“Enzo summoning things,” hummed Ronnie thoughtfully. “What a shock. But what areyoudoing here? I assume he summoned you, as well?”
There was a strange energy in the air. Perhaps it was an excess of adrenaline or the waning magic from the circle. But it prickled at Jack’s skin, wriggled into the roots of each of the fine hairs on his body, made him want to scream and writhe.
The gun held him motionless, afraid to even blink. “I-I?—”
“God, Carla,” Ronnie huffed. “Him? Of all people? You couldn’t have done any better?” His words buzzed all the way down the barrel of the gun.
“Hey, he’s nice,” Carla snapped, glaring over her shoulder. “Don’t hurt him.”
Ronnie knew about them. Worse, Carlaknewhe knew. Jack’s stomach fizzled, acidic. When had she told him? What else had she lied about?
Did Ronnie know about the time loop, too?
“You don’t like nice guys,” said Ronnie with an air of finality. Jack flinched, waited for the gun to go off.
“Maybe I changed my mind,” said Carla, free hand going to her hip. The shiver in her voice was unmistakable. “C’mon, we don’t got time for this. Enzo’s melting.”
“Yeah, I’m melting!” said Enzo, spitting out another clump of blood and mucus. “Somebody save me!”
An itch began in Jack’s sinuses, slinked into his eyeballs, then into his skull. Tears spilled down his face. Still, the sensation did not abate.
The tremble fled his limbs. His pulse slowed. His hands began to move of their own accord, fingers twitching, then clenching.
Before he even knew what was happening, he’d reached behind him and knocked the gun free with knuckle-crunching fervor.
Ronnie didn’t have time to react. Somehow, some way, Jackmanaged to grab him by the lapel, dragging him down, then throwing him onto his back. He crashed against the floor, hard. Wide, panicked eyes stared up at him.
Jack stared back, equally panicked.
Around him, people shouted. Boris’s baritone joined the cacophony—the only thing Jack could cling to amongst the buzzing in his brain, the sounds of four voices all melding together in agony and outrage.
Jack lurched, and Ronnie scrambled for something in his pocket. But he wasn’t fast enough. Jack’s foot connected with his nose. A crunch rang out. Ronnie made an odd choking sound. Carla screamed. Blood poured down Ronnie’s handsome face, soaking into the starched collar of his shirt.
“You little shit,” he panted, but it was too late.
Jack moved again, this time catching him by the ears, flinching at the greasy heat. Hands grasped at his legs but couldn’t stop him from driving his knee into Ronnie’s face a second time.
A shriek ripped from Carla as Ronnie dropped backward with a grunt, fingers twitching. A black bruise spread from the center of his face across twisted, bloody flesh, engulfing a white fleck that might’ve been bone. Jagged teeth pierced through his upper lip, now a miserable flap of skin.
A sob built in Jack’s throat and became trapped there. For all that he wanted to cover his eyes and weep, he found that he could only stand stoically, hands at his sides, breathing heavily.
And then, quite without his consent, he bent down, grasped Ronnie by the shoulders and dragged him onto the rug. There, he patted him down just as the yellow-eyed man had Enzo and plucked a gun from inside his suit jacket, another from a holster on his ankle.
Ronnie was all but a corpse. A deadweight whose breath escaped in shuddering rasps, punctuated by the occasional spurt of blood or bubble of spit. Tears streamed down Jack’s face, but he could not stop, could not even release the lapels of Ronnie’s suit, now ruthlessly crumpled. Nor could he meetBoris’s eye—his gaze was locked on the man beneath him, unceremoniously shoved inside the circle beside a gasping Enzo.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, scooting away from Ronnie until his back was against the singed line, looking at Jack like he was some kind of demon.
Which to be fair, wasn’t far from how he felt—like some unseen force had overtaken his limbs, torn his will away and discarded it somewhere in the carnage.
Jack wanted to weep. Instead, he stepped away from the circle, back toward the doorway, where a wild-eyed Boris threw up a broad palm in a bid to stop him.
At once, the strength fled his limbs and he dropped to his hands and knees, coughing and gagging, muscles screaming like they’d been ripped free from his bones. A bolt of agony shot from his knee to his ankle. The blood smeared across his fingers was already tacky.
Voices came flooding back; Carla sobbing, Boris breathing heavily, and Enzo yelling, “What the fuck?!” like he expected someone to have an answer.
The yellow-eyed man remained silent, his gaze locked on Jack.
“Where did that Kung-fu shit come from?” Boris said, pale-faced, voice higher than Jack had ever heard it.
