He twitches a few times, and blood from his severed artery splatters the brightly-colored cushions and duck-egg blue cupboards. After a few moments, he stops twitching.
He’s still.
He can’t hurt her anymore.
My ears ring with noise that comes from nowhere, from a scream only I can hear.
George sinks to her knees, her hands clasped over her mouth. She makes a sound that’s not a cry or scream – kind of like a strangled panda bear or, I don’t know, a terrified lizard.
Blood pounds in my ears as the scent hits my nostrils – the unmistakable tang of fresh blood in the air, in a home where that smell is all wrong. It doesn’t fit. The scent triggers something inside me – a dream that might be too vivid to be a dream. A memory of my mother slumped in a chair, her own blood decorating the walls, splattered across my face in my reflection in the window. The memory that usually makes me want to shit myself in fear but now, with adrenaline coursing through my body and my friend’s heart still beating, makes me strong.
I stand over the guy, lifting a limp arm and peeling off his glove to check his pulse. Yup. He’s officially immortality-challenged. I try to tug the balaclava off his face, but the knife holds it in place so I tear the wool until I can get a good look at him.
He’s a kid, not much older than me. I don’t recognize him, but I’ve been out of the criminal world for so long that’s not a surprise. I roll up his sleeve and check for a tattoo on his wrist. Sure enough, I find a small design of an eagle – theaquila, the symbol of the Dio family.
He’s a hired gun, then. A mercenary in training, working for Nero or… or Brutus. Antony’s right. This isn’t over.
I slide the gun from the deceased’s hand and check the magazine. It’s fully loaded. I tuck it into my waistband as I bend down to check on George. Her face is getting whiter by the minute as she takes in the guy’s arterial blood splattered in pretty patterns across her kitchen.
“Did he hurt you?” She stares at me blankly, not comprehending. I ask again, “George, you need to answer me. Do you need medical attention?”
Slowly, she lowers her head to stare down at her body. I know the feeling she’s experiencing all too well – that sense that something has so completely fucked you over that you’ve been thrown out of your body. It’s now an entity apart from you, watching the world pass by in super slow-motion. She shakes her head. No, she’s not hurt. Not on the outside, at least.
The guy gives a little jerk, sending a fresh outpouring of blood across the tiles. George shrieks. I cover her mouth with my hand.
“I have to go outside for a second. Don’t move. Don’t touch the corpse or go anywhere. I promise you that you’re safe now. I’m not going to let anything happen.” Nothing but that blank stare.This is bad.“George. I need you to acknowledge me.”
A nod. It’s small, almost imperceptible. But I’ll take it. I pat her shoulder – a hollow gesture, especially since I leave behind a bloody handprint – and rise.
I press my back against the door and lean out, peering into the front yard. The driver’s side door of Antony’s car is open. Antony’s facedown in the oleander bushes. He doesn’t move. I can’t see anyone else around. The guy’s delivery bike is leaned against the telephone pole. I see no other cars driving down the street, no sign anyone else in the neighborhood knows what’s going down.
Fuck. Shit.
I run to Antony, my heart hammering. Blood cakes his face, and I panic as I search for a bullet hole or knife wound. There’s a jagged cut across his hairline – it looks like he cut it open when he hit the concrete. But I can’t see anything else. His breathing is soft, shallow. But he’s breathing.
I roll him over, but I can’t see blood anywhere apart from the wound on his forehead.
“Antony.” I shake his shoulders. “Wake up. Please, fuck, please wake up.”
Some dark, depraved god is smiling on me. One eye cracks open, and Antony peers up at me like for a moment he’s forgotten who I am. He wraps his arms around me and crushes me against his chest.
I shove him. “What are you doing?”
His body sags and he drops his grip on me. “Sorry, Claws. I just wanted to check you were alive. Ow.” He clutches his head. He’s moving so slowly. He might have a concussion. ”How did I get out of the car?”
“I’d blame the fake pizza delivery guy who came into the house and pointed a gun at George’s head.”
“Fuck. Wha—” Antony rolls forward, wincing. I place my hand on his chest and shove him back. “It’s sorted. All those knife skills you taught me came in handy. The little punk just learned that messing with an August gets you a severed carotid.”
Antony rubs his head. “It’s coming back to me. I was watching a delivery guy on a bike. He stopped outside and pulled a balaclava over his head. I thought that wasn’t normal pizza delivery behavior, so I tackled him.” Antony touched the back of his head and winced. “The little fucker got me good.”
“Can you get to the house? I’m calling Galen.”
“I’ll sort it. Don’t bother him.”
“We need him, Antony. I’m worried about George. She just watched me kill this guy. He’s bleeding out all over her kitchen.”
As I stagger into the house with Antony in tow, George whimpers, shuffling along the wall into a corner and pressing her face into her shoulder. She’s in the first stage of losing-your-shit – believing that if you can’t see the blood spurting like a water fountain from the dead guy’s neck, it’s not really happening.
