His cry is agony, but it sounds like victory to me. In a desperate struggle to pull my hand away, he loosens his hold on the tourniquet—the piece of rebar hitting the floor with a metallicclang—and I twist around, but not before he manages to wrench my wrist over, nearly snapping my elbow.
A wail of pain escapes me, and then he is on me again, both hands at my throat as he backs me against the bit of wall between the door and the window. I should be afraid; his fingers are unforgiving as they choke me. But all I feel is rage, magma hot and twice as thick. It pools in my limbs, beneath my tongue, like fire in my cells. I gather it under the roof of my mouth and spit it into his face.
His eyes squeeze shut against the assault of saliva, but he doesn’t let go. A shrieking intake of air begins to sound in the back of his throat. My vision starts to blacken at the corners, and I feel peace. I may not make it long enough to watch him die, but at least I will go knowing he is soon to follow.
And then the blast rips through the glass of the door beside us and knocks him back, his right shoulder flinging to the side as he hits the floor. Emil Reyes pushes through the door, his gun pointed at the Strangler. He turns and sees me holding my throat, gasping for breath. He reaches a hand toward me, but I stumble away.
“No, don’t touch me,” I manage to wheeze out. “Not yet.”
I’ve fed so much that I can still feel the venom mingling with my bloodstream, even though I should have already discharged the magic when I spit into his face. With time, it will ebb away, but I won’t risk Reyes.
A gasp from below sounds, and we turn to see the Strangler sliding back from us, pushing with both feet, trying to turn over, trying to find the strength to run. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
Without thinking, I leap on him, one hand pressing his head against the floor as I lick my other hand from palm to fingertip and dig into the bullet hole at his shoulder, blood gurgling over my fingers as he screams.
The cop’s arms come around my waist, lifting me off and tossing me to the side. I catch myself in a crouch and spin back in time to see the convulsions begin. The Saranac Strangler jerks andflops like a landed fish, vomit erupting from his mouth like lava from a volcano, the latex cap slipping off his head.
The cop goes to kneel beside him, to try and lift him up so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit, but I smack his arm away. “Get up!” I yell, giving him a hard shove, being sure not to touch his skin, though I feel the magic already dissipating within me. “Leave him!”
“He’s choking!” His eyes practically cross with alarm. “He’s going to die!”
“I said, leave him.” I grind the words out through clenched teeth.
A sputter interrupts us, and we look over to see those close-set eyes roll to white, blood vessels bursting across them, before he goes still.
Again, Emil starts toward him, but I step between him and the body.
“I should check his pulse,” he says angrily. “Record the time of death.”
“You should turn around and leave this place,” I tell him. “And never come back. Thank you for saving my life. Consider your debt paid. Go home, Detective.”
He takes a step away from me, the venom in my voice enough of a warning. “Who is he?”
“No one to you,” I say quietly, turning to look down on him. At least now, when the venery comes for me, I can die in peace. “But someone very, very important to me.”
“What happened to him?” he asks now, stepping beside me, but careful not to overstep.
“I did,” I say. “The same as I did to Don.”
He looks at me, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”
My eyes meet his—sorrowful, resigned, exhausted. “It’s better that way.”
He moves to the wall and pulls a chair from one of the stacks, sits in it, legs spread and elbows on knees, trying to gather himself. “What now?”
“Now I call the sheriff and report a break-in. You leave before they get here. I’ll probably get arrested. If not tonight, soon. But, then again, I’ve done them a favor. Maybe they won’t investigate too hard.”
“How will you explain the gunshot wound?” he asks, challenging my plan.
I can’t think straight. I lean against one of the tables. “I won’t. It really won’t make a difference anyway.”
He watches me for a moment, sits up. “I’m not leaving.”
I start to argue but he cuts me off. “You can just say I was a customer, someone passing through. And I’ll tell the truth. I’m a cop. I heard a scream. Came out and saw you struggling, shot him through the glass door. He fell and I have no idea what happened after that. Looked like he had some kind of reaction.”
I smile. “They’ve heard that one before.”
His brow gathers like a folded sheet.
