The door behind me is flung open with a buoyant smack.
“Gentlemen! Or man. Whatever.” Blood Honey trots through in a whole new cloud sweat—fresh, and dare I say it, he’s the better-smelling body in the room. He reaches for the suitcase and pulls it up from under the table; the shape of Ash pushes through the leather, curled up like a fetus, rocking back and forth. “When I get back, Aeron, you and I are gonna have a little talk. There are things you should know, and when I’m done, you’ll have earned them.”
There’s no hiding his accent now. In his mania, all pretense has fallen away, and he’s full-on Texan. Hidey-haaaw.
Maybe I’m not worse; he just thinks I am. He doesn’t understand that my kind of power didn’t make killing much easier. Certainly not killing like this. There were always eyes, too many eyes—
“Aeron!” Ash shrieks as the suitcase passes. “You have to let me out!”
“I will!” I shout. “Hold tight in there, okay?”
“Let me out,” he sobs.
Blood Honey sighs and shakes his head at me.
“Hold tight!” I yell.
Another door slam.
Another reason to live, dragged away.
Eventually, he’ll come for me. But it’ll be too late, nothing left for me but crimson soaking into the sand outside. I did that once. I laid in a pool of my own tepid blood, and I remember how wet it felt, the hollow sensation of it oozing out. In those moments, I teetered on the edge of death. This is worse.
My nerves bunch in angry arsenals. Fucking DO something, you motherfucking fuck!
“I care, Tuij,” I choke out into the empty room. “Are you happy? You’d better be fucking listening!”
Somewhere below, the waves curve and sizzle in response.
The chair shakes. Quakes. The water roils. I can’t really remember when I started rocking, but then gravity tips sideways and I hit the floor with a painful slam.
***
Ethan’s dead. I know this because he’s squatting beside me, patting my aching cheek and whimpering to himself, a shape made of displaced air.
“Aeron? Boss? Holy crap, oh…crap…”
I moan into the damp, stinking floorboards. Scrape my teeth into the softened wood.
“Oh God. You’re alive, right? Right?” He pats harder, flinching with every impact, like he’s afraid I’ll suddenly snap at him for daring to touch me. When he leans in, he blurs into my vision. Just an outline with a familiar voice.
“I’m alive,” I make myself say, almost as an experiment. “But you…not.”
His voice is jumpy, soaked in adrenaline and fear. “What? I’m a freaking mess, I know, but I—”
My whole body jerks. “You’re alive? We’re alive?”
“Just about,” he wheezes. “Oh, shit. We thought you were fucking done for.”
“Who’s we?” I wriggle, cringing into myself at the shock of pain gripping my body. “Can…can you pull up? Got…water?”
“Uhuh. Okay.” He eases up, still trembling, and grips the back of my chair.
The world swings at a nauseous angle. I hack up sour breath, but no vomit—there’s just nothing left. After a couple blinks, Ethan comes into view: sweating visibly, soaked with it, his hair a rumpled mess and his pale skin almost sunburned to blisters. A patchy, miserable attempt at a beard clings to his jaw.
“Water,” I rasp again.
“Okay! I…I have some…” He pats down his shorts—like he’d be able to stash a bottle in a pocket, or something—and then glances around until he locates a ragged green rucksack. In the pink light of the fading sun, Moshi Monsters gloat up at me with their psychotic smiles. Ash’s rucksack.
Fuck.
“Where Ash?” I bark.