Boris groaned, sat on the edge of the tub. “You’re right. I hate that you’re right.” Droplets of blood stained his shirt, clung to his arms, dotted his neck and jaw. His hair was flat against his head.
Still, Jack couldn’t help but admire him. He was no less magnetic than he’d been just this morning as he paced around the hotel lobby with the energy of a man on a mission, movements sharp and coordinated, expression shifting with every new idea Jack pitched.
“I don’t want to be,” Jack said, hanging his head.
“You’re right,” repeated Boris, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “I don’t wanna go to war with Enzo. I don’t wanna dissolve in a bathtub. That just makes me fucking sad, man. All these people they’ve killed. And for what? Business disputes and drugs?”
“Something like that,” said Jack, though he doubted Carla would tell them if they asked. Enzo certainly wouldn’t. He’d probably spit at them, accuse them of being rats.
“Do you think he’s gonna let us go?” said Boris, lowering his hands to look Jack in the eye. His intestines squirmed at the intensity.
A slow exhale. “I don’t know,” he answered. The same fear plagued him, popping in and out of his mind like a nosy neighbor.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth? About the interdimensional laws and stuff?”
“Maybe,” said Jack. “I almost believe him. He’s… powerful.”
“Fucking spooky is what he is.” Boris’s fingers tapped against porcelain. “Look, if we don’t make it out of this, it’s been nice knowing you, alright? I really mean that.”
A ball of anguish formed in Jack’s throat. “Yeah,” he managed. “You, too. I’m-I’m really sorry about all of this.”
“Not your fault,” said Boris. His eyes were blue like the ocean, deep and dark enough to drown in. Jack found himself leaning forward, wishing he could be swallowed up in their current.
A knock sounded on the door. Jack launched from the counter and crashed against Boris, who’d jumped up from the edge of the tub like it might collapse under him.
“You have one minute,” said the yellow-eyed man, voice muffled by the door. “Jerk faster.”
Boris’s laugh was more of a guffaw, bold and startled. “I can’t believe he just said that.” He dragged a hand through his hair and said, “I actually really do need to piss. Gimme a minute.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX
Carla still hadn’t movedfrom the couch. When Jack approached, she refused to speak or make eye contact. Wouldn’t even glare at him. Just stared straight ahead, her stare vacant.
“I think she needs some water,” said Jack to the yellow-eyed man. “Can I get her some water?”
“How come she gets water?” Enzo demanded. Jack rubbed the back of his neck, fought down another wave of frustration.
“Becauseshe’snot about to die,” said the yellow-eyed man with a flippant wave of his hand. “Fine. Bring her water.”
“Hey, this is a violation of the Ginevra Convention. Or whatever,” said Enzo, but Jack was already gone, bolting up the stairs. Boris followed.
In the kitchen, Jack doubled over, elbows on his knees, breathing heavily.
“You look likeyouneed water,” Boris said, pausing beside him.
“I’m fine,” Jack panted. “I just… need a minute.”
The urge to flee was overwhelming. But there was nowhere he could go that the yellow-eyed man wouldn’t find him, and that was assuming he could leave at all, that the yellow-eyed man had lied about the wards on the house.
“Where do they keep the glasses?” asked Boris. A cabinet door opened, then closed. “You need to drink, too.”
“Cabinet by the fridge,” Jack managed.
A hinge creaked. “These are wine glasses,” said Boris, disapproving.
“Try the other side.”
