Page 117 of Decimation

“What…”

I don’t let him finish.

The dagger is in my hand before I consciously reach for it. It’s a slender thing, elegant, the blade no longer than my palm. It was a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday. He told me a man should always have a blade that can be concealed, that can be drawn in a moment, that can end a life before the victim even knows they’re dying.

I’ve carried it every day since.

“You’re lucky,” I say, and my voice is calm now, eerily calm, the calm of a sea after the storm has passed, “that I have to make this quick, that I have to make this quiet. Otherwise I would take my time with you, Charles. I would show you exactly what happens to men who betray me.”

He’s still stumbling, one hand pressed to his bleeding face, the other reaching out blindly for something to steady himself. His mouth is open, trying to form words, trying to bargain, explain, or beg. It doesn’t matter. Nothing he says matters anymore.

I step forward, into his space, and I drive the blade upward.

It slides in under his chin, through the soft flesh, through the muscle, through the artery that pulses there with the last frantic beats of his heart. The steel is so sharp I barely feel resistance. It’s like cutting silk, like sliding a key into a lock.

His eyes go wide. His mouth opens wider, but no sound comes out. Just a wet gurgle, a bubbling rush of blood that spills over his lower lip and down his chin, staining his white shirt crimson.

I step back.

He stands there for a moment, swaying, his hands now clutching at his throat as if he can somehow hold the life inside.

Then his knees buckle.

He goes down hard, collapsing sideways, his shoulder hitting the floor first, then his head. The impact makes a dull thud. His legs twitch once, twice, and then go still.

I stand over him, watching the light fade from his eyes, and I feel nothing.

No satisfaction.

No regret.

No anger anymore.

Just a vast, empty stillness where those emotions used to live.

The first thing I feel is pain.

It’s everywhere, a searing, relentless agony that turns my body into a prison of raw nerves and shattered hope. A dull, throbbing ache pulses through me like a second heartbeat, but it’s the sharper; stabbing pains that make me gasp, my ribs, my wrists, the tender places where his fingers dug in and refused to let go. My head feels like a swollen, fogged mess, my limbs pinned under the weight of something invisible and crushing.

I try to move, and a scream tears from my throat before I can stop it, the sound ragged and inhuman.

Where am I?

The question splinters through my mind, frantic and formless.

Konstantine. His hands, his voice, the way he laughed while I broke. Ines. Oh God, Ines. The memories rise like bile, and I choke on them, thrashing against the bed as if I can escape what’s already inside me.

I force my eyes open, but the world is a blur of shadows and muted gold. The room is large, opulent, wrong. High ceilings, heavy drapes smothering the light, sheets that slide like silk against my battered skin.

This is not my room. Not anywhere safe.

Panic detonates in my chest. I lurch upright, ignoring the fire that lances through my body, and my feet tangle in the covers. I claw at them, at my own skin, needing to get out, needing to run, but my legs give way and I’m falling…

Strong arms catch me before I hit the floor.

“No, let go of me!” I scream, bucking and twisting, my voice cracking into something feral.

I beat at the solid warmth surrounding me, my fists glancing off muscle and bone, and when that doesn’t work, I turn my nails on myself, raking at my arms, my face, anything to ground the chaos inside.