Twenty feet away. Fifteen. And she was still talking.
“I was perfectly ready to make a deal with you,” she said, “but no. You summoned me and refused to make a deal, and now there’s a vacuum.”
Closer. Closer. I could see her clearly now, just uphill of me. She’d braced the flashlight atop the gun, like you see on cop shows. Her bad: she was showing me exactly where she was looking and aiming.
Ten feet. The light swung wide. I waited until it hit its zenith and then launched myself—kicked off the tree, leaped a fallen log, crushed bushes. A shot boomed wildly, and then I was tackling her.
Theodora oofed as she went down. I pinned her between my legs, grabbed the gun with both hands, and wrenched it away. She screamed as her finger snapped in the trigger guard, but that didn’t even slow me down. I whipped the gun at her head, snarling. Her hands went up instinctively, and I hit the broken finger. She screamed again and tried to wriggle away, but I kept beating her.
It was like my blows were doing nothing, like I was weaker than a child. I hit her and hit her, but her skull was too hard or I was hitting her wrong. I whimpered with desperate effort and missed my next hit. She used the opportunity to thrash suddenly, throwing me off.
I was a lightweight compared to her: I went right up into the air and landed on my feet. She tried to scrabble up after me, but I was already moving in, swinging the gun like a bat at the base of her nose. The newly healed cartilage shattered.
I’ve read that shoving cartilage spikes into the brain is fatal, but I guess it doesn’t always work that way. Anyway, she didn’t die. She screamed again, and blood gushed into her mouth.
I didn’t give her time to recover. I kept bashing her with the gun, again and again, harder than I’ve ever hit anything in my life. I broke the rest of her fingers and her collarbone. I hit her until her skull finally, finally broke and brains spilled out and she fell to the ground, unmoving but not quiet—not while her bones snapped and crackled like fallen twigs and black haze gripped my vision.
I blinked and gasped, coming abruptly back to myself, black fading to red fading to real color in the beam of the fallen flashlight. She was dead, injured beyond recovery, her face unrecognizable.
But we’d been here before.
I left her there—holstered my gun and ran for the truck.
Chapter 12:
Homicide
Luc stood by the truck, dwarfed by his canary-yellow puffer jacket, staring at the forest. His bulging eyes focused on me as I emerged, and he made a brief, abortive movement toward me. “Mercedes?” he asked, and I couldn’t have said whether horror or befuddlement reigned stronger in his voice. Then I came nearer, and horror overwhelmed its opponent. “What happened to you?”
Nothing deadly, yet, and if I wanted to keep it that way, I’d better stay focused. I passed him without speaking and headed for the ammo. The gun was slimy, and I had to scrape it off on my split skirt before emptying out the used brass into one of my plastic bags and reloading. Glancing up every few seconds to make sure Theodora hadn’t reappeared, I filled my jacket pockets with enough fresh rounds to reload the gun more than seven times over—though I couldn’t think of any scenario in which forty-six rounds would be necessary without them also being not enough.
Luc had followed me around to the back of the truck, every inch of him pleading. “Tell me what’s going on,” he begged. “Where’s Theodora? Why are you doing this? Mercy, stop and talk to me. You promised that if I came along—”
There wasn’t a rustle from the forest, not a shadow of movement. I kept a wary eye on the road and cliff too, in case Theodora got clever. I didn’t trust her not to come running out of the forest at me, regardless of the gun. She could survive being shot. She was probably up already, waiting for her chance.
It was too much to hope that she’d gotten turned around.
“Get back in the truck, Luc,” I said. “We’re leaving.”
Luc’s jaw worked. He was gathering himself up for something, and there wasn’t time.
“Get. In. The. Truck.” I jerked my head at the passenger’s side. “I’ll explain as we drive.”
He ground in his feet and went even heavier at me. “I want to know what’s going on. Where is she? Is she dead?”
“I wish,” I snarled. I shoved the gun back in its holster, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged.
He dug his heels in, although tears of pain spilled down his face. “THEODORA!” he bellowed. “Theodora, are you all ri—”
“Shut up.”
“No. Get off me, Mercedes. She could be hurt! We’re not leaving her.” He thrashed and ducked, and I found my hand abruptly empty. I snatched at him again, but he’d already run out of reach, toward the tree line. “Theodora, if you can hear—”
I didn’t see where she came from. I blinked, and she stood behind Luc, one arm encircling his neck, the other pressed to his stomach. I shouted, drawing the gun and sighting before I knew what I was doing.
Theodora turned so Luc faced me, showing him to me. Something gleamed in the moonlight, and I realized the flashlight hadn’t been the only thing Theodora had stolen from Francis’s truck. She’d taken his hunting knife also.
The blood had bleached from Luc’s face, and he squeaked as he gasped, “Theo—Theodora? Is that—Theodora?”
“Put the gun down, Mercedes,” Theodora said, gravelly with anger.
I was aiming it at her face, which was peering around Luc’s in a cloud of curly red hair. I said, “No.”
“Put it down. You can’t kill me, but you might miss and kill Lucas.”
I wouldn’t miss.
“This knife,” said Theodora, “is long and sharp, and I will make sure it pierces your brother’s heart if you try to shoot me.”
Her face had healed. Even the scratches from our scuffle down by the river were gone. No blood clotted her hair, and her clothing was clean and fresh as a detergent commercial. The flowers in her hair were back too. I could smell them from here.
“If I can’t kill you,” I said, “then why do you care whether I put the gun down? Why bother to threaten Luc?”
Theodora’s arms tightened, and Luc yelped in pain. “Please,” he gasped, “don’t. Please don’t.”
Theodora tucked her head against his, lips kissing his hair. He looked like a child, enveloped in her arms. Next to her, Francis hadn’t looked so shrunken, but what Francis lacks in height he makes up for in muscle. Luc’s a weed, and he cringed and withered.
With steady hands and time to aim—and I had both—I could shoot her off him. Even if she stabbed him, he’d probably survive. Humans are tougher than people think. Besides, if I shot her in the t-zone—the area where eyes and nose meet—death would be instantaneous. She wouldn’t have time to thrust the knife in as she fell. Then I could bundle Luc into the truck and get out of there before she respawned.
I wonder how differently things would have gone if I hadn’t hesitated. If things would have been better or worse.
“Fair is fair,” Theodora murmured into Luc’s ear. “Your sister tried to kill me, so I will kill you as payment.”
“Don’t, don’t,” Luc whispered, voice cracking, flinching into her—and away from the knife. “I didn’t know. I tried to help you. I didn’t do anything.”
“No. You didn’t do anything.”
“P-please,” Luc said, choking on the words. He was quivering, sweat staining his temples. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t know.”
Theodora nuzzled near his ear, but she made sure I could hear every word. She said: “I’m not interested in what you knew or didn’t know. Why shouldn’t I kill you? Give me a reason.”
Something about the way she said it broke through my paralysis. “Luc!”
He didn’t recognize the cadence. How could he? “I—I’ll help you!” he cried. “I can—computers! Anything. Please, I’ll do anything, just—”
“LUC!” I screamed, finger tightening. “Luc, don’t!”
&nb
sp; “—just don’t hurt me.”
Theodora dropped him and stepped away. He crumbled to the dirt instantly, sobbing, heedless. “I accept,” she said. She raised her eyebrows contemptuously at me. “How proud you must be of him.”
No blood stained the hunting knife. She’d never pierced the skin. Maybe she hadn’t been able to, before he’d made a deal. And now—
My hands weren’t so steady now. My breath hiccupped. But I could still hit her. Might take two shots instead of one but I could do it.
“You won’t hurt us, will you?” Luc whined, crawling away from Theodora, hand clasped to his stomach. I looked away from him. “You’ll leave us alone?”
Theodora snorted. “Babies shouldn’t leave their cribs,” she said. “Go back to the truck and cover your head with a blanket.” Almost before she finished speaking, he was forced to obey: scrambling inside and curling up in the back seat, pulling the blanket there over his head.
As Theodora half turned to watch him, I stopped hesitating. My first shot slammed her backward, stumbling toward the tree line.
I didn’t shoot her a second time. I wasn’t interested in killing her at the moment, though it wouldn’t lose me any sleep—or, I suspected, be effective for more than a minute. I just wanted to give myself a head start.
I plunged around the truck and into the undergrowth beyond, leaping over the first ferns to avoid leaving an obvious entry angle. It was as dark as ever, but I didn’t care. I crashed forward, relying on my boots to stabilize my ankles, one hand warding off obstacles and the other clutching the revolver. I made so much noise that I wasn’t sure if I’d hear her following, but I didn’t think she’d follow. I thought she’d wait by the truck for me to return.
She had Luc, and she had the power to do whatever she wanted with him. She assumed that everything I’d done so far had been personal. She assumed that my brothers were my highest priority, that I’d sacrifice anyone and everyone to protect them. She assumed that leaving wasn’t an option for me.
She was right on one out of three, anyway. Leaving had never been an option. I just hadn’t known it.
I ran and ran and ran, giving myself space to think.
How do you kill someone who won’t stay dead? Who heals from fatal injuries in under a minute?
Who heals from fatal injuries—but not, I realized, from nonfatal injuries. Those scratches on her face hadn’t healed until after she’d died. And that second time, she’d been able to appear out of nowhere—
Not the first time, though. Only after Luc had called her name.
I stumbled through shrubbery, bounced off a tree, and plowed on. No sounds pursued me; I was positive she’d stayed by the truck. I was less positive about where I was, but as long as I could hear the river, I could orient myself.
Theodora was the personification of Deals & Bargains, not the personification of super healing powers or doctoring or endlessly reappearing. She’d clearly arranged it so she could come back from the dead, but maybe not so she could recover from ordinary injuries. The way I’d shot her most recently probably hadn’t killed her, but she’d had a knife. She could force a reset. But what if she hadn’t had a knife? What if she was so badly injured or so trapped that she could never kill herself? What if all four of her limbs were amputated so she couldn’t move, and her tongue removed so that she couldn’t make any deal?
We all have lines we will not cross. I had come to stop her, not torture her. To kill her. To commit homicide. To mur—
No, it wasn’t murder. Not when it was in defense of those who could not defend themselves.
Those who had chosen their fates?
Ah, but she didn’t play fair. And even if she had, that didn’t justify—
I tripped again, and this time I went down. The hill disappeared beneath me, and I was falling. I automatically curled around the gun to keep it safe—keeping my finger outside the trigger guard to keep me safe. Scrubs ripped at my hair and snagged at my coat, but it was a tree trunk that stopped me. Right in the tailbone.
I spent a minute moaning and clutching. There wasn’t any desperate hurry, not now. Only when I found my limbs stiffening did I force myself to move, unwinding my legs and using the mossy trunk to lever myself upright. Prickles exploded in my thighs, and a stitch scolded me for not exercising more often. I cleaned off my glasses with the underside of my shirt, pushed them back over my nose, and looked around.
I’d been running close enough to the ridge that I’d been able to see approximately where I’d been going, as long as I didn’t need to do any fancy footwork. Rolling had taken me right to the edge. I could see the river not far beyond, sparkling darkly and smelling of cold. It was wider here, but it remained deep, swift, and dangerous.
I slipped and slid down the last few feet to the edge and then followed the river downstream, hunting for a calmer place—what we as children had called a sink or swimming pool. As I walked, I replaced my spent round, scrubbed off my used brass, and hurled it deep into the river. Maybe someone would find it someday, but it wouldn’t mean a thing to them. Anyone could have littered it.
After about ten minutes, I found what I was looking for. A couple of boulders stood sentinel along the river’s edge, diverting the water’s flow and damming off an area maybe ten feet by eight. Some water trickled between the rocks or splashed onto their sides, but most of it cascaded away from the shore in spitting rapids. Near the shore, the water swirled in lazy ripples and soporific back currents. It looked innocuous, but I knew from experience how suddenly deep sinks like this could be: first step, up to the ankles; third step, up to the waist.
And about as warm as Antarctica in winter.
I rubbed my hands vigorously over my arms and legs, and then set to collecting the slick rocks and arranging them in loose, unstable piles right at the edge of the sink. I tried stepping on a pile and nearly careened into the river, which was the goal.
Taking great care to stand just in front of the piles, and not on them, I turned my back to the river and planted my feet about eighteen inches from the edge of the water. Then I drew my gun and crossed my arms, so that I was aiming under my own armpit and bracing my gun-holding right arm with my left.
This was my only chance. I couldn’t screw it up.
I was as ready as I was going to get. I took a breath, curled my finger around the trigger, and called, “Theodora! Theo—”
I’d been expecting her. That was the only thing that saved me. One white-clad sinewy arm was already snaking around my neck when my finger squeezed compulsively and the gun roared. Theodora fell back, knife dropping as she screamed and clutched her hip. Loose rocks skittered beneath her feet. Her arms wind-milled as she crashed back into the water.
I followed her in, pushing her neck down with my free hand, knee pressing her abdomen until she submerged completely. She thrashed, fighting to get to the surface, and I kept firing. I shot her through one shoulder, and her arm went limp. Then the other shoulder. Then the uninjured hip. Nothing that would kill her instantly. Shock didn’t knock her out either; she stayed conscious. I think she was trying to struggle, but she was running out of air and blood.
Kneeling on top of her, I dumped my brass and reloaded. It doesn’t take that long to drown, and I couldn’t let her die until I was ready.
Six fresh rounds. I shot them all through her neck. Any one alone would’ve been fatal; after six, nothing but her spinal cord sheath and threads of skin remained.
The hunting knife was right behind me, at the edge of the water. Keeping her head submerged, I holstered the gun, snatched up the knife, and hacked through the last shreds of skin and sinew. Then I grabbed the head by the hair and swung it into the jaws of the hungry river.
The Gyllan River feeds the Bay of Uror, right on the edge of the ocean. Salt water decays bodies more rapidly than fresh. Before long, there’d be nothing left of her but bone.
But I had to make sure. I stayed with the body for ages, before I pushed it beyond the sentinel rocks
. My feet went numb and my legs screamed at me. I shivered in great shuddering gasps. Clouds closed around the stars and wept, but the bullet wounds did not heal, and the body did not move.
Chapter 13:
Spoilation of Evidence
Most murderers who get caught are arrested within twenty-four hours of committing their crime. The twenty-four-hour mark for me was two-thirty Friday morning. I would be able to breathe a little more easily after that. Even if someone came knocking—well, you can’t be convicted of murder without a body . . . and the sea around Argo Navis is friendly to no one.
“Mercedes.” My boss cleared his throat. “Mercedes.”
I focused on him. He leaned one hand on the desk and doodled with the other. He didn’t look excessively annoyed with me, considering that I suspected he’d been trying to get my attention for several minutes. This wasn’t the first time I’d been distracted today. There was the sick fear, of course, that I’d be arrested or that she’d miraculously return and revenge herself upon me or that Francis would find out, but that wasn’t all of it. Memories kept jumping out at me from around corners.
But she had had to be stopped. And if I felt bad about it—so be it. That, too, was a price I was willing to pay.
“Mercedes!”
“I’m listening,” I said agreeably, fake-bright.
A stack of papers weighed down my arms. I’d been in the middle of—something. Recycling? Bringing them to the computer lab?
My boss’s gaze was uncomfortably incisive. I’d promised myself I’d act normally, not like someone who—
Don’t even think it.
I was wearing about five pounds of makeup to cover the bruises and scratches and had to keep sitting down from lightheadedness. If not for the blankets Francis keeps in his truck, and its ridiculously powerful heater, I’d probably be down with pneumonia right now. Luc hadn’t said a word to me on the drive back—
I smiled brightly at my boss. “Wool gathering,” I said. “I have almost enough for a complete sheep.”
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