I let the warmth of his hand travel through me. I stepped forward and sunk my key into the lock. Sampson brushed by me and walked into the basement. “Anywhere in particular you’d like to lock me up?” His tone was jocular, but the glint in his eye was hard anger.
I pointed to a heavy steel pipe and Sampson went and stood there, legs akimbo, arms crossed in front of his chest. I dug the old chains from the cardboard file box labeled LAWSON/LASHAY, #351 and quietly brought them to Sampson, opening the shackles and closing them around his ankles, looping the rest around the pipe. Each click was like a dour stab to my heart, and my hands shook as he held out his final free wrist. I tried to avoid his eyes, but something drew me upward. The derisive look of just a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by a defeated one that made his usually clear, sharp eyes look pale and milky. His gaze was a final silent plea.
I clicked the last cuff on and turned my back.
I thought that final click was going to be the worst, but my angst only grew as I neared the door. I wanted to tell Sampson I was sorry, that I truly did believe in his innocence, but the words were lodged in my throat.
“I’ll be back when the sun comes up,” I mumbled to the floor.
I heard the clink of his chains and his long sigh before I pulled the heavy steel door closed and flicked the lock.
The single light in the apartment vestibule was buzzing, its garish yellow light flickering, casting weird shadows over the tiled entryway. I shivered and hugged my elbows, giving one last glance over my shoulder toward the hallway I had just come from. Guilt was a solid black weight deep in my stomach, weighing on my shoulders. I should have felt some sort of relief, or a surge of energy that pushed me to clear Sampson’s name, but everything about me was raw. I was exhausted, spent, confused. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to lie down and bury myself into my mattress, pull the covers up over my head and wake up in another life.
I was drowning in miserable self-pity when I heard the glass exploding. Jagged pieces of marble-sized glass came rocketing toward me and something huge—and heavy—clocked me right between the shoulder blades. I lurched forward, steeling myself against the back wall and trying to categorize what had happened when I felt someone grab me by my hair, yanking my head back until I thought my spine would snap. I heard individual strands of my hair breaking, felt them popping from my scalp like an army of tiny pinpricks. I tried to breathe, tried to take stock of my situation, but all I could do was see that stupid bare lightbulb wagging above my head.
“What the hell—” I widened my stance and pulled back against my attacker, ignoring the searing ache of my scalp.
I scratched at the wall and tried to regain my footing, but my assailant was strong and had the upper hand. There was another tug and I crashed against the warm body. An arm slung around my neck, tightening against my throat and I felt moist breath, hot lips on my ear.
“I should have killed you when I had the goddamn chance.”
I knew that voice: Feng. But it was bitterer, more tinged with poison than I had ever heard it.
“Feng?” My voice quavered. I was almost too astonished to be afraid. I wriggled. “Let go of me!”
Feng’s pit bull grip loosened a hair, but before I could negotiate a step, she turned me and shoved me hard up against the wall, her hair-pulling hand now at my throat. My shoulders ached, grating against the tile.
Feng’s eyes were liquid fire, her mouth turned into the most hateful grimace I had ever seen. “I’m going to rip your head off, Pippi.”
It wasn’t until I pulled my head back against the wall—doing my best to disappear into it—that I noticed the blood. It was on her hands, on her clothes in spatters and streaks, and now burning into my skin. And it was fresh.
“Whose blood is that?”
Flame in her eyes. “You know.”
I felt Feng’s fingers tightening around my throat, her thumb starting to dig into my windpipe. “No, I don’t,” I choked.
Feng didn’t loosen her grip, but she seemed genuinely stunned, momentarily confused. I clamped my eyes shut and channeled Buffy, doing the best—and probably the only—scissor kick of my life.
I felt Feng’s hard belly against the sole of my shoe. I felt her ribs licking against it, cracking, and I heard her breathless groan. Her fingers slipped from my throat, her nails raking across my skin as she stumbled backward, crumbling in on herself.
In one stunned millisecond, she regained her composure and lunged for me. I thought of Vlad’s combat tutelage and angled my body, leaning into Feng with an elbow across her sternum.
It barely stopped her and she laid her entire body weight into me, both of us flying backward, landing with a painful thud on the tiled floor. Her fisted hand clocked me in the jaw and I felt my mouth instantly fill with thick, velvety blood. I clawed at her face, unable to get any swing back for a punch, and tried to remember something defensively effective.
I started to squirm.