13. Talon
Chapter thirteen
Talon
I pull away from the kiss, Quell’s breath still warm against my mouth.
The taste of him lingers on my lips: salt, fear and heat.
Already my mind is shifting, compartmentalizing.
The body was on the floor with blood soaking into the hardwood.
The quiet tick of danger, louder every second Mickey stays dead in my secret room.
I can’t afford to get distracted. Not now.
Not with Vincenzo waiting for confirmation that won’t come.
“I need to deal with this,” I tell him. My eyes flick to the dark stain spreading where Mickey had died, already congealing at the edges, sticky and black. I should have closed the door when I left, but Quell looked so unwell I just wanted to get over to him.
Quell nods, his fingers still twisted in my shirt, like he doesn’t want to let go. I untangle them gently, my hand lingering on his a second too long. A mistake. I am making a lot of those lately.
“Stay here,” I tell him. “I’ll be back.”
I turn toward the utility room, the one with the plastic sheeting and cleaning supplies. Same place I’ve stashed Mickey, for now. But Quell’s hand shoots out, catching my wrist.
“Wait.” His voice cracks. “Where are you going after… after this?”
“To see Vincenzo.” I don’t dress it up. Quell has seen plenty now; he deserves it straight. “He’ll want to know why Mickey isn’t picking up.”
“Let me come with you.” He blurts it out, voice shaky and loud in the quiet. His eyes are huge and kind of wild. “I can help. I won’t get in the way.”
I look at him, trying to figure out if he is just in shock. “Not a good idea.”
“Please.” He takes a step forward, closing the gap. “If you go alone… what if Vincenzo already knows? What if he sent Mickey because he’s suspicious? You could be walking into a trap.”
“I’ve handled Vincenzo for years,” I insist, but the way Quell looks at me makes me stop. “Why would you want to come? After all this?”
Quell glances at the blood, then at me again. “Because I’m already in this. I was in it from the first drawing. And because…” He hesitates. “Because I don’t want to be left behind. Not knowing if you’re coming back.”
There it is. The thing we’ve been circling since he first drew that kiss. Maybe even before. Since I let him live. We are tangled up now, so close I can’t tell where I end and he starts.
It is stupid. Dangerous. The right move is to lock him up somewhere safe and deal with Vincenzo myself. That’s what a pro would do.
But the idea of Quell here, alone with a body and his drawings and no clue if Vincenzo is about to clean up loose ends, messes with my head.
“It’s a risk,” I sigh, keeping my voice low. “Vincenzo doesn’t like loose ends.”
“I’m not a loose end.” Quell’s grip tightens on my wrist. “I’m an asset. I can see things before they happen. That’s valuable, right? We just need to convince him that keeping me alive is better for business than getting rid of me.”
I look at his face. The determination there is something new. Not just fear. Quell is finding his footing in my world, carving out a place for himself. Dangerous. And, strangely… fitting.
“If you come,” I give in, “you do exactly what I say. No questions. No hesitation.”
Relief washes over his face. “Yes. Anything.”
“Then you need to help me with this first.” I nod at the blood. “I can’t leave a body here.”
His relief fades, but he nods. “What do you need me to do?”
“Follow me.”
I enter the door Mickey’s blood trail leads to, the room I hoped never to show Quell. The room I built specially, just for this kind of work.
I flip the light switch. Cold fluorescents stutter, then catch, and the whole room goes white.
Floor, ceiling, walls, the same sterile tile, no color, no comfort.
There is a drain in the middle, and the floor slopes just enough so that everything finds its way there.
Stainless steel table. Hoses, all neatly looped on hooks.
Rolls of plastic sheeting. A pair of thick rubber gloves, waiting.
The smell hits before anything else. Bleach, sharp enough to sting, but under that is something metallic.
The room was used yesterday, but not for anything messy.
Just prep for the banker. Choosing what I needed was easy with Quell’s drawing haunting my mind.
Still, the chemicals cling to everything.
It is the kind of clean that makes you think about what needed washing away.
Quell stops dead in the doorway. He makes this little sound, almost like choking on his own breath.
“Grab the plastic,” I tell him. I keep my voice low, steady. No point in making a big deal out of it. This is just something that needs doing.
He steps in, but he moves as if he is wading through water. His eyes keep darting around, never landing anywhere for long. There is nothing to focus on, really. No pictures, no calendar, not even a clock. Just the stuff you need, and nothing you don’t.
“You do this a lot,” Quell croaks softly. His voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
“Yeah.” I don’t bother pretending. “The plastic, Quell.”
He goes to the shelf, but his hands shake. I keep watching him, mostly out of habit, and see how his breathing speeds up, shallow and ragged. He looks awful, honestly. The lights make his skin look gray.
I’ve seen that look before. Usually, it means someone isn’t going to walk out of this room.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned by the green hint to his pale cheeks. My priorities seem to shift back to him once again. I’m picking a pale complexion over body disposal.
He nods fast. “Fine. I’m fine.”
He is lying, but I let it go. At least he is trying.
I move Mickey, twisting his body until he's face up, staring up as if he wishes he believed in heaven before it was too late. The only way is down for men like us, but for Quell… he's too good for this life.
The sound of congealing blood sloshing makes Quell flinch. He looks at Mickey’s face, sees what’s left of that last second of fear, and then looks away.
“Help me roll him onto the plastic,” I order.
Quell moves stiffly, almost like he isn’t inside his own body.
He reaches for Mickey’s legs, hands hovering just above the fabric, fingers twitching.
Finally, his palms land on the rough cotton of Mickey’s pants.
Together, we roll the body onto the sheeting.
Blood smears across the white tiles, bright and shocking against all that sterile white.
That’s when it hits him. The sight, or maybe the smell, I can’t tell. Suddenly Quell doubles over, one hand grabbing the edge of the steel table, the other clamped over his mouth. He makes a sound, strangled and sharp, like something caught in his throat.
I am at his side before I even think about it, steering him toward the utility sink in the corner. He barely makes it. He retches hard into the basin, his whole body jerking with the force of it. His shoulders bunch up, his spine curves so tight it looks like it might snap.
I reach for him without thinking, gathering his hair in my hand to keep it out of his face. My other hand settles between his shoulder blades, feeling every tremor that goes through him. His back is hot, even through the thin shirt.
He retches again, but there is nothing left in him. Just bile. He hasn’t eaten much today. I’ll have to fix that later, after I get him cleaned up and feeling better.
Oh, and the body disposal.
“Easy.” My voice sounds low and weird in the hard, white room. “Just breathe.”
He tries, but his breathing keeps catching, every inhale shaky.
Sweat beads at his hairline, dampening the strands tangled in my fingers.
I hold him steady, just letting him get through it.
My thumb moves in slow circles on his back, and I don’t even notice I am doing it until I feel him start to relax under my hand.
When the retching finally stops, Quell slumps against the sink, shivering. I lean past his shoulder and turn on the tap, letting cold water run over the mess. He scoops some up in his hands, splashes his face, rinses out his mouth.
I keep my hand in his hair. He straightens up after a minute, but his face is pale, almost gray.
Water drips from his chin, soaking the collar of his shirt.
That’s when I notice the blood. Tiny dots spattered across his chest and shoulders, a spray, dark and sharp, from Mickey’s throat.
The pattern is obvious, a fan of red specks.
Some still wet enough to shine in the light.
“You didn’t even flinch when I killed him,” I say. My voice is quiet, just a little curious. “But this? This is what gets you?”
Quell stares at me, eyes empty. “What?”
“When I cut Mickey’s throat. You were right there. You watched. You didn’t look away, didn’t say anything.” I study him, waiting for something to show on his face. “But now you can’t stand to touch him.”
He shivers, looking down at the floor. “It’s not the same.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
That’s when I get it. It isn’t death that bothers him. Death is just a word, something he’s been seeing through me for years. But this, the mess, the smell, the real part of it, that is different. That is new. That is something his drawings have never given him.
“You need a shower,” I decide, finally letting go of his hair. My hand feels strange without it. “You’ve got blood on your clothes.”
He looks down at himself, eyes catching the spray for the first time. His fingers hover, not quite daring to touch the stains. “I didn’t feel it happen.”
“You were focused on other things.” The gun. The tension. The way Mickey looked at him, like he was something disposable.
Quell nods, faraway. Then his eyes drift back to Mickey’s body, stretched out on the plastic. “I’ll help you finish.”
“No.” I keep my voice steady. “Go shower. Use my bathroom. There are clean towels in the cabinet.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even try. Just nods and goes for the door, steps shaky but stubborn. At the threshold, he pauses, looking back at me. “I’m not afraid, you know. Of any of this. Of you.”
“I know.” I do. That is the problem.
He leaves. I turn to Mickey. The body is already cooling, going stiff. I work fast, wrapping him tight in plastic, sealing every edge with tape. Mechanical. Clean. My hands do what they know how to do.
Quell is sinking deeper into my world by the hour. Not just watching anymore. Doing. The way he stood through the kill, the way he tried to help with the body even while his body rebelled. He is adapting. Becoming part of this.
The only way to stop him from falling into my world is for me to step out. It's possible; it's just not something I've ever considered before. So why is it something I want now? Was it killing my friend, or saving my soul mate?
I don't believe in soul mates, but give me any other explanation for what he draws.
It should bother me. Instead, it feels… right. Like he fits here, with me, in this strange, blood-stained routine I call a life.
I press the last edge of plastic shut and straighten up, taking in the scene. Tidy. Quick. Mickey is just a package now, something to move and toss out. I’ll think about that later, after Vincenzo.
The idea of seeing Vincenzo sends a cold ripple through me. Not for myself; I’ve had Vincenzo angry at me before and walked away. But for Quell… I can’t guess how that will go. Vincenzo doesn’t trust anyone. He doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t make exceptions.
But he likes things that are useful.
I heave the wrapped body onto my shoulder. It's heavy, but nothing I can’t handle. The weight is familiar, almost soothing in how normal it feels. This part, at least, I understand.
I carry Mickey through the apartment and out to the garage, where my car is waiting. The trunk is already lined with plastic, a habit, not a hunch. I set the body inside, arranging it so nothing will roll around. Then I close the trunk and head back in.
The shower is still running. I can hear it from the hallway, a steady rush that makes the apartment seem less empty somehow. I lean against the wall, just listening to the water hitting tile, to Quell moving behind the curtain. Alive. Here.
I’ve killed for less than that.
The shower stops. After a couple of minutes, Quell comes out, wrapped in one of my towels. His hair is slicked back, water dripping down his neck. Without his glasses, his eyes look bigger, almost exposed. The steam has brought some color into his cheeks.
“Better?” I ask.
He nods. “I left my clothes on the floor. They had blood…”
“I’ll take care of it.” I push off the wall, already feeling the weight of the decision. “There are clean clothes on my bed. Get dressed. We leave in ten minutes.”
He just stands there for a second, studying my face. “Are you sure about this? Taking me to Vincenzo?”
“No.” I am not. “But I’m sure about one thing.”
He waits. “What’s that?”
“I’m not leaving you behind.” The words are out before I can stop them. I don’t usually say things like that. Not out loud. “You’re mine. I’m not letting you go.”
His face changes. Something soft, surprised. He nods, quick, and then heads into the bedroom to get dressed.
I let out a breath. This is new. Bringing someone to Vincenzo without orders. Bringing someone I should have killed. But it is too late now. Mickey is dead. Quell’s visions are out there. And whatever this is, between us, isn’t going away.
All I can do is try to keep us both alive.