My words get cut off by his forehead. Smashing the mask against my face, he head butts me hard enough to crack the thick plastic right down the middle.
Bleeding from my noseandmy arms now, I blink wildly and try to hold on to him. He manages to squirm out from under me, sending glass skittering in every direction.
“Everett, wait!”
His stride doesn’t falter as he races for the door, letting the two halves of his mask tumble to the ground. The pieces of broken plastic stare back at me, the horror in the ghost’s expression identical to the one I feel when I finally hear it.
The high-pitch squeal of compressed air.
Whipping my head around, I can just make out the silhouette of a canister rolling out from beneath the bookshelf. A beam of moonlight catches the metal surface, casting a spotlight on the skull and crossbones sitting beneath the White family crest.
Poisonous gas.
The thought registers at the same time I sprint for the door. Using my shirt to cover my mouth, I barely make it out of the room before the nausea starts to set in.
Slamming the door shut behind me, I heave, feeling my eyes and nose burning with the lingering chemicals. The musty smell of the cellar doesn’t offer much reprieve, but it’s enough to clearmy vision and spot the flash of brown hair slipping through another hidden door.
I go stumbling forward, barely making it through the stone wall before it closes. Darkness encompasses me, and this time, the nausea is real.
Barely choking the stomach bile back down, I close my eyes and take a breath.
When I open them, the room has flickered to life, the running boards offering a string of neon lights that weave between massive wooden crates.
Crates that seem to be hissing.
Ignoring that particular problem, I lay eyes on the White prodigy weaving his way between them. His back is turned to me, the edges of his hair standing up in every direction. An uneasy gait hints at an old injury, the hunched state of his shoulders keeping his face turned in the opposite direction.
He doesn’t notice me until it’s too late.
Slamming my shoulders into the back of his knees, I send him flying towards the ground. Grabbing his legs and yanking him backwards, I crush him to my chest and press my backup pistol hard against his forehead.
“Think carefully before you hit me again.” Jamming the barrel into his skull, I tighten my grip, “My patience is wearing thin.”
“Do it.” His voice cracks and fizzles, sending a tingle of electricity up my arm, “Pull the trigger.”
“You think I won’t?”
“I hope you do.” He pushes his head back against the gun, “I hope you do me a favour and pull the trigger.”
“If you really meant that, you wouldn’t have run back there.” Shoving him away, I watch him stumble forward, “Or smashed my face with a mask.”
Something close to a smile flickers across Everett’s face when he turns around. His face is splattered with blood, the soft features of a teenage boy looking back at me.
Christ, he’s young.
Freckles decorate the bridge of his crooked nose, his jawline and cheekbones a little too full to be defined. Cobalt irises seem to take up the majority of his face, the shockingly pretty colour cold and empty beneath the weight of eyeliner and sleepless nights.
He looks too young to be empty already.
“Fight to stay alive, fight to give up and die. Are they really all that different?”
“Depends on where you’re standing.”
Keeping a tight grip on my gun, I watch him reach up and carefully remove the flesh coloured device stuck to his throat. It cracks and fizzles, the blood dripping between the cracked plastic making it seem more hazardous than useful.
“What the hell is that?”
“Nothing toxic, I’m afraid.” Everett lets out a sigh, “Voice cloning technology embedded with an AI algorithm I’ve been working on. It’s supposed to work under high stress situations, but I didn’t think about making it water resistant.”
