Nocturne

by Heather McKenzie

  Thomas’s dark eyes glittered. They were priceless jewels. They were a reason to go down fighting and not run away or hide. He blinked, trying to find the right reply, and his breathing speeding up warmed my cheeks. “I’m not letting you do this alone,” he said adamantly.

  I sighed and dramatically tossed my hands up in defeat. “All right. Damn you’re stubborn.” I fished the blue pills I’d gotten out of the medicine cabinet from my pocket. “Well, at least take these painkillers so you’re not hurting and so dizzy, okay?”

  He was quick to swallow the pills that he’d plucked from my hand, desperate for relief. I waited until I knew the meds were making their way into his bloodstream, then I clutched his face with my blood-covered fingers. I put my nose inches from his. “I’m sorry. Please trust me,” I said, gently putting my forehead to his.

  “Sorry for what?” he asked.

  Wind rushed in through the living room window carrying the metallic smell of Ben’s blood, surrounding us with the reality of death. I kissed Thomas. I poured as much affection mixed with an apology into the kiss as I could. I let it linger, savoring each moment. His hand met the back of my head and wound into my hair, holding my mouth tight to his… and then he pulled back in confusion. His hand dropped away. I felt his body weaken.

  “What the hell…did you…drug me?”

  His eyelids were fighting to stay open and his words were slurring; the drug was doing its job a little too fast, forcing him to collapse against me. I hoped I hadn’t given him too much.

  “Kaya, please don’t go out there…not on your own… I can’t—”

  “Shh,” I said, holding him tight. “You’ll only be out for an hour. After that, just miserably groggy.”

  And then he was asleep in my arms.

  Thomas was heavier than I’d imagined. I would never have gotten him down the stairs and into our room without breaking his bones, so I dragged him to the next best place—the kitchen. Getting him there wasn’t easy either, though, and I had to work fast, being careful not to bump his head. Sweating from my ears to my toes, I dragged him between the fridge and the island, hoping the appliances would protect him from any stray gunfire. I had no regrets knocking him out, but I did feel a wild sense of relief when he moaned.

  Moving as fast as I could into the living room on my belly, I crawled to Ben’s dead body and took the pillow off his chest. It was soaked with blood—perfect. I was careful not to leave a trail of it as I took the pillow, the knife, and Ben’s cowboy hat with me back to the kitchen. When I lifted Thomas’s arm, it was so limp I worriedly checked his breathing to make sure he was still alive. Thankfully deep, even breaths filled his lungs. Rolling him on his side, I smashed Ben’s hat a bit before carefully placing it under Thomas’s head, hoping it would act like a pillow but look like it had just fallen beneath him. I adjusted his legs, getting them in a more unnatural position, and placed the knife in his open palm—a weapon if he woke and needed it. Trying not to gag, I then squeezed the pillow, pouring Ben’s blood onto Thomas’s chest and the floor around him. He looked dead. And I hoped that would keep him alive.

  “Just lay here and rest,” I whispered close to his ear. “Don’t move, no matter what you hear. Just play dead.”

  I hoped some part of his drugged-out mind would hear me and comprehend what I’d said. The only problem now was there were two bodies in the house and the gunman outside had only fired one shot.

  I grabbed the broom leaning in the corner next to the fridge, then the fruit basket off the counter and dumped it upside down. Balancing it on the end of the broom, I got low and headed for the kitchen table to where another large window faced the yard. The curtains were closed, but if someone was outside they would see a shadow that might look like a person’s head…

  I pushed the broom toward the window, slowly, as if it was someone peeking out of the side of the curtain. Nothing. I moved it a little more, raising it higher as if it were a person standing… and this time, I barely had time to flinch from the whizzing sound and the window breaking when the damn thing blew out of my hands. There was a whoosh of winter air invading the house and I trembled, but only because I was cold; fear was nothing but a four-letter word to me now, one I had no use for.

  I smiled as I got on my hands and knees and smeared blood from where I’d held the broom to where Thomas lay. It would look like he was hit and dragged himself into the kitchen. Feeling pleased with myself, I now knew there no less than two gunmen and they weren’t sent by Henry because he would want me alive. So, that meant this was Rayna. And I felt eager, giddy almost, at the prospect of meeting her face to face and blowing her fucking head off.

  I laughed out loud, and then I laughed at myself for laughing as I got into the hall and made my way upstairs to the bedrooms. Each step creaked under my feet as my hearing started to fully come back. I noticed a high-pitched sound, like an alarm going off. Was it coming from outside? Was it in my head? It didn’t matter. All I had to do was focus on luring the gunmen away from Thomas and gaining the upper hand.

  The first room I came to was Marlene’s; forest green walls, black curtains, and dark-painted furniture decorated a space without a hint of femininity. The bed was unmade, and clothes were all over the floor. I quickly yanked on a pair of her socks and hiking boots and tightened the laces. They were a bit big, but better than heading outside barefoot. The black cargo jacket she’d worn yesterday was on the edge of the bed. I put it on, the smell of her heady on the collar. I got the ammo Thomas had given me, fishing a cartridge out of my bra, and stuffed it in one of the deep pockets along with a pair of Marlene’s gloves. I stood tall. Cracked my neck. And I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and did a double take. The person staring back at me wasn’t weak anymore. She was fierce. Those men outside, Rayna, Henry, and John Marchessa, they should all be scared… of me.

  A strange silence filled the room; the furnace that had been roaring suddenly quit. So did the weird alarm sound. According to the blank screen on the digital clock, the power had gone out. Now I could hear a pin drop as the unmistakable sound of heavy feet trying to walk softly crept over the hardwood floor downstairs.

  I put the shotgun under the bed and retrieved the pistol—it was better at a short distance—and hunkered down next to the bed. Straining my ears and listening carefully, I deduced there were two men in the house. Then I started to cry—well, not really cry, because I was certainly far from sad—but I made an Oscar-worthy, pathetic whimpering sound I lightly muffled by putting my mouth against the edge of the bed. I held my breath occasionally, pretending to stifle my sobs. When the stairs creaked, I knew at least one of the idiots downstairs had fallen for my trap.

  I tugged at the neck of the tank top I was wearing, stretching the fabric to display as much of my ample cleavage as possible. Fluffed up my hair. I bit my lips and pinched my cheeks. Then, with only the bed between me and the open door, I slipped the handgun under the covers and held it sideways. If I was lucky, both men would be together and that would make getting rid of them that much easier.

  “I know you’re up here,” a male voice said. It rang through the silent house, and I recognized it as the voice of the reporter who had come to the door. I took in some deep breaths, and the incredible calm that came over me was almost blissful—I had to remind myself I was pretending to be scared and sad.

  “Don’t hurt me, please,” I said. “I’ll do anything you want… Just please don’t hurt me.”

  The man’s shadow came first, then his hands, armed and gloved, and then exactly what I pictured stepped into the doorway—balding, fat, dressed in a suit with horrible blotchy skin and eyes so small I wondered how he could see. Had Ben really thought this person was a reporter? There was no way.

  “I’m unarmed, don’t shoot,” I said, wide-eyed and innocent.

  The scowl on the man’s face changed to intrigue when he saw me crouched behind the bed. A sick grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Well, you are a pretty one, aren
’t ya? You look like your mother, same dark hair and green eyes,” he said, oozing with repulsiveness. “I was expecting a bratty kid… not—” He paused and stared directly at my cleavage, choosing his words carefully. “A pretty young girl.”

  Depravity clogged his repugnant pores. I wanted to shoot him right there and then, but I needed info. And I needed to know where the other man was.

  “You know my mother?” I stifled a sob.

  This disarmed him. The gun in his hand lowered slightly.

  “Sure do, girlie,” he said, grinning.

  Girlie? It was what Seth always called me. I spoke in the saddest tone I could muster. “My mom, is she here?” I asked, and raised up slightly so more of my cleavage was visible. I put my free hand to my chest, drawing his eye there again, and the disgusting prick actually licked his lips. Fondling the trigger warming up under the blanket was becoming immensely satisfying.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, your momma is here. You’d like to meet her, wouldn’t ya?”

  I batted my eyelids. “More than anything,” I said truthfully, faking a sniffle.

  A new set of footsteps creaked the stairs. A shadow grew behind the reporter, and then the second gunman appeared in the doorway. Tall. Lean. A face completely forgettable. He developed the same disgusting look in his eyes as the reporter had when he noticed me.

  My mother sure kept questionable company.

  “The house is empty. All clear,” the tall man relayed.

  “Ah, good. It’s just us then,” the reporter said. “We have a few minutes to kill…”

  The tall man grinned maliciously and exchanged a mutual look of understanding with his pal that wasn’t lost on me. But they were messing with the wrong girl.

  The reporter cracked his neck. “Me and Gill here are tired. It’s been a long day. So, no running or freaking out, all right? You be a good girl and do as we say, then we’ll take you to see your momma.”

  This was my lucky day; two idiots for the price of one. I reminded myself to pretend to be sad and play dumb. “But are we… all alone?” I asked. “People are after me you know. Whoever shot my friends could still be down there.” I fake sniffled.

  The reporter grinned and gave his pal Gil a ‘boy is this chick stupid’ look, while Gil stared at me like I was a cold beer in the middle of a dying man’s desert. Getting tired of the chitchat, the reporter dropped his gun to his side. Gil followed suit. And now both idiots were lined up like dominos.

  “Promise, it’s just us. Your momma is just down the road. She’s waiting for my call. She wanted to make sure it was safe before she came in the house to see your—” the reporter faltered, and I knew he stopped himself from saying dead body. “Your pretty face. So yeah, it’s just you, me, and Gill on this godforsaken ranch. So we might as well have a little fun.”

  He smiled.

  I smiled back. “I like fun,” I purred.

  And then I pulled the trigger.

  “Sorry for the mess, Marlene,” I muttered after a perfectly aimed bullet ripped a hole through each man’s chest, sending both idiots dead to the floor.

  A black car coming up the drive had me running down the stairs to check on Thomas. He was still out cold, but his pulse was even, his breathing fine, and shaking him slightly and calling his name only got subtle moans. Good. I covered him with a blanket and checked the shotgun. Only two bullets left, but both handguns were loaded. I slipped out the back door, rounded the house and got in full view of the drive. On one knee in the wet snow, I readied the shotgun, hoping to get the attention of whoever was in the car, so I could lead them away from the house. I aimed, fired a shot at the windshield, and watched the car come to a screeching stop. I’d hit my target. With ringing ears, I ran for the bunkhouse and flattened against an outside wall. Gathering my breath, I waited for my hearing to come back, ignoring the pain in my shoulder as I checked the gun. A female voice crept through the void in my hearing… a car door was slamming… a man was yelling orders… Was Rayna here? I couldn’t wait to meet her.

  I headed for the barn, careful to not trip in the muck and mushy snow while leaving behind easy-to-follow tracks. Wrestling with the heavy door, I got inside and was greeted with the smell of horse crap and hay. The big Clydesdale at the back of the barn lifted his head and stomped its feet, making others follow suit. Clouds of horse breath filled the air. I was glad to see the wide doors on the other end of the barn were shut.

  “Oats?” I said softly.

  I’d heard Marlene use that word to quiet the horses. I said it again, scooping up handfuls of food pellets from a sack on the floor. The horses waited patiently for me, their heads hanging over the gates, ears turned forward as I tossed oats into their feed boxes, undoing each latch to their pens as I did. The gates could swing open easily now, but the horses were too busy munching on their favorite treats to notice. They were oblivious to their freedom and me trying to find a place to hide. Except for one—a familiar black horse in the last stall. His ears were perked forward, eyes on me, following my every move as I approached him carefully. He seemed to just know what I was up to. Tossing his head, he avoided my peace offering and shifted his body back and forth irritably. I hesitated to open his gate. He was certainly scarier than the idiots outside and didn’t give two hooves about oats. But now I had to hide and had no time to be choosy; the barn doors were being forced open. So with trembling fingers, I undid the latch of Zander’s pen and got in next to him.

  “I need your help, horsey,” I whispered. “Be nice to me, all right? Ben would like that…”

  Even though I asked nicely, Zander was having none of me. He swayed, scattering the grains in my hand as I invaded his space. His massive body pinned me to the side of the stall, making it impossible to ready the shotgun or even turn around. I was worried for my life until he decided the doors opening at the back of the barn were far more interesting than me. At the groan of the wood, he grew still. His attention was caught by a man marching into his barn, and he wasn’t happy with the intrusion. I crouched next to him and steadied the shotgun.

  The unmistakable smell of pig manure wafted in with the man, fresh on his shoes, and his legs covered in muck were visible through the spaces in the gate. I laughed, imagining him falling in the pig crap outside. I strained for a better look; he was dressed head to toe in a black suit—which just seemed ridiculous—and his head was shaved. With his back to me, his kneecaps were lined up with my gun. The huge Clydesdale in the pen across from Zander neighed, clearly agitated as well.

  “C’mon out, Kaya. No sense hiding,” the man in the suit said, peering into the Clydesdale’s stall.

  I heard more footsteps. The wooden heels of expensive shoes on concrete. It reminded me of Henry walking through the lobby at the estate, and hatred ignited every part of me that felt tired, sore, or fragile.

  “We’ll be quick about it if ya don’t waste our time,” a male voice said. The owner of the shoes, I assumed.

  “Yep. No sense playing games. There’s three of us and only one of you,” another said.

  I almost laughed out loud; these idiots were making it way too easy for me.

  Zander neighed and caught the eye of the man in the suit. He spun around to face the stall I was hiding in. He took a step closer, then stopped, only seeing the top of my head and not the shotgun still aimed at his kneecaps.

  “Found her,” he said. Zander tossed his head up furiously, keeping him from getting any closer. I fought to keep aim next to the ornery horse. “She’s in this stall…” he yelled to his buddies, then lowered his voice and directed it at me. “Just come out of there,” he said icily, “so I don’t have to shoot the damn horse.”

  I waited until I heard those expensive shoes approaching… and then I fired.

  Terrified horses reared up and violently slammed into the gates of their unlatched pens, crashing into each other and clamoring to get out any exit they could get to. I fired again, and could hear the shocked and terrified voices of the men
as the beasts trampled them in chaos. Zander was on high alert, but for some reason remained still. I stayed safely beside him watching as the big Clydesdale was the last to charge through the barn, and, as if on purpose, danced on the man I’d shot before bolting for the open doors.

  Then all that could be heard was moaning, and that meant I’d have to use the handgun to finish them off. I hated using the handgun.

  I made my way out of Zander’s pen to see the carnage left behind. Bloody and in shock or dead, the suited man lay on his back staring vacantly at the roof. He didn’t flinch when I gave him a nudge with my foot. Another, just feet away, was twisted, broken, and barely breathing. His eyes were shut. I didn’t even bother to nudge him. The third was bleeding from everywhere, leaving a trail of muck as he tried to crawl to his discarded gun. I marched over and gave him a good swift boot to the belly. He gulped for air as blood spewed from his mouth.

  “Where is she?” I asked, kicking away the gun he was trying to retrieve.

  Face contorted in pain, his eyes were pleading when they met mine. I expected to feel some sympathy… but nope. Nothing but ice chips tumbled through my veins.

  I kicked him again, then pointed the shotgun at his forehead—to hell with the handgun. This was meaner and messier, and it matched my mood.

  “I’ll ask you again.” I tapped his forehead with the tip of the barrel. “Where is she? Where is Rayna?”

  “Outside,” he muttered.

  “And how many more of you are there?”

  “Two.”

  He wasn’t lying. I found that odd. His sleeve had lifted around his wrist. On it was a tattoo—RCG in thick, black script. “Why does she want me?” I asked.

  “Revenge.”

  “And why are you working for her? Money?”

  This question pulled his eyes away from the ground and up to meet mine. They were blue. Like Luke’s. He wore a necklace—a thick gold cross—and he was clean shaven. He sat back on his heels and stared at me. I had to remind myself this man wanted to kill me. No sympathy.