I stood, or tried to. My legs weren’t interested, but I made them work. I moved to where Saint’s body lay, rolled him over, and checked his pulse. Nothing. I looked up at Cutler, who nodded once. It was really over.
The Leatherbacks hung their heads. Some cried. Some stared in disbelief. None of them moved.
I turned and found Melissa. She had broken, finally, silent tears running down her face, but she smiled at me, that same crooked smile that had gotten me into this mess.
Seneca and Damron came to my side, each grabbing an arm, holding me up like a champion and a corpse at the same time.
“He’s dead?” Damron asked.
“Dead as it gets,” I said, or tried to. The words were mostly mush.
Seneca grinned. “Told you. Die interesting, or not at all.”
The Scythes let out a howl, a collective noise of triumph and relief and something almost like joy. The Leatherbacks filed out, carrying Saint’s body on their shoulders, no one saying a word.
Cutler paused at the edge of the circle. He looked at me, and for a second, there was respect, or maybe just recognition that a new monster had entered the world. He tipped his head, then walked into the sunrise.
The crowd thinned. The bikes roared to life, one by one. The Scythes gathered around, patting me on the back, offering water, whiskey, whatever they thought a man needed after killing the devil. But all I wanted was Melissa.
She broke from the crowd, running to me, arms around my neck. I held her as best I could, the pain a reminder that I was still here.
“You did it,” she whispered.
I nodded. “We did.”
She laughed, wet and broken. “You look like shit.”
I grinned, bloody teeth and all. “So do you.”
We stood there, holding each other, while the world reset itself around us. The sun kept climbing, the birds kept calling, and somewhere, the future waited.
21
Melissa
You'd think the world would slow down after you watch the biggest fight of your life, but that's a lie. Everything after is speed—blood, adrenaline, the twitch in your hands that says the worst is still on the way. That's where I was, crammed between two walls of Scythes and Leatherbacks, the stink of sweat and engine oil thick enough to choke out the morning.
Augustine stood in the center of the circle, still leaking from half a dozen wounds, his right eye already swelling to a slit. The dirt under his boots was more blood than earth.
I kept waiting for the pain to hit me, but it was all numbness. My head felt like it was full of bees. If I looked anywhere but directly at Augustine, I was going to lose myshit and sob for an hour, so I just watched him. He caught my eye and tried to smile. He looked like a man who’d just been run over by a combine harvester and then told to host the afterparty. Even with his nose mashed sideways and his mouth hanging loose, he was beautiful. He was mine.
The Leatherbacks reformed their wall, all black denim and blank faces. They circled up behind Cutler, who hadn't moved from his spot at the head of the pack. He was wearing his funeral suit, black shirt under his cut, boots shining like a gun barrel. He had his hands folded, thick fingers flexing, but even from across the yard, I could see the tendon pop in his jaw. He was barely holding it together.
Damron and Seneca flanked Augustine. Seneca looked ready for round two; Damron looked like he’d rather just shoot someone and be done with it.
Cutler stepped into the circle.
You’d have thought God himself decided to pay a visit, the way the Leatherbacks parted for him. Every set of eyes snapped to him, even Augustine's. He walked slow, a deliberate shuffle that made every boot step count. There was a line of fresh stitches under his left eye, and a faint tremor in his right hand—rage or withdrawal, maybe both.
He stopped about six feet from Augustine, the two of them squared up like it was a fucking High Noon sequel. No one else even breathed.
Cutler’s voice cut through the silence. “You think this is over?”
Augustine coughed, then spat red into the dirt. “You lost, Cutler. Trial’s done. Go home.”
Cutler’s lips curled up, but his eyes were ice. “Saint was nothing. Just a tool. The old way says you take out the king if you want the crown.” He paused, let the words settle. “You want my daughter, you go through me.”
I heard the gun clicks—two, maybe three. Seneca’s hand hovered at his belt, but the look he gave me said this was about to go atomic if I so much as breathed wrong.
