by Logan Fox
Not like this.
He’d make sure the tall man would have a decent burial. Christian like, under a tree or some shit.
Something whimpered nearby. For a moment, a horrible, gut twisting moment, he thought it was Eleodora.
He lost his grip on Lars, falling forward and yelling out in pain as his tender skin scraped on the hot floor boards.
Why did he feel torn in two? One half of him wanted to grab her and pull her out with Lars, knowing it was impossible but willing to try. The other laughed as it screamed for her to die in the fire along with Zachary. That the death of two capos was always, always, better than one.
But reason interrupted that frantic train of thought.
Not human. Canine. It was the dog whimpering, not Eleodora.
Kane reached out a hand. If he encountered the animal in that single stretch, he’d bring it with him, because he was meant to.
But if he touched nothing but air…
His fingers brushed jagged fur. Moist, weeping wounds. A collar.
He slid his fingers under that strip of leather and pulled.
A yelp of pain shot through the air, followed by more whimpering.
Yeah, you and everyone else, you mutt.
Kane gritted his teeth, tasting blood and ash in his mouth as he strained forward on his knees.
Heavy billows of smoke obscured the hallway. They barelled past him, drawn to the open front door by a draft that might have come from the back of the fireplace; if the blast had been significant enough—and fuck, it had definitely felt significant to him—then it might have blown out the back wall.
Which might have been what saved him.
Because, if they had built this beach house with concrete or brick walls instead of wood, it would have contained that blast much better.
He’d have been a pulp.
The dog but a smear on the carpet.
Blood and ash painted the walls a reddish black.
Ahead, something appeared from the smoke like a demon.
Finn — clothes blackened, hair singed, open wounds on his arms. A shape dangled over one broad shoulder.
What remained of Eleodora Rivera.
He caught barely a glimpse before urgent smoke piled between them, but it had been enough to know Finn was about to pitch forward.
Kane released Lars and the dog. He forced himself to his legs with a cry of pain, and surged forward.
He tried to grab Milo, but he got a handful of Eleodora instead. Warm. Slippery. She slithered off Milo and onto him. He pushed her off with a hissed oath, and made another grab for Milo.
This time, he latched on. But the man found his balance and tore free a second later, only to fall down in the sand outside.
Where Kane could see he was still on fire.
He spun around and battled back through the smoke, running headlong into a bed before his streaming eyes could focus. He dragged a quilted cover from the mattress and into the en-suite bathroom. Water chugged from the taps, but everything was taking too long, too fucking long.
He clawed out the scarcely wet blanket and stumbled down the hall, coughing so hard he saw spots every time he blinked.
The blanket hissed when it fell over Milo’s unmoving body. Pale steam rose, a testament to the sudden dousing of those incandescent flames.
Footsteps scraped on the wood behind him.
Kane twisted around. He’d expected Zachary to be standing there. Nothing but a burned husk, but still alive. Grinning at him with a skull’s perpetual smile.
Lars tottered to the side, stumbled, and crashed to his knees. The dog he’d been carrying in his arms like a child yelped and went still.
Kane wrestled the now warm blanket from Milo and threw it over Lars where he lay on the porch.
Then he looked up, and saw a pair of feet sticking out of the doorway.
Two, perfect feet. Granted, one had a smudge of char on the inner arch but…
Kane stepped over the dog. His leg gave way when he put his weight on it. He crashed down beside Lars, let out a last cough that tore holes through his lungs, and tried to turn his head away from the smoke billowing out through the beach house’s doorway.
Something licked his ankle.
He laughed, thinking it had been Lars, and then remembered about the dog.
51
Something black
Whoosh. Hiss.
The gentle susurration of waves drew Cora from leaden sleep. She stirred, gasping at the pain even such a small movement spiked through her. For a frantic moment, she thought she’d lost all function in her arm. But when she rolled onto her side, blood poured back into the limp with a fizzing, stinging pain that still seemed dull compared with the slow, agonizing ache that radiated from every limb.
Her mouth was dry. Her lips cracked. Dirty hair that stank of smoke draped her face.
Cora winced and came into a sit. Her clothes were blackened and charred, especially her sleeves and hems.
When she moved her head, something felt wrong. With tentative fingers, she touched her scalp and worked her way down.
Her hair didn’t reach past her shoulders anymore. It ended in a cripsy, uneven line that brushed against her neck. Some of it had been burned off close to her scalp, and that skin was tender compared with the rest.
Tender. She almost laughed, and coughed deeply and painfully instead. She felt like she’d been driven over by something that had fire instead of wheels.
Still too weak to stand, Cora pushed herself onto hands and knees and made her way to the beaconing rectangle of pale light.
A haze hung outside, as if thin clouds had veiled the sun, and a deliciously cool breeze swarmed over her skin, leaving a prickle behind.
A man lay face down in front of the door, one hand outstretched. Beside him, a little further away, lay Lars.
Their clothes were singed in places, sheared off in others. Red, weeping wounds showed on those exposed patches of skin.
Lady lay to one side, silent and unmoving as the men. She had fared little better in the explosion; her fur had been singed in streaks, and she had a gaping wound along her right side.
Where was Finn? Cora’s eyes scanned the porch, but she couldn’t see him.
No.
She spun around, ignoring the pulse of pain this shot through her body, and scrambled back inside as quickly as she could without passing out.
Smoke layered the floor in the living room like a downy grey blanket, shifting reluctantly when she scrambled through it.
She immediately saw the body. Her throat closed around a sob as she crawled forward. The floor was still warm, and that trickle of heat made her skin pulse in warning.
There was nothing but blackened skin and seared flesh on the person’s back. Hair had been singed off, and flames had eaten away at the scalp until only pink bone showed through.
Nausea brought bitter bile surging into her mouth, making her shudder.
She paused, closing her eyes and tamping down her nausea until it flickered away. When she opened her eyes again, a figure stood a few feet away, ash-black robe barely discernable.
Bone clicked on charred wood as Santa Muerte drew near. Cora scrambled back, falling with a yelp of pain on her ass as she tried to kick away from the ethereal figure.
La Flaca studied her for a moment, two faint reddish dots where her eyes should have been, and then bent over the burned body.
Crispy skin flaked off as Santa Muerte’s skeletal hand dragged the corpse onto its side, before letting it fall onto its back.
Cora squeezed her eyes shut, shivering violently as she tried to force away the agonized grin on Zachary’s hardly recognizable face.
La Flaca was gone when she dared open her eyes again. Zachary’s body lay on its stomach, undisturbed.
But she did not need to turn that body over—she knew it was Zachary’s, and he was dead.
Finn was nowhere to be found. Cora did her best to stop crying, no matter how soothing those cool tears we
re on her cheeks, and rummaged through the house for a first aid kit.
She found one just as it began raining.
52
Put some ice on it
Christ, everything hurt. It was like the worst hangover he’d ever had, multiplied by that time he’d gotten sunburn in the Caribbean, squared by every time he’d ever stubbed his toe.
For a while—an eternity, it felt like—Lars just lay there staring up at rough wooden boards. Somewhere in the distance he heard waves crashing on a shore.
It should have been a peaceful sound, but the waves crashed seemingly in rhythm with the agony pulsating through his body.
He groaned when his arm twitched of its own. Then he heard the faint patter of rain — first isolated drops, and then a light but steady stream.
None of those drops landed on him, much the pity, but he had a feeling they would hiss if they did. Was this how lobsters felt the moment before their brains boiled out through their carapaces?
He would never eat lobster again.
Footsteps, uneven but light, made him turn his head.
Cora appeared from the gloom of the beach house’s front entrance. She hobbled a little, and wore a very un-fetching grimace on her face.
Fuck…if that’s what she looked like…
He groaned at her. She pivoted, squinting like she couldn’t see him. When her eyes eventually focused, nothing changed on her face.
His entire body sparkled.
Was that a good thing? It kinda hurt.
She stumbled closer, walking wide of Kane’s body, and half-fell, half-collapsed next to Lars.
He wanted to say something, but just breathing took enough out of him. Somehow, he thought she wanted to say something too, especially since her lips kept moving.
Then he realized she was trembling. Crying.
“Wha—?” he managed. He could have made a fucking excellent demon; he had the right voice for it.
A broken sob tore from Cora. She sat back, lifting her hands before letting them fall down again.
“I d-don’t have enough b-b-bandages.”
Lars laughed. And then coughed. And then almost fucking died from the pain. “Rip up something,” he suggested in a croak worthy of any Stephen King novel.
So she pulled off her shirt, and ripped up what was left of it.
And he had no intention of complaining.
. . .
Finn opened his eyes a crack, and then quickly closed them again. They felt grainy and puffy. In fact, everything felt grainy and puffy—his eyes, his skin, his head.
Voices bickered above him, swarming in and out of earshot.
“…didn’t think to mention that?” came Lars’s voice.
“I did!” Kane yelled. “Soon as I’d figured it out!”
“Yeah, a second before the explosion is always the best time to figure these things out.”
“Fuck you, man.” Kane sounded raspy; in fact, they both did.
“I suppose you think you saved my life or something.”
“I literally did! Literally!”
“Yeah, well, don’t let it get to your head, you arrogant piece of—”
Finn groaned, and Lars’s voice cut off.
“Shit, Milo? How you feeling, buddy?” Cool hands brushed the top of his shoulder.
He didn’t want to open his eyes, but he also couldn’t bear to let himself slip away again.
“The light,” he croaked. A soothingly dark shadow fell over him. He risked opening one eye to a slit. He took a while to focus on Lars’s concerned face, but when he did the man attempted a grin.
He might have succeeded, but the movement looked painful. Red splotches covered his normally pale skin, and his hair had been singed off in a few places.
Finn tried to speak, but his mouth was too parched. Lars twisted away, returning with a chip of ice that he gingerly slipped between Finn’s mouth.
“Better?” Lars asked.
He tried a nod, but his neck was stiff and resistant to movement.
“I should probably go check on the dog,” came Kane’s voice, the sound growing faint as the man moved away.
Finn focused with effort, and got a vague sense of a room with wooden walls. Everything was white; the paint, the furniture, the lace curtains billowing behind Lars.
He opened his mouth, but Lars pressed a finger to his lips. “You were the hardest hit, so you need to rest now, not speak.”
His brain was a strange, muddled place. If he tried to think back, all he found were flames and a guttural howling that made him want to puke.
Lars slipped another chip of ice between his lips. The man shifted where he’d perched on the edge of the bed Finn lay in, wincing at the movement.
“Look, it could have been worse, right?” Lars said, his eyes moving half-heartedly over Finn’s face. “I mean, you’ve still got all your limbs. There’s that.”
Could have been worse?
Finn tried to move his body, but it lay limp and unresponsive on the bed. He opened his mouth, but Lars widened his eyes in warning so he closed it again.
“You got a ton of painkillers in you. I’m shitting myself for you at the thought that they’re gonna wear off—” Lars glanced away, and then turned back “—but fuck it, you’re alive. At least, when you’re hurting, you’ll know that more than ever. Rather hurting than dead, amiright?”
Finn gazed up at Lars, becoming aware of a deep throbbing throughout his body. It was dull, muted almost, at the cusp of sensation.
He didn’t want the painkillers to wear off either.
“Lemme get you up to speed at least,” Lars said, although sounding reluctant to do so. “You’re alive.” He touched fingertips to his chest, grimaced, and then dropped his hand to the bed. “I’m alive, obviously. This isn’t a dream. You’re not dead and I’m not a dead person. Right, you keeping up?”
Finn managed a tiny nod. He would have smiled if he could.
“Awesome. Kane’s alive, obviously.” Lars moved his head from side. “It’s not like I was bitching at myself.” He narrowed his eyes. “That guy’s got a real attitude on him. Apparently, Zachary was holding a dead man switch all along. So, when you took a shot at Cora—” Lars broke off, leaning conspiratorially closer to Finn as he murmured “—that was just to get a better shot at Zachary, right? Because you hit her in the shoulder, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t miss.” Then he straightened again, waving as if to dismiss the question. “Anyway, the switch went off when you shot Cora. According to Kane. Zachary obviously thought you’d shot him, he stopped holding down the switch, we were all blown to kingdom come, yada yada…”
“Lars,” Finn croaked, grimacing how the word stung his throat.
Lars turned back from the distant stare he’d been sending out the window and gave a brief smile.
“Bailey almost died of exposure, seeing as Kane had knocked him out and tied him to a tree.” Lars glanced back at Finn, looking as if he was trying to scowl. “Told you that fucker’s got an attitude problem. But…he saved my life, so I guess I can’t be too mad at him. Bailey’s sworn vengeance on him, of course, but I think he’ll wait until we’re back in North America before trying anything.”
“Lars.” Another croak, this one hoarser than the last.
“Oh, right.” Lars fed him another ice chip before speaking again. “Yes, the dog’s alive. Real champ, that one. Cute, too, once you get over all the scars and stuff.”
Finn’s fingertips trembled, brushing against the back of Lars’s hand. When the man looked at him, Finn stared hard at him, willing him to utter the words he needed to hear.
Lars let out a long breath, and gave Finn a rueful smile. “She’s alive. Our Cora’s alive.”
Finn managed another stiff nod. His eyes fell closed, and he slipped away. The last thing he heard was Lars’s panicked voice.
“Milo? Milo!”
53
Someone to protect her
Finn started awake. He opened his eyes to a
n unfamiliar place; satin wallpaper he wouldn’t be surprised had flecks of actual gold inside. When his fingertips twitched, they brushed Egyptian cotton. The air was tempered; not too hot, not too cold. Orchids scented the air and, when he turned a stiff neck, he saw a slender pot in one corner of the massive room.
He took a moment to realize he was hearing music; he’d assumed the steady thump he’d been feeling had been his heart, but it was a bass line. It had to be loud if he was hearing it through the walls.
A headache pulsed sullenly in his head, but it felt more familiar than the room or the strange bed he lay in.
Maybe he’d had it for a while.
A fragment of memory; Cora’s body ricocheting backward, her mouth an ‘o’ of shock. Eyes drilling into him, demanding to know what she’d done to deserve his bullet.
Finn blinked, squeezing moisture from his eyes so it would stop stinging him.
Where in the name of fuck was he?
He pushed himself into a sit, wincing as that did something painful to one of his ribs. His breathing came with difficulty, and several stripes of pain lashed out across his body when he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He wore bandages on each leg. More around his waist. Three on one arm, and one on the other. An IV drip speared into the crook of his elbow, although the pain of jerking it out was insignificant compared with the whole-body ache he had to contend with.
As if summoned by his waking, he heard a door open and turned to face it.
Fuck. He was hallucinating, wasn’t he? Or was this another of those crazy dreams he kept having?
Cora stood in the doorway, radiant as an angel.
The same Cora he knew and loved, but different. Her hair cropped just below her ears, sleek and shiny how it lay against her scalp. Her neck, now swan-like, curved delicately into narrow shoulders. She wore a strappy dress that came just above her knees, showing off a round scar that marred the skin just below the curve of her deltoid.