My body felt frozen as I stared down, the gun pointing at my heart. But Laney’s shocked and terrified face jolted me into action, a primal urge to protect her, to hurt the thing that threatened her, and I started to move.
Even as my muscles tensed, ready to drive me forward, I felt the impact of the bullet, the air punched from my lungs. I saw muzzle flash and heard a popping sound. It was all in the wrong order, and that bothered me.
I tumbled over the edge of the stage, falling into the orchestra pit, a discordant jangle of noise as I crashed against the drum kit.
I lay winded on the floor, stunned, motionless, my lungs empty. I stared up at the ceiling, the spotlights from the stage painting a silhouette of evil as Sergei leered in triumph. But when he turned and pointed the gun at Laney, time stopped. It was seeing every future falling into black nothingness, and I didn’t want to live like that anymore.
Breath surged back into my body and the torn edges of my vision crystalized.
But I was too slow. Even as I pushed myself upright, even as the air rushed past my face, even as I flew forward, I was too slow. Sergei fired the gun and this time it was Laney who fell to the floor.
My body smashed into his and we were wedged between two rows of theater seats, the flip-up section pressing into my screaming ribs.
“You really won’t die, will you? Never mind, I’ve always wanted you on top of me, Alja?,” Sergei mumbled as I rained down punches.
My knuckles split and I could feel a finger sliced open against his teeth.
He spat out a gob of blood and started to speak. I didn’t care what he was going to say. Every dark thought that evil bastard had ever had, every breath he’d ever taken had the stench of depravity. Laney was my sunshine, and now she was gone.
In the distance, I heard police sirens, then yells.
Sergei sighed theatrically then grinned at me through bloody teeth.
“I’ll be out of jail before breakfast. Then I’ll be coming for you.”
I shook my head. “Not this time.”
The Devil had come for his own.
I pulled the gun from his limp hand and kneeled up. In the distance I heard someone shouting at me to drop the gun. But I had something to do first. I pointed the gun at Sergei’s face, ignoring his streaming nose and torn mouth. I pushed the barrel of the gun into his empty eye socket. He laughed.
And this time I pulled the trigger.
His body jerked once and I could smell the sharp stench of cordite.
Hands grabbed me from behind, twisting my arms, forcing me to drop the gun.
I stared down at the gory splatters on my chest: mine, his, I couldn’t tell.
I stared in fascination as blood pooled around his head, and a thicker ooze of brain and splinters of bone.
I stared and felt nothing more than a butcher would feel looking at a side of beef. No emotion.
Satisfaction, yes. Relief, yes. Conscience, no. My conscience was quiet.
The pain in my chest shrieked through me as my hands were forced behind my back with a quiet click—the cold steel of handcuffs.
And then I saw Laney, still and silent, the side of her head sheeted in blood. Every emotion slammed back, a door opening with a flood of grief and terror and shock.
“Laney!”
I called out her name, trying to reach her, but I was held tightly.
“Laney!” I screamed.
I tried again to get to her, but my cuffed hands were yanked backwards and the pain in my chest was so intense, the light dimmed and I thought I was going to pass out.
“He’s her husband! Let him go!”
And then Billy was there, yelling some more.
“Take the cuffs off now! Shit, he’s been shot, you morons. Where are the paramedics? Ah, fuck, Laney!”
Laney
I was dreaming, floating in that happy place between two worlds.
We were lying in bed together. It was very soft, like resting on clouds, or the ocean on a summer’s day. Yes, we were lying on a beach together, the water lapping at our feet.
“Do you dream, Laney? You must do. What do you dream about?”
Ash was bare chested, his skin a deep golden tan, his eyes the color of Irish whiskey. Dream Ash was impossibly beautiful, his long, lean, toned lines, his muscled thighs and sculpted torso. He glistened and glowed under the warm sun—so beautiful.
Dream Ash smiled at me, more relaxed and happy than I’d ever seen him, the tension in his eyes completely absent for once.
“My daytime dreams are different from my nighttime dreams,” I smiled. “At night, I dream about flying, not in an airplane, just me, flying through the air.” I laughed quietly. “It’s pretty self-evident what that means. What do you dream about?”
“Daytime dreams? Those haven’t changed. I dream about taking my dancing all over the world, telling stories through dance, making people happy. At night, I used to dream about standing in a spotlight, and if it was a good dream, the music would begin and I’d start to dance. It would start off real, but then the jumps would become bigger, until I was flying through the air—like you.”
I smiled. “Do you still have that dream?”
“Not lately, I . . .”