Still breathing,I checked for trackers, gunned the Ducati’s engine, and peeled out of the car park, hitting the road at a physics-defying speed, my kneecap scraping concrete, road burn I would pay for if I made it through the night.IfI escaped the capital and reached the open road where no man would catch me. How sad that the wrap in my pocket held more motivation than my sister. Than Jake. Than my soul bond with the dog I’d left behind while I danced with death in as many ways as it was prepared to take me tonight.
Lida.
Guilt chewed my heart and spat it out. My hand faltered on the throttle, but a hum of awareness at my six wrenched me out of my head before the Ducati lost speed. A vehicle close enough to take a shot if I did not evade them as civilisation petered out.
A taxi cut in front of me. Innocuous. Unaware and innocent, but in my way.
Blyad.
Other expletives rattled my brain. The island had narrow streets and the dilapidated people-carrier moved erratically enough that passing it was a whole new game of roulette.
Still cursing, I swerved hard, fighting gravity, but I was not superhuman, and my knee hit the ground again, jolting my hip and rocking my balance. That I survived the manoeuvre and the complimentary blast of adrenaline was as miraculous as the emotion that coursed through me, overriding everything else.
Defiance.
I did not fear death, but apparently I resented meeting it in a tangle of twisted metal at the side of the road.
The bike levelled out, the lights of the town dwindling, open space in front of me. I opened the throttle and let the Ducati loose, peeling away, leaving any soul behind me for dust.
To be sure, I took the scenic route to where I needed to be, zigzagging through the countryside until I was sure I didn’t have company.
Then I headed home, to the spot at the top of the mountain where I would not have far to stumble the rest of the way to my house. To my bed. To the bathroom floor. It did not matter. Nothing did, save the hum of barbed anticipation even a botched assassination couldn’t kill. Even the belligerence of the ride faded as I hauled the Ducati to her hiding place and covered her with a tarp. A brand-new throb in my knee plagued me, but I ignored it, knowing it would be gone soon enough.
I limped down the hill. My house taunted me, Katya and Ivan’s too, but I kept my gaze on the ground as I stopped short of the fence and the path that would take me home. Head bowed, muscles and tendons wound tight enough to snap. But with the answer to everything burning a hole in my pocket, itdid not matter.
The highest tree on the mountain hung over a ledge. Shady by day and shadowed by night, it was my favourite spot to chase the disconnect I needed to breathe, and I found it as I had left it—scarred by sin. Burned paper and foil crumpled on the dry grass. The pipe jammed in the earth, so I did not have the luxury of denying what I had done. Of forgetting, even as I dug the wrap from my pocket and tipped the contents over the edge of the mountain. Every rock, every hit.
All but one.
Bones aching, I lowered my body to sit, already armed with fresh foil and the disposable lighter that had lived on my person since I’d stolen it from Ranger. But I did not think of him now. This was the one moment I never could, and I built my poisonchalice with a dying conscience. A soundtrack of rustling paper, the flick of the lighter, and a bubbling hiss I’d hear in my worst dreams for the rest of my life.
Acrid smoke hit my lungs, and for everlasting moments, nothing happened.
Then the world fell away, piece by piece.
A rush.
A wave.
A silent scream of euphoria that ebbed as fast as it had hit, leaving hollow space in its wake.
I closed my eyes, chasing the dregs, settling for the fuzzy static my mind defaulted to. Like the TV in the orphanage, blinking in and out for hours and hours before it settled on nothing at all, the severance complete.
How much time passed, I could not say.
The trunk of the tree became my anchor to the world, the bark digging into my spine the first sign that it was over. That nausea and self-loathing had returned to claim their place. The pain in my hip and my knee remained absent, but the wrench in my chest was too lonely to bear, and I pitched forward, a broken shout tearing out of me.
How long had I been here?
I did not know, but it wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
One hit. Two. Three.
It did not end.
But it was over for tonight. Somehow, I had made sure of it, and I could not think clearly enough to appreciate that. As I left the scene of the crime, heavy-footed and hazy, I felt only despair, and even that was muted.
