SICK HEART

by Huss, JA

  It’s not gonna be good. It’s gonna be evil. People don’t stop talking after amazing things happen. They stop talking because they have lost all control over everything else in their life and this one act of defiance is all they have left.

  But Udulf and Lazar. There is something there. Something that feels like a threat. To her, for sure, but to me as well. Maybe even Maart, and Rainer, and Evard.

  And if it were just me in danger, then fuck it. I’d fight my way through it. But when I asked Udulf for the chance to fight for Maart, and Rainer, and Evard, I tipped my hand. And now he knows what I find dear.

  I will walk away from the rest of them, but not those three.

  So I need to know what I’m up against. I can’t afford to let Anya Bokori wrap her secrets in silence. Not if knowing them will keep me and the only family I have left safe.

  But I know how to play people. I know how to get what I want when I want it. I know how to lie, and cheat, and steal with the best of them.

  More importantly, I have the sick heart. I can turn that shit on and off at will.

  I can stop caring. Easily slip in the skin of a cold-blooded killer. A very patient, very slow, very deliberate cold-blooded killer. And I do that now when I reach for her and pull her close, when I kiss her head and wrap my arms around her like a warm blanket.

  I lie to her with these actions. Because they tell her she is safe. And she is not.

  Not from Udulf.

  Not from Lazar.

  And certainly not from me.

  I love three people in this world. And everything I do, I do for them.

  But her guard is down. I didn’t plan this day for that reason, but it is the final outcome. And of the many ruthless things I’ve learned over my twenty-seven years of life, the one at the top of the list is, Give people what they expect.

  If I had tried this yesterday, she would’ve been suspicious. But after a long, soft, slow day she expects a long, soft, slow night.

  So that’s exactly what I give her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - ANYA

  His arms wrap around me like a warm cloak, his chest rising and falling against my back in a slow, easy, predictable rhythm. I can feel his lips on the back of my neck, not kissing me, just… there.

  My body stiffens as I hold my breath. And he feels this. He is in tune with me. Because his arms tighten a little, offering me comfort. It’s OK, his arms say. We’re safe, his slow breathing proclaims. And even though I know better, I exhale and decide to believe him.

  I am safe, at least from outsiders.

  But from him? I’m not so sure.

  Today was good. I did faint from hunger and bang my head, but I got two meals today and my wound is clean and cared for. He didn’t make me train. In fact, our day was pretty fun. The puzzle was a nice surprise, because my home base was there in that picture. And the memory of it was always sweet. It was always nice to go to that place in Paris. It would wipe away everything that had just happened. All the awful weeks that led up to Paris would be swept away and I would be rewarded with shopping, and bathtubs, and an older, careful woman who only spoke Hungarian. And even that was nice. As much as I hate to admit it, the Hungarian, like Paris, felt like home.

  I don’t have a lot of sweet, soft memories so what are the odds that, on this sweet, soft day with the killer called Sick Heart, I would find my home base in a puzzle on an abandoned oil rig?

  I couldn’t even begin to calculate those odds, but surely they are one in a billion. One in a trillion.

  But the point is, this slow, sweet night isn’t entirely out of place. One thing leads to another. That’s how we got here.

  So why am I so suspicious of him?

  Hmm, Anya. Why indeed? He’s a mentally unstable professional killer who just won you in a fight, plopped you down on a crumbling rig in the middle of the ocean, and has a creepy game room tucked away filled with things only children can appreciate.

  It should make sense. He felt sorry for me this morning. That led to a break in his schedule, which led to extra food, and fun times in a game room clearly meant for the younger kids in his training camp.

  That’s all this is. It’s very clear. It all makes sense. Up until the point when he asked me why. Why don’t you talk, Anya?

  I’ve been asked that question thousands of times. Hell, Bexxie alone has asked it a few hundred, at least. I’ve never answered any of them, so I’m sure as hell not going to answer Cort van Breda.

  But it was a tell. A sign that he is playing me.

  And he’s good, I’ll give him that. Because I would like nothing more than to melt my back into his chest and let him make me feel safe.

  Instead, I just feel sad, all the good of this day wiped away from his deception. So I turn onto my stomach, breaking his tight hold on me, and just close my eyes to make it all go away.

  I wait for a little before letting myself drift off. Wait to see if he will accept my rebuke, or fight it.

  He doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t even seem to notice. Maybe he’s even asleep. But I doubt it. He’s a predator and they live in the night. They know how to use the darkness to their advantage.

  But I have been hunted by predators far more dangerous than he is my entire life.

  And I know how to be silent and slip away.

  When I wake in the morning, Cort is over near one of the nests petting a super-sized chick. I don’t move. Don’t let him know I’m awake so I can watch.

  He must’ve just woken up because his sleeping mat is in his other hand, like he was just about to take it downstairs to the training floor. He has a crooked smile on his face as one of the parents wanders up to him, extending its open beak towards Cort in what I might consider a threatening gesture. But Cort just gives the giant creature a scratch on the head, and the bird closes its eyes in grateful happiness.

  I don’t understand this man. At all.

  He feels very human. But I saw him. With my own eyes. I saw him drag that knife across Pavo’s neck, then down the length of his torso, then literally rip his heart out and throw it at Lazar before dragging Pavo across the helipad and throwing him off the ship.

  And fine. I helped him with all of that. But my role in that night was circumstance. It wasn’t something I do for a living.

  He looks over his shoulder at me, like he can feel my gaze. He nods his head at me, smiling, then beckons me with a crooked finger.

  I get up, grab my mat, and follow him down the stairs. We drop our mats off, then he goes inside the kitchen. I follow, holding my breath to see if we will get breakfast. And we do. Not rice—he must not be in the mood to cook, because he hands me a strip of dried fish.

  I look at it dubiously. Yesterday I would’ve gobbled this up, no questions asked. But I’m not that hungry today. Still, if I refuse, he might not feed me tonight. So I take it, smile, and begin gnawing on it like jerky.

  Cort finishes his food quickly, letting the long strip hang out of his mouth as he pokes around in the clinic, and by the time he points to one of two chairs, directing me to sit, he’s done eating.

  I sit on the chair and he maneuvers a rolling table between me and the other chair and orders me to put my hands on it. I do, and he sits and begins peeling off the old wrappings. Then he fills a bowl with hot water and salts, motions for me to place my hands inside, and gently rubs the dried blood away. When my knuckles are clean, he begins massaging my palms, the pads of his fingers and thumbs pushing into the muscles, kneading them and loosening them up.

  This feels quite nice and I begin to question my conclusions about him. Maybe I was being overly cynical last night about his motives? Maybe he isn’t a monster?

  It’s so hard to tell. It’s so hard to know if I should assign malice to the things he does. That game room, for instance. It could mean he cares about the kids he trains. And that’s probably everyone’s first impression.

  But I’ve seen things like that before. I’ve seen how tricky predators can be with children. Think about it
. What better way to lure a child into the demon’s den than to entice them with innocent, childish things? That game room could be the equivalent of a man in a white van asking a kid if they want some candy.

  Nothing is what it seems. Not where I come from.

  And I hate that. I really hate that. I wish I could just look back on yesterday and appreciate the puzzle and games as something innocent. I wish I could just enjoy the way he’s touching me right now. But instead I have all this suspicion.

  When I glance up at him, he’s not looking at me, all his attention focused on my hand. He drops it back into the bowl of hot water and picks up the other one, repeating his slow massage. And I can’t help it. My shoulders drop and I begin to relax a little.

  He glances up at me, noticing the change in my posture, and offers me a small smile.

  I look away. I’m not going to fall for it. I’ve seen too much to fall for it.

  After about a minute, Cort takes the bowl away and places it in the sink. Then he comes back with a towel and pats my hands dry.

  He motions to me with his fingers. Stand up, I think he’s saying. So I do. And he turns my chair around so the seat back is facing him, then directs me to sit and rest my right forearm on the top.

  I do this and he begins wrapping my wrist and hand with gauze, stopping briefly to add a thick wad of cotton padding over my knuckles. He motions for me to make a fist, and open my fist, and make a fist again dozens of times as he carefully winds the gauze through my fingers, over my knuckles and thumb in a figure eight, and around my wrist. It takes several minutes for him to finish and by the time he’s done, everything is tight with tape.

  He does the other hand as I watch, then he stands up, puts his chair back and begins to box the air, bouncing on his feet, twisting his hips, and making hissing sound effects as he punches. Then he points to me and I roll my eyes, embarrassed. But just as I do that his hand darts towards me and slaps my cheek.

  I back up, startled. What the fuck?

  He does it again, not smacking me hard or anything, but still. What the hell?

  He pauses his bouncing and shakes his head. Then he brings one fist up to his cheek and points to it, then to me.

  Oh. I get it. I’m supposed to block him. I put my hand up to my cheek but before I can even process anything else, he slaps me again, this time harder.

  I back up, but he takes a step forward. So I back up again and hit the cot. This sends me falling backwards onto the thin mattress.

  Cort pauses and shakes his head, then offers me a hand and pulls me to my feet. He leans into my face so we are eye to eye. Then he takes my left hand and places it against my cheek, gripping my fist firmly in his, like he’s making a point.

  I get it. He wants me to leave my hand there to protect my face, but then he just smacks me on the other cheek instead. I swing at him, backing him off.

  He finds this delightful. Because he’s smirking at me, bouncing from one foot to the next as he circles me in a fighter’s dance. He points to his cheek. Hit me.

  You don’t gotta tell me twice. I swing, but he blocks me and dances out of the way, smacking my cheek again. Only this time, it fucking stings. Dick.

  He’s smiling big now, throwing fake punches at me with one fist as he points to his cheek with the other.

  I just stand there. Why even bother? I’m never going to make it past his blocks. So I just leave the clinic and walk out to the training platform. Because if he took almost an hour to wrap up my hands, there is no chance we are going to spend today doing puzzles.

  He follows me out, picks up our jump ropes, throws mine at me, and then he starts skipping down the length of the platform. Doing all kinds of crazy things with that rope.

  I jump. And I don’t complain. He fed me, wrapped up my hands, and let me rest for a whole day. I have no excuse today so I jump.

  We do this for what seems like a very long time. At least an hour because I start and stop about a hundred times, so out of breath, so out of shape, it starts to become embarrassing. Because Cort is doing hops, and double jumps, and these high-jump things, and never once does his rope get caught in his feet.

  Being around him on the training platform is nothing but a long lesson in self-loathing. I am not unfit. I sigh. I’m just not… fit, either.

  This makes me chuckle a little and when I look over at Cort, I find him watching me. He finishes his skipping, takes my rope, as well as his, and tosses them both onto the floor near the wall. Then he points to the chalkboard with my name on it. It still has yesterday’s schedule of drills one, two, and three on it. I don’t even remember what they were.

  But Cort directs me onto the mat and shows me again. Baby-step punch, retreat punch, hip-pivot cross.

  Right. Got it.

  I do them and he watches for a little bit, coming in to correct my form and then stepping back several times. Then he nods and gives me the signal to keep going and takes himself over to another mat where he begins some slow martial arts-type shit I haven’t seen him do before.

  His back is to me, so even though I don’t stop my drills, I don’t really pay attention to them, either. I pay attention to him. The way his back muscles stretch as he does a series of slow moves that look a little bit like tai chi. He has one massive piece of art on his back—two full-body skeletons doing martial arts. One of them has lost a leg, one only has a single arm. They are bleeding from the eyes and their mouths are x-ed out with black electrical tape. The one with two hands is signing something. I don’t know what that sign means, I just know it’s a sign. And there’s an angel—a little girl with no face and soft, feathery wings—floating between his shoulder blades.

  All around the two fighters are people watching. Dead people. Decaying people. All of them with x-ed out eyes.

  It’s a fight, of course. One of his, probably. He pivots on the mat so we’re facing each other again. I am still moving my feet and my hands, but my effort is all very who-gives-a-fuck.

  Suddenly Cort is coming at me, fist in front of him, punching the air. I back up, but he sprints and then he’s slapping my face again. Only this time, he’s not playing. It fucking hurts.

  He dances a circle around me, jabbing, trying to hit me. Well, not trying very hard. More like threatening to hit me. Then he points to my fist and places his fist against his cheek, telling me to block.

  Fuck that. I shake my head, letting him know I’m not playing a losing game with him again, but the sting from his next slap makes me gasp out loud. And that sting lingers as heat for many seconds as I just stare at him in pissed-off rage.

  I flip him off and he laughs. Out loud. It’s low, and deep, and for a moment it stuns me and I get lost imagining what his voice really sounds like.

  Deep, I think.

  And just as those words flash though my head he’s got me by the legs and I am slammed into the mat so hard he knocks the wind out of me. I gasp for air, sucking in with a sick wheezing sound. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pins me, knees gripping my hips, and places his head into the crook of my neck and whispers, “You better fight back, Anya. Because if you don’t, I’ll make you wish you had.”

  Then he’s up. Bouncing back on the mat. Hands in front of his face like I am some kind of threat.

  I get up on my hands, scooting backwards. What the fuck?

  His words echo in my head. He said them in a soft voice, but they were not soft words. That was a threat.

  He points to me, then lifts his finger in an upward motion, telling me to get to my feet. When I don’t, he rushes forward and sweeps his foot just over the top of my head. So close, I feel the wind he creates against my hair.

  I am breathing so hard, I’m gasping, still not able to draw in a full breath from the hard fall. But I scramble to my feet and quickly step away from him.

  His eyes narrow on me. Like he’s zeroing in on his target.

  What the hell? I can’t fight this man.

  He dances forward and jabs at me, his fist coming
so close to my face, I swear I feel the kiss of his knuckles against my lips. I strike, hitting him in the neck, and he laughs, bouncing backwards out of reach. Then he nods, and beckons me with his fingers. Daring me to do it again.

  But before I can plan anything, he’s already slapped my face again. And he’s not playing. Because that shit hurts. And in the half-moment that I’m thinking those words, he slaps me again.

  I rush him, swinging wildly. He doesn’t back off. He covers his face with his fists and lets me land every single punch. Mostly I punch his hands, which is stupid, but I get one past them and hit his throat.

  He starts coughing as he bounces backwards. Well, it might actually be a laugh and not a cough. But I did hit him.

  He smiles as his feet stop and his posture straightens. His fists fall down to his chest and he nods at me.

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to talk again. But he doesn’t. He just points to the mat and quickly runs through my series of drills. Putting a lot of force behind the fake punches and a lot of effort into his feet.

  Then he stops again and points to me, narrowing his eyes and growling. A clear threat that says, Do not half-ass your work in my gym.

  I let out a long breath and salute him with two fingers.

  Message received, Sick Heart.

  Then I turn my back on him before he can say anything else and get back to work.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - CORT

  Anya came out here this morning thick with memories of yesterday’s soft landing. Hazy with the kindness I showed her in the clinic as I wrapped her hands. Comforted with the extra food I put inside her belly.

  I knew she would. That’s why I turned my back on her when I started the kata. I have trained hundreds. I am not a fool. I know that when I turn my back the natural instincts kick in. Few people work harder when they can get away with working less and Anya is nothing special. It is only when you are watched—only when you think your effort might be rewarded—that you put in full effort.