Page 38 of Pas de Trois
His eyes and our baby’s look the same.Perfect, green, filled with light and goodness.
We smile at each other.
But then Ezra’s eyebrows raise in shock and he gasps. He looks down and my eyes follow. Blood soaks his white T-shirt, circling outward, the spot growing larger as moments pass. And then he falls to the floor. I jump back, holding our baby tighter against my chest.
Ezra is dead and I didn’t even see it coming.
Oh, God.
Why is he bleeding?
What caused the wound?
There was no gunshot, and I didn’t see a knife. I don’t understand how he’s dead.
He’s dead.
No. No!
I back away until my backside bumps into the edge of the crib. I don’t know what to do. I want to help him, I want to save him, but I can’t let go of our baby.
I have to protect our baby.
I’m still humming that song.
What song is this?
Where have I heard it before?
“Give me the child.” Nikolai’s voice booms from the doorway and my body goes rigid.
Nikolai is dead; he is death standing in my doorway. He still bleeds from his gunshot wound and it drips down to the carpet beneath his feet. His face is pale, expressionless, lifeless. He steps forward and I shout, but then he falls to his knees before dropping lifelessly onto the floor beside Ezra.
I’m humming the song.
I hum it louder as unseen voices swirl around me.
“Give me the baby.”
“That baby is mine.”
“He’s a Mikhailov.”
“He’s a Vittori.”
“He’s mine.”
“Kill him. Kill them both.”
“Stop!” I scream and the voices fall silent.
But then the song comes again, only I’m no longer humming.
It’s....it’s Vigo.
His sound carries from the hallway outside the nursery. The humming becomes whistling, growing louder and louder until he finally appears in the doorway. Blood pours from him, from every part of his body, spilling like morbid waterfalls and pooling on the carpet. He bleeds so much and so fast that it cascades into the room like a flash flood. It spills and spills, filling the space.
And the pool rises.
