by Callie Hart
A rotten, foul suspicion begins to gnaw at me. Oh, god. No. For fuck’s sake, no. It doesn’t even bear thinking about. Not even Shelta would do something so vile.
“There it is,” Lazlo says, chuckling darkly. “I told you she was a clever girl.”
Pasha jabs the man in the back of his head with his gun. “No more games, asshole. Just spit it out already.”
“She’s in love with him,” I mutter. “She was jealous. That’s why she threw Sarah out of the clan. That’s why she was so outraged by the accusations you made against him, why she defended him, helped him recover after you stabbed him, Pasha. It’s why she panicked and kept the picture of Corey I brought to her tent that night. She brought it to you, didn’t she?” I fire at Lazlo. “She wanted you to tell her you weren’t involved in the boy’s disappearance.”
“Some women will believe whatever they want to hear,” Lazlo admits.
Pasha’s revulsion is clear as day. He reels back, dismay written all over his face. “She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have anything to do with you.”
“I didn’t want anything to do with her, but she was quite persistent. I realized that cultivating a dalliance with the king’s wife would be useful after a while. Especially once the king was dead.”
“You didn’t hurt my father,” Pasha whispers.
“Mmm. Poison’s a remarkable thing. There are so many toxins that’ll cause the heart to seize. And it’s not as if your people are likely to call in a doctor for an autopsy. If it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, then it’s a fucking duck. Your father keeled over at the dinner table, clutching his chest. He looked like his heart was failing in his chest, so that’s what everyone believed.”
Pasha lowers his gun. The very embodiment of a tsunami, he is the ocean pulling back from the shore, exposing the bereft, bare bones of his pain one moment. He is a furious wave the next, surging forward at breakneck speeds, obliterating everything in his path.
I don’t stop him.
Pasha brings the gun smashing down on the back of Lazlo’s head, and a burst of blood sprays into the air. The man hollers, releasing a wordless gasp of pain as he tumbles forward. On all fours, he tries to crawl away…but Pasha’s not about to allow that. He fists a handful of Lazlo’s dark hair and stops him in his tracks, then brings the weapon down again on the top of Lazlo’s skull with a sickening crack.
“You sick cunt,” he snarls. “Sick, twisted piece of shit. My grandfather, and my father? Why? WHY HIM, TOO?” Lazlo slumps onto the floor. Pasha grabs him by the back of the shirt and spins him over, then takes hold of his collar, suspending him three inches off the ground. “Answer the fucking question!”
Lazlo’s eyes are unfocused; his teeth are stained bright red with blood. “Because I made a promise. After Calliope died, I swore… “
“You swore what?”
“That no Rivin king would…survive. That every…single…one of you would pay...”
Pasha releases his hold on the man’s shirt. He takes a moment to look over the man who has caused him so much pain, who has caused me so much pain, and all I can see is the disgust in his eyes. “That’s why you wanted me to accept the crown? So I could tick the box and assume a role, so you could fulfil your little oath?”
“I was going to let you live. But then you stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong. You interfered in my righteous work.”
A stifled moan interrupts their exchange. Jesus…There’s someone behind me. I swing around, panicked. I’m ready to pull the trigger, seconds away from doing it, but then I see the mane of blonde hair and I come to a standstill.
Oh my god…
Holy, shit, is that…? It’s Sarah!
When the lights came back on, I saw Lazlo and everything else just fell away. I haven’t looked anywhere but at him and at Pasha, standing over him, beating him like a man possessed. My friend’s tied to a chair, slumped over, her body wedged between a cabinet and a shelf, almost entirely out of sight. I bite back a cry of relief as I run to her, momentarily forgetting the two men behind me.
“Oh, god, Sarah. Sarah, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Zara. Don’t worry, we’re gonna have you out of here in no time, I promise, I—” My words die on my lips when she raises her head, her hair back out of her face, and I see the hideous, rough-edged mask that’s covering her face. Her closed eyes are the only part of her I can see; she opens them weakly, her eyelids shuttering, and she meets my gaze. Holy Christ. A loud sob forces its way out of my mouth. What has he done? With shaking hands, I touch my fingers to the edge of the mask, trying to carefully pull off.
Sarah screams out in pain, the sound muffled, like her mouth is full of cotton wool, and I immediately withdraw my hands. This is beyond cruelty or malice. This is an act of fucking torture. How anyone could have done this to her, I don’t understand. “Oh, Sarah…” I whisper, sweeping the rest of her hair back so that it’s not covering the mask’s eyeholes. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. We’ll fix this. We’ll fix it, I swear.”
Her eyes are shining, brimming with tears. One falls, and my heart sunders itself in two. I have to get this off her. I have to get it off her right now. Spinning around, I first take a moment to search with frantic hands through the cluttered, jumbled items on the table top, trying to find something sharp. Anything that will cut through the thick, industrial zip ties that are tying my friend to the chair. I find a box-cutter with a rusting blade and I get to work, sawing through the rigid plastic at Sarah’s wrists and her ankles until each of the ties has snapped and she’s free.
“Wait here. Don’t go anywhere,” I command. Then I turn again, back to Pasha. He’s still laying into Lazlo, the gun gone now as he rains his fists down, hitting the guy so hard it sounds like he’s breaking bone with each and every blow. His hands are soaked in blood, his knuckles split open, and his teeth are bared. He doesn’t look up until I’m standing right next to him.
Abruptly, he snaps back into himself, the brutal resolve that had turned his features to carved stone softening when he realizes where he is and what he’s doing. “Fuck, Firefly, I’m…I’m sorry.” He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, streaking his cheek with blood—his own and Lazlo’s.
Limp as a dead fish, Lazlo grins, displaying two shattered front teeth. He cackles, frothy blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “Careful. Don’t let her see your…true colors, Your…Highness. She puts on…a good…show, but you’re gonna…frighten her away with…your violent tendencies.”
Pasha recoils, as if Lazlo’s words have hit their mark. He drops his hold on the man, rubbing at his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “I wasn’t going to kill him,” he mutters.
Gently, I push Pasha back, and then I drop like a stone, driving my knee into Lazlo’s chest, bringing the gun I stole from Seo-Jun up and pressing the cold, unforgiving muzzle right in between the motherfucker’s eyes.
My finger hovers over the trigger. “I don’t give a shit if he has violent tendencies. I have a few of my own.” I don’t scream. I don’t lash out. I don’t even blink. My tone’s steady and calm as I cock the hammer. “Do not presume to know me, you fucking cretin. Don’t presume to think that you know where my boundaries lie. You don’t know anything about me. Where is Shelta?”
Lazlo’s smile fades away. “Tied up in the dark somewhere,” he says. “I wonder if she saw it coming.”
I lean my weight onto the gun. Lazlo winces against the pain as the muzzle presses into his forehead. “Where?” I repeat.
“It wasn’t supposed to go this way, y’know. You were…s’posed to fall in love with him, sure. But…”
“But what? We weren’t supposed to be better than you? Stronger than you? We weren’t supposed to survive you?”
Lazlo swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You won’t kill me, Calliope. You don’t have it in you.”
A burst of rage flares inside me. I surprise even myself as I pull back the gun and piledrive the thing into his
face. “I’m not Calliope. Believe me, I will kill you if you don’t tell us where Shelta is.”
“And then what? You just let…me go free?”
“The cops can have you. Don’t worry, I’m sure your lawyer will declare insanity and you’ll be packed off to some prison for the criminally insane. Those bastards have it pretty easy.”
Lazlo laughs. “I’m not going to prison, silly girl.”
I lift the gun again. “Then you’re going in the ground.”
Lazlo lifts his chin, staring at me. He’s prepared. Ready. Daring me to follow through. I’ve never been one to disappoint…
I pull the trigger, and the raucous crack! of the gunshot nearly deafens me. The recoil kicks up my arm, throwing it into the air, but it doesn’t matter—I was true to my aim. Not right between Lazlo’s eyes, as I threatened, but in his right shoulder. Trembling, Lazlo looks at the smoking hole the bullet created as it tore through his flesh and bone and buried itself in the concrete beneath him. His eyes are wide, watering, for the first time filled with fear.
Pasha’s behind me. He’s saying something, cursing with fervor, but I don’t really hear him. All I can hear is the ringing from the gunshot, and my own heart beating steadily, evenly, like a tribal drum.
“Crazy bitch,” Lazlo whimpers, trying to reach across himself to press a hand to the wound. I grab him by the wrist and slam his arm to the ground. My finger’s on the trigger, then it’s pulling the trigger. The gun kicks back in the air again, and low and behold, there’s another smoking hole right through the center of Lazlo’s palm.
His scream is loud enough to wake the dead. It echoes around the bunker, up the hatch, and out into the tunnel, fleeing this place, just as I imagine Lazlo would like to flee.
“Firefly.” Pasha’s hand rests on my shoulder. “No more. Give me the gun,” he says quietly.
I could argue with him. He can’t make me hand over the weapon, but…his tone’s firm. He won’t take no for an answer. When I look up at him, his jaw is set and his nostrils are flared, but his eyes are rife with concern. He’s worried about me. Worried for me, actually. There’s a difference. He knows I won’t be the same if I pull the trigger a third time, because I’ll be unloading bullets into Lazlo’s chest or his head, and that’s a very final thing to do. I was ready to do it. I was. I would have been strong enough.
Slowly, I hand over the gun.
“See. You’re not a murderer,” Lazlo pants.
“Maybe not.” I turn my attention back to him. “But you’re gonna wish I was in a moment. You’re gonna beg for death by the time I’m done with you.” I shove my thumb into the hole in his shoulder, mildly surprised that I don’t freak out from the feel of the blood, the sinew, the shredded meat of him giving way and making room for my thumb as I press it in deeper. Yeah, the wet heat of the wound doesn’t feel great, but I can handle it for a moment if it means I get to cause this motherfucker pain.
Lazlo’s piercing scream adds itself to the cacophony of horrors cycling around in my head.
“Zara, go easy,” Pasha warns.
“You were knocking him senseless a moment ago,” I growl.
“Yeah. And you saw I was losing my shit, and you stopped me. Now, I’m returning the favor.”
I dig my thumb in even harder, and Lazlo’s back arches off the concrete as he howls. “I’m not losing my shit,” I grind out.
“Look at yourself. Is this something you’d normally be doing?”
That’s all it takes. Suddenly, I realize I’m kneeling on top of a guy, covered in blood, and I have my thumb buried up to the knuckle inside the gunshot wound that I fucking gave him. Reeling away from Lazlo, I sink back, falling onto my ass, my throat swelling, aching, closing up, making it difficult to breathe. “He shouldn’t have put that mask on her,” I pant.
Pasha’s there, next to me, guiding an errant strand of hair back behind my ear. He’s so pale, even his lips are washed out, devoid of any real color. His hands are steady, though. He’s in complete control. “I know. I know. Don’t worry. We’ll get her out of that thing in a second.” He pushes away from me, moving to Lazlo, crouching down next to the croaking, bleeding sack of shit. “I killed you once. I drove a knife into your gut. I left you to bleed out in the grass, and I didn’t lose a single night’s sleep over it. I won’t have any problem with a repeat performance. Tell me where my mother is, and I’ll let you live. Refuse, and the crows will be feasting on your fucking eyeballs by dawn. Your call. You have three seconds to make your decision. I wouldn’t recommend testing my patience.”
Lazlo’s bravado is gone. His eyes burn with hate as he cranes his neck, lifting his head from the ground. “The Motel 6 on Drover. Room fourteen.”
“And she’s not in any danger of dying?”
Lazlo chokes on his own blood, spitting it out onto the concrete beside him. “She’s waiting there for me to bring her your fucking head.”
Pasha blows out a long, tired, weary sigh. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you lied. And I suppose my mother’s gonna have to be disappointed. She won’t be getting my head today. But maybe I’ll bring her yours.”
Thirty
ZARA
The world seems to be spinning in reverse as we make our way back up to the surface. Lazlo’s unsteady on his feet, but he can walk. Pasha practically drags him up the ladder out of the bunker, and then shoves him down the tunnel at gunpoint, growling and cursing through his teeth every time the old man stumbles. Sarah’s weak and unsteady and leans on me heavily as I guide her back the way Garrett brought me earlier, toward the electrical substation and the ladder that leads up to the van.
The second ladder is difficult for everyone concerned. It's hard to tell if it's an act or not, Lazlo having been shot twice, but he screams in agony as Pasha drives him upward. It takes a series of threats and a promise of even more pain to coerce him up the rungs toward street level.
I come up behind Sarah, letting her lean her bodyweight against mine as she struggles and fights to ascend. By the time I heave myself back into the dirty, stinking alleyway, Pasha's already dumped Lazlo in the back of the Sprinter and is helping Sarah into the passenger seat.
It all happens quickly from there. I scoot in with Sarah on the bench seat, my body pressed against hers as she sobs softly underneath the steel mask that's still strapped to her face. Pasha drives the Sprinter around the block into a parking structure. He locates the Mustang and unloads Lazlo into the trunk of his car, daring him with fierce eyes to try anything stupid as he shuts him inside.
Thankfully the parking structure’s almost empty. Really lucky for us considering we're soaked head to toe in blood. God knows how we'd explain away our terrifying appearance if anyone were to come across us right now.
Pasha is stern, all business as he quickly kisses me on the temple. “Take Sarah home. Keep her warm. Make her comfortable. Wait for me there until I come back. I won't be long. I mean it this time, Firefly. You really have to wait for me. Do you hear?”
“All right, all right. I swear!” I hate that he's leaving us, but then again there's no way in hell I’m letting him bring Lazlo into Sarah's apartment or mine for that matter. If I never set eyes on that man again, it will be too fucking soon.
I drive the Sprinter back to the Bakersfield, and Sarah sags against me, sobbing, as I help her up the stairs. Progress is painfully fucking slow. I've never cared that there's no elevator in our apartment building before, but now I’m feeling kind of resentful. It would have been really handy to hit a button and then be in front of her door without having to labor up five flights of stairs first.
When we reach Sarah's apartment door, I rap on the wood, and Garrett answers a second later. Sarah freezes, paralyzed, and I kick myself; I should have had him wait with Corey down in my apartment. The last thing this poor woman needs is to be confronted by her kidnapper. Sarah doesn't start screaming. She doesn't make a single sound. She just stares at Garrett through the small eye holes in the ma
sk, breathing heavily, and then she bows her head. Neither one of them say anything. In all the time I've known him, Garrett's never uttered a single word. Lazlo robbed him of that ability when he cut out his tongue.
Now with the mask strapped to her face, Lazlo has robbed Sarah of her voice too. Awkward, uncomfortable, and very clearly miserable as fuck, Garrett shifts from one foot to the other in the doorway. He might not be able to form words with his mouth, but his eyes sure are doing a lot of talking. They're saying that he's sorry. They're telling Sarah that he wishes he could take it back. They’re letting her know how guilty he feels about what he did, and they're pleading for her forgiveness.
If Sarah’s registered any of Garrett's silent communication, then I don't know what she makes of it. She doesn't seem to be afraid of him, though. She skirts around him, pushing into her apartment, and Garrett moves out of the way letting me pass, too.
Sarah heads straight to the kitchen, while Garrett shows me to the bedroom where Corey Petrov is fast asleep in Sarah's vast California king bed, his tiny body bundled up beneath her leopard print sheets.
Once I've made sure the boy’s okay, I join Sarah in the kitchen, where she’s rifling through the cupboards and drawers, trying to find something and growing more and more agitated by the second. She pulls a butter knife out of her cutlery drawer and attacks the lock on the side of the scold's bridle, trying to wedge the knife’s blade inside the mechanism. When that doesn't work, she picks up a sharper knife from the block on her counter and tries to jam that inside the lock instead.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, careful.” I take the knife from her. “It's okay. It's okay. Just calm down. We'll figure it out. I promise.” Lazlo apparently told Pasha he had the key to Sarah's scold's bridle in his possession down in the bunker, but when we searched him, we found nothing of the sort. Pasha had threatened him with another beating, but Lazlo had remained stubbornly closed-lipped. We searched the floor of the bunker in the hopes that the key had fallen out of Lazlo's pocket during all the fighting, but no joy.
