20. Quell
Chapter twenty
Quell
T he sketches haunt me, stuck behind my eyelids every time I blink.
Talon’s face: calm, resigned, kneeling with the gun loose in his hand.
I can’t shake it. The sketchbook is taped shut, shoved under the mattress, but the drawings still seep out, curling around my thoughts like smoke under a door.
My hands won’t stop trembling. For the third time in an hour, I check the locks on the front door, rattling the handle.
Still locked, still holding. The apartment doesn’t feel right.
It’s too quiet, too empty, like it’s waiting for something awful.
Talon’s been gone for hours. The note said he needed to check on something, and he hoped to be back before I woke up. Sometimes it’s better not to know. But now the silence presses in, every creak in the walls making me jump.
I move from window to window, peeking through the blinds. The street looks normal. Cars, people, nothing weird. But that means nothing. Danger never comes with a warning. It slips in while you’re distracted.
“Get it together,” I mutter, pressing my forehead to the glass. My reflection stares back at me, pale and tired. There are graphite smudges on my cheek, my neck, my hands. I can’t remember the last time I was clean.
I push away from the window and go back to the front door. Check the deadbolt again. Still locked. I flip the chain, too. It’s flimsy, won’t stop anyone who really wants to get in, but it makes me feel a little better.
It’s not the drawing that gets to me. Not really.
I’ve seen death before. I’ve been sketching it for years, the split second before, always through Talon’s eyes.
But this? This is something else. In the vision, Talon isn’t doing the killing.
He’s just… waiting. Accepting. His face has an awful calm to it, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s settled it inside himself. Like he’s made his choice.
I’ve never sketched him like that before. Honestly, I didn’t know his face could even look that way, all the sharpness smoothed out, none of that constant alertness. It scares me more than any of the blood or violence ever has.
I drift into the kitchen, open the fridge, stare at everything inside. I’m not hungry. Just restless. I need to do something with my hands that isn’t picking up a pencil. I grab a glass, fill it with water, and try to take a sip. My throat is so tight I can barely swallow.
Then the doorbell rings, and the glass slips right out of my hand. It shatters on the floor, the sound slicing through the quiet like a gunshot. Water spreads everywhere, soaking my socks. I just stand there.
The bell rings again. Louder this time. Faster. My heart is pounding.
Talon wouldn’t ring. He has keys. He’d just come in, silent as ever, barely making a sound. And nobody else knows we’re here. Nobody else has this address.
I creep to the door, careful to avoid the glass, my wet socks leaving marks all over the floor.
I peek through the peephole. The hallway is warped and blurry, but there’s a woman out there, waiting.
She's wearing a pale blue uniform, all crisp and perfect.
Bucket in one hand, cleaning supplies in the other.
She rings again. Three quick times. Like she’s getting annoyed.
I lean into the door, heart pounding. I should just walk away, pretend I never heard the knock. But something makes me undo the chain and thumb the deadbolt. Curiosity, maybe. Or the same sick urge that keeps me sketching deaths, even when the nightmares make me wake up screaming.
I crack the door, chain still across.
“Yes?” My voice is too high, too thin.
The woman smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Maintenance. Your landlord sent me for the routine deep clean.” She lifts her bucket, a little apologetic. “Sorry for the drop-in. You should’ve gotten a notice.”
“I don’t think we got any notice,” I say. My voice is rough. But she seems familiar; maybe she’s been here before. My memory isn’t great, so it’s possible Talon’s been having the place cleaned for the whole time we’ve been here.
She shrugs. “They always forget. Can I come in? It Won’t take long.”
Every instinct tells me to slam the door in her face. Lock it, bolt it, run. But my hand just… doesn’t listen. I undo the chain, like I’m on autopilot. Maybe this was what Talon was planning. There are signs he’s been packing. We need to get rid of the evidence that we’ve been here before we leave.
“Sure,” I say, stepping aside. “Sorry for the mess.”
She slips in. Not just walks, but glides, like she already knows every inch of the place. I close the door behind her, my hand still on the knob, thinking: I could just push it open again, and bolt. But where would I go? And what if I’m wrong? What if she really is just here to clean?
“Kitchen first?” She asks, already heading there as if she knows her way around. Her shoes don’t even make a sound.
I trail after her, keeping a good two steps between us. “There’s broken glass,” I warn. “I dropped something.”
She glances down at the mess. “No problem. I’ll take care of it.”
She sets her bucket down, pulls out a cloth, and crouches to mop up the water. Every move she makes is tight, exact, like she’s practiced it a hundred times. She doesn’t move like a cleaner. More like someone pretending to be one.
“So you live here alone?” She asks, not looking at me.
My throat goes dry. “No. My… roommate’s out. He’ll be back soon.”
“Roommate,” she repeats, and I can’t tell if she’s amused or just doesn’t believe me. “Must be nice, having someone around.”
She finishes with the glass, drops the pieces in a little trash bag, and stands up.
Her eyes sweep over the apartment, soaking in the details.
The drawings on the walls, just landscapes, nothing weird.
Then her gaze lands on the coffee table, where a pencil sits next to a half-finished sketch.
Just a study of hands. Talon’s hands, actually, but she wouldn’t know that.
“You’re an artist,” she says.
Not a question. A statement. My skin prickles, as if she’s run her fingers down my spine. She looks normal. Mid-forties, brown hair in a tight ponytail, practical shoes. Ordinary. But the way she stands is off. Too straight, too still. And her eyes…
My breath snags. I’ve seen her before. Not in person. On paper.
In the dream, she's standing there, a puzzled look on her face; her death is a complete surprise. It's faded because I didn’t draw this one, but I recognize those tight curls.
“Just a hobby,” I manage, though my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
She crosses to the table, picks up the sketch. Her fingertips leave little smudges on the paper. “You’re good. Very precise.” She looks up at me, her eyes sharp and bright. “You draw him a lot. Must mean you’re close.”
Déjà vu doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s more than that. Prophecy, maybe. The words echo in my skull, pounding, insistent. I’ve drawn her. I’ve seen her. And now she’s here, in our space, touching my things, saying things she shouldn’t know.
My hands shake. I shove them deep in my pockets.
“Like I said, just a hobby.” I can barely hear myself. The words feel thin, far away.
She sets the drawing down and wanders the apartment, running a cloth over surfaces that don’t need cleaning. I stand there, frozen. The room feels smaller every second, the air thick and heavy. Sweat gathers along my hairline, trickles down my back.
“You’ve got a nice place,” she says, wiping a shelf of books. “Secure. Private.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “Must be important, keeping things private.”
The implication hangs there, heavy and obvious. She knows. Somehow, she knows who I am. What I can do. What I’ve seen.
She comes closer, step by step, still holding the cloth. I back up until my spine hits the wall. Nowhere else to go.
“I should check on that glass again,” she says, but she’s not looking at the kitchen. She’s looking at me. “Make sure I've got all the pieces. Wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt.”
Her hand slips into her coat. My heart stops.
I remember how this scene ends. Metal, fast, a body dropping. Knife or gun? I can’t remember. Just the certainty: violence, as familiar as my own heartbeat.
I try to move, to run, but nothing happens. My body won’t listen. I’m stuck inside the vision, watching it unfold exactly as I drew it, helpless to change a thing.
Her hand comes out of her coat. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for pain, for the end, for the blackness.
The air cracks. A sound like a whip, so sharp it feels like a slap. My eyes spring open. I catch the look on her face: surprise, sudden and wide. Then she collapses, folding up like paper, hitting the floor with a dull thump.
Talon stands behind her, gun still raised, face blank. He just appears, stepping out of shadows I didn’t even see. Calm. Precise. Inevitable.
Blood starts to pool, spreading darkly across the floor. The smell hits me next: iron, gunpowder, and under it all, the harsh lemon of her cleaning spray.
Everything splits apart. And just like that, she’s gone. Not her body; it’s still there, sprawled out on the floor, but the life, the threat, the danger. Gone in a single moment.
My knees buckle. I slide down the wall, landing hard. A sound rips out of me, raw and ugly. Not a scream, not a sob. Something in between, torn from deep inside.
Talon moves fast, checking her pulse, pulling a gun from her coat. The one she was reaching for. He tucks it into his waistband, then turns to me.
“Quell.” His voice is rough, scraping out my name. “Did she hurt you?”
I shake my head, mouth glued shut. My whole body trembles, teeth chattering like I’ve just stepped out into a blizzard, even though sweat glues my shirt to my back.
I can’t stop staring at the blood spreading in a slow, glossy pool across the floor, inching closer to my feet.
I scramble back, pressing myself against the wall.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you sooner,” Talon says. His voice is flat, practical. “She was going for her weapon.”
A weird, sharp laugh tries to claw its way out of my throat.
“I know,” I say. “I saw her. Before. In the dream” The words come out in pieces, jagged like the glass on the kitchen floor. “I didn’t draw her, and it still came true.”
Talon crouches next to me, careful to keep himself between me and the corpse. He doesn’t touch me, just waits, patient, while I shake.
“She knew me,” I gasp. “Knew what I could do. The drawings.” My vision blurs with tears as I look up at him. “It’s never going to end. Not until I’m dead.”
The words hang there, heavy and final. I’ve been trying to dodge that truth since the first vision, the first death I saw through Talon’s eyes.
Heat prickles across my skin, sweat and fear and the warmth from the body on the floor. My clothes cling to me, damp and gross. The smell of blood fills the apartment, thick and metallic. I gag, pressing my hand over my mouth.
“I thought it was my life ending,” I whisper, voice muffled against my palm. “But maybe it was yours.” The drawing flashes behind my eyes again, Talon kneeling, gun in hand. “That’s what they want. That’s what all of this is about.”
Talon says nothing, just watches me with those calm eyes. Always steady, even with a body cooling at his feet. How does he do that? How does he live with death so close all the time?
“I drew Mickey’s kills, and I'm the reason he's dead. I drew others. Maybe they were hers. Now I've caused her death." I sob. I’m not even sure who I’m talking to. My voice sounds weird, hollow, like it’s echoing off the inside of my skull.
“Is that why I dream yours? Because I'm going to cause your death?”
Except, yeah, no. That’s not true. Not really.
The dreams drag me all the way here, to this blood-splattered room, to this freaky connection with a killer.
But they also brought me Talon. His quiet, steady vibe.
His hands, careful and deliberate. The way he looks at me sometimes, like I’m something fragile and worth keeping safe, even from myself.
I may have dreamed these deaths, I may have caused them, but he carried them out.
That's why I drew him so defeated. I cause the deaths, and he carries them out.
Talon reaches out, slow and unsure, and brushes my cheek. His fingers come away wet. I haven’t even noticed I’m crying.
“We need to move,” he says. His voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath it. “This place isn’t safe anymore.”
I nod. I feel numb, like my brain is wrapped in cotton.
He’s right. Obviously. Vincenzo sent someone to finish what Mickey attempted, what Talon had started before that.
It has to end now, one way or another. And there’ll be more.
Always more. Killers lined up out the door, hunting for the guy who sees too much, who can draw their faces from memory, who knows shit he’s not supposed to know.
Talon stands up and holds out his hand. I take it. He pulls me up, steady even though my legs want to fold.
“Pack what you need,” he says. “Nothing that can be traced. We leave in ten minutes.”
I stare at him, really stare, trying to see if he has that dead-eyed look I sketched, the one that means he’s ready to just let go. It’s not there. Not yet. But it will be someday. I’ve seen it.
“Okay.” My voice doesn’t shake. “Ten minutes.”
I turn away, but his hand grabs my wrist. I look over my shoulder, waiting.
“Quell.” His gaze is locked on me, serious, stubborn. “This isn’t the end. Not for either of us.”
I want to believe him. I really, really do. But the drawings never lie, and what I’ve seen,
Still, I nod, and manage a smile, even though it feels sharp and raw and wrong. “Ten minutes,” I say again.
I leave him there with the body, the blood, the mess of it all. Another death. Another nightmare I’ll have to live with. But this time, I’m not going to draw it. I’ll keep it in. Locked up. If I don’t put it on paper, maybe it’ll stay small, and quiet, and mine.
Some visions are better kept secret. Some futures happen whether you see them coming or not. Drawn or not, they show up eventually, ugly as ever.