help me get justice. Give me the tools. I gritted my teeth. Seconds ticked by.
Suddenly, a light turned on in my mind, and I remembered the garage as I’d walked up. The door half-open, all those tools everywhere, those automotive chemicals…
Those chemicals.
I slipped out the door and flew to the garage, searching among the mess until I found the antifreeze, on its side in the corner. I snuck soundlessly back inside. Mr. Duncan was still in the bathroom. Hands shaking, I uncapped the gallon. The antifreeze glugged out bright orange and sweet-smelling. I didn’t know how much to pour, so I let it run for a long time into his glass. Then I splashed in Coke to mask the taste and smell, guided by some foreign instinct, a stranger in my head.
The bathroom door opened, hinges groaning. He was coming. My last chance to make a different choice. If I left the glass here, there was no going back.
I remembered how it felt when Renard’s weight lifted off me. That moment when I went from being crushed to sudden freedom, the ability to breathe again. Everett had thrown himself between us. It was a brave choice, with no going back.
I left the glass.
Mr. Duncan wiped his hands on his jeans and dropped ungracefully into his armchair. I watched from my hiding place, chewing my thumb.
He resumed the game and picked up the glass. I sank my teeth into my flesh as deep as they would go.
He drank. Long and deep, without flinching or studying the glass. He didn’t even notice. The antifreeze must be too close to the taste of his drink, or he was simply too drunk to tell.
Minutes passed. He finished, then poured himself another drink. I waited and waited, but nothing happened. It hadn’t worked. I hadn’t poured enough. All of this was for nothing.
I closed my eyes one more time.Please, I prayed to the Devil.You can have anything. My life, my freedom, in exchange for his. Please take this trade. Me for Ever. Please, for once, someone hear me.
A crashing sound made my eyes fly open. Mr. Duncan jerked againsthis chair, his glass fallen on the carpet, dark liquid staining. His legs started shaking, rattling the table. He made a desperate gurgling sound and twisted off the chair, falling to the floor.
He was having a seizure. The poison was working. The Devil had taken my deal.
I stood, half of my face hidden behind the wall, watching as he spasmed. Eventually he wrenched up on his elbows and bent over, gagging violently, trying to throw up.
I emerged from the shadows and walked to him.
