I glanced back at the warehouse. The lower half of it was already consumed by flame.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the beauty.
I wanted to stare at it all night.
But even though I hadn’t anonymously called 911 yet, I heard sirens blare to life in the distance. So, I couldn’t enjoy my handiwork. Grabbing my helmet from the back of the bike, I slipped it on. The rain began to fall faster, quickly slipping down the helmet visor.
As I sped away, the pain in my hand throbbed in time with the rumble of the engine.
Only a mile away, I passed speeding firetrucks on their way to the disaster I’d wrought. I grinned, but the expression felt twisted on my face. The apathy I’d momentarily chased awaycame back. Maybe I should have left the fuel-soaked clothing on… Maybe I should have walked into the building…
Burning to death might be better than this slow, torturous decay of self.
3
NITRO, DEMONX PACK
{Five months ago}
Sharp blades sing as they sink into my target.
They make music only I can hear.
But not tonight.
I stared at the scattered blades littering the ground. Each one winked up at me, reminding me of my continuous failure. The handles and blades of my knives pointed in every direction, no rhyme or reason, none thrown in the same way.
Five yards away, the target stood mockingly pristine. Not a single damn scratch despite my hour of throwing. My jaw ached from clenching, muscles in my forearm twitching with tension. I never missed. Never. Until tonight, when I couldn't seem to hit a damn thing.
“Get it the fuck together,” I growled. “You perform like this for the Cirque du Sang higher ups, and they’ll tear the proposed contract up faster than you can fucking spit.”
Apparently, a few head honchos with the Cirque weren’t sure about bringing us onto the domestic tour. If we didn’t get signed on for that one, then we sure as fuck wouldn’t be signed on for the international one. So, we had to go perform like some goddamn show ponies next month, letting those assholes decide if we were good enough.
DemonX was good enough. Anytime. Anywhere. Didn’t matter. We were the motherfucking best.
At least.
We used to be.
Once upon a fucking time.
Not even that long ago.
The floodlights in the compound's back training area cast harsh shadows across the scene, illuminating my inadequacy as if I wasn’t fully aware of it already. Sweat trickled down my spine despite the cool evening air, my body running hot with frustration and exertion. I'd stripped down to a tank top after the first twenty minutes, but even that clung to me now, damp with evidence of my futile efforts.
I bent to retrieve another knife from the holster strapped to my left thigh; the right holster was already empty. The thin cord wrapped around the slender hilt was familiar against my palm. I adjusted my hold, pushing my index finger through the ring like end and spinning the knife quickly as I lifted my hand. It spun in satisfying circles, metal catching light. Its weight was an extension of me—had been since I was fourteen and discovered the precision and control that came with mastering the blade. I’d started out with bullshit, chipped kitchen knives. Then a halfway decent set Xander somehow sourced for me despite being broke as a joke.
Now, I worked with custom blades. Obsidian, from tip to heel. The balance was perfect. The dagger edges lovingly sharpened. The problem wasn't the knife.
The problem was me.
"Focus, goddammit," I growled, positioning myself again in front of the target. I squared my shoulders, aligned my stance, and found my center of gravity—all the mechanical motions I'd performed thousands of times before. My breathing slowed deliberately, three counts in, three counts out. The target seemed to waver in my vision, as though it were underwater. I blinked several times, clearing the blur.
I spun the knife a few more times, then transferred the blade to my other hand, feeling the textured hilt press into the calluses on my palm. I flipped it in the air, caught it by the tip, and lined up. When I released, the knife spun perfectly through the air—and hit the target sideways, bouncing off to join its brothers in the dirt.
"Fuck!" The word tore from my throat, primal and raw. I kicked at the ground, sending dust and pebbles flying. My control was slipping, that white-hot feeling I usually kept banked now blazing freely. I paced a tight circle, fingers raking through my auburn hair, pulling until my scalp stung with pain.
This wasn't like me.
