by M. D. Archer
Anger.
He starts toward me, slow and deliberate. His eyes are small and filled with hate.
“Loved you in Game of Thrones,” I say, wincing as I stand up.
Boris grunts.
“Not a fan?”
“I have killed many… and all were better than you.”
And how the fuck would you know that, Boris?
I let irritation swell, blossom, and hang for one moment, and then I release it, darting forward to land my first blow. Boris grunts in surprise. I take a step back, to put some space between us so I can scan his thoughts. There is only one.
Strong.
I take another step back and then spring forward as fast as I can to deliver a clanging blow to the side of his head.
He shakes it off. “You should have worn the amulet.” His voice is thick, guttural and toneless. “You should have done what you were told, like a good little girl,” he continues, his lip curling upward.
The amulet.
Chris.
And the kindling that was lit earlier sparks and ignites, and I remember. The fire of anger. The power of rage. It spreads through me. It makes me shiver. But more than that, it imbues me with energy and determination. I smile.
“Didn’t Rica tell you?” I say, my voice also guttural, low. “I don’t like being told what to do.” I deliver a jab to his throat that makes his eyes bulge. He starts coughing, making awful animal noises. I gather all my strength into my right leg and wallop him in the balls. He falls to the ground, hands on his crotch, howling. I lean over him.
“And I’m not a good little girl.”
I aim another kick to the side of his head and then one to his ribs. He gets hold of my leg and yanks it out from under me, rolling away to pull himself up. I spring up and go after him, getting in another blow to the back of his head before he whirls around and whacks me on the side of the face, making me see stars. My nose is bleeding, but so is his. The bones in my right hand are broken, but his ribs are cracked. Bubbly, wheezing breathes escape him in uneven bursts. He swings at me again, but I dodge it easily. I block him and strike back with precise, brutal jabs, calling on the techniques Dana has been teaching me since I Became.
We face each other, panting and bruised, considering our respective next moves, and I read his thoughts again.
Rica didn’t warn me.
Then I know for sure. I’m stronger than him. And so I take him down with blow after methodological blow, blocking his increasingly weak retaliations. Finally, as he staggers forward from my brutal kick to his stomach, I leap onto his back, grip the sides of his head, and I snap his neck.
Chris.
I LEAVE HIS body in the corner of the church.
Pain sears its way through my joints and muscles as I cross the road to Dana’s apartment, but I shake it off because I have things to do. I know now, with a blinding clarity, that I have to take this fight out of town. Boris came to Dana’s to get me, which means that while I am nearby, everyone close to me is in danger.
I wait for the elevator with a tiny old lady holding a dog. I smile a bloody smile, and she smiles a toothless grin in return. We both turn to face the doors in silence.
From Dana’s apartment, I grab clothes, toiletries, wallet, phone, keys, and at the last second, the Consillium dossier, and I get out of there. I text Dana as I leave, telling her there is a dead Enforcer in the church and that I’m leaving. I don’t mention that I’ve taken her car. Better to break bad news in bits and pieces.
I just hope she understands.
TWO HOURS LATER, my eyes gritty from driving and my body aching from fighting, I pull into the first and cheapest looking motel I come across. I don’t know how long I’m going to be on the run, and I’m in desperate need of a shower, food, and rest.
The neon sign flickering outside the Pleasant Palace boasts Wi-Fi and daily maid service as if these are luxury items. When I see a condom in the gutter outside, I wish I hadn’t lowered my standards quite this far. But I’m here now. I need to clean myself up so I don’t look like a walking police alert. I also need to eat, and time to work out what the hell I’m going to do next.
“Help you?”
The guy behind the desk in the reception could be eighteen just as easily as thirty-five. He’s scrawny with pallid skin and age-defying clothes. His eyes are bored but in constant motion, shifting back and forth from the computer to his phone. He has yet to look up.
“Um. A room, please?”
“Just one night?” His eyes flick to me, his head jerking back a little when he sees the dried blood on the side of my head, my ripped shirt, and the raw skin on my hands. I wait, tense in his assessment, then his eyes flick back to his phone. He’s seen it all before.
“One night?” he repeats.
“Um…” How long am I going to be here for? I didn’t think this plan through any further than getting out of town. “Maybe, can I let you know tomorrow?”
He shrugs. “Before 11:00 a.m. checkout.” He pushes a clipboard toward me with a pen resting on top. A registration form. I look at the questions. Name, date of birth, city of origin, address, car make, and license. I tap the pen against the form. Do I fill this out honestly? This information will probably just sit on this form in a file drawer in the back of this office somewhere.
“Miss?”
When I look up and see him looking pointedly at my hand, I realize that I’m thumping the pen violently against the counter. You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself, and bend down to complete the form. I get my wallet from my bag and hand him my credit card.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow if I want to stay another night,” I say.
He nods and hands me a key. Unit 1203.
“My name is Steve. I’ll be here all night,” he adds.
I park outside my allocated unit in this single-level concrete block and let myself into the room. I’m greeted by beige carpet, tired furniture, and the ugliest bedspread I have ever seen, but a good-sized TV. I dump my bag on the chair.
First things first—a shower.
In the harsh lighting of the basic bathroom, my face displays clear evidence of a recent fight. I turn and shrug off my clothes, not wanting to see the damage to the rest of my body, and start the shower, thrilled to feel that the water pressure is decent. I spend the first ten minutes blissfully letting the beads of water massage the top of my head and shoulders. Then, with my broken but fast-healing hand, I scrub at the grime that I collected as Boris was throwing me around the church. Wincing as my hands pass over my torso and shoulders, I see that the bruises are already only faintly yellow and barely visible, also already healing. I stand there under the stream of water and avoid thinking about what I’m doing here, what is going on right now—the fact that I just killed a Lucan Enforcer and I’m on the run from another two. These thoughts appear, but I don’t allow them to linger.
Halfway through the shower, I start feeling woozy with hunger.
I don’t bother to dry my hair before throwing on clean leggings and a tank and gathering up the array of menus fanned out on the top of the credenza. I order a Pizza delivery and then turn on the TV, letting the meaningless images pass before me in a blur. I have kicked into survival mode. The old Tamzin is gone. This one is just living in the moment, only doing what I need to do right now to survive. When the pizza arrives, I devour it. The processed cheese, bread, and assorted meats taste like heaven. As soon as I’m finished, fatigue roars up and I can hardly keep my eyes open. I need sleep. I can’t face whatever is next if I’m sleep deprived. Just before I turn out the light, my phone beeps with another text. I turn it off and roll over.
THE NEXT MORNING I feel a hundred times better.
A quick once-over of my injuries confirms that I have already healed. Smiling to myself—Lucan healing rocks—I go back to reception to pay for another night. I need more time. Steve is still behind the counter, wearing a T-shirt that looks suspiciously like the one he was wearing yesterday.
; “Do you work here 24/7? Don’t you have to sleep at some point?”
“There’s a bed in the back. I only have to get up if someone buzzes,” he explains, taking my card and running it through the machine. “Speaking of which,” he says, “your friend came by about midnight. Said you guys missed each other, but that he would be at the bar down the road tonight.”
A tremor shoots through me.
One of the Enforcers? But why would he make himself known like that?
“What did he look like?”
Steve frowns. “What did your friend look like?”
“I have, uh, two friends I’m meeting up with, just trying to work out which one it was.”
“Oh, right. Uh, he was… uh… had an accent, like Italian or something? Dark hair.”
Not Italian, South American.
Enforcer # 2: Miguel Alvarez. Otherwise known as Miguel the Immortal. Very, very hard to kill.
“Okay, thanks.” I try to keep my voice casual, to keep the nervous tremor at bay. “And which bar?”
“Spencer’s. Just a couple of minutes from here.” Steve jerks his thumb behind him.
I go back to my room, my mind buzzing. Miguel is here, but why would he give away the element of surprise? There must be a reason for it. So do I run, or do I stay and find out?
With a decision eluding me and a stomach complaining loudly, I go check out Spencer’s. My hope that it’s a gastro pub rather than a bar bar is shattered when I see the tacky neon sign, the presence of a gambling section, and the collection of drinkers already slumped along the bar. Whatever, I don’t need fine cuisine; I just need to carbo-load for whatever is coming next. I take a seat in the corner so that my back is protected and I can see the front door, the staff only door, and the fire exit. I order a steak and cheese burger with an extra side of fries. The waitress, weirdly sweaty, frowns. “You sure, hun? That’s a lot of food.”
“I’m sure. Oh, and a large water, please? Hungry and thirsty,” I offer as an explanation. “Sorry, excuse me,” I call as she turns to go. “Is there anything special going on here tonight? Is it a busy night?”
Maybe there’s something special about Spencer’s itself? A reason Miguel wants to meet me here.
“People come and go.” She shrugs and starts walking away.
“What time do you close?”
“After we stop serving drinks.”
“Useful, thanks,” I say under my breath.
Half an hour later, with a gross taste in my mouth from the unnecessarily greasy food, I walk back to the motel. I couldn’t see anything about Spencer’s that made it a good place to take me out. But as I walk back to the motel room, something occurs to me. In his dossier, it said that Miguel was an honor code assassin, which meant he must always face his opponent and give them a fair chance to fight back. So he probably wants to meet me at Spencer’s to officially challenge me to a duel, and tell me what he’s going to do in advance, or something.
I guess I’m going to find out soon enough.
“Hi,” I say, reentering reception. “Hey, so apart from Spencer’s—” I pause to give him a sarcastic thumbs-up. “—what else is around here? Like, there doesn’t look like much along this stretch of road, am I wrong?”
“Uh… we’ve got the train station, which is kind of historical. Some people like taking photos.” Steve shrugs.
“The station isn’t operational?”
“Sort of. There aren’t any passenger services, but freight trains come through every night at 11:00 p.m. Why?” Steve seems to be getting suspicious of me.
“Is there a Walmart around here? Or like, a mall?”
“Closest mall is twenty minutes east, just follow the highway.”
I nod as I turn and leave. My heart is beating a little faster.
A plan is taking shape.
Chapter 35
Number of voice mail messages left by Dana: four. Number I have listened to: zero.
I know what they say. Come back. We can help. Maybe they can, but I can’t put everyone in danger. Look what happened to Chris. What would have happened to Dana if she had been home when Boris showed up? What if one of them had followed me to Mom and Dad’s? I shudder. No, this is my battle, and I’m going to fight it on my own.
A little after 10:00 p.m., I change into jeans, Doc boots, and a fresh tank. I take two of the larger, brutally sharp knives I purchased from The Knife Emporium—a whole shop dedicated to knives—and strap them, sheath still on, to the outside of my jeans. I wind masking tape around to hold them in place and then jiggle around the room to check how secure they are. They hold. Then I test out my new makeshift holsters, sliding the knives in and out of their sheaths from various positions. Not perfect, but good enough. I take the other two smaller knives and strap them to my forearms, positioned so that the handles are closest to my wrists for easy access. I pull on the leather jacket I took from Dana’s closet—an old one I hope she doesn’t notice missing—and check it fits over my weapons and that the fasteners on the wrists can be easily flicked open.
Finally, I stand up. It’s half past ten.
When I pull out of the motel parking lot, I see headlights light up behind me and I know it’s Miguel. A logical assumption, but also, at this proximity I can feel him. I don’t turn into Spencer’s parking lot but continue along the road toward the train station. Panic is rising, quietly but surely. What am I doing? Am I driving toward my death right now? I shake my head. Focus, Tamzin. No time or space for doubt. This is happening, now. I have a plan, and if I can just stick to it, then everything might work out. I park and hoist myself over the chained gate as his car pulls in too. Moments later, I sense him follow me onto the platform.
I take a deep breath and turn to face him.
Miguel the Immortal, forty years old, an orphan from São Paulo. As a kid, he’d been shipped from an orphanage to various foster homes before disappearing from the system altogether. Ten years later, he was found causing trouble on the streets by a Consillium Principali who recognized his potential. An Enforcer for twenty years now, he has a 100 percent success rate. He’s trained in all the deadliest martial arts and weaponry, but his special skill is his healing power. He will keep fighting, and healing, until his opponent weakens and dies. Or he snaps their necks—his preferred way to end the fight. I guess that is what passes for honorable according to Miguel.
In my how-not-to-die tactical session with Vincent and Dana, we decided that in the absence of a machine gun loaded with silver bullets—I asked about that possibility—knives would be the best way to take him down.
We face each other. My fingers graze against the two knives strapped to my thighs, and his eyes flick over my makeshift holsters. A small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. I don’t smile back. If I can sever his main arteries, he won’t be able to heal before he bleeds out. If I can puncture the common carotid artery in his neck and the femoral artery in his groin area, or stab him directly in the heart, I have a shot.
Anatomy class, finally, you paid off.
“Uh… hi,” I say. How do you greet someone who is trying to kill you?
We lock eyes as we take in each other’s size and possible strength. He’s lean, and not very tall, but there is an energy to his stance; his muscles are coiled with power and skill, ready to strike. His black hair is pulled into a man-bun, and with his fitted V-neck sweater and slim-fit jeans, he looks like he should be sitting in a restaurant waiting for his Tinder date to show up.
His eyes harden. “Tamzin Walker, you have been sentenced to death by the Consillium. Do you accept your fate?”
“What?” I say with disbelief. “Oh yeah, totally. I think it’s a great idea. No arguments here.”
“Child,” he scoffs.
“First, I’m called a girl. Now I’m called a child? What is it with you guys? I’m getting younger by the second.”
Miguel frowns with confusion and I wave my hand dismissively.
“So what, you think it’s more mature,
more grown-up to just take some bogus judgement that some assholes have passed down?”
He shakes his head like I don’t have the mental faculties to understand the nuances of this situation.
“Fine, whatever. I’m not going to waste energy explaining how screwed up this is.”
Miguel smiles. He’s waiting for me to make the first move, but I want to see what he’s going to do. If his skill is healing, what is his go-to fighting style? When neither of us moves for a full minute, I shake my head. Fine. I pull out the knife strapped to my left leg and take a clumsy swing at him. This is intentional. I want to lull him into a—hopefully—false sense of security. I want him to think I have no shot at beating him. I want him to get careless and let his guard down. I swipe again, this time aiming for his stomach. He dodges this easily as well. His smile is starting to get on my nerves, so my third attempt is not as amateur. I slash his shoulder, making a deep cut.
The grin drops off his face, and he reaches behind himself to pull out his weapons. Two blunt metal rods. They gleam, even with only one weak light on top of the small building in the middle of the platform. They’re thick and heavy, designed for maximum damage. He whirls them around as he lunges and prances. He’s clearly skilled, but he can’t help showing off. Halfway through an unnecessary overhead maneuver, I plunge my knife into his exposed torso. He staggers backward, the look of shock on his face bolstering my growing confidence.
Like Boris, he has underestimated me.
As he tries to regroup, I lunge again, plunging my knife into his upper thigh, trying to reach the femoral artery. Blood cascades down his leg, but it’s not enough. The blood stops flowing only seconds later.
The smile returns to his face.
I stab at him, but he retaliates. His metal rods are effective, delivering blow after painful blow for each wound I inflict on him. Each time, his blood runs, but he heals too quickly. He needs to lose more blood, faster. I need several wounds in immediate succession, but how? I slip the second knife out of its sheath. Tensing first, I spring forward and slash at his torso, his legs, and his torso again. The panic in his eyes tells me I did some damage, but it’s still not enough. Already I can see him recovering.
