Page 3 of Enter if you Dare: Part Two

“Here we are,” it says.

As I get out of the truck, the men look at me, their attention turning to the Jester as it slides out the other side. Yet when I pull Rowan from the truck, they seem to relax a little, but not fully—especially when two of the three of us arrive dressed in a way no one expects.

“Rowan?” one of them says. “What the fuck . . .”

I move with no rage or emotion; this is simply a means to an end. Before he even realizes what is going on, the first man is on the ground, his arm broken and a scream piercing the air.

The Jester watches in delight before pulling a knife from the inside of its pant leg as it reaches us; the blade goes in cleanly, then it steps back to admire its work.

Though the second man reaches for his gun, the Jester is faster, throwing its knife and hitting the side of the man’s neck. The Jester quickly bounces over and removes it as the guard drops, blood spilling onto the ground.

In the chaos, the third man has run inside, but the Jester and I simply exchange a glance. Its smile is ecstatic; it’s having a grand old time. “I love my life,” the Jester gushes.

I shake my head, and we walk inside, dragging Rowan with us. The warehouse is dimly lit, but it’s still light enough that we can see multiple pallets of boxes, a forklift, and shelving stacked with boxes. There are also a few men in here who reach for their guns when they see us enter.

I shove Rowan behind one of the pallets, forcing him down against the metal shelving. He tries to pull away the second I let go, so I grab the back of his shirt and drag him straight back. The Jester appears, holding out a zip tie from his pocket with a smile. I take it and loop it around one of his wrists and the frame, then tighten it until he can’t go anywhere. His eyes widen as he yanks on it. I point at him and then at the floor, hoping he understands I mean stay. He stops fighting, so he either does understand or he is too scared to argue.

The Jester has vanished, so I move through the shadows, keeping myself hidden. Brandishing my corn-handled sword, I sneak up behind one of the men. My sword’s blade slides between his ribs like butter, and the man screams. The Jester drops from above and slashes its knife at a second man. The third turns and aims his gun, but the Jester drops to the ground and rolls, slashing at the man’s ankles. Its manic laughter suggests it is having the time of its life.

A man swings at me, and I catch his arm, then twist until I hear the bone crunch. His screams echo through the warehouse.

Another tries to run, but the Jester throws its knife. The blade catches the back of his leg, causing him to fall. The Jester skips over and collects its knife, then leans down and runs the blade along the man’s throat.

“Thank you,” it says to the dying man. “That was beautiful.”

Rowan is frozen where I left him, his back pressed against the metal frame, his wrist still secured, and he stares at us in terror as I slice the zip tie open. There are no more men standing, or they have run. The Jester wipes the blood from the blade as he hums.

A man steps out from behind a row of shelves, gun in hand. “Well, this is not what I expected.”

Rowan tries to run, but I catch him before he takes two steps. I drive my fist into the side of his head, and he drops like a fucking puppet with cut strings, thudding onto the concrete.

“Efficient. I like it,” the Jester says, as we stand side by side and turn our attention back to the man, his aimed gun wavering slightly.

I know this is Steedy; Ares showed me his picture. So I take a step toward the man who wanted to take what’s mine.

“I protect by destroying, I love by consuming, I keep what’s mine by making sure nothing else can have it. What am I?”

The gun shakes more, and Steedy’s face goes white.

“A scarecrow, motherfucker,” the Jester says, and then moves.

The gun goes off, and white-hot pain slices through me as I move forward.

Valli

The paramedics arrive before I can process what happened.

Cipher is alive, despite there being so much blood. But I keep my hands pressed to his chest—I cannot risk moving them.

“Miss, we need you to step back,” the female paramedic says.

I stand on shaky legs, and Noa helps keep me steady. “Will he be okay?” I ask.

“Let us work,” a second paramedic says, while his colleague cuts Cipher’s shirt open.

All I can see is blood.

“Okay, this is good news,” the female finally answers. “The bullet grazed him but didn’t penetrate the skin. An inch to the left and we’d be having a very different conversation.”